Vikings and Monks

Unlike the night before, the road that lay before Mr. Samuelsson was relatively clear. The tires crunched through a thin layer of snow, which was already melting under the bright morning sun.
“Freda? Are you asleep?”
“Not yet,” she replied.
“You should take a look at the Ocean. It’s beautiful today.”
Freda opened her eyes and looked to her left. The vast expanse of dark blue water stretched across the horizon.
“Look at all the seagulls,” said Freda.
“That’s because there’s a fishing boat nearby,” said her father.
“Why do you say that?”
“Seagulls are smart fishermen. They let fishing boats do all their fishing.”
“How do they do that?”
“Fishermen chop up the smaller fish and throw them back into the sea. The seagulls pick through the leftovers that float on the waves.”
“Don’t you think those fishermen get annoyed with the seagulls?”
“On the contrary, sailors think seagulls are lucky.”
“How could a seagull be lucky?”
“Fishing boats often go far from land. When they’re returning home and they spot a seagull, they know it will not be long until they are home.”
Freda watched the seagulls hover over the water. They teetered on the wind, their necks stretching downward as they searched for fish.
“How do you think they learned to fish like that?”
“Like most creatures, they know it’s easier to be a scavenger than a hunter.”
“Then why aren’t we scavengers?” asked Freda.
“Because we can fish,” answered her father.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to be like the seagulls?”
“Mankind doesn’t scavenge. He hunts. That’s the way it’s always been. Even the Vikings were great hunters and fisherman.”
“Is that why we’re fishermen?”
“It’s one reason. You have to remember that Iceland is an island. It was here long before there were any Vikings.”
“I thought Vikings were from Iceland.”
“They were also from Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and Finland, too. That’s why we’re called Scandinavians.”
“What does it mean to be from Scandinavia?” asked Freda.
“We all came from Northern Europe, sailing from one country to another. There was a place once called Scania. It’s part of the southern shores of Sweden and the Northern shores of Denmark. Since Scania was bordered by the Baltic Sea in the east and the North Sea in the west, Scandinavians were known for their longships. Those great Viking ships are still one of the things in which we take pride.”
“Have you ever seen a longboat?”
“Once, when I was a young boy, your grandfather and I went for a ride on a longboat.”
“What was it like?”
“It was exciting. I remember going to a celebration where longboats of all shapes and sizes gathered near the shore. Large sails billowed in the breeze. Some were plain, but most were painted with fancy designs. Some had mythical beasts painted on the front and others had stripes or crosses. I loved riding in that old clinker.”
“Clinker?”
“That’s what the Vikings called their longboats. It’s because of the way they were constructed. Long pieces of wood were connected alongside each other, often fastened with metal straps.”
“It doesn’t seem so special.”
“It was very special. Their long, flat bottoms on Viking ships made them the fastest things in the water. Vikings even placed carved dragon heads on the prow. That’s why the enemies called them ‘dragon ships’.”
“Is that the only way Scandinavians are alike?”
Mr. Samuelsson pulled at the whiskers of his blonde beard as he gave her question some thought.
“If you look at our flags, you’ll see the Nordic Cross. That cross represents the people of the North – the Nordic people. The North Sea was their common link. It’s just like Mr. Thorvald said, ‘from raiders to invaders to traders.’ The sea may be our only true link, but it is an important one.”
Freda looked across the shore. Rock-filled shores dotted the coastline.
“I don’t know how they could’ve picked Iceland. When you look at it from the Ocean, all you see is rocks. Even when you get past the rocks, there is only a thin strip of land where they could live.”
“You don’t like it here?” asked her father.
“I don’t know. When I look at pictures of Norway and Sweden in books, I see the same thing. Everywhere you look, there are jagged rocks.”
“That’s what life is like in the fingerlands. Fjords cut jagged coastlines in all the Scandinavian countries, but there is still more to Iceland.”
“Like what?”
“When you think about home, what is the first thing you think about?”
“Tall cliffs.”
“What is the first thing you’ll check on when we get home?”
“Sarge.”
Her father nodded. “Your old horse runs in the field behind our house all day long. How could she do that on jagged rocks?”
Freda looked out her own window. Unlike the rocky shores, farmland extended inland. Sheep and cows and horses grazed on the thick, grassy fields.
“I guess you’re right,” she replied.
Soon, the arctic truck turned off Ring Road, joining with the familiar dirt road that ventured inland. Their house sat at the top of a rolling hill.
“Finally,” said Freda.
As the truck stopped beside the house, Freda and her father unloaded gear. The old house leaned a small bit, pushed slightly off balance by trade winds that blew in from the North Sea.
Just like Mr. Thorvald’s Haberdashery, the outside of Freda’s house was white. Multiple layers of paint covered the outside walls. As anyone got nearer to the house, that person could plainly see where the paint flaked. Some peeled by natural causes, some was peeled away by Freda’s nervous hands when she played alone on the front porch.
As soon as Freda unloaded her luggage and fishing gear, she headed directly to the back porch. She grabbed a bucket and filled it with milled oats. Then, she went to the backyard, where her horse waited.
“Sarge,” she purred softly.
The old horse shook its head and neighed, happy to see its owner.
Freda fit the bucket into its place inside the horse stall. An impatient Sarge pushed Freda aside as it nosed its way into the bucket of oats.
“Why can’t you just wait until I put your bucket in its place?”
Sarge refused to answer as it happily ate its meal.
Freda fit her hand into the horsehair brush sitting on the shelf. She ran it over Sarge’s thick winter coat. The thick bristles massaged the horse and put a shine on the coat. Every time she ran the brush over Sarge’s rear haunches, the horse’s thigh muscles twitched.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she whispered.
Sarge glanced at Freda and then closed its eyes. Freda tried her best to avoid the places that tickled the old Icelandic horse as she continued brushing its hair.
After a short while, Sarge was sleeping. Freda put away the hairbrush and closed the barn door behind her.
“How’s Sarrge?” asked her father.
“She’s doing just fine. I fed her and combed her hair.”
“I hope you get around to saying hello to your mother,” said Mrs. Samuelsson.
“Hello, mommy. It’s good to be home,” said Freda as she gave her mother a hug.
“This is a new coat. Where did you get it?”
“Mr. Thorvald gave it to me.”
“It’s a very nice coat. You should take good care of it.”
“I will,” replied Freda.
“Are you hungry?”
“I’m starving.”
“That’s good because I’m making some fish chowder.”
“I can’t wait.”
“It’ll be ready soon, so wash up and get your brother while you’re at it.”
Freda went upstairs in a flash. Her brother was taking a mid-afternoon nap. She woke him before washing her face and hands. When she returned downstairs, there was a feast fit for a king sitting on the dining room table. Freda could hardly wait.