Vágur, Faroe Islands, 880 AD

Curator note: The Faroe Islands are an unmistakably special place, as a quick internet search will prove beyond a doubt. North and West of the Shetland Islands of Scotland lies this verdant shard of rock and grazing sheep. It’s mysterious and surprisingly influential past make The Faroe Islands a fascinating place to set a tale…

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The autumn wind clawed and raged at the sheer basalt cliff, as if an ethereal spirit were attempting to bring it down. The black stone was salted with white seafoam while the waves conspired with the wind in its assault on the oppressive wall taller than thirty men. Conversation was impossible over the crashing and howling, but the horrible cry pierced through. A grey ram, with four legs and neck staked near the lip of the cliff, screamed in throes of death and agony. The screeches, indistinguishable from those of a severely distraught child, continued for only a few breathes before giving way to bleats of despair. Two more breaths and the once might ram was dead. Vjk Seawolf, who straddled the ram, released his grip on its right horn with his strong left hand. He wiped the blade of his jagged knife of whittled beige whalebone across his chest. The blood was barely visible against his ancient wolfskin tunic stained with old blood and oil.

Vjk looked up and bellowed the rite into the wind. His words were whisked away before his two companions, standing a few feet to his right, could hear. They knew that their shaman was experienced and trusted him. He had only lost one ship and strength in one leg in many years and was in fact the second oldest person in the tribe.  

“God of stone, look gladly on our proud sacrifice! Minn was our most voracious ram, and he returns his blood to the dirt! We ask for fertile soils so that we may feed the herd and stay warm through the winter and not perish!”

The lush green grass of the Faroes was beginning to fade to brown and would be dead by the next full moon. Around the ram’s body, the grass was crimson with blood. Much of the ram was now a muddy red too. Vjk bit the tip of the rough sheepskin mitten on his left hand and removed it. He felt the warm blood and rubbed the puddle deeper into the soil. Vjk closed his eyes and breathed deeply to calm himself, as he did not enjoy what he must do next though he was practiced in it.

Vjk untied the ropes that had retained the animal and rotated it to lie on its back. He wrapped his free bloody hand around his gloved right hand which help the bone knife. He lifted both hands high above his head and plunged it directly beneath the ribs, gashing downwards with effort. Some gas had built up in the body, so a mist of blood sprayed Vjk’s face and quickly dried in the wind. The shaman put the blade between his teeth and removed his other glove before digging into the ram and pulling out its lungs. His acolyte, Sunnhild, came over kneeled by Vjk. Sunnhild, a slender boy of twelve, took a scalloped rock from his sling and dug a small hole.  Vjk handed him the organs, which Sunnhild dutifully buried. Vjk began incanting again.

“God of wind, look gladly on our proud sacrifice! Minn was our most prolific ram, and his offspring will compete with your voice or breathe your magnificence no more! We ask for favorable winds and currents as we depart to the sea!’

In response, the wind whipped fringes of greasy, sand-colored hair around Vjk’s neck under his boiled woolen cap.

“Go set the fire, boy”, Vjk shouted directly into his ear. The acolyte returned to the fire pit he and the shepherd Annfinur had dug and prepared with tinder and oil. He began furiously striking iron pyrite and obsidian together to produce sparks. The sparks were the same color as the gems on the water from the last rays of the setting sun. Vjk had removed the ram’s heart and held it patiently while Sunnhild stoked the infant flame that licked at precious wood.

“God of death, look gladly on our proud sacrifice. Minn was lively in sprit and will! We ask you to accept the spirit of our ram to be shepherded by our ancestors in your eternal lands!”

Sunnhild took the heart and placed it in the fire. Does my heart look like this? He pondered while Vjk sheared a handful of wool from the ram’s back then threw it upwards into the whipping gale.

“God of sun, look gladly on our proud sacrifice! Minn provided only the finest wool. We ask you weave a brilliant golden coat to warm our waters and plants and sorry feet!”

The shaman stood, then heaved the limp corpse of Minn onto his shoulders and struggled a few steps to the cliff’s edge. Vjk dropped his bad knee to the ground and lowered the ram, where it rested a few inches from the abyss. He forcefully pushed the ram over the edge, where it tumbled in free fall for a few moments before crashing into the ocean. He was instantly swallowed by the deep, turbulent waters as there was no beach or shallowness below: only black water violently boiling against a black wall, darkened by the setting sun behind the old man.

“God of sea, look gladly on our proud sacrifice. Minn was our greatest ram, and his corpse will nourish your bounty. We ask you to provide calm waters for the hunt and a whale to sustain our people this winter.”

His fingers were stiff from the dried blood outside and cold blood inside. How many times have I done the rite? How many hunts? Vjk rolled up his left sleeve and looked down at his scarred forearm. About 18, he surmised. To complete the ceremony, Vjk made a small cut on his forearm with the bone knife and held his arm out over the seawall.

”Spirits of the deep, heed me. Spirits of the deep, heed me, and too, heed me ghouls of the caves, ghouls of the crags, ghouls of clouds and night sky. Return and do not beset my party. Heed me and return us or face the wrath of our Gods. Be you satisfied by my blood.”

Vjk reached into the bag slung on his back and removed his waterskin to rinse the blood with saltwater – it’s disinfectant properties a potent discovery made for the wrong reasons.  He limped back to his party, where they walked back towards Haugr. After a while trudging through the damp, cold grass they’d descended deep enough into the smooth circular valley to converse over the wind.

“The sea has been… strange of late, Seawolf.  I should hope that our sacrifice was enough to reward us with a hvlar. Should you fail to capture a hvalr this season and then our village will be doomed and come for my herd. You know that I care for them dearly and that without the herd there will be no wool…no baby lambs…no…no sacrifices! And no hvlar!”

“­–Yes, Annfinur, but our way of life relies on faith.” Vjk interrupted the shepherd who brought Minn to the sacrificial place, raised it, and helped deliver it to the world years prior. “Should the god of the sea want us dead, we are drowned. Should the sun want us dead, we are burned up, or rock, buried. You honored them by raising a mighty ram such as Minn. We will be sure that the people respect your herd, but fear not as the sea has sustained us on this isle since our great grandfathers emerged from it.” He meant it.

Vjk felt apprehensive of the hunt to come, and after bidding farewell to Annfinur and dismissing Sunnhild for the night, proceeded to the inn of Agda to strengthen his resolve with a dram of whiskey or cup of mead. Agda’s inn, the only inn in the village and hardly that at all, was a squat and roughly rectangular stone and mud one-floor building. It had three small rooms with small grass beds on worn wooden frames, overlaid with two thick woolen blankets each. The widow Agda lived in a fourth room, similar to the others except for the puffin down in her bed and harpoon mounted on the wall for her safety though she never needed it. Agda was much beloved in Haugr, as she had no family to love and therefore all were her family and worthy of it. Her hall, if it could be called that, was the heart of the town on windy, cold nights like these. The largest room in the inn had one long wooden table that could accommodate 8 men in the winter and 10 in summer. Along the dingy walls there were low wooden stools clustered for private conversation or private games of chance. On the wall opposite the door where Vjk was now entering, soft charcoals glowed in the hearth where Adga was preparing a stew of wild celery and herring.

“Good evening, Agda,” he said.

“Evening, wolf. Come eat.” she replied with a strange smile and vocal inflection that mandated his compliance.

Most called Vjk wolf or seawolf, despite never having seen either. There were no wolves, nor any mammals other than sheep, humans, and rats, on the Faroe Islands. But, there were rumors of adventurous føroyingar who would sail to larger landmasses in search of sheep or wood, only to be stalked and eaten by quiet wolves in the dark. The tales were enough to inspire a deep fear and admiration for the creatures, which was passed along to Vjk after singlehandedly killing a whale in his youth.

Vjk removed his cloak and laid it on a bench before he walked over closely to Agda. She placed a bowl in his hand, grabbing his wrist and pulling him in simultaneously so that his left ear was close to her wrinkled mouth.

“Strange, strange bird flew in. Says ‘e is on business in the great isle north. Looks not like any I’ve seen and speaks unlike too. I can hardly understand except that ‘e likes mine mead. Brought me a quarter cord of wood for sinew and bed to clear the storm. Strange bird ‘e is.” she trailed off.

Vjk stole a glance at the man dressed in flowing black robes. He had a shock of fiery red hair and a massive nose that seemed to sprout an equally red and bushy mustache underneath it. He hungerly devoured the stew while Agda filled two hallowed rams horned with homemade mead.

“Éire, I come from. To Papar North I head through these winds with grave purpose. I am Dicuil.” the Irishman spoke, stumbling slightly over his words and with a thick accent. At that time, the Faroese language was in its infancy, still developing from the early Irish, Gaelic, and Norse settlers – and those more ancient to the land still.

“Hello, Vestmanna. I know of Ireland, it was where my father’s father was born before a siren coaxed him into the sea. I am Vjk and am called Seawolf. Tell me of this purpose. We do not see many aimless travelers – not bartering or hunting – though you claim to have an aim. We sustain ourselves on hvalr and fish and our herds and have little need for trade and less yet for strangers. What business have you on the great isle North? I will share this mead, a fine brew with thistle made by Adga herself. But, I must know. I am an elder and shaman of our people and it is my business to know.”

Dicuil patiently studied Vjk through shining black eyes like obsidian which reflected his red hair like sparks. The wind whistled through the stones and buffeted the woven grass and bone door. It momentarily subsided and the inn was silent except for the crackling of embers. Agda it seems had gone to bed and no others were in the inn save for a fisherman quietly asleep in his cups. Dicuil took the horn cup from Vjk, staring directly into his eyes with a kind smile. Strong hands. He has spent much time at the oars, Vjk thought. Dicuil raised the cup to his mouth for a long draw of the sweet liquid. Foam clung to his fiery mustache. The man slowly swallowed, wiped his face with his sleeve, and gently set down the cup. Dicuil’s face grew serious, though his narrowed eyes still stared into Vjk’s. 

“I seek fruit and I plant seeds. Across the land and sea I do this by foot and oars and words.” 

“There is no fruit in these isles and why would you plant seeds if not to harvest them later?” 

“This is my obligation and my purpose. I will say it a different way more appreciable to the føroyingar – the people of this isle of sheep. I hunt for the beasts of the deep and highest peaks, but I have no harpoon or spear. I am a shepherd giving away my herd.”

To Vjk, this was utter nonsense said with such sincerity that he felt profoundly uneasy. The man, looking no older than forty but speaking like an old sage, took another drink and continued.

“You see, Vjk Sea Wolf, what I seek and sow and hunt is intangible like a mist… It is the Truth.”

Another ominous wind cut through the walls, sending a chill down Vjk’s back. He realized he’d not drunken any of his mead and gulped half down, which warmed and calmed him.

“Truth is what sustains me, though I eat salt fish and stew to keep my strength. There is but one great Truth from which all else springs and that Truth has but one source. Yet, I know only fragments and slivers of it. Yes, of course, the Truth I serve is known and knowable by one only and I know the most important parts, but there are shards to be found.”

“You speak in riddles.” Vjk bluntly replied but Dicuil saw his eyes had widened.

“My dear Wolf, our Truth (it was “our truth” now, but Vjk did not notice) is a reflection of grand design. It exists above and around us, but through men takes form. We are the soil and it is the seed. We are the sheep and it is the shepherd. Some men are beasts and it must be the spear. Nonetheless, man learns of Truth ear to mouth from other men and so it spreads like blood in water. He is forever changed, like an alchemist has been at work in his mind. But, those fragments, those sacred fragments, are found only in silent communication. We are a cup to be filled.”

Vjk’s head was spinning and Dicuil could see this, so he gave the shaman something tangible.

“…I seek rest from my travels sowing seeds and seek hermitage in the isle to the North. I seek to escape the distractions of society for this silent communication to better serve God.”

“What God? The Sea? The Sky?”

Dicuil looked more intensely yet at his companion’s face and paused, carefully weighing his words before responding in a hushed voice. He knew this was dangerous and delicate, like a spider it could bite him or slip between his fingers.

“I believe there is but one God. He rules the sea and the sky. And he rules beast and man. All of creation indeed, was constructed by him alone. This I believe is the Truth. He rules the Earth and Heavens with his son, Jesus Christ.”

Ah, a monk of the religion of the South. I’ve heard rumors of them inhabiting the Gaelic isles, but not on these Isles. The spirits of these lands crash their ships and drown their sheep in service of our Gods. Vjk had never spoken openly with a Christian before. The people of the Faroes revered their pagan traditions and feared their gods. Like their flocks, they protected both with bone daggers and alder clubs. More than a handful had been killed already in ideological skirmishes. Why would this fool challenge our gods in our home? Vjk’s stupefaction quickly turned to anger. He was, however, not an inherently violent man and perhaps the monk sensed that.

“You make a grave mistake to come here with this outrage. You do not come here with truth but only with disaster… You come here for sinew, no? Your sail has torn and the God of the Sky has done it. Your party will surely be bashed against the rocks when you try to sail away. ”

The monk lowered his eyes, “I mean no offense, to come into your lands, with my Truth. But it was not my choice. By some force, we both agree, I was brought here. I have found sinew and will return to my party in the morning. We shall fix out sail and reach our hermitage in the way and time intended for us. We are ordained to meet. All things can be explained in this way. There are no accidents, no failures. We are but knives in the hands of Gods, no? Can a blade be truly blamed for the cut?... I beg of you, let us change the subject, for I mean no disrespect and rarely do I meet an elder shaman of any isles. Let us share another drink and a story.”

Vjk softened; he was satisfied that the man had at least revealed his true self. The Christian leaned back and reached into his robe, procuring a small brown bottle with protruding cork. Both men had finished their drinks, so Dicuil poured the dingy gold contents of the bottle equally into their two cups.

“Firewater, made with my brothers at the abbey on Eire. I entreat you to drink with me in friendship.” He raised the glass and stared into the shaman’s eyes. The monk’s eyes wrinkled, and cheeks rose, though his smile has hidden under his beard and mustache. The shaman pondered for a moment, staring into the two or three drams of whiskey in his cup. It looked like a still loch reflecting the full moon on a dark night. The soft candlelight gave the liquid a mysterious glean and gold flecks like the stars appeared, pooled, simultaneously formed streams, and disappeared into blackness.

“Aye,” he finally said, raising his eyes to meet Dicuil’s and his cup likewise. As he brought the whiskey to his nose, Vjk inhaled the aroma both delightfully familiar and delightfully foreign. The sweet peaty smell of honey and smoke instantly had an effect. He took a long drink, savoring the rare treat of a whiskey from oversea. The flavor filled his mouth and nose and mind before giving way to the warming, also burning sensation that worked from his tongue, to his cheeks, down his throat, and into his gullet. Nothing warms the body and the mind like whiskey, and Vjk was immediately more comfortable, and his tongue loosened.

“Now, Sea Wolf, tell me, what is your tale?”

No one had quite asked Vjk this, as most around him had known him their entire lives, and people have a strange way of avoiding big questions with those they are closet to. That is, except children, who care more for discrete tales of adventure and war rather than the quietude of the real life of an old man. The story of his battle with the whale and the shark he’d told countless times such that it almost wasn’t his story anymore, but an abstract one about an ancient character. Besides, it was an immensely personal question. He would not have answered but for the mead and firewater in his veins. He took another drink.

“My first memories are of the sea, on hunt with my father. I was but a pink babe, but we must put the children on the water while they still nurse on their mother or they grow a weak stomach. Like me, my father was a respected hunter and shaman in Haugr, this town. He oversaw its growth to fifty souls and I oversaw it to a hundred, and as many sheep! He was a learned man, from his father who was educated by a Gaelic lord’s scholar to conduct trade. My father passed this knowledge to me, and so I am one of few in the Faroes who can read and write.” After a pause, “My wife lost her air and died before I could create a son, or daughter. So, my line stops with me. I do have the spirit to find another wife and am glad to pass on what I know to my apprentice, Sunnhild. He is a brave boy and listens well, but a bit slow in wit…”

The monk had tucked his hands into the loose sleeves of the opposite arm, such that he looked like an infinitely patient head atop a black pedestal. Vjk took another drink. His face was already flush and head was flashing with snippets of lofty ideas as one does who is drinking heavily and intrigued by conversation.

“As I have said, I am both and elder and the only true shaman in our village. My father taught me of the Gods. How to sacrifice a ram or lamb or goat. How to forage for sweet cicely and to chew  a poultice from angelica and grass. He taught me speak to the Sky and Sea and to listen to the spirits. Indeed, I know how to twist a sinew and how to make a harpun from bone. My first grindadráp my father brought me when I was waist high. We brought in a hvlar as long as two men, and my mother taught me how to butcher it on the shore. To use every part. Render the fat, salt and dry the flesh, draw the skin, remedies from all the organs... I was given my first grindaknívur, which I carry with me for luck.” Vjk tapped his chest, indicating that he had the whaling knife somewhere under his garments. This pulled him from his reverie, and realizing he was drunk blinked hard and of course finished his cup. He knew he was raving and skipped far ahead. “My tale is too long, in fact would take an age to tell. Now, I am my father. In a way, a father of Haugr. The master, shipbuilder, Annfinur the shepherd, and I make all decisions for the village and are responsible for the preparations for the winter. Twice yearly I lead a small fleet of boats to sea. Gods willing, we return with a whale or two to keep our candles burning and stomachs full or we must eat our precious sheep and lose the cheese and wool they give. I suppose that is my tale.”

The monk, too, had finished his whiskey, and his nose now matched his hair. He smiled through closed lips.

“Thank you, Seawolf. A child of these isles and a father the people you indeed seem. And rare that you make use of the written word. I hope that you do not mind if I retire for the evening for I am deeply tired from my travels and must depart tomorrow if possible.”

Dicuil’s left hand emerged from his right sleeve with a small, worn leather book. He stood and put the book in Vjk’s hands.

 “Please, take this in place of my story, my new friend. Next time I come to these parts; we can talk about it over whiskey. Perhaps just a dram next time.”

The Irishman chuckled, turned, and not-so-gracefully walked back to his room. Vjk was a bit shocked by the generosity (and the drink) and did not react until the sound of Dicul’s door closing jolted him.

He marveled at the immensely valuable object. There were perhaps five books in the entire village, mostly washed ashore on the fragments of doomed ships.

Vjk examined the kingly gift. Turning it over in his hands was easy, as it was the size of his hand. The cover was plain, brown, and worn. He opened the front cover and the first page held the title:

Leabhar Eacsadas

Dicuil had gifted the shaman the book of Exodus, though Vjk had no idea what it was. He guessed that it might be Christian. What luck that I speak Gaelic, if luck indeed it is. I am in no state to explore further tonight. Vjk rose, put the book in this bag then collected his coat on the way out the door. The coals of the fire casted a faint silhouette of Vjk from the door as he left, like some new companion was joining him. He trudged home in the dark and misty wind.  

When he made it to his humble earthen abode, Vjk did not bother to light a lamp. He was used to the dark, and to the cold so he didn’t not start a hearth fire either. Rather, he relied on the whiskey in his belly and a wealth of thick blankets to fall asleep on his wool-stuff bedroll. Almost instantly, the blackness before his eyes gave way to the black void of dreamless sleep.

When the shaman woke, the morning glow was already illuminating Vjk’s room through his window of seaglass – one of the greatest luxuries one could desire on the island. In that time, money in the ordinary sense had not been conceived yet. Wealth was measured in comfort and security, and that meant wool blankets, casks of whale oil, larders of salted fish and cheese, or more rarely, wood for burning instead of dry sheep dung and grass which smoked awfully. Life was too harsh and the population was too few for purely aesthetic goods, like gold, to matter much, though sometimes ivory trinkets were coveted as was seaglass. It could be said that those with the greatest means were those with the most sheep, the heart of the economy if it could be called that. Annfinur, the shepherd, had the greatest flock with thirty wollyback.

Vjk, who had no sheep, commanded the most power for he had the best understanding of the Gods and spirits who dominated at least the minds of the people of the village. That, and the best understanding of how to treat gangrene or ease childbirth. And so, people brought him things in exchange for a reading of cryptic portends, a fresh salve, or just as frequently the advice of an old man. Through this, Vjk acquired not only meat, cheese, and cloth but baubles like seaglass and carven figurines.

The light woke him.

[To be continued]