Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Norsemen in the West by R. M. Ballantyne (easy books to read TXT) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «The Norsemen in the West by R. M. Ballantyne (easy books to read TXT) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
“Come, come,” cried Karlsefin loudly; “to work! to work! Ye may dance after that is done. Here, sweep this pool also.”
With a cheer the men ran down the bank, and little Olaf followed, having already used his hook with such effect that he had pulled six large fish out of various holes and added them to the general pile.
“Take care, Olaf, that you don’t fall in and get drowned,” cried Biarne as he ran past.
“Hurrah!” shouted Olaf, with a flourish of his weapon, which made the narrowest possible miss of cleeking Tyrker by the nose.
“Have a care!” roared the Turk.
“You’ve much need to say that,” replied Olaf, with a laugh, for Tyrker at that moment set his heel upon a salmon, fell, and rolled heavily down the bank. But Tyrker was tough. He rose with a growl and a grin and ran on to join his comrades.
A second pool was netted, and with the like result. As the net was being dragged forth, Olaf saw that several fish had escaped. He struck in his hook at random, for the pools, being by that time a thick compound of mud and water, could not be seen into.
“Oh! I’ve got him!” he shouted, struggling with the handle of his hook, which jerked so violently that the sturdy little fellow was almost thrown to the ground.
“Hold on!” cried Thorward, running to his aid.
“Why, Olaf, what’s this? Have a care. Not too fast. There. Hallo!—an eel.”
And so it was—an enormous eel, that went twirling round the pole in wondrous fashion until it freed itself, and, after twisting round the limbs of Olaf and Thorward, who in vain sought to hold it fast, made off over the wet stones as if they were its native element, and slid into another large pool, where it disappeared.
“Never mind, Olaf,” cried Thorward, with a laugh, “you’ll catch hold of it again. Hook away at it, lad. Don’t give.”
A tremendous shriek arose from the women on the bank at this juncture.
“Oh! look! look at Freydissa!” cried Gunhild, pointing wildly to the river bed.
And there Freydissa stood—up to the arm-pits in mud and salmon!
Whether she had fallen in or been pushed in no one could tell, but unquestionably she was in, having gone in, too, head-foremost, so that, although she had struggled right-end up she reappeared coated with mud to an extent that might have suggested a sculptor’s clay model—had sculptors been known to the Norsemen of those days.
There was an irresistible roar of laughter at first, and then loud expressions of condolence and sympathy, while a dozen strong, but wet and dirty, hands were stretched forth to the rescue.
“Here, lay hold of my hand, poor thing,” cried Krake; “there, now, don’t cry; it would only be wasting tears, with so much water on your face already.”
If anything could have made Freydissa cry it would have been that remark, for it implied that she was inclined to weep, while nothing was further from her thoughts at that time.
She did, however, grasp Krake’s hand, but instead of aiding herself by it to get out of the hole, she gave it such a vigorous and hearty pull that Krake went souse into the mud beside her. Before he could recover himself Freydissa had put her knee on his body, and, using him as a foot-rest, thrust him deeper down as she stepped out.
The delight with which this was hailed is beyond description, and many a year passed after that before men grew tired of twitting Krake about the pleasant mud-bath that had been given him by Freydissa on the occasion of the celebrated take of salmon at Little River in Vinland.
Not long after this an event occurred which produced great excitement in the new settlement; namely, the appearance of natives in the woods. It occurred under the following circumstances.
One morning Karlsefin gave orders for one of the exploring parties to be got ready to go out immediately. Karlsefin’s plan from the beginning had been to class his men in two divisions. One half stayed at home to work, the other half searched the land,—always taking care, however, not to travel so far but that they could return home in the evening. They were careful also not to wander far from each other. Sometimes Karlsefin went with the exploring party, at other times stayed at home to superintend the work there, while Biarne or Thorward filled his place. On the occasion in question Biarne was in charge.
Soon after the party had started, Hake, who was one of them, observed a female figure disappear round a copse near the shores of the lake. At that part they were about to strike off into the thick woods, so Hake went up to Biarne and asked leave to go along by the borders of the lake, saying that he could overtake the party again before they had reached the Willow Glen, a well-known rendezvous of the hunters and explorers of the colony.
“Go as thou wilt, Hake,” replied Biarne; “only see to it that ye overtake us before noon, as I intend to go on a totally new path to-day.”
The youth left with a light step, and, on overtaking the female, found, as he had expected, that it was Bertha.
“You wander far from home to-day,” he said, with a deferential salutation, for Hake’s bondage had not robbed him of his breeding.
“I love to wander,” answered Bertha, blushing.
Poor Bertha, she could not help blushing. It was her unfortunate nature to do so. When her feelings were touched—ever so little—she blushed, and then she blushed because she had blushed, and blushed again to think herself so silly!
“I fear it may be somewhat dangerous to wander far,” said Hake, stopping, for Bertha had stopped and seated herself on the stump of a fallen tree.
“Dangerous! Why so?”
“Why, because Skraelingers may find us out any day, and if they should come upon you unawares so far from home they might carry you off, and no one would be aware that you were gone until too late to pursue.”
“I never thought of that,” returned Bertha, with a slightly troubled look. “Well, I shall be more careful in future. But how come you to be wandering here alone, Hake? did I not hear your name called this morning among those appointed to go forth and search out what is good and beautiful and useful in the land?”
“Most true, Bertha, and I have gone forth, and not gone far, and yet have found something both good and beautiful and useful in the land.”
“And pray what may that be?” asked the maiden, with a look of surprise.
Hake did not answer, but the expression of his eyes was more eloquent than speech.
“Nay, then,” said Bertha, looking hastily away, and again blushing—as a matter of course! “I am no reader of riddles; and I hate riddles—they perplex me so. Besides, I never could find them out. But, Hake, has your party gone yet?”
“Yes, some time ago.”
“And are you left behind?”
“No, I have leave to go by the margin of the lake.”
“Then if you put off time talking with me you will not find it easy to overtake them; but I forgot: I suppose you count it an easy matter to overtake ordinary men?”
“I shall not find it difficult,” replied the youth briefly; and then, perceiving that Bertha felt uneasy—apparently at the tenor of the conversation—he quietly changed it by remarking that he preferred to walk by the lake for several reasons, one of which was that it reminded him of Scotland.
“Ah, you profess to love Scotland very much,” said Bertha archly, “but your brother evidently loves it more than you do.”
“With good reason, too,” replied Hake, “for it has given him a bride, and it had no such favours for me.”
“Indeed! what is her name?” asked the maiden, with much interest.
“Emma.”
“Poor Emma,” sighed Bertha; “but I hope that Heika will be freed one day and return to his native land to wed Emma. Perchance by that time Scotland may smile upon you too, and give you cause to love it better.”
“I love it well already,” said Hake, with enthusiasm, “yet am I content to stay here.”
“For shame, Hake! you do not deserve to be a Scot if you mean what you say.”
“I mean what I say, yet do I deserve to be a Scot.”
“Come, tell me, then, what this Scotland of yours is like. I suppose you deem it more beautiful than Iceland?”
The youth smiled. “It is not more wonderful than Iceland. I can say that with truth—but it is passing fair to look upon. It is a land of mountain and flood, of heath-clad braes and grassy knowes. Its mountain peaks rise bare and rugged to the skies, where lordly eagles soar. Its brawling burns in their infancy dash down these rugged steeps, but as they grow older flow on through many a hazel dell, where thrush and blackbird fill the woods with melody—through many flowering pastures, where cattle browse and lambkins skip on the sunny braes. Wild-fowl breed on its reedy lochs, and moor-fowl dwell on its heather hills. Its waters teem with the spotted trout and the royal salmon. Temperate breezes fan its cheeks, and beauty, in form and colour, revels everywhere. Its sons are lovers of their native land, and its daughters are wondrous fair.”
“And yet it would seem,” said Bertha, “that not one is fair enough for you?”
“Nay, Bertha, thy speech is hardly fair. The heart cannot command its affection,” said Hake, with a smile, “but I regret it not.”
“And where does Emma dwell?” asked Bertha.
“Beside my father, near the shores of Forth, not far from a noted town and castle that stand on the summit of a rocky ridge. It is named after Edwin, a Northumbrian king. A sweet romantic spot—my own dear native town. Beside it stands a mountain, which, those who have travelled in far southern lands tell us, bears some resemblance to a couching lion. But I never saw a lion, and know not what truth there is in that.”
“You almost make me wish to see that land,” said Bertha, with a sigh.
“I would you might see it and that it were my fortune to show it to you.”
“That is not likely,” said Bertha, with a little laugh.
“I know not. The most unlikely things happen, and often those that seem most likely do not come to pass. What more unlikely than that Karlsefin should forsake the religion of his fathers? Yet Karlsefin is now a Christian.”
“Do you know, Hake, much about the nature of this new religion that has come amongst us, and made so many people change?” asked Bertha, with sudden earnestness.
“To say truth I don’t know much about it. Only this do I know, that Karlsefin says the foundation of it is God and man united in Jesus Christ, and that the guiding principle of it is love. If so, it must be a sweet religion, and, as far as Karlsefin is concerned, it seems both good and true; but there are some of its professors whom I know whose guiding star is self—not love—which goes rather against it, methinks.”
“You do not reason well, Hake; that is against the professors, not against the religion.”
“True; but this religion is said to change those who profess it—what if they are not changed?”
“Why, then, they are false professors,” said Bertha, with a smile.
“It may be so; I know not. But if you would have further light on the point, Karlsefin will gladly give it you.”
“Well, I will go find him and inquire,” said Bertha, rising; “I have kept you too long already from your comrades.—Farewell.”
“Farewell, Bertha,” replied the youth, gazing after her as she tripped lightly away and disappeared behind a thicket. Then, turning into the woods, he went off
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