In Search of Helgafjell

Chapter One: Land Unknown to the Dreamy Son of Iceland

934 AD                                                                                                                                                           I awake. Bright morning, that I sense is unseasonal. Woods or copse or possibly grove. Water, somewhere, running. Lie in the grass. Dewy or damp from hours old shower. Or both, most likely. Birds. Dawn chorus? No. Not loud enough. Cold breeze on my face. Cold but not harsh. Horse pelt blanket covers me. Warm enough for now. I would wonder how I came to be in this situation but as it is such a happy place I do not. After all I have often awoken in strange places and no harm has come to me. As yet.

Wait. Trees? Trickling stream rather than crashing waterfall? Tweets of birds and not neighs of horses. This is not the land that I ventured from home in, the land of ice and fire. No, this is like the land our fathers describe, that we tell to our children, though none of us have ever been. Well until now? At least it seems this land at first glance – never having been judgement cannot be wholly accurate – but something does not ring true...

There is a saying amongst my people: “Better weight than wisdom a traveller cannot carry”[1] Feel the saying, that previously I had used so faithfully, mock me as I have no knowledge of my surroundings. Not sure if I am with my ancestors or foreigners. At least I am not dead, I would know if I were. Dying in battle and being favoured by the god Odin, I would be in Valhalla, preparing for Ragnarök, the final battle. Being favoured by the goddess Freyja, and I’d reside with her instead. Dishonour or death by succumbing to weakness and I’d be in Hel’s realm.  Needless to say this is not where one wants to be. Fear it will be my fate however. I am no great warrior and it is not as if I live as well as i could. Daren’t even hope to dream I may end up at Helgafjell....   I rack my brain for a memory of how I arrived here, of what season it is, of why I would ever leave my home. Immediately I know it was not voluntary; my birth land means more than any possession. Thus something dreadful must have happened. Even the recognition of this fact stirs an echo of dread. Flash of the most intense heat. Flash of choking ash. Flash of shuddering earth.   Force myself to stand, dizzy. The shaking fractions of memory overwhelm me. Stumble in the direction of the water source. Splash clear liquid on my face. Ash falls out of my beard, my hair, my eyelashes, even. Debris reaches my lungs and I splutter, cough with them feeling half full of dust. Hands, too, covered in a thin grimy layer. Washing those reveals deep cuts, burns, just beginning to properly heal.   My breathing becomes hard again and coughing now sears my throat. Gulp down cool relief as it makes its way seawards and steady my breathing. I watch as grains of sand – brown here, not the black I am accustomed to- roll and bounce about on the river bed.   Flash of rocks heavy and yet so filled with air they look as though they’d float. Yes, those rocks that poured down like rain on the farms of the slopes. Hand moves instinctively to forehead, pull back hair to reveal the wound. Rub it and feel the bruise, remember the blow, re-open the cut. Blood drip, trickle then drip. Frown as connection is made... The air of those rocks did nothing to cushion the blow of one slamming against your skull. Wonder at how my face was not masked by congealed blood but place it low on list of concerns.    My breathing feels normal again at least. I retrieve the horse skin rug and clutch it to myself. Stroking her mane as I did before she died and I have a sense of home. She was my first horse, my most beloved companion as a child. I remember the day so clearly; it was the shortest day of the year, hours of pitch blackness with only a few of hazy light. Being just the sixth I had witnessed, curiosity rather got the better of me as event around me unfolded.   Our farm is the place of dreams for the adventurous spirit of the young. Large and sprawling, covering half the south side of the Slopes and cut by both spring fed and glacial rivers. The latter are nothing if not temperamental, moving after heavy storm or ice melt. For this reason we always graze the animals – the sheep, cows and horses – on grasses sufficiently far away, for fear they be washed away.  That year, the year I got my horse, the neighbouring farm had not employed the same forethought into their set up.   Erik, son of Arne, certainly lived up to his name; unique he most definitely was, with the most unique thing being his approach to farming. In a pledge to fatten his foals for market, he had allowed his horses out to graze too long that day and so it had gotten dark. My father and eldest brother had, with sense of neighbourly duty, assisted in rounding the scattered animals back into their shed. Being so embarrassed at his stupidity and determined to show my father that he had at least somecompetence with his animals, Erik had rushed the process. The result being that one young foal (soon to be my foal) and her mother had been missed. Presently, a storm split the heavens.   No more thought was given to Erik’s horses as the Slope families huddled in turf houses. I, however, had other ideas. Having always been the rebellious type, I decided to take a walk in the rain.  Despite being small I knew how to outwit my parents in order to go off on my own. It wasn’t exactly necessary by that stage – the jumping to reach the latch on the back door to sneak out - they had long since stopped wondering where little Foss had gone on his adventures.   The rain had begun to ease by the time I had reached the waterfall marking the centre of our land. It was this very place that gave me my name, my mother had once told me. When I was born my father took me there to see the sun rise on my first day of life (and to cease my endless cries). The instant I heard the torrent crashing onto the rock I gurgled to a stop. There and then my father gave me the name of all waterfalls, Foss.   Six years later and my routine visit was disturbed. The brief but ferocious storm had swelled the river running from the waterfall to such an extent that it had broken it banks and begun carving a new path for itself. Unluckily for that poor lost mother horse, its new path included where it had been standing. Its poor broken body was carried past me as I sat huddled on a rock (which, more than likely, was in truth of troll who had been caught in the daylight). In the semi-darkness she looked harrowing and demonic, not the beautiful horse I knew her to be. I sobbed for the tragic creature being careful to wipe my eyes thoroughly afterwards – a crying son is not what an Icelandic man wants.   Just as I got up to leave, I heard this kind of plaintive neighing. I recognised it from the foals that got separated from their mothers in a field and knew then it was duty to care for the orphan. She was happily led back to the sheds where I sat with her all night. Morning came and finally my parents searched for me. When they found me, huddled up with a foal curled up next to me, they remained as unflappable as ever.   I told them I’d found her wandering around on her own – I omitted any mention of her dead mother. Erik was fetched and looked less than pleased when he arrived. I think he had decided it would mean more trouble than it’s worth to rear her by hand. To this end he simply walked in, announced that “Foss can keep the damn foal because I don’t want her back!” and stomped off. His shouting woke the foal who looked up at me with intense sorrow and adoration in its eyes.   She acquired her name when the sun came up. I’d just finished feeding her and I sensed instinctively that she would want go outside. The shed door swung open – the latch had broken in the storm – and she went through it with inquisitive step. I followed close behind, in the way a mother goose does with her goslings. We trod the path down to the waterfall. She was taking me to where she last saw her mother. It was then I named her Dóttir (daughter), for I could tell she would never be free of her traumatic beginnings.   I loved her and trained her for nine years after that. At first my father didn’t like that the least warrior like son had gained a free horse before three of my brothers but soon he saw how much of a natural horseman I was. It’s hard to explain my affinity with horses but, just as I will always find my way to water, horses will always find their way to me, which is why it was so horrific to me when my first perfect companion died. Poor, tragic little Dótt was killed by brother for accidentally pulling his cart of grain into a ditch. He lost a miniscule fraction of it and so enraged he cut her down with his sword where she stood. That night I tenderly made her pelt into a blanket so as she could always be with me. I did it in private, in the shed with the animal. I knew I could not be seen in persistent tears.   Every day since then I have slept under that blanket and now realise that as I sit here, in alien territory, I am curled up on it, sobbing once again. I am such a bad son of Iceland, with all of my tears and sentimental tendencies. If it was not for my gifts with horses I am sure I would be extremely unfavoured. As it is I am merely bullied and taunted but that I can live with.   The sun is showing that midday is fast approaching and I go back to the river in the hopes of a catching a fish or two. I catch a couple easily, literally with my bare hands, as they come to the surface to enjoy the winter sun. Deciding it would be redundant to light a fire as I don’t intend to stay, I lie back on the river bank and eat the fish raw. They are different to those at home. I can’t say I care too much for the change but then I don’t have much of a choice. There are berries ripe on a bush overhanging the river and, seeing that several birds have been pecking at them during the morning, I pick a few from where I lie. The berries are ripe and sweet, a welcome contrast to the sour varieties of home.   When I have filled my stomach, I gather my rug, drinking skin and other assorted possessions in my pack and check my knife and sword are secure in my belt. Now I am full the next priority is finding a horse. A horse, men to row and then a ship to get me home. Over the breast of the hill in the East seems to be my best chance. Pack slung on my back and a pouch full of berries and another dead fish, I began to walk.   My footfalls feel far heavier than normal; there is an aching in my leg that hasn’t been there before. I decide that inspecting it would only waste time. Walking away from the sunlight time is not something I can afford to waste. As I trudge along I keep myself from pondering how I came to be here and instead focus my attention on the beauty of the land around me; trees bare of leaves and yet stunningly silhouetted against the bright white sky, a wider variety of chirping birds than I had never seen and plant upon plant bursting with dainty fruits.   I compare this land to Iceland. Climate certainly feels similar but somehow it has formed remarkably distinct kingdoms: the latter with ice caps, mountain slopes and a ground with a fiery temper and the former with its woods and gentle rolling hills. Both have plenty of running water and of this I am forever grateful. It is not just the landscapes which stand them apart, though, the light, or rather the amount of light, it utterly different. 

At home the length of the days varies widely with the time of year: the summer brings long days of glaring white sunshine and soft evenings; winter is, simply, the opposite. Here the light has a different quality – not so pure and icy – more warmth inhabits this sunshine. Light has a great effect on the atmosphere of a place. The crisp light of Iceland gives it a cool, glittering prettiness, one that reflects in the sky blue eyes of its children. Whereas, this colour in the air gives a romantic, comforting, almost reassuring, appeal to the misty prospect, seen from the top of the hillock.

As I look down on the valley, I breathe the early evening air deep in and even that seems to have restorative effect on my choked lungs. Air at home would most likely not have this desired effect. With my lungs clearer I am pleased to see a scattered settlement of farmsteads at the east end of the valley. When I crane my neck to peer further eastwards I see a port a few miles down, where the river meets the sea. I debate momentarily with myself: an hour’s walk into the valley or who knows how long to the port?

The choice, to some, may seem strikingly obvious. Why walk for an unknown length of time, in a strange environment with night setting in, when there is habitation within a distance one can reach before the stars make an appearance? The answer is simply that I am in a foreign land. People at place with easy and (one assumes) frequent access to the outside world – i.e. the port – are far more likely to be able to aid me in my current predicament.

On the other hand, I am after all the son of the most successful farmer in southern Iceland (most probably the whole of Iceland) and I know a bit about how they think.  I can tell the ones who will let you sleep in their house, with the animals or won’t even give you the time of day. Maybe also there will be the chance to exchange information. As much as my father tries to ignore me, I know my suggestions for improvements in our animal management are perfectly valid. Perhaps he will take more notice if I claim an exotic foreigner has taught it all to me. Perhaps.

That decided, I make my way down the valley sides. They are wet and slippery – not from the same storm as had the dampened the grass in the wood (though doubtless this would have contributed) but sticky with consistency of mud which shows frequent running of water. It is the consistency of mud which fills the ground left when heavy rain moves a glacial river, though not nearly as black. I positively cover myself in it, it clinging to my clothes and shoes as I half scramble, half slide my way down.

Around a third of the way, I slide to a pause -narrowly avoiding falling victim to a large patch of especially thick looking muck- and remove my shoes. At home I wouldn’t give a seconds thought to the dirt rapidly caking the sheep skins coverings on my feet, but these are many moons old. They’ve been worn - near constantly -across field and mountain (and now across sea) and I fear the stitching is one dirt caking short of expiring. Under normal circumstances – i.e. ones in which I am safely on my farm in Iceland – I could easily mend or make a new pair, however in the present situation that may not be so easy.

Contrary to the logical thinking, I take the final two shoeless thirds far quicker than the first. I reach the bottom filthy, panting and beaming. Really that was jolly good fun. Facing the prospect of knocking someone’s door looking the state I do, I wash my feet in the river (which has now reached the valley with me) and bend over to splash my hands and arms.

When I am satisfied with my cleanliness, I search for the house I want to try my luck with. Most, I think, would head immediately for the largest farm in the hope that the owners of this would be by far the most powerful to help one in a predicament. This is probably true; certainly our farm attracts far more lost and weary travellers than Erik’s or Bjørn on the other side.

Personally, though, with figures of authority isn’t where I feel safest in crisis or when seeking refuge, Perhaps, it is because I don’t conform to the usual expectations set for my gender, being dreamy and far from war like. Or perhaps it is because my brothers are so sycophantic towards my father and the other elders. Either way, I plump for the smallest house and, replacing my shoes on my feet, knock the door as naturally and politely as possible. 

[1] Saying of The Vikings, Hávamál