II
Ingolf and Leif sailed by the guidance of the sun and the stars, and steered directly westward. For the first two days and nights a steady east wind filled the square sail and carried them steadily forwards. There were high spirits and much excited expectation on board. Indeed, it seemed as though the wind had been sent by Odin with the sole purpose of furthering their journey. But just as they had settled down in confidence that they were under the god’s special protection the weather began to shift and change. Now it seemed, for the most part, as if one or another of the divinities had set himself fiercely against them, or as if Odin had suddenly become busy elsewhere.
The wind took the wrong direction, and seemed uninterruptedly occupied in settling private accounts with the towering waves of the sea. In the course of two days and nights it had gone several times round the horizon and varied through all degrees of strength from a moderate calm to what Vikings would mildly call a storm. And then all of a sudden it disappeared. They looked longingly for it—east, west, south, and north—for though they had cursed its vagaries heartily enough, it was still preferable to a dead calm. But it was absent, and remained absent. Unreliable as it had always been, it had gone off to other regions, and left them alone here in the midst of the sea. There lay the vessel, pitching lazily, and making no way at all. Where they were no one knew, and there was nothing to show them. Whither the wind had carried them, while it was still with them and blew alternately from all points of the compass, they could not find out. The sun and stars had only rarely been visible. The spirits of all on board were rapidly sinking. Matters were not improved when, after several days and nights of calm, there came gliding a cunning, silent bank of fog and swallowed them up, blotted them out from the eyes of heaven, swept all sight of sea and sky out of the world, and left the vessel lying, rocking lonelily, forgotten by all good powers on a strange sea.
There they lay while the days came and went—grey days which could only make marks on Ingolf’s time-stick. For even though Ingolf was displeased enough with these days he kept a steady count of them, marked each of them off on his stick with the little notch that was their due, and, for the rest, execrated them in silence.
Leif had given up all hope now; morose and aggrieved, he surrendered himself to the power of chance. He sat most of the days on the gunwale with his legs dangling outside, singing from sheer despair. Only now and then he interrupted his song to hurl a violent succession of sanguinary curses in a penetrating, angry voice into the damp, foggy air.
With every day that passed, Ingolf became more silent and introspective. What was the obstacle in their way? Were the gods so much opposed to this journey that they were absolutely determined to prevent it?
He did not like being questioned regarding the number of days he had marked off. The days were quite bad enough without making them more by talking about them. And at last he flatly refused to answer questions regarding the number of the days. For long periods he would sit silent looking at his stick, forgetting to mark the days, with his mind full of inward longing and powerful exorcisms.
He heard that the crew were talking about drawing lots for a sacrifice. Ingolf was not narrow-minded. But he remembered the offerings which before his journey he had made to Odin, as well as the vows he had made of further offerings if the journey prospered. Odin had often fulfilled his wishes for less sacrifices than those. He really did not understand what was the matter with Odin this time.
Hallveig and Helga were the only ones on board who, to some extent, kept up their spirits. To Hallveig it seemed quite natural; they were very well off, and the fog and the calm must some time come to an end. Every morning she awoke with the firm conviction that that day the fog would lift. Helga, on the other hand, had to pull herself together, in order not to be infected by the depression of the rest. Yet she was accustomed to do this, and on this occasion she had, besides, Hallveig’s good-humour to support her. But their good temper seemed almost to put the crew into a still worse humour. Even Ingolf—not to speak of Leif—could sometimes be impatient at their unconcern. And one day, in answer to a cheerful remark of Hallveig’s, he very curtly drew her attention to the fact that the water-casks were seriously near becoming empty. Hallveig looked at him steadily and a little astonished. Ingolf had never before seen that look in her eyes. She went to her hut without saying anything more.
Ingolf looked round for Helga. She stood by the gunwale, playing with Leif’s hair. When Ingolf had thus ascertained that Hallveig was alone in the hut, he followed her into it. Hallveig was sitting and looking before her when he came. She did not meet his glance as usual, but remained sitting and staring into space with a troubled expression on her serious face. Ingolf stopped before her and laid his hand on her shoulder. Then Hallveig looked up at him. “It can do no good to give up,” she said seriously; “that will not make things better. Have you not noticed how the men follow you with their eyes, and are disturbed by your looks? There is nothing left us, Ingolf, but to take things as they come. The fog may lift some time. And since it has not rained for a long time, it may soon rain, so that we can again have the water-casks filled. And we have also beer and wine on board, so that we can get along for some time.”
“What makes me uneasy,” answered Ingolf, “is that we seem to be pursued by misfortune, and that I don’t know at all where we are. It might almost seem as if the gods had forgotten us, or as if we had fallen under their displeasure. If the fog and the calm continue, and there is no rain for some time, it will soon be all over with us. You and Helga ought never to have been taken with us on this journey. I have also heard that the crew are beginning to talk among themselves of casting lots. Perhaps a sacrifice will be necessary.”
Hallveig was silent for a long time. At last she sighed deeply and said: “I have never been able properly to understand how the gods can desire human sacrifices. Perhaps, however, I would have agreed on this occasion if I was quite sure that the lot would not fall on you. But I cannot rely on the gods so absolutely. Let us rather wait awhile, Ingolf.”
Ingolf left her with the firm resolve henceforth to alter his outward demeanour. He saw that the first and foremost thing was his duty and obligation to exhibit to the crew a calm and untroubled face, be the outlook never so hopeless. The first man he met he greeted with a cheerful remark, and after that day he was altogether more lively and communicative.
When the crew saw what an alteration had taken place in Ingolf, they thought in themselves that he must in some way or another have received a token from the gods. Their desire for a sacrifice and drawing of lots ceased. Ingolf’s altered demeanour inspired them with hope and courage.
But the days went on, and one day the supply of drinking water ran out. During the night following the day when the last scoop of water had been equally divided among all on board, Ingolf did not sleep. And he could easily see that Hallveig lay awake by his side. But they did not talk. Ingolf was more and more convinced that the gods had for ever withdrawn their favour from him. Perhaps it was their intention to let him miserably perish here at sea. Would they not even grant him to die on land? Could they not even spare a place for a funeral mound for him and his? Ingolf reproached himself severely that he had involved Hallveig in his own and his race’s ill-luck.
Towards morning they began at last to talk together in a whisper. Ingolf opened his whole mind to Hallveig, and confided to her his most secret thoughts and anxieties. Hallveig said that she had married him because she intended to share his fortunes whether they were good or bad. She feared neither life, nor death, nor the displeasure of the gods, if only she had him.
While they were still lying there and whispering together, Leif stood suddenly in the doorway and shouted. He had kept watch during the night, and had good news to tell. The fog was gone and the wind was gradually rising. He had given orders to hoist the sail, and now only wished to ask whither they should sail, for he did not know. The sky was overclouded all the time, and the sun could not be seen. Would Ingolf come and see if he, perhaps, could scent out the right direction?
Ingolf was on his legs in an instant. All anxiety and trouble was blown away from his soul by the first puff of wind. He took counsel with his deepest instincts, and found a direction to sail in. The wind was rather slack at first, but then it had got out of the habit of blowing. In the course of the day it freshened to splendid sailing weather. There were birds on the water; they must be near some land. Towards evening they caught a glimpse of a dark streak ahead, which showed distinctly against the fog-banks on the horizon. There rose a shout on board: “Land in sight!” Then Helga wept. No one was astonished at it. Some of the men also felt a flutter at their hearts this time on sighting land again. But Hallveig stood quiet and undisturbed, staring at the dark streak ahead. What sort of land was it? Were they already there? That night no one thought of seeking sleep or rest.
Early in the morning they were among some precipitous green islands which were divided by narrow straits with strong currents. From the vessel they could here and there catch sight of smoke from houses and huts. This, then, was an inhabited land, and not the one they sought. One of the old men on board had been here before, and was able to inform them that these were the Faroe Isles. That reassured Ingolf; it meant they had not come out of their course. There was great joy on board. Here they could go on shore, feel firm ground under their feet, and provide themselves with water. There were some among the crew who ventured to hint that the voyage had lasted long enough, but a look from Ingolf was enough to reduce them to silence. All depression and doubt had been swept out of his mind along with the fog.
The brothers now had all tubs, buckets, together with the empty barrels and casks which were on board, filled with water from a spring on the coast. When that had been seen to, they were so fortunate as to get good weather with a stiff breeze. It was again possible to sail by the sun and stars, straight to the west. They left the Faroe Isles astern and made for the open sea. The weather remained fine, with a light breeze blowing. The wind was certainly somewhat capricious both as regards force and direction. But it blew all the time, and that was what was needed. Only seldom could the vessel hold on a straight course; they were obliged to tack, and so the way became somewhat uncertain. Still they made progress.
On the seventh day after leaving the Faroes they at last sighted land. A large and wide-stretching land, crowned by white glaciers behind blue mountains, and land with broad, open fjords and bright streams which wound down green mountain-sides, rose from the sea before their wondering eyes.
This must be the land they sought. Here then it lay, solitary and uninhabited, far away in the uttermost part of the sea. It lay silent and patient, expecting them.
The land greeted them with sunshine and summer and blue mountains. Majestic it lay there, with skyward towering promontories and broad mouths of fjords which, like open arms, offered them a royal welcome. No other land had ever received them with such a festal and solemn greeting as this gave them.
A strange silence spread on board the vessel. It was early in the morning that they sailed into a fjord full of swans. The blue surface of the fjord was completely covered with these white birds, which, with proudly lifted necks and in great flocks, swam to one side as the ship glided on. Many other birds swam among them—variegated eider-ducks and handsome water-fowl. But one did not notice them because of the white swans. Hallveig named the fjord Svanefjord.
The brothers had chosen this fjord because it was protected by a little group of islands which might make it more secure as a winter haven than the open fjords. They tacked a little to and fro, using a corner of their sail, and surveyed the land. Bare mountains rose on either hand. On the north was a strip of fertile land along the fjord; on the east side the waves broke freely at the base of the mountain. The land at the end of the fjord seemed fertile and inviting, but they could not find a landing-place which suited them.
Ingolf proposed that they should inspect a little more closely the nearest fjord south of the one they were in. He had seen from the ship that there lay a broad fjord sheltered by a small, low group of islands.
They tacked past a promontory and entered the other fjord. It was both broader and deeper than the one they had just come from, but was likewise full of swans! Hallveig laughed with gladness when she saw it. This fjord also must be called “Svanefjord,” she declared. They might be called North and South. She did not know there were so many swans to be found in the world. “Birds love this land,” she said to herself.
Helga stood by her side. She compelled herself to smile and share Hallveig’s gladness, but her heart was full of pain, for the beautiful land she saw here and which Hallveig already seemed to love, could never be hers. She saw the swans, the mountains, and the green dales. But in her heart there was no room for anything but a quiet, slightly strange emotion. The scent of the pines from the islands at home was too keen in her memory. Ingolf and Leif stood silent and in a solemn mood, side by side; they looked at the land and did not say a word. They had stood thus a long time when Ingolf turned to his brother and said quietly: “What do you think of the land, Leif?”
“It is a big land and seems a good one,” answered Leif, in a low voice.
“If only most of it was not barren mountain,” said Ingolf, but his voice lacked the reservation which his words expressed.
“I think we might soon feel at home among these mountains,” said Leif.
“It does not look unfriendly,” Ingolf admitted.
In his inmost heart he was deeply moved. The strength and sternness of the mountains filled his mind with a peculiar excitement. Among these mountains the green dales and fertile stretches of land, which he caught a glimpse of at the end of the fjord, assumed a doubly home-like aspect.
Suddenly Leif awoke from his long reflection and silent contemplation. Abruptly and unexpectedly, as always, a resolve had been born in his mind, and aroused him. “It is all the same to me what sort of a land it is—I shall settle here,” he declared in an excited tone. “Since I have come, I think it would disappoint the land if I left it again. And I will not disappoint this land, which lies here so ready to receive me—so much is certain.”
Ingolf was silent. Leif had given expression to his own thoughts. He felt so convinced at this moment that here it was his lot to settle and remain. But this feeling was followed in his mind by a peculiar anxiety which almost made him sorry. Was it a good land—a land where one could peacefully build and settle, and where his family could flourish in happiness and prosperity? Not himself alone, but his children and children’s children should dwell here, if he determined to settle himself in the place.
The brothers chose a landing-place on the north side of the fjord, and steered thither. It was with strange feelings that they set foot on this new land, which from time immemorial had lain here behind the sea and the distance, alone with its birds. On sea and land, everywhere the birds swarmed. The questioning whistle of the golden plover and the rippling quaver of the curlew were the first sounds that greeted them as they trod the stones of the shore.
Ingolf and Leif immediately set the crew to work to bring the animals on land and to unload the vessel. They themselves proceeded to pitch their tents, after having selected a spot with thick green grass, well protected from wind and weather by a projection of rock, and close to the brink of a small, clear stream. The kitchen utensils were brought up, and a fire kindled. The shore was covered with driftwood, so that there was plenty of fuel. Pots containing salted flesh were hung up; at last they got hot meat again. They could not remember that any meat had tasted so good as this hot salt flesh after the dried fish, preserved flesh, and hard and finally mouldy bread they had had on the sea voyage. They baked bread, too, and ate it warm from the embers. It was splendid to have soft bread between their teeth again.
Round them the animals dispersed, grazing eagerly over the fertile pastures. It was a pleasure to see the satisfaction with which they swallowed the green grass. Towards evening the vessel was so far unloaded that it could be brought ashore and rolled on logs over the ground. They had chosen a little cleft in the rocks for it to lie in shelter during the winter.
By the evening, when the men had crept into their skin bags and had lain down to sleep, Ingolf and Leif, Hallveig and Helga, still sat round the remains of the fire, but did not think of sleep. They sat silent, close to one another, and did not talk. The night was bright and still, and dew was falling. The fire gleamed palely in the night. Red ember-snakes writhed at the bottom of it. The fjord spread a shining surface, dotted white with sleeping swans. There was a peace and stillness over the land which filled their minds with a peculiar awe and sense of expectation.