Chapter One: The Stranger
"Why do we have to go out today? It is too cold for this!"
My sister's voice resonates in my ears for what seems the hundredth time that afternoon. We are out by the stream, searching for any late winter plants that might get our flocks through until spring.
But it seems I picked a poor day to gather plants. The sun, which had warmed the fjords and helped to melt the worst of the snow, had drifted behind the clouds, and wind was blowing in from the west.
Jorunn kicks at the basket, which is not even half full. "Let's go home, Brynja. I'm freezing!"
The wind had been getting stronger all day. I was cold too, even with my heavy wool cloak, but did not want to admit to Jorunn that she was right.
"There's not much left to get" I insist. "We can go in a minute".
Jorunn does not respond. It is unusual for her to miss a chance to speak, so I turn to her. She is staring at something downstream. I stand from where I was kneeling on the ground and move to look with her. At first, I think it is an animal. I take a few steps closer to try and make it out.
"Brynja, don't!" Jorunn's voice behind me is now pitched with nervousness. I stare ahead and realize what I am looking at is not an animal. It is a leather tunic, matted hair, and mud-stained boots.
"It's a man!" I call over my shoulder. I hear Jorunn gasp, and a moment later she is peering at him beside me.
"Is he…dead?" she voices what I too am wondering.
I am afraid to check, but at the same time, we cannot leave him lying in a crumpled heap by stream. If he is alive, it won't be for long, as he would not survive out in the cold. And if he is already dead, his body would attract animals.
"He is filthy" Jorunn wrinkles her delicate nose. "He doesn't smell dead, though".
I move forward cautiously, in case he moves. When I am at his side, close enough to touch him, I reach a hand out and place it on his neck. His skin is surprisingly warm, but clammy with sweat. The roughness of stubble scrapes at my fingertips, and I can make out a feeble pulse beneath the skin.
"He's still alive! But he feels warm. I think he has a fever."
He is lying on his stomach, sprawled out. I wonder if he simply collapsed. His head is tilted towards me, but half is pressed against the earth, the other half hidden by matted blond hair. I gently push his hair back to see his face, but it is smeared with mud and sweat.
"Go home and get some help. Bring them back here!" I tell my sister.
"What?" Her blue eyes widen. She glances down at the unconscious man next to me and sneers a bit. "Why? He probably won't survive. Can't we just leave him?"
"No!" My voice is louder and sharper than I intend, but my sister's selfishness infuriates me sometimes. "He could die and that's exactly why we have to help him. Now go, and hurry!"
Jorunn turns around sharply, auburn braids swinging. I can hear her grumbling, but when I glance over my shoulder, I see her break into a run in the direction of the house.
"Don't worry" I say, though I am unsure whether I speak to myself or the man next to me.
I feel I have been sitting there forever before the sound of people interrupts the quiet woods. Jorunn has returned. Our brother-in-law, Elof, and one of the male slaves are with her. They carry a litter with them.
I move to the side so Elof can crouch next to the body. He runs his eyes over it without speaking. Finally, he turns to me. "You found him here?"
"Yes, well, Jorunn saw him first. I realized he was alive and sent her to get help. He was already unconscious when we saw him and he hasn't moved since. I have no idea how long he's been lying here".
Elof nods and gestures to the slave to help him. I stand, my legs aching after kneeling so long, and move out of the way. I watch as they carefully turn the man over and move him to the litter.
"Gudrun is at the house" Elof says. "If she can't help him…" His voice purposefully trails off.
I nod, knowing that this poor man's chances of survival are not very high. But Gudrun is my elder sister and the best healer I know. To my knowledge, she's never failed to heal anyone.
"She can" I insist, hoping I sound confident. I don't want to think about burying some stranger. Elof grunts, but otherwise makes no reply.
Jorunn and I hurry ahead, while the men are slowed by their burden. At our father's house, we find Gudrun standing at the table, prepping herbs. When the others enter, she hurries to help them unload the man onto a spare bedplace.
Gudrun lays her head against the man's chest, then peers at his still face. "Where did you find him exactly?"
"In the woods, alongside the stream" I say, removing my cloak and hanging it by the door. "He wasn't moving, but when I realized he was still alive I sent Jorunn for help".
"I thought it would be better to just leave him there" Jorunn speaks from her bed, where she sits redoing her braids. Gudrun thrusts an iron pot in her direction.
"Make yourself useful and get some water heating" my elder sister says to my younger. Jorunn makes a face at her, but does as she's told.
"What can I do?" I ask. I want to help, though I know better than to get in Gudrun's way. Gudrun instructs me on some herbs to prepare that she thinks will lower his fever. I move to the table and start to work. These herbs remind me that we forgot the ones from the stream.
I don't know how much time passes as my sisters and I tend this stranger. We give him herbs to lower his fever and clear the congestion in his chest. I take a bowl of warm water and a cloth and wipe the dirt from his face.
With that cleared away, I can get a better look at his appearance. I am surprised to realize he is not that much older than I, certainly no older than Gudrun, who will be twenty-four at the beginning of next winter. His blond hair is matted and falls past his shoulders. A short, scruffy beard lines his jaw. He has a fair complexion, with fine features and full lips. Something about his face makes me think of the elves in the stories I heard as a child.
Jorunn peers over my shoulder to look at him. Her face changes from the look of disgust and fear she had previously given him, to one of interest. "Hmm, underneath all the dirt he's almost handsome".
"Who is handsome?" Asta, our father's mother, enters the room. She spends most of her time in the back of the longhouse spinning wool around the smaller firepit.
"The man we found in the woods" Jorunn replies now to her question. My grandmother glances down at him and frowns at us.
"This young man is ill, and only the gods know if he will live or not. You girls shouldn't be eyeing him like a starving dog eyes a piece of meat".
"We weren't 'eyeing' "Jorunn starts to argue, but she is cut off.
"Come into the other room and let him rest. It is time for dinner to be started anyway".
We move away from the bed to go prepare dinner. Our father has been out checking the pregnant ewes all day, preparing for the lambing that could start any time. When he comes in, as the sun has set, he stares at the still man sleeping in the corner. One exchanged look with his mother is all it takes for us to explain the situation.
When we finish the story, he simply nods and accepts a bowl of soup from Gudrun. She, Elof, and their two young children, Trygve and Kari, are going to stay the night since it has gotten so late. Gudrun will be available to tend to our strange guest and Elof is willing to help my father with the flocks. Asta, of course, is more than happy to watch her great-grandchildren.
When dinner is finished, I go back to the man's bedside. I pull out my spinning whorl and pretend to spin while I study him more closely. Earlier, I had been so preoccupied with whether he would survive or not, I had not bothered to pay close attention to the rest of his appearance beyond his face and the mud.
He wears a blue tunic and black trousers underneath a rough brown cloak. The clothing is worn and stained, but the material is of good wool. He has well-made boots of leather and sealskin. What intrigues me most, though, is the sword at his hip. I had not noticed it before, but a sword belt wraps around his hips.
The pommel is crafted with gold; the grip of the sword and scabbard are both of the finest leather. Ornate silver tips the end of the scabbard to stop the blade from poking through. Some men in the area own swords, but none are as fine as this one. There are no true warriors on our farmstead or in the nearby village. Our people are just farmers. The men know enough of fighting to defend us and to go on short raids, but everyone is a farmer or craftsman.
I wonder about this man. How does he afford such a finely made sword and good clothing? Where did he come from? And why was he by the stream? I hope we will get some answers when—if—he wakes.
For now, I settle on the stool by his bed, and watch the light from the hearth flames flicker across his face. I can only voice my questions to the shadows.
"Who are you?"