A Skein of Words

>St. Petersburg, Russia
May, 1758

Black Egret woke on the softest bed he had ever experienced. It was so soft, he found his back was sore when he tried to sit up. The bed was crowded with pillows.

“Monsieur Aigrette Noir,” said a servant. “I am sorry to wake you, but the Empress requests your presence in her audience chamber in one half hour.”

Black Egret stood up slowly, feeling the aches and creaks in his tired body. “Very well,” he said. He had picked up a reasonable amount of French on the voyage from Philadelphia to France. “I am ready.”

The servant, a small, precise man in a simple black suit, raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me, Monsieur,” he said, “but you are not. The Empress is a woman who expects a certain amount of care and stylishness in appearance. You, monsieur, look as though you have not changed your clothes since you left America.”

“Not true,” said Black Egret. “I changed them in Calais.”

“But now you are in Russia,” said the servant. “Permit me, monsieur, to assist you with your toilette.“

And so Black Egret submitted himself to be stripped, bathed, slathered in oils, soaps, and perfumes, shaved (but his braids were left long — “to make Monsieur look more exotic,” said the servant), dried, painted with makeup, dressed in layers of white cotton and silk and lace, and finally shod in black buckled shoes. The tall gold-edged mirror showed him a Russian prince — but without, thankfully, the ridiculous white powdered wigs these white men fancied.

“This is acceptable,” said the servant at last, picking lint off his red felt dress jacket. “If Monsieur will follow me.”

Black Egret thought his room was opulent, but he soon realized he had been stashed in the simpler, poorer wing of the palace. Each hall they passed, each corner they turned, revealed more gold filigree, more tall mirrors and white stone sculptures and gigantic oil paintings, heavy hanging fabrics and windows looking out over extravagant gardens glittering in the morning dew.

Silently they walked down acres of corridors, through a massive marble hall and into an even larger one, colonnaded, lined with windows, and decked with curtains, mirrors, paintings, and precious metals. Men and women dressed even more extravagantly than he milled in the room, talking quietly, and turning to watch them as they entered. At the far end was a great golden throne on a raised dais; and in it sat a woman who could only be the Empress Elizabeth of Russia. She was holding the journal, open on her lap.

As he approached the throne, the room slowly fell silent. He felt dazed and light-headed with all the opulence, as if he were walking among the clouds to an audience with the sun.

“Welcome,” said the Empress, when he had mounted the first few steps towards the throne, and a servant gently touched his arm to stop him from going closer. “Do you speak French?”

“Well enough, impératrice,” he said. “I learned a little on the voyage. I am surprised that the Empress of Russia speaks French.”

There was some laughter around the court — laughter with a dangerous edge. But the Empress smiled. “French is the most civilized language in the world,” she said. “But you could not be expected to know that. You are called Monsieur Aigrette Noir?”

“Yes, impératrice,” he said.

“You have done a great service for us,” she said. She smiled and held up the journal. “This booklet shows, beyond all doubt, that the great explorer Bering traveled far into America. And this brave warrior savage has brought it to us, as proof. Because of him, our empire is now by far the greatest in the world.”

She turned to an aide. “Pyotr, please hand me the award.”

Pyotr bowed, and gave her a small box. She opened it and drew out a small metal star on a cloth strap.

“Monsieur Aigrette Noir,” she said, standing, “for extraordinary services to the Russian Empire, in token of our eternal gratitude, I hereby name you Russian Ambassador to the American Indians; and I present you with the Empire’s highest award: the Star of the Order of St. Andrew.”

“Bow,” whispered the servant. Black Egret bowed, and the Empress reached up and put the star around his neck. It was a beautiful thing, made of silver, emblazoned in the center with Russian letters and what appeared to be some kind of bird.

“I thank you,” said Black Egret. Still dazed and dizzy from opulence and praise, he struggled for words. “I am honored.”

At this, the crowd in the hall began to cheer and clap. He turned and bowed to them, and they cheered and clapped some more.

“And now, Monsieur Ambassador Aigrette Noir,” said the Empress, smiling — and he abruptly wondered if she was making fun of him, a “savage warrior” with such a grand title — “is there anything that the Russian Empire can do for you? Is there some wish you have, some gift we can bestow?”

Black Egret’s thoughts, so confused before, abruptly focused and centered on one thing. “”Yes, impératrice,” he said. “There is only one thing I wish. I have traveled many years to come here. I have lost my brothers, and many companions, men, horses, dogs. I almost died of sickness, cold, and starvation. Now I am here, and I have never been in a more beautiful city, or a more beautiful palace. But my only wish, impératrice, is to return to my home.”

The Empress smiled. “Of course,” she said. “We will give you whatever supplies and assistance you may require. I will have it arranged directly. And now, ladies and gentlemen of the court,” she said, throwing her white arms wide, “let the feast begin!”

The hall filled with movement and talking as the people started to file towards the exits. The servant at Black Egret’s elbow tugged on his sleeve. “Come, Monsieur Ambassador,” he said. “We will return to your room to change into dinner clothes. –Monsieur Ambassador?”

Black Egret did not move. He felt as if his mind was working clearly for the first time that day. He had been blinded by gold and silver and glass. The Empress had been lying, that was absolutely clear to him: she had no intention of allowing him to return home. Why not? He had no idea; Russian customs were a closed book to him. But she had lied, and he had seen it plainly.

But he was going home.

He allowed himself to be quietly led back along the wide corridors, all the way to the great windows that opened out upon the exquisite gardens. Then he simply stepped away from his guide, smashed through the windows, kicked off his black buckled shoes, and was off, running as only a Kahnawake warrior can. Behind him the shouting started, and he heard the first pistol shots.

>Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Christmas, 1754

There was a pounding at the door. Steadfast, sitting upstairs by the indian’s bed, said, “I’ll get it,” dashed downstairs, and flung it open. It was raining, as usual, but the drops were laced with ice. Benjamin Franklin stepped in, removing his cloak.

“Thank you so much for coming, sir,” said Steadfast, “especially on such a night — “

“Are you mad?” said Franklin mildly. “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything, if half of what you said is true. You say he is ill?”

“He is very weary, and as the night has come on, he’s gone feverish and started talking nonsense, sir. Clearly he’s had smallpox, but the scars are old and he seems well over it.”

“Is there a doctor?”

“Dr. Rogers is up there with him now, sir.”

“Can he have visitors? May I come and speak to him at once?”

“Certainly, sir. Chastity! Please put on the tea.”

“Yes, father.”

As Steadfast led the way upstairs, Franklin asked, “So he arrived this afternoon?”

“Yes, brought into town on a coach, if you can believe it, sir! He came from the west, over the mountains, with his two dogs, and was begging at a farmhouse. The farmer took pity on him, and listened to his story, and brought him to Germantown in his cart. From there the mayor, who as you know is one of us, arranged for the coach to bring him here this afternoon.”

Steadfast opened the door and led Franklin in. Black Egret lay in bed, eyes closed, breathing deeply. Dr. Rogers had been reading the paper by the bed, and Steadfast’s wife, Labor, had been knitting. They both stood up as Franklin came in.

“Good evening, Labor. Dr. Rogers.” Franklin shook hands, and then went and stood by the bed, looking at Black Egret carefully. The scars of smallpox were easy to see, and so was the bone-deep weariness of the man — not in any specific feature, but in a hundred small things, like the limpness of his strong hands, the pattern of creases around his eyes and mouth, and the streaks of premature white in his black hair.

Franklin went to the bedside. “He speaks English?” he asked.

“Well enough,” said Steadfast.

Drawing up a chair, Franklin said, “Hello.”

Black Egret opened his eyes, but said nothing.

“My name is Benjamin Franklin,” Franklin continued. “I am a tradesman and scholar here in Philadelphia. I am told you came a very long way to join us.”

Black Egret’s breathing became shallow, and said, “He is father. He is father. Bastard made bastard.”

Franklin glanced back at Steadfast, who shrugged. “He has been raving for hours, sir.”

Franklin nodded. “Do you have the journal?” he asked. Steadfast pointed to it on the bedside table.

“Mr. — Black Egret, is that your name?”

Black Egret nodded.

“I am very pleased to meet you,” said Franklin. “Black Egret, may I look at your journal?”

Black Egret nodded again. “They come home,” he whispered. “They come home, and father is dead.” Franklin smiled gently and took the leather-bound book — battered and stained, its pages yellowed and crinkled and thinned — and paged through it gently.

“These first entries are definitely Russian,” said Franklin. “Here is a name — Vitus Bering — that is the Russian explorer who was lost six years ago. My, my, my.” He turned the pages. “There is a lot of writing here in a language I don’t recognize,” he said. “It looks syllographic. Black Egret, do you know what that is?”

“Me,” said Black Egret.

“You wrote this? Is it in your tribe’s language?”

“Mine,” said Black Egret. “I make writing.”

“You mean you made up your own writing? A code?”

Black Egret scowled and turned his head away. “Hand,” he said, and he weakly raised his scarred hand off the covers and shook it. “Hand withered. He kill him, go east.”

“Can you hear me?” said Franklin.

“Yes,” said Black Egret.

“Good,” said Franklin. He smiled. “Mr. Pledger here sent me a message with some of your story. I was extremely intrigued, since I am interested in geography and history and so on. Are you willing to tell me the story in your own words?”

“No. Very tired,” said Black Egret.

“Really?” said Franklin. At that moment Chastity arrived with the tea tray, and then bowed out again.

“She is half slave,” said Black Egret. “He marry her anyway.”

Franklin sipped his tea, and said, “Steadfast, you said he’d been feverish all evening?”

“For the past few hours, sir.”

Black Egret groaned, and then said, “Not sleep well.”

“You did not sleep well last night?”

“Yes,” said Black Egret. “Not sleep well in six years.”

“Six years!” cried Franklin. “Why not?”

“She not let me,” said Black Egret. He frowned and closed his eyes. “They all three girls want fight. Both want children.” Then his eyes popped open, and he gripped Franklin’s hand, stared into his eyes, and spoke a few urgent sentences in rapid indian language.

Franklin nodded and said gently, “I do not understand your language. Please speak English.”

Black Egret frowned and closed his eyes.

“Who will not let you sleep, Black Egret?”

Black Egret glared at him. “Ghost,” he said.

Franklin sat back in surprise. “A ghost! A spirit is disturbing your sleep?”

Black Egret nodded, and closed his eyes again. “Iron horse,” he said wearily. “Iron horse rolls and iron bird flies and red man takes the law. Two sisters gone. Bright path up the grandfather mountain.”

Franklin looked at Steadfast, who shrugged again, and then he sat a moment in thought. At last he said, “Black Egret, we’re going to try and break your fever. Dr. Rogers, do you have some boneset weed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Boil some up for us. Labor, could I ask you to leave the room?”

Labor started in surprise, and then said, “I — well certainly, sir. Is there a problem?”

“I apologize, but I’m afraid this is becoming a Masonic matter.”

“Of course,” said Labor. She stood up, gathered her knitting, and left at once.

Franklin then went round the room, closing windows and shutters, and snuffing candles. Rogers arrived with the boneset, crushed it into a tea ball, and boiled the water. Franklin took the one remaining lit candle and put it by the bed. “Black Egret,” he said, “I may be able to help you. I have some training in these matters. Would you be willing to allow me to try?”

Black Egret whispered, “What you do?”

“Just lie back and relax. There will be no pain.”

Black Egret looked at him a long moment, and finally nodded.

“Very well,” said Franklin. “Steadfast, stand right over there by the door, if you would. Do you have a weapon?”

Steadfast took a knife from a drawer and took up his post.

Franklin took up the infusion of boneset — the smell of it was acrid — and dipped a cloth in it, and then lay the cloth over Black Egret’s forehead. The indian shivered and cried out, “He dying! Who give him his last name?”

“Just relax,” said Franklin. He waited a few moments. Black Egret muttered, “Crazy uncle. Six tens and six. The Keepers of the Eastern Door.”

“I want to speak to the spirit that keeps this man awake,” said Franklin softly.

“Anna,” said Black Egret.

“What?”

“Anna her name,” said Black Egret.

“Thank you,” said Franklin. “I want to speak to Anna. Anna, are you there?”

“The black man king,” whispered Black Egret. “He my friend, you all killed, leave me alone. Iron minds. Touch face of God.”

“Anna, are you there? I need to speak to you.”

There was a long pause, and then Black Egret breathed, “What you want.”

“Am I speaking with Anna?”

“Anna here,” whispered Black Egret.

Franklin glanced at Steadfast, whose knife gleamed in the dim candlelight. “Anna,” said Franklin, “I need to know why you will not let this man sleep. He is very sick, very tired.”

“Journal. Journal to Russia.”

“Anna, you want the journal taken to Russia?”

“Yes, journal to Russia.”

Franklin paused a moment in thought. “Anna,” he said at last, “if this man dies, the journal will not get to Russia.”

Black Egret did not reply.

“Anna,” said Franklin, “you must release this man, if you want the journal to reach Russia.”

Black Egret did not reply.

“Anna, do you want the journal to get to Russia?”

“Journal to Russia,” whispered Black Egret.

“Then you must release Black Egret,” said Franklin.

“Journal to Russia,” whispered Black Egret.

“You have made him sick,” insisted Franklin. “He will not make it to Russia unless you let him be.”

“Journal to Russia,” whispered Black Egret.

Franklin put his hand on Black Egret’s forehead. He sighed. “His fever is getting worse, Rogers,” said Franklin.

“We will need to bleed him soon,” said Rogers.

Franklin nodded and frowned. “I don’t think this Anna is a full personality,” he muttered. “An echo of a ghost, nothing more. All that is left of her is the desire to get the journal to Russia.”

“Is that good or bad?” said Steadfast.

“Less good,” said Franklin. “She won’t be reasoned with. She hasn’t got enough of a mind for that.” He closed his eyes and bent his head in thought.

Steadfast, Rogers, and Franklin sat in silence a while. Black Egret’s breathing grew faint and ragged.

At last Franklin looked up and smiled. He drew a small knife from his pocket, placed the journal carefully on the side table, and gently, softly cut the pages from their leather binding. He handed the pages to Steadfast. “Get me some other paper,” he said very quietly. Steadfast nodded and went to the desk at the far side of the room. He put the journal pages into a drawer, took out some loose paper, folded them small so that they would fit in the journal cover, and handed them to Franklin. Franklin smiled approvingly and slid them into the journal.

“Anna,” said Franklin, and he put the journal into Black Egret’s hands. “Anna, is this the journal?”

“Journal,” whispered Black Egret. Eyes still closed, his fingers caressed the journal as if it were a child. “Journal to Russia.”

“No,” said Franklin. “Anna, I am going to destroy the journal. Watch me closely. Watch me, Anna.” Black Egret’s eyes snapped open, and in the light of the single candle they seemed to blaze blue. But Franklin took the journal from Black Egret’s weak fingers, and stood, and carried it over to the fire. Black Egret’s eyes followed him as if fascinated. “Watch me, Anna!”

As he dropped it, Black Egret rose from the bed, moving with the speed and silence of a bird’s shadow. Rogers reached out for him and missed. Steadfast was quicker: his knife found Black Egret’s side, and his arm went round his neck. Black Egret fought and twisted, while Franklin cried, “It’s finished, Anna! It’s finished! The journal is gone! It’s gone! The journal is gone!”

All at once it was over: Black Egret crumpled, all strength emptied. Rogers gently took him from Steadfast’s arms, and with Franklin’s help, carried him back on the bed. Rogers bound the knife would and Franklin checked his temperature and breathing.

“The fever is broken,” said Franklin. “And… he is asleep.”

When the morning came, and Black Egret woke, the fire was out, and only Franklin was in the room with him, still in the bedside chair, but asleep. Next to his hand on the bedside table was the journal. Black Egret lay there a while, listening to the silence of the dawn.

When Franklin woke up, not long afterwards, Black Egret had started the fire again, and was standing by the fireplace, leaning on the warm brickwork and holding the journal.

“Good morning, Black Egret,” said Franklin. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” said Black Egret. “Anna gone.”

Franklin nodded. “Good,” he said. He watched Black Egret carefully. The Indian stood absolutely still, eyes locked on the journal in his hand.

“You are going to burn it?” asked Franklin at last.

Black Egret did not answer at once; he sighed and looked at Franklin and laughed a little. “I thought maybe yes,” he said. “But no. — Not today.”

Franklin nodded. “Tomorrow?” he asked.

“Maybe,” said Black Egret.

Franklin watched the Indian another minute, then stood up and stretched. “Fine,” said Franklin. “It is your journal, you can do what you want with it. What will you do today?”

Black Egret tottered back to bed. “Today I sleep,” he said. “Tomorrow, maybe I burn journal. Or… maybe I find boat to Russia.”

>Leifland
1018 AD

“He is father! He is father. Bastard made bastard.”

Leif rushed into Erik’s bedroom and knelt by his bedside. “Erik! Speak to me, son.” He put his hand to Erik’s forehead, but it was still searing with fever.

“More water, Hoegra!” Leif called out. He heard the slave girl ladling water from the basins outside.

“They come home,” whispered Erik. “They come home, and father is dead.”

“Who? Who comes home, Erik?” asked Leif.

“Hand,” said Erik, and he weakly raised his hand off the covers and shook it. “Hand withered. He kill him, go east.”

“He is still raving, my lord,” said Laussa.

Leif gently kissed Erik’s forehead. “Rest, Erik,” he said. “You will be well soon.”

He rose and slowly walked out of the room, and then leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. He was tired, so tired… So empty.

“Leif,” said Laussa.

“He is dying,” said Leif.

“I know,” said Laussa.

“My son is dying, and I can do nothing,” he said, and his voice broke. He felt Laussa’s hand on his arm, and reached out for her shoulder, gripping it so hard she gasped. He tried to speak, but could not.

He heard running steps outside, pounding across the courtyard and slamming the door open. Róg’s voice: “My lord!”

Leif raised his head in time to see Róg come in. His face was flushed with excitement and exertion. “My lord,” he said, “there is a ‘Namgis outside the gates — a shaman, he says, with medicines and knowledge of healing. He says he heard of Erik’s sickness and came to help.”

Leif tried to think. Every nerve in his body screamed to let the shaman in and heal his son, but he had to think things through carefully: could it be a trap? A trick? But no, they were still on good terms with the ‘Namgis.

“He came from Tall Cedar?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Róg. “From Tall Cedar.”

“Iron horse,” Erik said wearily. “Iron horse rolls and iron bird flies and red man takes the law. Two sisters gone. Bright path up the grandfather mountain.”

Leif nodded. Tall Cedar was trustworthy. He looked at Laussa, to ask her opinion, but one look at her face was enough. “Let him come and see what he can do,” he said. “Offer him bread and meat and wine. I will wait here to speak with him.”

Róg nodded and dashed out. Laussa started to say something, but Leif hushed her. “Do not speak of hope yet,” he whispered, and held her close.

A moment later the shaman entered, wearing the typical light clothing of the ‘Namgis, and carrying a leather satchel. He nodded to Leif, and Leif gave him a slight bow in return.

“Thank you for coming,” said Leif in the ‘Namgis language.

The shaman simply gave him a terse smile and set to work, drawing herbs from his satchel and laying them out. “Boiling water,” he said shortly, and Leif nodded for Róg to go after it. When it was brought, the shaman crushed herbs into it and a rich smell filled the air.

“He dying!” cried Erik. “Who gives him his last name?”

“All leave now,” said the shaman. Róg and Laussa left, but as Leif stood to go, the shaman said, “Not you. Stay.”

Leif sat by Erik’s bed. The two weeks of sickness had withered his son from a strong, muscular man to little more than a fleshy skeleton; his skin was flushed and hot, and his breathing difficult. Leif had seen many men die before, in battle and in sickness, and he knew Erik had held out longer than most.

At first he had prayed daily to the White Christ: every morning and every night for days and days, long past when his faith began to fail him. Now he still prayed to Christ, but also to Odin, and Heonir, and Heimdall, and Freyr, and Thor, and the waters, and the heavens… Anyone who would hear him.

The shaman came and sat by him, placing his hands on Erik’s skin. His expressionless face did not change.

“He is near death,” he said in ‘Namgis.

“Yes,” said Leif. “Do you know what his illness is? No one has been able to tell us.”

The shaman nodded. “It is the shaman sickness,” he said. “Very dangerous.”

“The shaman sickness,” said Leif. Dread crept up his spine. “What is that?”

“The black man king,” whispered Erik. “Iron minds. Touch face of God.”

The shaman did not look at Leif. “It is a sickness of spirit,” he said. “If your son lives, he will become a shaman.”

Leif struggled with questions and confusion. “Can — can you save him?”

“No,” said the shaman. “It is up to him. — But you might help him.”

“Me? How?”

The shaman looked at him; his eyes were black, but Leif thought he saw flecks of glittering white within them. The smell of the herbs was overpowering. He felt odd, and dizzy, as if the eyes were drawing him forward somehow.

“Come,” said the shaman, and reached out to touch his hand.

Leif felt himself falling forward into those eyes. The blackness flecked with white became vast, like the night sky, and swallowed him. He was falling up into the heavens; and then perspective changed, and he was falling down into the sea. His mouth seemed frozen shut, his body locked into position.

The fall went on a long, long time — an hour at least, it seemed — and then he realized he was lying on the ground, looking up at the night. All was absolutely silent, as if his ears were muffled. Bare tree branches scratched the sky above him. He scrambled to his feet — he felt light, strong, possessed of endless energy — and looked around him. Here was a road through the woods, broad and clear; it seemed to him that there was a throng of people walking along it, all in the same direction, but he could not see them. Next to him, beside the path, was a huge white horse, saddled and ready, with eyes that blazed red. It was restive, stamping its feet, making the only sound in the whole forest. Its hooves seemed to echo, as if it had many legs, or was many horses. Knowledge came into his mind: This is my horse.

This is a shamanic vision, he thought. He realized he was not thinking clearly, as if he were half-awake in a dream. He struggled to focus, and the thought returned: This is my horse.

He mounted it, and without guidance from him, it began to walk down the road at a slow walk. Its footfalls continued to echo oddly; it reminded Leif of a story about Odin’s horse, one he could not bring to mind. Leif could feel the silent throng around him, pressing against his horse.

After a long time, he saw ahead that the road leapt a broad stream with a great stone bridge. The throng was passing silently, invisibly over the bridge, into complete darkness on the other side. But two figures he could see clearly, facing each other at the top of the bridge’s arch. One was tall, skeletal, with hollow eyes and tattered black cloak, holding a mighty sword; the other, kneeling submissively, was his son.

He screamed, but his voice was silent. He jumped from the horse, which came to a halt with a clatter of hooves on stone, and found a knife in his hand, feeling strangely heavy and real. The skeletal figure raised its sword over his son’s head, and Leif leapt forward, plunging the knife deep into its chest. He felt liquid warmth on his hand, and the wraith unwound, its cloak tattering and scattering like a cloud. He fell to the stones.

There was a strange stirring in the air, and pounding of pain in his head. The darkness of the forest lifted, and he blinked in daylight. He was back in Erik’s room.

He heaved himself onto his knees, realizing with dull confusion that he really was holding a knife in his hand, and it was covered with blood. He was alone in the room — the shaman was gone. Quickly he looked over at his son, and saw blood on the sheets, blood on his son’s chest —

Erik was not breathing, and there was a horrible gash in his chest. Blood on his chest, blood on the knife, blood on Leif’s hands…

The knife. Leif looked at it, and saw the family crest of Tyrker on it. The very knife he had given to Tyrker when he’d banished his grandchildren. The shaman —

Leif screamed. “Róg!”

Laussa dashed in, saw the scene, Erik dead, Leif’s bloody knife, and screeched.

“The shaman!” cried Leif. “He bewitched me, made me kill him with this knife! Some trickery of Tyrker’s — find Róg! The shaman must be caught — “

But the shaman had left half an hour before, and Róg could not be found.

>Leifland
1017 AD

The last thing Leif was sure he saw with his own eyes was Tall Cedar’s smile. Then the heat and the sweat and the stench of bodies overwhelmed him, and he saw other things:

His son, Erik, alone in a small boat, poling away across a river. Darkness on the other side.

His foster-father, Tyrker, laughing wildly, mouth agape and full of meat.

His foster-brother, Stókk, lying on stone as if dead, bound with chains.

His wife, Laussa, screaming and crying with grief, spattered with blood.

His nephews and neice, Stókk’s children, smiling, holding stone knives and spears while the stockade burned around them.

Leif screamed and thrashed. It was like trying to escape from a tangle of thick vines, or a giant spider’s web. There was terrible heat and he couldn’t breathe.

Then it was over, he was on his hands and knees in the grass, chest pounding, gasping at the cool evening air. People around him were shouting, calling him. Hands reached out for him, he brushed them away. The earth tilted under him as he staggered to his feet.

“I am here,” he said. “Where is Erik? Where is Laussa?”

“Your son and wife are at the potlatch, my lord,” said a voice. “They are dancing.”

Leif found a tree and held on to it for dear life. Spots swam in front of his eyes. “Tyrker? Stókk?” he said.

“They are feasting, my lord,” said the voice. Leif placed the voice: his manservant, Róg.

“God bless you, Róg,” said Leif. “Stand by me. The world shifts.”

Róg took his hand, and Leif steadied himself. The ground settled somewhat. “Where are Stókk’s children?” he asked.

Róg did not answer.

“Róg! Where are they?”

“I do not know, my lord. They were dancing with Erik, but I don’t see them there now –”

Leif screamed, “Find them!”

Róg barked orders. Leif heard running and calling. “Find them,” he whispered. The smiles, the burning –

A distant shout: “Here they are!”

“Bring them to me,” said Leif. “Bring them all to me. It’s time for the gift-giving.”

“But my lord,” said Róg, “that is not until well after nightfall; people are still eating and dancing and the sweat-lodge is not — “

“Now is the time,” growled Leif. “I will be giving my gifts. Gather everyone.”

Róg obeyed. As the orders went out, and the dancing and feasting came to a chaotic stop, Róg helped Leif over to the great hall. Leif felt his strength returning as they climbed the steps, and when they entered, Leif said, “Thank you, Róg,” and let go of his arm.

“My lord,” said Róg, “the food for the gift-giving is not ready.”

“Serve wine only,” said Leif. “This will not take long, and then we can return to the dancing and feasting outside.”

Róg bowed and went out to arrange matters. Leif slowly walked down the long central table to his great carved seat and lowered himself into it, listening to the shouting and calling outside. After a moment he heard the words he’d been waiting for: svi∂a, brenna. Arson.

People began to file in and take their seats at the long table. His brother Thorvald and his family; Tyrker and his ‘Namgis wife. Tall Cedar and his family.

“Leif,” said Tall Cedar. He looked concerned. “You left the sweat lodge. Are you — “

“Yes, I am fine now,” said Leif. “I had a vision. We will speak later.”

Tall Cedar nodded and sat down. Others came in, and then his wife and son, who sat next to him.

“Leif,” said Laussa urgently. “What is going on? Why are you calling the gift-giving now? — Did you hear about Stókk’s children?”

“I had a vision,” said Leif. “Quiet now, I will explain everything.”

“Father,” said Erik. “They were at the north end of the stockade, by the grain stores, setting — “

“I know,” said Leif.

“Why would they do such a thing?” asked Laussa.

Leif shook his head. “When you are no longer a child,” he said, “and not yet full grown, there are strange fires that burn in you. You need to test yourself against the world. You need to prove, to yourself and to the ancestors and to whatever gods there be, that you belong here. This is why I, and so many other young men, went a-viking when I was fifteen. And why the ‘Namgis here have their vision quests and death-houses. But these young people, their mother and grandmother are ‘Namgis, but they are not ‘Namgis enough to visit the death-houses, and there’s nowhere in Leifland to go a-viking.”

“But father,” said Erik. “I’m fifteen, and I don’t go round setting fire to things.”

“See that you don’t,” growled Leif. “Now sit and be quiet for now.”

Last to come in were Róg and four guards — two Norse, and two ‘Namgis — escorting Stókk and his wife and three children. His eldest son had a huge bleeding bruise on his forehead.

Róg threw a bundle on the ground: tinder, logs, and fuel. “My lord,” he said, “These three children of Stókk were found by the grain store. They had these fire-lighting things with them. They had already set a fire, which fortunately did not burn very much, and we put it out easily.”

Stókk said, “Leif, foster-uncle, let me deal with them. They were only playing, they did not know what — “

Leif nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “Everyone, please take your seats.”

“But my lord,” said Róg, “the grain stores — if we had not discovered them, we might not have made it through the winter! These children are nearly full grown, and must be — “

“Thank you, Róg,” said Leif firmly. “Sit. All of you, sit. Drink your wine. It is time for the gift-giving.”

Slowly they sat down. Leif held them all in his gaze. Stókk said, “Foster-uncle, may I see to my son’s brow? He sustained a grievous blow when — “

“It is time for the gift-giving,” growled Leif. “Silence.”

When all were seated, Leif raised his cup and drank. Everyone else did the same.

“For ten years,” said Leif, “we have celebrated the potlatch with our friends the ‘Namgis, and given thanks for our treaties and alliances that allow us to live safely here among them. The Norse and the ‘Namgis have grown rich off each other. The White Christ has smiled on us all.” Leif knew that a mention of the White Christ would rankle many of the people there, but this was an official occasion. And deep down, he felt needed Christ’s blessing for what he was about to do.

“I have many gifts to bestow today,” said Leif. “For Tyrker, my foster-father, and his family: gold arm bands, and a knife with his family crest, brought from Sweden.” He nodded to Róg, who went to fetch them. Tyrker stood, raising his cup, and gave a toast of gratitude to Leif.

And so it went: a Danish tiara for Laussa, a good sword for Erik, new armor for Thorvald… This was the nature of the potlatch: a man gives away his wealth, and gains praise and loyalty. It was a ‘Namgis tradition, but not so different from the ways of Leif’s fathers. As Leif gave his gifts to his friends, allies, and beloveds, they each stood in turn and toasted him and called him the greatest of men. And the wine flowed and warmed the great hall, and the trouble and confusion of Stókk’s children was forgotten.

Until, when almost all the gifts were given, Leif stood and called them by name.

“Gar∂ Stókkson,” bellowed Leif. His head felt clear and cold, but the wine and anger still boiled and burned in him, and his vision of the great hall was hazy and mixed with images of blood and fire from the sweat lodge. “To you I give one third of our grain store.”

Thorvald, Róg, and several others stood up and started shouting and pounding the tables. Leif bellowed, “Silence!” And when the cries stopped, he looked round at the faces staring at him in shock, and said, “Hear me out. To Gar∂ I give one third of our grain store. Also, three of my finest sheep; and Skyót, one of my best stallions.”

He fell silent, and watched Gar∂ as the young man — he was not yet seventeen — raised his cup in a shaking hand to praise and thank him. “Silence!” bellowed Leif again, and Gar∂ dropped his cup; it bounced and spilled on the floor.

“Bjarta Stókksdóttir,” he said. She slowly stood, her face a mixture of fear, confusion, and defiance. “And Orm Stókkson. To each of you also, I give one third of our grain store. And to each, three of my finest sheep. Bjarta, you may have the mare Gríma; and Orm, the stallion Flekk.”

He waited to see if they would dare lift a cup to him, but they only stared.

“And one more thing for all three of you,” said Leif. “Banishment.”

He finished his cup in one draught, then turned and stamped out.