“This saga I had from Thorfinn Fairhair, who sailed with Leif the Lucky when he was but a boy of sixteen summers. Mighty were those men who followed the whale’s path to Vinland the Good. Thorfinn is old now and in his dotage but his eye still brightens and his sinews stiffen whenever this story is told. If it please you, Lords, I will recount the tale.
Now it happened that there was a man of Eyrar, in Iceland, named Biarni Heriulfson. It was Biarni’s habit to spend one season trading and the next with his father, who had settled in Greenland with Erik the Red. This one year, the fourth of Olaf’s reign, Biarni sailed from Eyrar bound for Heriulfsness. They had sailed but three days when the wind turned to the north and clouds covered the sun. Bitter was that wind and it blew stouthearted Biarni beyond the ken of men. Biarni’s crew were much afraid and neither the sunstone nor the sunshadow-board could help them. This Biarni was a man of valour and through those desolate days he stood by the styri and guided them ever on, past mountains made of ice until, at length, the welcome sun burst through once more and they could discover their position.
Biarni steered them ever westwards until they sighted land. It was in Biarni’s mind to sail close to this land, which was much wooded, but they saw no place to land. He sailed onwards for another day and they discovered another land with white beaches that promised fair, but this was no more like Greenland than the first. Biarni would not beach the knarr nor allow his crew to go ashore for wood and water, both of which he had in plenty. Instead, he ordered them to turn their faces to the east and, after several days of sailing and the finding of two more unknown lands, came safe once more to Heriulfsness. And thus it was that Leif Eriksson, whom men now call ‘the lucky,’ first came to hear of that far off place beyond the western sea….”
Leif Eriksson stood on a bale of wool and raised his voice to carry to the back of the crowd gathered in front of him.
“As many of you know, I plan another voyage. I have bought a knarr from Biarni Heriulfson – that same knarr that Biarni sailed beyond where the sun sets to a strange land. It is in my mind to see that place and harvest some of the timber Biarni saw growing in plenty. Are there men among you who would voyage with me?”
The crowd murmured and a few questions were shouted. Leif answered them directly, in plain speech, for such is our way. This was no call to go a-viking with promises of plunder. This was something new – a voyage of exploration beyond the lore of sailing men. There would be much danger and no certainty of riches at the end. It was just the sort of prospect to fire my young heart with dreams of glory and sagas yet to come. I was one of the first to move and stand before our captain and swear the oath of comradeship.
My name is Thorfinn Hanarrsson, whom men call Fairhair; a Greenlander born, for Hanarr, my father, was among those who first came here with Erik. When I was but twelve summers, my father’s ship was lost on a voyage to Norway. It was a drakkr, a long ship, not one of the fatter, trading knarrs; it should have been mine, had he lived. That same year my mother succumbed to the winter sickness and I was alone in the world. I could have returned to my foster-father’s hearth but I thought myself too much the man. I chose instead to go fishing and took my skiff in search of codfish among the skerries that dot the sea around the coast hereabouts. I got to know each rock and reef and the way the tides set. I ventured far and wide in search of fish but had never been out of sight of land. Now Leif was offering the chance of a real voyage, I leapt at it like a returning salmon. I was young, had no family and yearned for the adventure of it.
From the first, Leif asked his famous father to be our leader. Erik pleaded his years weighed too heavy on him but Leif silvertongue talked him round. Now, as some of you know, the knarr is a trading ship with a high freeboard and fixed mast. It needs fewer men than a drakkr and has fewer oars. We only row a knarr in and out of port. Nigh on ten hands of men stepped forward to answer Leif’s call but he chose only four and thirty to be his companions. We gathered together to haul the knarr onto the beach and worked some days careening her and re-caulking the planks. She was a stout ship, Norway-built of strong pine with a mast and yard of finest spruce. From stem to stern she measured twenty-one paces and from keel to tholepins she was a head higher than the tallest man. She could ride the sea anywhere it reached a man’s waist and was fast enough under sail but a devil to row, which a man must do standing, pacing forward twice on each sweep, on account of her high freeboard. Still, it made her a dry ship, for which we would have cause to be grateful.
By early summer all was prepared. The knarr smelt of fresh pine and tar and Leif had caused a new sail to be sewn from fine linen. All was in readiness and the day dawned when we were to leave upon our great adventure. Leif rode over the hill to his father’s steading at Brattahlid to bring the great man to us and then set sail. On the return, Erik’s horse stumbled and threw him. The old man hurt his ankle and cried out to Odin that he was not meant to voyage more but see his days out on the land. Even Leif, who was a follower of the White Christ, could not ignore such omens and thus it was Leif became our leader and five and thirty sailed that day for the West.
Leif had chosen me for my knowledge of the skerries and my keen sight. I could spot a half-tide rock by the way the sea swirled and so I found myself at the prow, guiding the knarr from port and out into the ocean. Leif himself took the styri and set our course – due west. The sun shone and the wind was light and out of the east so we made good time. I listened to the sea chuckling under the knarr’s forefoot and sang in my heart. Gulls wheeled and shouted their harsh cries above us and two porpoises kept station as we glided over the water. All that day, Greenland grew smaller in our wake until all we could descry were the very mountaintops, gleaming white in the setting sun. It was strange to see the sun still upon them when all around us the night had fallen. Leif said this is because the world is curved like an upturned dish, but I know not.
I don’t believe I slept at all that first night. The old salts bedded down as soon as it grew dark but I was too excited. I stood beside Snorri, who had replaced Leif at the styri, and talked so much nonsense he gave me a clout and bade me be silent. I took it in good part, though, and even relieved him of the steering when his head started to nod. I was still there when the sun came up. The dawn is different at sea. There is no gradual transition from night to day, no mountains for the sun to hide behind. A golden glow lit the few clouds and then the sun appeared over the horizon, striking fire from our wake. I could not credit how swiftly the sun climbed. I held out my hand to cover it and it moved as I watched. I vow it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Oh yes, I’ve been up with the dawn many times to launch my skiff, but watching the sun crawl its way over the mountains was never as thrilling as the first dawn at sea, out of sight of land with only the grey-blue ocean all around us.
