“Haul in the starboard lines!”
Kiera quickly unwrapped the forward rope from the starboard stay. Using the stay as a pulley, she hauled in the rope as quickly as possible, trying her best to ignore her complaining arm muscles.
“Trim the bowline!” Thorfinn howled. She hauled in the second rope. “Again! Again! Good! Stave off the line and secure the portside.”
Kiera's hands worked quickly, making both lines taut. The skin of her palms began to smoulder from the rough surface of the rope. She nearly lost her balance as the wind caught the sail, and the boat leapt ahead like a freed stallion. The crew shouted a whoop of joy. These were the descendents of the one of the greatest sailing nations ever to grace the open ocean. Ocean water ran in their veins. Kiera noticed the joy in their eyes as they shook their fists in the air and smacked each other on the back.
“A toast to a good voyage!” Thorfinn shouted.
Another whoop from the crew. Bjorn removed the cover of a cask filled with warm ale and lowered a large wooden stein into the liquid. The stein was passed to Thorfinn, who hoisted it up in salute to the gods, downed several large swallows, then passed it on to the next man. Eventually, the mug made its way to Mats, who had his pull, then handed it on to Kiera.
“Good work with the lines,” he commented. “You keep working like that, and the rest of the boys will soon learn that you are as capable as any of them.”
“Thanks, Mats,” she said, smiling. She couldn't deny a certain tingle of excitement building within her. She let go of the anger and disappointment that had been eating within her all night. Perhaps this was to become a real adventure after all. She looked down into the mug.
“I've never had ale before.”
He laughed and pointed to all of the casks in the stern. “Might as well get used to it. It's our main provision. Besides, I can guarantee it will help kill the pain you're feeling right now in your arms. Don't worry. Mine are aching too. Most of us haven't been out to sea in over a year.”
She smiled at the kind words. She was thirsty. She brought the warm, brown liquid to her lips and downed several swallows before the thick ale in her throat and belly caused her to gag. She couldn't swallow and ended up spraying the remainder of the ale out of her mouth. Mats put up his hands too late, and his face received a shower of suds.
Kiera was horrified. “I'm so sorry!”
Instead of anger, Mats burst out laughing.
“You downed half of it before gagging. For a first-timer, that's an accomplishment!”
The rest of the crew had been watching the scene in the bow with amusement.
“Don't laugh too hard, Mats,” quipped Bjorn. “I remember your first ale. You turned as green as seaweed and didn't eat for two days. I'd say she's faring a lot better than you!”
The second burst of laughter turned Mats' fair cheeks into a flame of red. Kiera didn't want to see him teased but couldn't help but join the merriment as well.
“If it's all right with Thorfinn, I think I'll stick with water for the rest of the trip.”
“Of course,” replied Thorfinn. “The lady gets whatever she wants. And you're doing an excellent job on those bow lines. Good work, Kiera!”
Thorfinn's eyes suddenly narrowed as he gazed at the sea ahead.
“Wind change! North, northwest! Prepare to come about. Release the starboard lines! Prepare portside!”
The jovial mood of the crowd evaporated with the commands. Kiera dumped the rest of the ale overboard, threw down the mug and grabbed the lines. Together the crew worked like a well-oiled machine, listening to the commands, guiding the boat onto her new course and continuing their coastline trek southward.
FIVE
After a night harboured in a sheltered, cedarlined bay, the crew ate a breakfast of salted fish and raised the sail at the first light of dawn. Excitement was building, for by mid-afternoon Thorfinn predicted that they would be reaching the southwest corner of this enormous island and would start their more dangerous trek westward towards less explored territory. It had been over a decade since the westward lands had been explored by earlier Viking expeditions. There were stories of large native villages, huge tides, sea monsters, severe storms and ancient ruins. But balancing the dangers were tales of endless forests, plentiful game and delicious fruits. The crew was itchy with anticipation. If they could only find a piece of that western paradise for themselves…
Thorfinn remained focused on the task at hand; a safe voyage during a dangerous season. Being late summer, he knew from experience that there was a much greater chance of their craft running into an unpredictable and dangerous Atlantic storm. Although a Christian, Thorfinn continued to respect the ancient gods of his forefathers. Many Viking ships had been lost in such maelstroms, and his village could not afford a catastrophe. He could only hope that whoever truly controlled nature's wrath would look kindly upon their noble trek.
“We will stay as close to shore as possible until we must cross the open water to reach the western lands,” Thorfinn explained. “It is there that I hope we can find a new, suitable home.”
“The western lands,” repeated Mats, in awe. He turned to Kiera. “I've always dreamed of exploring the lands of the sagas. Thorfinn is the only one in the village to have travelled with Leif on those early journeys.”
Kiera tried to imagine such lands. “Do you think it's true? Are there really forests of fruits, endless seas of grapes and natives that live in villages even larger than our own?”
Mats frowned. “Of course it's true. The sagas contain our people's history. Why would we teach our children lies? What purpose would it serve? But, of course, sagas are a Viking tradition. You do not realize the importance of such tales.”
His comment stung Kiera. Of course, she understood the importance of tradition, whether it be Viking or Celtic. Kiera had thought that Mats was kind-hearted and open-minded. Had she misjudged him so badly? She looked away in anger, but a hand rested upon her shoulder.
“There is nothing wrong with having a streak of doubt in your mind when you overhear an unbelievable tale, lass.”
Thorfinn had moved to the bow and was now standing between the two young adults. He had mistaken her anger for doubt of the truth of the sagas. “Your doubts are no different from the ones I had in Iceland when, over the roaring flames of the hearth, old warriors would tell the tale of the Ancients sailing across the Atlantic in leather boats only slightly larger than a barrel. It is said that those old Celtic mariners were already living in Iceland when my Viking ancestors first arrived in those northern lands. Being defenseless, they fled further west with each Viking advance, including Greenland. My favourite legend went on to describe how they had found the Promised Land, the one referred to in the Holy Bible. Some of the Ancients made the return home to Ireland to tell of their adventures but never to reveal the exact location of what the old Celtic maps had labelled their “Land of Promise”.
“You didn't believe those tales, did you?” asked Mats.
Thorfinn laughed. “The combination of old men and ale often makes for storytelling that tends to, shall we say, stray away from the truth on occasion. But after living here, in Vinland, I now believe the ancient tales.”
“Because of the Stone,” added Kiera, smiling.
He nodded. “Aye, because of the Stone and several other stones that Leif and I found further ahead on the coast. They've been here. We believe they were carved over two hundred years ago.”
Mats' mouth dropped open. “Two hundred years ago! That I don't believe.”
“You'd better apologize to Kiera and her ancestors right now. Those ancient Irish mariners are like ghosts. We have been chasing their movements ever since our people started