The Snow on the Cross by Brian Fitts Read Free Book Online

dim, and I did not know if it
was daylight or not, for I could not see any windows.  As it would turn out, it
was daylight, and I assumed it would be for another few months.  I often
wondered what kind of person would settle in a land of no nightfall, but then I
had never met Eirik the Red before, either.
    The men pressed their broth upon me
again, and this time I sipped a bit of it.  It was bitter, but the warmth
spread through my body.  I never thought to ask what it was made of.  Instead,
I ignored again the tiny flecks floating in the bowl and drank again.  I grew
accustomed to the taste and was able to swallow a bit more with each mouthful. 
The men watching me seemed satisfied, as if making up their minds that I was
going to live.  One of them stood up and, as I watched, pulled back a dark cloth
that had been draped over a small window.  As he removed the cloth, the natural
white light of outside gushed through the dimness, and I was left sitting there
dazzled by its brilliance.
    “The dead lives,” a familiar voice
wafted from the shadows.  “Your god is strong, Bishop, if he can return you to
us.”
    I recognized the voice as Bjarni’s,
but I could not see him.  I held my hand up to try to block out the light
coming through the window, but it was too strong.  I was left staring in the
direction of a disembodied voice, hoping he would step forward so I could see
him.
    “How long?” I asked, and I remember
my voice was harsh, like hammers dragged over rocks.
    “How long what?” Bjarni replied.  I
could detect the faint trace of anger still deep within his voice, so I knew I
had to be careful.
    “How long have I been here?”
    One of the other men, and I think it
may have been Broin, began speaking in his guttural language.  Bjarni responded
to him with the same strange tongue.  I could have understood, if the heathens
had not defiled my God at the tower of Babylon .  I strained for a familiar sounding
word, but there was none.  Perhaps Bjarni would tell me what the other was
saying.  This was always my hope that one would step forward and translate the
speech for me, but it never happened.  Time and time again, the Vikings would
speak in their language in front of me, and I was helpless in understanding
it. 
    As I lay there, the half-empty bowl
of broth all but forgotten in my hand, I thought about Le Mans .  Spring was close, and it would be
about the time my first plants would begin to take root in the fresh soil I
would have carefully prepared for them.  I heard Bjarni laughing, but I did not
know if it was directed toward me or not.  I resisted the urge to throw my bowl
at the men and waited.
    “Bishop,” Bjarni’s voice abruptly
switched from his language to mine.  “Are you feeling well enough to walk? 
Your company is requested.”
    My head was spinning, but I nodded. 
I decided it would do me good to walk around a bit to regain the strength in my
legs.  I wobbled to my feet, holding on to the wall for support.  The Vikings
made no move to help me stand as I swayed and almost fell back.   I could sense
them as they stared at me with impatience, as if I was keeping them from their
business.  I took a hesitant step toward them, my broth sloshing over the rim
of my bowl.  I left a trail of liquid after me as I walked and eventually I
dropped the bowl.  It clattered on the ground near the fireplace, the rest of
its contents splashing around it.  I looked at it quickly.  Good.  Let them
clean it up.
    I stepped through the shaft of light
and into the shadows where the Vikings waited.  I then saw it was Broin after
all who had been standing there, so my earlier assumption was correct.  Bjarni
was standing beside him, half glaring at me as he looked back at the mess I
left behind me.  I nodded to both of them.
    “Who has requested me?” I asked, not
knowing if they would tell me Eirik or Thordhild.
    I secretly hoped they would tell me Thordhild.  I desperately
wanted