Sun Stone Saga: A Viking Passage to Helluland

By Joseph Ottum

Two familys passage from Norway to North America, during the Viking age is the framework of this story. More importantly, how the Vikings may have navigated, what foods they may have eaten, how they may have prayed, and traded form the heart of the story. It based on what might be true, or at least imagined possible. Stories told by the authors fatherand his fatherare the basis of this narrative journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503555471

Joseph Ottum

A retired Navy Commander, Joseph Ottum is a mathematics instructor at Palo Alto College, in San Antonio, Texas. He traveled most of his life: first as an Army dependent and later as a Navy officer. He and Petra, his wife, live on a small ranch in South Texas, where they raise Angus cattle.

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Copyright © 2015 by Joseph Ottum.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 03/28/2015

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1    Drink Mead like a Viking

Chapter 2    Verdict of the Thing

Chapter 3    Early Voyage Preparations

Chapter 4    The Hunt

Chapter 5    Becoming a Mariner

Chapter 6    Final Voyage Preparations

Chapter 7    Ready to Go?

Chapter 8    Fair Winds and Following Seas

Chapter 9    Passage to Jarlshof, Scotland

Chapter 10    Trade in Jarlshof

Chapter 11    Passage to Kvívík

Chapter 12    Passage to Iceland

Chapter 13    Fire and Ice

Chapter 14    Heavenly Peaks

Chapter 15    Fire, Ice, and the Sunstone

Chapter 16    Green Lands

Chapter 17    Helluland

Appendix 1    Map

Appendix 2    Our Troop

Appendix 3    Glossary

Appendix 4    Possible Viking Contact in the New World

To my parents and those who came before me

CHAPTER 1

Drink Mead like a Viking

I T WAS JUST after the winter solstice in the year 1020. Dagfidr missed the warmth of the sun. He particularly enjoyed watching sunsets. With Jolablot just behind him, it was another polar night. Darkness prevailed throughout the day. There would not be a sunset. He had spent a long day scraping foul-smelling fénaðr hides, relying on the dim blue light that appeared near midday. These were premium hides destined to create articles, such as a leather belt for a man or woman of the North.

Noticing even the dim light fading, Dagfidr set light to a twist of sphagnum moss sitting in a clump of partially melted bear fat in his hollowed stone lamp. Without thinking, he stuck his finger into the fat to capture a small lump and licked it clean. Bear fat is both food and fuel.

Thirsty and weary, Dagfidr was not in a particularly good disposition. The sedge, sandwiched into shoes to insulate his feet from the cold, was damp and needed replacement. It is time, he rationalized, for me to unwind with several cups of mead with my friend Thorvald. He is probably already there in the chieftain’s langhus drinking.

Dagfidr was born less than a year after his father’s return from Viking raids on the west coast of Ireland sometime in 968. A new child, nine months after returning from setting out, surprised no one.

Dagfidr’s favorite joke was what was the second thing a Viking did when returning home? He set his gear down. He left it to imagination to what the first thing was.

A family man, Dagfidr married Sǫlveig. Together, they had two children—a firstborn son named Bjørn and a daughter named Finna.

Short of temper, Dagfidr was a berserker in battle. He donned a bearskin robe when preparing for a fight. As a berserker, he fought as if he was as immortal as the werewolf. Yet his icon was not the wolf. It was the bear, and he loved everything about the bear. With great power, the bear is not a scheming pack predator like a wolf; it hunts head-on and unaided. With great eyesight and a legendary sense of smell, it is the strongest of the predators.

Dagfidr thought of himself in terms of the bear. As others with Sámi blood, he believed the bear is the lord of the animal kingdom. The bear was his totem. More than he idolized the bear, Dagfidr loved hunting them.

Almost bearlike himself, Dagfidr was tall and hefty even for a Northman. Lumbering toward the langhus in the dim light, wearing a shaggy bearskin, he looked quite formidable. Set in his ways and a product of older times, he belonged to the cult of Odin, which until recent times practiced human sacrifice. New ideas such as Christianity are not for him. The old ways served his ancestors and are still good enough now.

As his trade, Dagfidr preserved and traded furs. He always had plenty of marten, beaver, bear, fox, and squirrel pelts on hand. Furs and animal skins are useful for warmth and used on winter outfits. He used leather to make shoes, form bags, create belts and scabbards, and for decoration. His trade provided financial security even in hard times, since warm, dry clothing is essential for survival this far north in both good and bad times.

Perhaps the most striking feature of Dagfidr was his teeth. Dagfidr filed horizontal grooves into his front teeth. The idea being in time of conflict, Dagfidr fills the grooves alternately with red or black tinted beeswax. With the addition of face paint, the effect creates a terrifying war face. Nearly as spectacular is the blue Valknut tattoo on his chest, now partially covered by his dark blue-black undertunic.

His sword, inherited from his father, was Dagfidr’s most prized possession. His father named the sword Drabvandill to honor his friend, another berserker named Egil, who had fought with him and died in battle in Iceland. Dagfidr habitually keeps Drabvandill within arm’s reach. Dagfidr treated Drabvandill with reverence as if it is the famous Dainsleif itself.

Northmen carry their weapons with them at all times. The most common weapon is the spear, followed by the sword and bow. The least common weapon is the axe. A Northman’s personal arsenal varied with his social status and wealth. Even the poorest had a spear and maybe a large knife. The wealthiest might have a spear, a couple javelins, a wooden shield, a sword, and maybe a helmet.

It is time now, Dagfidr said to himself, to quench my thirst with mead. As Dagfidr had been so careful not to knick the hide he was working on, he rationalized that he owed himself this pleasure as he entered the chieftain’s langhus. He really did not need the excuse.

Entering the langhus, he grunted more than spoke to one of the thralls. Nearly immediately, his drinking horn, full of mead, was offered to him. Dagfidr, without response, grabbed the drinking horn and quickly drank a large slug of mead from the horn.

Each drank from their own wooden bowl or horn; they sat on a shelf above the crocks of mead. Dagfidr preferred simple unadorned drinking horns. His drinking horn was made from a fénaðr’s horn. He left adorned horns to the braggarts and the feeble. Only those who really did not love their drink used wooden bowls as their cup.

The chieftain’s langhus was a proportionately narrow, long building. Constructed of wood, sod, and turf, it was half sunk into the ground. With the turf roof, it nearly blended into the hillside. This was particularly true now as snow topped everything. Although the sidewalls were mostly sod, internal timber krāka frames supported the roof with wattle end walls.

The langhus was dark and smelled strongly of fish and other domestic aromas. It was on Dagfidr’s route from his shop to his family’s goahti. His shop would have been on his farmstead, but Sǫlveig did not want the evil smells of curing hides anywhere near her goahti. The skins also attracted predators.

The langhus’s entrance led directly to the large hall where the clay hearthstone, located in the center, provided warmth and hazy light. Smells of cooking and baking waived through the langhus, permeating the air. Above the fire, drying in the heat and smoke, hung tørrfisk. The hearthstone radiated heat and baked grovbrød. Seeing the grovbrød reminded Dagfidr of gravet laks as he particularly enjoys eating a slice of grovbrød topped with gravet laks.

There was no chimney, and the smoke mostly escaped through a small hole located high above head in the roof. This haze gave the langhus a nearly mystical ambience.

Thorvald was annoyed to discover hearing a child crying from one of the doorways to separate rooms that ran partway along the length of the hall. These internal walls were non-load-bearing and constructed of a combination of rocks, wood, and sod and, unlike the public center aisle, were reserved for the chieftain and his company.

Along most of the length of the langhus walls, there was bank of dirt. This bank served as benches during the day and as beds for sleeping at night. Covered with blankets and furs for warmth and comfort, they were comfortable both as a seat and as a bed. Highly decorated wool tapestries hung on the inside of the walls above the dirt benches. These served as decoration and provided some insulation against the cold. The floor was carpeted with fresh spruce boughs placed upside down so that the softer side faced up.

As Dagfidr finally made his way through the langhus, the thralls quickly and respectively welcomed Dagfidr. They also refilled his nearly empty horn with more mead before he could harass them. Dagfidr, seeing his félag Thorvald drinking ale, grabbed a Lund stool and plowed directly toward him.

Dropping his Lund stool, he fell down onto it shouting be healthy as an informal toast to Thorvald and hastily drank a large draft from his drinking horn.

After acknowledging Dagfidr by nodding, Thorvald turned back to several local farmers, shouting, You must follow our accustomed practices!

Having arrived before Dagfidr, Thorvald was engaged in an intense argument with several local farmers. A vågehval was beached and unable to return to the sea. They were arguing over the legal rights of the residents to the meat, blubber, and bone of the whale and particularly how the division would occur and who would have the first choice.

Thorvald shouted, Hallgeir found the vågehval. He added, He has first rights.

One of the farmers argued, The vågehval should be shared equally by our community.

Thorvald, now forty-three years old, was born in 974 and, like Dagfidr, was a family man. He was married to Helge. They had three children—a son Auðin, a son Gunnr, and a daughter Eldríðr. His carefully groomed, long, flowing straw-colored hair, along with a long moustache and neatly trimmed beard, was his trademark.

As a shipbuilder and carpenter, Thorvald was an expert with an axe. This was not only his favorite tool; it was also his preferred weapon, and he had several. As Thorvald worked with wood, the axe was one of his principal tools. Although few Northmen preferred the axe, Thorvald had much practice. He not only felled trees but also split his timber from logs using an axe. For battle, he carried two axes—one with a long shaft and one with a short shaft. The long-shafted axe had a hook on the bottom horn of the axe head. The shorter axe was an adze. Thorvald, as with his other tools, kept the edges of his axes sharp using a whetstone from Eidsborg, which was famous for its stones.

Dagfidr did not care much for the farmers. They stink of sweat and compost, Dagfidr silently complained. Of course, Dagfidr no longer sensed the stench on him from the fénaðr hide or the smells contained in the langhus. He thought the farmer’s smell of onion and garlic even worse than that of their livestock. They really were not so different as the main crops of these farmers were barley, rye, and oats. Even though most Northmen had livestock and at least a garden, Dagfidr thought these farmers below him. Moreover, he rationalized, They are not part of my social class.

Back to the current argument over the beached whale, the farmers argued the vågehval is community property. Thorvald shouted, But Hallgeir discovered it.

Dagfidr was bored as he had no interest in this argument. Nevertheless, the quarrel continued. Will this ever end? he wonders.

Thorvald continued, Hallgeir and his friends have first rights.

A beached whale is a valuable resource and provides valuable meat, blubber, and bone. It might sustain a community through the winter and can mean the difference between survival and starvation.

Dagfidr was now more than bored and was increasingly becoming irritated with the argument. Hopping to squelch or at least distract the conversation, he joined in stating, Pickled vågehval tongue is the greatest fare to accompany my mead. No one appeared to notice.

In truth, Dagfidr favored cod tongue to whale tongue. Even codfish liver is better. My wife Sǫlveig makes it so good, Dagfidr figured. She mixes it with cottage cheese into a spread for my grovbrød.

To Dagfidr’s dismay, he had not succeeded at altering the quarrel. Instead, he managed to make Thorvald realize the futility of the debate.

Still trying to end the debate over the beached whale, Dagfidr ordered one of the thralls, "Bring the hnefatafl game."

Thorvald has enough. Abruptly, he was up and roared to everyone within earshot, Enough ale. I am off to see my wife and family. Thorvald then stumbled through the langhus and out to the night.

Following Thorvald to the door, Dagfidr wished him "god natt," but his félag was out of sight.

Dagfidr was now seriously aggravated. He had missed playing their customary drinking game. They took turns trading drinks and verbal slurs. However, this would not be the case tonight.

Dagfidr now halfheartedly turned back and again dropped onto his stool. To his dismay, even with Thorvald absent, the farmers continued to argue. Dagfidr was now greatly annoyed and in a very bad mood. Only half listening to the farmers, he gave them his best glare.

Dagfidr had another full horn of mead. Still venting, These farmers will not drive me off.

Suddenly, it happened. Two of the farmers made a life-changing blunder shortly after refilling their cups. They carelessly spilled much of their ale onto Dagfidr, and this began our story, as for Dagfidr, honor is worth more than wealth.

Dagfidr shouted, "Ónytr dýr!" calling the farmers useless beasts.

The farmers, recognizing their mistake, responded to Dagfidr by jumping up. This too he could not overlook. Dagfidr interpreted this as a challenge. There were only two of them. What were they thinking? He came up like a jack-in-the-box and as quickly had Drabvandill in his hand. If these farmers had remained seated, they might have survived.

The farmers now stood one on each side of Dagfidr. Dagfidr turned to face one farmer, leaving the other farmer to his back. Without warning, holding his Saebo sword backhanded, Dagfidr thrust behind into the midsection of the farmer standing behind him. Withdrawing the sword, still holding it backhanded, he swung it forward—first downward then upward—slicing up through the genitals of the farmer facing him. Dagfidr continued the upward movement, slicing shallowly through the farmer’s stomach and into the chest of the farmer standing in front of him.

After pushing the blade deeper into his chest at an upward angle, Dagfidr switched his hand position. Using the breastbone as a pivot, he twisted the sword handle upward, causing the blade to pivot downward. This pivoting action caused the blade to slice downward through the farmer’s heart. Although he was already dead, this farmer stood in shock, his arms failing, and his silent mouth open.

The farmer standing behind Dagfidr was holding his belly and trying to shove loose bits of intestines back into his belly. Without looking, Dagfidr again shifted his grip on the Drabvandill. He forcefully pulled it out of the chest of the farmer he was facing then continued the backward movement. Dagfidr crashed the end of the sword hilt into the face of the farmer standing behind him. This farmer’s intestines oozed out even faster when he reached for his bloodied face. Dagfidr finally turned to face the second farmer. With the farmer bent over, attempting to contain his quickly oozing intestines, Dagfidr first lifted it high and then brought Drabvandill vertically downward. This split the farmer’s spline and put an end to this battle but began our story.

To no one in particular, Dagfidr mumbled, If you cannot bite, do not show your teeth.

Dagfidr then looked around the langhus. When his eyes caught three other farmers who were now standing around their table, they quickly sat down and diverted their eyes. He glanced at the farmers on the floor—the one in front dying, and the one behind already dead. Blood and guts spread out across the dirt floor. They stink even