Dear Dorothy

I remember that you scorn all things handwritten—you type everything, I remember, even though your handwriting is lovely and straight, like white picket fences, birthday candles, and pushpins on the corkboard above your bed—but perhaps you will find some empathy within you to read this. I can imagine you now, wherever you are, reading this, perhaps at your desk, or perhaps at a café at your lunch break. Perhaps you have a cup of coffee—it looks black because it fits your personality, but I know you put three teaspoons of sugar inside it, I know that about you—and perhaps you are pulling a cigarette out of the slim silver case, inherited from your father, from your handbag. I see you exhaling the smoke in a long, lazy cloud. You used to blow it into my face, and you would toss your head back, laughing, when my eyes began tearing up. I coughed, you didn’t. I remember that about you.

I remember many things about you. Your name was Dorota officially, on your letterheads, followed by your degree, your department, and the name of our university. Dorota was serious and grim, who, standing at six feet could look professors down with her fierce black eyes lined like a cat’s, and you were Dolly to fools who thought they could control a wild beast like you, and because I knew better, you were Dorothy. You were Dorothy to everyone, and I am no exception. You, Dorothy with the formidable surname, a jumble of eastern European syllables impossible to say, intimidating in typeface, of wild beauty when dragged out in ink by your hand.

I remember you in fits and bursts, Dorothy, glimpses of you in the throngs on the plaza, dark colors, coifed hair, lips marked with a poisonous red. I still look for you in the crowds, and sometimes I see you thrown to pieces and scattered amongst strangers, your smart black shoes, your swift and purposeful walk, your haughty bark of laughter. I remember the smell of your perfume—you puffed it onto me once to see if I could be grown-up and mature like you, it didn’t work—but nobody wears it like you do, Dorothy.

I remember the first time I saw you. It was September and it was warm, and you were lounging on the glade, shoes flung aside, book in your lap, cigarette between your fingers. I sketched you in red colored pencil. You didn’t know this at the time, didn’t see me because I was an insignificant speck of an individual, and when I told you I was shaking with anxiety, which you laughed at, of course.

I had amassed an embarrassing amount of sketches of you, Dorothy, by the time we met. Do you remember that windy April morning? The wind carried my sketches your way, and you collected them, handed them back to me, and teased me because I was one of your many admirers. Somehow, I dared to ask if I could paint you, and perhaps because you indulged every opportunity to be worshipped, you took me to your lair.

                Dorothy, you swallowed me whole. You picked me up by your fingertips, nails short but painted prim pink, and dropped me down your gullet. I was lost the moment I crossed the threshold, into your house, the sacred box, a too-small cave for a dragon queen, draped with deep reds and hung with neat photographs of enchanting places familiar to you, arcane to me. This is the chamber of Dorothy, but you laughed and dug your elbow into the pillow and peered at me with your venom eyes.

I recall it during a hot spell in the spring, and the window was cracked open, and only for you. You didn’t offer me a drink or anything, and you, you could fan yourself with my sketches if you liked, and slip out of your costume to reveal armor and naked skin, scales of a terrible, beautiful beast that I could not hope to comprehend. I felt silly even taking off my scarf, and so I suffered there in your room, breathing in the heady, nauseatingly powerful odors of flowers plucked from the side of the mechanical engineering building smudged along every surface. Dead flowers, wilted and  browned, still belching their odors and oils—and I was growing faint, and you laughed as you put your clothes back on.

When I close my eyes I perceive you—a tall, dark woman with a quick, straight gait, loping across campus with books under one arm, a cigarette wedged between oxblood lips. I can paint you with a few quick strokes of India ink and have it recognizable, Dorothy, but it isn’t you. I’ve tried. I’ve created you in ink and paint and charcoal, worked your dark lipstick into the paper and canvas, sometimes smudged along with my ring finger, other times straight from the bullet, dangerous and bold like you were. I picked the flowers, redolent and pressed them against your image—smutty, slutty fragrance, lacking in elegance, inadequate to describe you.

Dear Dorothy, these are for you. Sketches, all, but fitting of the brevity of our acquaintance—and you don’t think much of art, anyways. I was too frightened—and still, I am frightened—to say you were my muse, but you were, you who scorned art and love and beauty, frivolities and pointless indulgences. I remember this about you. You, who had an engine in place of a soul, as you told me one time when I tried to read you poetry—I remember this about you.

And when I told you that I loved you, you laughed in my face—how dare I, scarcely past girlhood, an artist (you said this derisively, you were derisive of art in general) of feeble talent and creativity, no use to a civilization that marches towards the future, court you? You told me you had no need for desperate warrior artists, and would not care to read whatever lovelorn drivel I sent your way, if it was anything like how I behaved. I remember this about you.

And because I remember this about you, I can feel safe that you will never read these words or look at these sketches. The envelope may smell like the flowers—gardenias, I looked them up—but you are Dorothy, Dorota ascended to meet the new America, the new woman resplendent and powerful, and you will have forgotten me. You will not read this, and this realization comes with relief and not despair, dear Dorothy, I know this about me, because you have taught me to be this way, I know this. You will have forgotten me, but I remember you, Dorothy, and I wish you well

Love,

An admirer

                

**

Heavily inspired by the poem "Bien loin d'ici" by Charles Baudelaire, trans. Edna St. Vincent Millay, as depicted in the description of the Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab perfume oil blend of the same name.

Depictions of Ships in the Icelandic Sagas: Voyages and Burials

The deliberate inclusion of ship imagery in the sagas indicates not only the political, social, and economic relevance ships have in Norse culture, but also the significance of ships as a symbol for an idea that the author intends to convey. It is intuitive to assume that Iceland, an island in the North Atlantic with strong migratory ties to Norway, would rely heavily on ships. Establishing strong political ties to kings and earls in Scandinavia from Iceland would certainly require sea travel. Furthermore, Scandinavia as a whole, with plentiful coastlines and generally poor farmland would demand advanced shipbuilding to exploit their resources at sea, but also supplement their agrarian production with raids abroad (Richard W. Unger). Scandinavia’s real-world dependence on ships to transport people and goods manifests itself in the sagas as an abstract need for mobility and transition, regardless of the context of its depiction. In spite of the varied events in which ships appear in “Gisli Sursson’s Saga” and “Eirik the Red’s Saga,” they fulfill a specific abstract role in the cultural framework of the Norsemen that mimic its concrete role in Iron Age and medieval Scandinavia. Throughout the sagas, heroes sail abroad, from Iceland to Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and the British Isles, where they either raid for riches or stay at the court of some landed lord or king and part with their gifts and favors. The sagas portray these voyages frequently, suggesting that they were commonplace and well-established routes and patterns of behavior, despite the Norsemen’s lack of “drawn maps…and the magnetic compass” (Martina Sprague, 123). Instead, their navigation relies heavily upon the behavior of the wildlife, sea birds and whales, familiar landmarks, wind and water currents, and stars (Sprague). This strong reliance on familiarity and practiced skill favors the formation of a close-knit Scandinavian network with practiced routes and reliable patterns for navigation, adding an element of suspense and adventure to explorations of lands unknown. The likely symbolic relevance of the ship emerges here: the ship, as a mode of transportation, represents the expansion of Norsemen overseas, between Scandinavian lands, vessel and culture both efficiently mobile.



“Gisli Sursson’s Saga” examines this Norse trading coalition in its early chapters. Brothers Thorkel and Gisli, accompanied respectively by Thorgrim and Vestein, part ways on trips east to Norway. Thorkel and Thorgrim arrive at King Harald Grey-cloak’s court in Norway, pledge their fealty, and part on good terms, “wealth and well-established” (Gisli Sursson’s Saga, 8). Gisli and Vestein are not as lucky—after “fifty days and nights” at sea, they “[run] ashore at Hordaland,” their ship “wrecked,” but crew and goods intact (Gisli Sursson’s Saga, 7). Even so, their trip abroad ends lucratively, Gisli having sailed Scandinavia via trading ship with Beard-Bjalfi, “they became wealthy and well-respected men” (Gisli Sursson’s Saga, 8). Vestein, who parted ways with Gisli and Bjalfi, returns with “a tapestry sixty ells long…a head-dress…with three gold strands…and three finger bowls worked with gold,” tokens of his new wealth (Gisli Sursson’s Saga, 12). Gisli and Vestein, and Thorkel and Thorgrim are but a small sample of men who take to sea to seek their fortunes in the sagas, showing a powerful association between foreign wealth and seafaring. Specifically, they become wealthy not on trade goods but on gifts they receive abroad. While it is unclear what Gisli and Bjalfi carry on their “cargo vessel,” it is safe to infer that Thorgrim and Thorkel return with precious treasures and tokens from King Harald Grey-cloak and not bulk goods (Gisli Sursson’s Saga, 8). Richard W. Unger explains this phenomenon well: “All Viking ships...[were] light and fast and…typically the goods freighted were luxuries” and that even cargo ships “had relatively small carrying capacities” (Richard W. Unger, 82). Gisli, Vestein, and Bjalfi, and Thorkel and Thorgrim capitalize on the relative efficiency of travel within the Nordic lands, and have the incentive to carry back luxuries, adhering to the constraints of their vessels.

Throughout the sagas, men gift such luxuries to peers, tightening horizontal bonds—quantity of luxuries directly affects the Norseman’s networking potential. In Iceland, Vestein offers his treasures from abroad to Gisli to give to Thorkel Sursson. Thorkel denies these gifts because he “‘cannot see how they will be repaid,’” suggesting that Thorkel is still unwilling to pledge himself to Vestein’s companionship (Gisli Sursson’s Saga, 12). Recall that the Sursson brothers, Thorgrim, and Vestein previously fail at a blood-brotherhood ritual. Vestein attempts to ameliorate their broken pact with precious gifts, trying for a relationship of stronger horizontal character, held by generosity than blood oaths. Although Thorkel refuses the gifts, the very practice suggests that in Norse society, horizontal relationships can be quantified and commoditized: the wealthy can afford to buy friendships, and those who can travel abroad have more opportunities to increase their social standing in this way. Thus, the ship plays a significant role in increasing the Norseman’s interpersonal connections and business network. Vestein travels overseas by ship and intends to increase his social standing through gift-giving, showing that in this aspect of Norse culture, the ship directly influences social mobility.

The relationship between the Norseman and his ship is full of contradictions—to understand this unique relationship, it is important to comprehend the advantages and disadvantages inherent in these vessels. Unger and Sprague exhaustively describe the engineering and design of the Viking ships: their “dual option of sails and oars,” a clinker-built hull, and identical bow and stern, convenient for quick reversals of direction, made the ships fast, light, and flexible (Sprague, 91). Unger argues that this versatility and efficiency gave Scandinavia “superiority in fighting” and “an advantage in commerce,”—goods could be moved at a lower cost, increasing profits and thus “[promoting] the full integration of Scandinavia into a…trading network” (Unger, 94). In spite of these advantages, the Viking ship had numerous drawbacks. They were small and often lacked “…quarters for the crew…” and required nightly stops to camp (Unger, 94). The agility and small capacity of these ships favored hit-and-run raids, which allowed Vikings to launch frequent and plentiful attacks over a smaller swath of land. From these advantages and disadvantages, Unger suggests that Viking ships were an integral instrument in forming a collective Scandinavia, strengthening a Norse identity, but were “capable of only limited services” and were thus restrained in their scope of martial and economic influence, and fell before larger cargo ships as technology advanced (Unger, 95). The advantages and limitations of the Viking ships incentivize the development of mid-scale and personal networks—the whole of Scandinavia, regional affairs in Iceland—but narrow the extent and efficacy of establishing similar bonds over larger distances.

This localized networking becomes apparent in the actions of Gisli and his brothers, both filial and fictive—they return to Iceland with foreign treasures and establish themselves as landowners, or use their wealth to strengthen horizontal bonds. Conversely, the heroes of “Eirik the Red’s Saga” oppose the precedent set by Gisli, Vestein, and other saga figures, and explore the North Atlantic beyond Scandinavia. The journeys of Eirik to Greenland, and then Leif Eiriksson, Bjarni Grimolfsson, and Thorfinn Karlsefni to Vinland represent a use of ships in exploration that seemingly contradicts Unger’s and Sprague’s findings. The Greenlanders strategize around the limitations of their vessels. Their fleet hugs coastlines when possible, and is on open water for a maximum of two days at a time (Eirik the Red’s Saga). Mats Larsson’s “The Vinland Sagas and Nova Scotia: A Reappraisal of an Old Theory” elaborates on the alleged Vinland coastline: “the eastern coast…is characterized as…harborless…with long beaches and sands stretching south from the promontory Kjalarnes” (Mats G. Larsson, 308). The bountiful bays and islands of Nova Scotia corroborate with the Greenlanders’ stop-and-go sailing as the saga describes (Larsson). This behavior is consistent with Unger’s and Sprague’s descriptions of the ships’ limitations of space and shelter. Furthermore, Karlsefni and Bjarni demonstrate a cleverly responsible attitude towards exploration—they are cautious in the unknown waters, careful not to put their crews through unnecessary duress (Eirik the Red’s Saga, 8). When the Greenlanders encounter the natives, their disadvantage in manpower eventually drives them home: Thorvald Eiriksson says ‘“We’ve found a land of fine resources, though we’ll hardly enjoy much of them”’ (Eirik the Red’s Saga, 12).

This further illustrates the disadvantages of the Viking ships: their limited capacity inhibits large-scale settlement of Vinland. While Eirik is capable of mobilizing Icelanders to colonize his newly discovered Greenland, North America is simply too far for a small-scale founder group to effectively take hold. Geraldine Barnes, in “Vinland the Good: Paradise Lost?” examines the blend of “probably fact and likely fiction” of the Viking landings in North America, closely following and analyzing the alleged sites that Karlsefni, Leif Eiriksson, and Bjarni describe on their journeys. Utilizing Eirik’s saga and the Greenlanders’ saga, descriptions of alleged Viking outposts in Nova Scotia and Newfoundland and the unverified Vinland maps, she debates the validity of the sagas, ending with “their failure to make capital of [their discoveries] left Vinland’s shores undisturbed for almost…five hundred years” (Barnes, 95). Larsson believes that the archaeological sites of allegedly Norse origin may not necessarily be those described in Eirik’s saga, but insignificant enough to have been neglected or forgotten in the oral saga tradition, but no less valid for those reasons (Larsson). It is entirely possible that the sites found in Canada’s Maritime Provinces simply withered away due to lack of sufficient sea power to send back to Greenland for more colonists or aid. These small, unauthenticated outposts on the frontier of Norse exploration represent the long but feeble arm of their influence, due in great part to the limitations of their ships. In spite of the frailty of these peripheral settlements, the ships that bore their founders from Greenland strongly represent the mobility of the Norsemen, and the expansion of their influence.

The fragility of their long-range influence, in part, facilitates a stronger short-range bond. Just as Gisli and Vestein use their travel gifts to construct a social network home in Iceland, the Greenlanders form their own network between and within ships. Twice the saga portrays ships as the unit of society in the exploratory group to Vinland: first, Karlsefni’s group parts ways with Bjarni’s, and the next, a boat splinters off from Bjarni’s ship on the sea of worms. In the second instance, shipworms burrow into and compromise the ship’s integrity, dooming the party to death. The crew, facilitated by their skipper Bjarni, decides to split apart, one half to take a safe boat back to Greenland, the other to die at sea. Here, the ship becomes a safe haven for Bjarni’s crew, and its significance shifts from the concrete, social and economic realm in Gisli’s saga to a more abstract, symbolic one.

A symbolic analysis of the ships present in “Eirik the Red’s Saga” begins with a discussion of the context of the ship. In “Ships, Society, Symbols, and Archaeologists,” Zbigniew Kobylinski proposes that the ship in Norse culture is an archetypal symbol, that the ship contains a common meaning throughout cultures, universally significant, regardless of cultural variation (Zbigniew Kobylinski). While Kobylinski’s archetypal symbol suggestion is weak and overgeneralized from lack of non-Scandinavian evidence, his approach is useful for analyzing the Vinland voyages. The first point of the archetypal ship symbol is its connection to water: this can hardly come as a surprise, as a ship’s pragmatic role is on water (Kobylinski). The journeys of the Greenlanders to the new world differ tremendously from the journeys of Gisli and Thorkel to Norway and Denmark—one is an excursion into the unknown, the other is a well-traveled route in familiar waters. The context differs; the seas that the Greenlanders sail are dangerous and untrustworthy, capable of belching forth poisonous whale carcasses and hordes of ship worms. The Vinland waters represent a tumultuous, unholy unknown that the ships, crafted by human hands, and as such, “the boat brings human order into the chaos of water, [securing] orientation in space” (Kobylinski, 13). While Bjarni’s ship fails him, there is nothing inherently wrong with its construction, only that there happen to be shipworms in their path: the ship is the only barrier between life and certain death, but also facilitates the transition between the mortal world and Hel. The overwhelming message is that the archetypal ship symbol embodies elements of its physical function of transporting men and good.

Bjarni’s particular example suggests that the ship is the transport to death—Kobylinski states “the boat of the dead is a symbol connected with the symbolism of water and…the transport symbolism of a journey involved in every rite of passage from one stage to another” (Kobylinski, 13). This aspect of boat symbolism is blatantly apparent in the Norse custom of ship burials. While Kobylinski cites the “chariot burials of the early Celtic peoples” and similar practices in ancient Egypt as evidence for the universality of the symbolic meaning of ships, another scholar, Jens Peter Schjodt, disagrees (Kobylinski, 15). According to Schjodt, it is imperative to “[investigate] the symbolism of ships in Scandinavia…[by looking] to the mythic framework,” the sagas in particular (Jens Peter Schjodt, 22). The ship burials in Gisli’s saga indicate the significance and peculiarity of this custom in medieval Icelandic society. The first grave is Vestein’s: “Gisli and all his men prepared…a mound for Vestein in the sandbank that stood on the far side of Seftjorn pond by Saebol” (The Sagas of Icelanders, 516). Although the text does not explicitly mention a ship, the shape of the burial site and its location by a body of water suggest that indeed Gisli inters his good friend in a boat. During the funeral, Thorgrim, who is involved in Vestein’s murder, ties the deceased’s Hel-shoes, for ‘“it is custom to [wear them]…on their journey to Valhalla” (Gisli Sursson’s Saga, 14). Seftjorn pond separates the grave site from the farm of Saebol: Kobylinski describes this practice “the natural…fear of the corpse…combined with the transitory character of death, led to the custom of locating burial places…some distance from the dwelling…often behind a water barrier” (Kobylinski, 14). In The Viking Ships, A. W. Brogger and Haakon Shetelig reinforce this with archaeological evidence: “[the Tune mound] lay at the top of a slope going down to the river Glomma” (A. W. Brogger and Haakon Shetelig, 81). Brogger and Shetelig examine the excavated mounds of the Tune, Gokstad, and Oseberg ships—in spite of the great variation between the design of ships interred, the quantity and quality of the grave goods, and the remains within, they all point towards the sea (Brogger and Shetelig). As such, Vestein’s burial corroborates with physical evidence that the dead intend to travel by ship, and that Hel lies somewhere beyond the sea. This conclusion presents the Greenlanders’ journey in Eirik’s saga in a different light: their ventures into the unknown western oceans and beyond represent a trip into the afterworld. The archaeological evidence confirms the saga’s portrayal of ships as transport for the dead, which extends beyond the practical functions of a ship to take on a more sacred character, representing the transition state between life and death as a whole.

In Thorgrim’s funeral, Gisli deliberately corrupts this transition state. He finds a boulder by the river near the burial site and “[drops] it into the boat with such a resounding crash that almost every plank of the wood [gives] way” (Gisli Sursson’s Saga, 18). Gisli damages the burial boat, ending that particular ship’s functionality as a symbol of transition and mobility. Furthermore, “the snow never settled on the south-west of Thorgrim’s burial mound…people suggested that Frey had found the sacrifices Thorgrim made to him so endearing that the god had not wanted the ground between them to freeze” (Gisli Sursson’s Saga, 18). The lack of snow or frost on part of the grave signifies an open channel between Frey and Thorgrim, which, coupled with the broken planks, solidifies a vertical connection between Thorgrim and the gods. In this sense, Thorgrim’s ship will not be sailing anywhere, for it is secured both by a god’s hand and Gisli’s interference—Thorgrim exists in a plane between life and death. Gisli’s part in facilitating this liminal state of existence emphasizes his own state of ambiguous existence: his outlawry condemns him to a life on the run, wobbling between physical threats of Eyjolf and Bork, and his turbulent and disturbing dreams. Gisli’s disruption of the ship’s task of properly conveying Thorgrim through the “rite of passage” that is death facilitates his launch into outlawry.

In Gisli’s outlaw years, his interaction with ships becomes less concrete and more abstract. It is no longer feasible for him to sail overseas and seek his fortune, a deliberate state of motility, but rather is forced into a life perpetually wandering the fringes of civilization, chaos and order. Eleanor Rosamund Barraclough’s “Inside Outlawry in Grettis saga Asmundarsonar and Gisla saga Surssonar: Landscape in the Outlaw Sagas” examines the relationship between the physical context of the outlawry and the forced transience of the outlaw himself. Barraclough catalogues Gisli’s hideouts: “beneath the houses…in the cliffs and woods above the valley settlements,” all of which he uses to evade detection from Eyjolf and Bork (Eleanor Rosamund Barraclough, 378). Gisli’s most dire moment occurs when he stays with farmer Ingjald and his wife (Barraclough, 378). Ingjald “[sees] a ship sailor from the south” belonging to Bork the Stout, and Gisli conjures a plan to row out with Ingjald’s wife Bothild in order to trick Bork’s men away (Gisli Sursson’s Saga, 26). This ruse begins well—they row close to Bork’s ship, exchange words, all while Gisli “[sits] on the prow [mimicking the fool slave]…[wrapping himself] up in tackle and [hanging] overboard a few times”—and Gisli and Bothild are able to swiftly row to safety while their trick holds (Gisli Sursson’s Saga, 26). Contrary to Barraclough’s listed “marginal pockets,” Gisli hides in plain sight, keeping up his trickery on open water, while he literally rows past Bork towards safety (Barraclough, 378). The ship here plays a dual role: Gisli uses it as a prop in his ruse, and it conducts him towards safety, carrying out the transition from peace to potential conflict again to peace. This is reminiscent of Kobylinski’s idea that water represents chaos, and ships, which separate Gisli and Bothild from Bork and his men, are the discrete units of human order in that chaos (Kobylinski). This narrow escape by boat emphasizes Gisli’s perpetually transient existence as an outlaw, therefore emphasizing in turn the ship’s role as a symbol of mobility and transition. 

The themes of transition, passage between physical lands and metaphysical states of existence, associate strongly with the ship symbolism in Gisli’s and Eirik’s sagas. These themes that ships embody mimic the pragmatic functionality of the ship in real life—they bear objects from one point to the other, and just as they carry Gisli from Iceland to Norway, they carry Thorgrim from Midgard to Hel. The Icelandic sagas portray ships in varied contexts, from practiced voyages to Norway and Sweden, to exploratory ventures to the frontier of their world and grave sites for their distinguished figures. Each of these experiences depicts a different aspect of the ship's significance in Norse culture and society, the culmination of which presents a multi-faceted manifestation of their world.

Works Cited

Barraclough, Eleanor Rosamund. “Inside Outlawry in Grettis saga Asmundarsonar and Gisla saga Surssonar: Landscape in the Outlaw Sagas.” Scandinavian Studies. Vol. 82, No. 4 (2010): 365-388. Web. 14 Aug. 2013.

Barnes, Geraldine. “Vinland the Good: Paradise Lost?” Parergon. Vol. 12, No. 2 (1995): 75-96. Web. 12 Aug. 2013.

Brogger, A. W., and Haakon Shetlig. The Viking Ships: their Ancestry and Evolution. Los Angeles: Knud K. Mogensen Publishing, 1953. Print

“Eirik the Red’s Saga.” The Sagas of Icelanders: a Selection. Pref. Jane Smiley. Trans. Katrina C. Attwood. New York: Viking, Penguin Group, 1997. Print.

“Gisli Sursson’s Saga.” The Sagas of Icelanders: a Selection. Pref. Jane Smiley. Trans. Katrina C. Attwood. New York: Viking, Penguin Group, 1997. Print.

Kobylinksi, Zbigniew. “Ships, Society, Symbols and Archaeologists.” The Ship as a Symbol in Prehistoric and Medieval Scandinavia. Ed. Ole Crumlin-Pedersen and Birgitte Munch Thye. Copenhagen: the Danish National Museum, 1995. 9-18. Print.

Larsson, Mats G. “The Vinland Sagas and Nova Scotia: A Reappraisal of an Old Theory.” Scandinavian Studies. Vol. 64, No. 3 (1992): 305-335. Web. 15 Aug. 2013.

Schjodt, Jens Peter. “The Ship in Old Norse Mythology and Religion.” The Ship as a Symbol in Prehistoric and Medieval Scandinavia. Ed. Ole Crumlin-Pedersen and Birgitte Munch Thye. Copenhagen: the Danish National Museum, 1995. 20-24. Print.

Sprague, Martina. Norse Warfare: the Unconventional Battle Strategies of the Ancient Vikings. New York: Hippocrene Books, Inc, 2007. 165-138. Print.

Unger, Richard W. The Ship in the Medieval Economy 600-1600. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1980. 75-113. Print.

Ships and Ship Burials in Norse Society

Today, it is difficult to divorce medieval Norsemen from their ships, which enforce an image of raiding Vikings, a powerful concept that defines their society to the modern layman. Modern understanding of Viking culture comes in great part from archaeological analysis of specimens found from that era. Three ships are particularly notable: the Gokstad, the Tune, and the Oseberg ships, while all found in burial mounds, exhibit vast differences in construction and furnishing, making them valuable specimens for studying the role of ships in Viking society and culture, as well as their symbolic significance (A. W. Brogger and Haakon Shetelig). Detailed descriptions of the design and engineering of these three ships appear in the works of Brogger and Shetelig, Unger, and Sprague, but their emphases on certain aspects of the ship demark the focuses of their respective works. Unger and Sprague take a more generalized look at Norse ships, emphasizing their contributions to Scandinavia’s commercial and martial development, respectively, while Brogger and Shetelig, focusing specifically on the three burial ships, analyze their significance in death traditions and their appearances in skaldic poetry and lore. Another volume, The Ship as a Symbol, edited by Ole Crumlin-Pedersen and Birgitte Munch Thye, compiles academic literature that further this examination, covering the abstract meanings of the ship than the other materials pass over for a more concrete, objective review.



The Ship in the Medieval Economy 600-1600, by Richard W. Unger, emphasizes the ship’s commercial and martial roles in the Viking world. Viking sea power rose in 840, when the death of Carolingian emperor Louis the Pious destabilized Western Europe, and open to raids by sea (Richard W. Unger). The Vikings, having plundered and conquered the coasts and waterways, exerted their influence by “ [claiming] sovereignty as kings”—as consequence of this “establishment of monarchical governments on the fringe of Europe,” violence became “less sporadic” and stability partially restored to the region (Richard W. Unger 81). According to Unger, the Vikings’ naval dominance can be attributed to the superiority in design and construction of their ships (Richard W. Unger). The rising population and generally poor farmland of Scandinavia prompted a wave of migration, and thus a need to transport kinsmen, livestock, and supplies over open sea—the “promotion of design improvement” and the influx of exposure to foreign shipbuilding concepts and the invention of “the clinker-built hull…all combined to expand the capability of Scandinavian ships” to fill these demands (Unger 93). Umber argues that this versatility and efficiency in ships gave Scandinavia “superiority in fighting” as well as “an advantage in commerce,”—goods could be moved at a lower cost, increasing profits and thus “ [promoting] the full integration of Scandinavia into a…trading network” (Unger 94). In spite of these advantages, the Viking ship had numerous drawbacks that limited their –designed for speed and agility, they were small and often lacked “…quarters for the crew…” and required nightly stops to camp (Richard W. Unger, 94). From these advantages and disadvantages, Unger suggests that Viking ships were an integral instrument in forming a collective Scandinavia, strengthening a Norse identity, but were “capable of only limited services” and were thus restrained in their scope of martial and economic influence, and fell before larger cargo ships as technology advanced (Unger 95). Similar to Unger’s work, Martina Sprague’s Norse Warfare examines the role of ships in Viking society from a martial and economic viewpoint. She takes a more technical approach, describing in greater detail the engineering behind the ships, the advantages of having sails over oars (less labor-intensive, greater distances traveled) while examining the differences in form and function the oared drakkar and knorr, and then the longship, which had the “dual option of sails and oars [that] made the ships highly mobile” (Martina Sprague 91). As contrast to Unger, Sprague examines the social significance of the ships more, analyzing their value beyond means of transportation and profit acquisition: “the pride felt by a Norse king in command of his ship has been retold in countless [sagas]…a sea-king who lost his ship was suddenly vulnerable and…brought down in disgrace” (Sprague 88). Compared to Unger’s generalized discussion, Sprague engages in case studies of specific ships in Norse lore and Iron Age archaeological sites (Sprague). Her technical and specific analysis of Norse ships offers a deeper understanding of their role in Viking culture, and despite differences in focus and approach, both Sprague and Unger agree that Viking ships, “the culmination of centuries of technical evolution and innovation,” were superior to predicate and derivative vessels, and gave the Vikings “their military superiority” and “dominant force” (Sprague, 100).

Brogger and Shetelig, in The Viking Ships, take both a concrete and abstract approach to examining ships. In their assessment of the Oseberg, Gokstad, and Tune finds, they not only give elaborate descriptions of their construction and definitions of shipbuilding jargon, but also a detailed inventory of their furnishings and burial material, acknowledging their context in burial more so than Sprague or Unger. While Sprague and Unger give a generalized canvass of Iron Age ships, Shetelig and Brogger acknowledge that the three specimens are drastically different—while all three serve are burial sites for distinguished chieftains and represent the pinnacle of Scandinavian ship craft, the Gokstad is powerful and seaworthy, while the Oseberg, though a work of art, is impractical for everyday usage (Haakon Shetelig, 150). He states "The ships in the grave-mounds were not built for warfare, nor for voyages in the high seas, they were intended for travel along the coast, where one could reach port every night," which seems to counter Unger’s suggestion that many Viking ships were limited in this same way (Brogger and Shetelig, 165). In spite of the emphasis on these archaeological specimens, Shetelig, like Sprague and Unger, acknowledge the utility of sagas and skaldic poetry in modern knowledge of ships, which are often impeccably described and praised—however, Shetelig and Brogger acknowledge, as well, the flaws of these texts. Shetelig asserts that "the literary source-material is truly large and comprehensive. But in the nature of the case, it gives a monstrously one-sided picture: “...It is longships we are told of...of all the...prosaic boats--merchant ships, freighters, ferry boats...we learn extremely little," which stands in almost direct contradiction to the detailed discussion of the engineering and design of commercial vessels that Unger provides, especially considering the scarcity of those physical specimens (Brogger and Shetelig, 166). Here lies a glaring limitation on the study of Viking ships—those preserved for modern examination and those glorified in sagas represent the slim few that manifest the idealized Norse image of war and glamour, and the humbler crafts more indicative of everyday life are unlikely to be discovered. Shetelig and Brogger’s The Viking Ships brings the discussion of the ship into specific examples, analyzing the physical specimens and also their context, providing both a concrete and abstract view of the Scandinavian ships history and lore have chosen to preserve.

The scope of the analysis of Viking ships narrows with closer analysis of a peculiarity of the Oseberg ship—the skeletons have been disturbed, but much of the treasures interred with them untouched (A. W. Brogger and Haakon Shetelig). Per Holck, in “The Oseberg Ship Burial, Norway: New Thoughts on the Skeletons from the Grave Mound,” asks how and why the grave robbers were so precise in their theft, and that the robbers “[dragged] the bodies through the gallery and …[removed] the items of greatest value” prompted scholarly debate about the status of the two buried in the Oseberg site, and subsequently, their identites (Per Holck, 190). Holck acknowledges several scholars’ hypotheses and debates on the identities of the bodies—two female skeletons were present, one older and one younger—while discussing the validity of these claims, focusing specifically on those of A.W. Brogger (Holck). Brogger claims that the younger woman was in fact Queen Asa, a figure of Norse sagas who may have lent her name to the Oseberg, and defends his opinion in The Viking Ships, stating that Queen Asa’s lifetime corresponds well with the site, affirming the similarity between the original forms of ‘Asa’ and ‘Oseberg,’ and lastly the conviction that “no lesser person than the mighty Queen Asa could have been buried in the [Oseberg] ship” (Brogger and Shetelig, 169). Holck is skeptical of both Brogger’s examinations, which took place shortly after World War II, and his decision to re-inter the bones shortly after his appraisal was made—Holck interprets this to be Brogger’s eagerness to bolster his own theory by freezing future research (Holck). Holck cites a modern Danish study by Dr. Tom Gilbert that utilizes modern scientific techniques and a quantitative approach to analyzing the bone fragments that were not reburied reveals data that contradicts the midcentury perceptions of the skeletons—the young woman is not young, and both exhibit a DNA profile that suggests an Iranian rather than Norse origin (Holck). In the midst of this new evidence, Holck says “…it is easy to understand how patriotic impulses during the post-war years in Norway could [prompt] re-burials…they…resulted from local historical enthusiasm based on insufficient knowledge,” declaring that “modern scientific methods could tell the story that history…has not, and…confirm [their identities]” (Holck, 207).

In contrast, the articles collected in The Ship as a Symbol in Prehistoric and Medieval Scandinavia examine ships as manifestations of abstract concepts in Viking Age society. In a general sense, the articles in this compilation explore the ship’s symbolic relevance in their society, primarily in the context of the same boat graves examined above. While Strague and Unger and Brogger use the mound ships as specimens of engineering and economic study, Zbigniew Kobylinkski in “Ships, Society, Symbols and Archaeologists,” and Jens Peter Schjodt’s “The Ship in Old Norse Mythology and Religion” interpret the burial context as evidence for symbolic meaning, and analyze the ships with a cultural and spiritual bias.

According to Kobylinski, it is important to define symbolism and how objects can become symbols before analysis of that object can begin (Zbigniew Kobylinski). Objects can become symbolic by two mechanisms: by being moved in time or space, or by being “pragmatically distorted” (Kobylinski, 11). Boat-graves, he states, exhibit both of these characteristics, as they are moved away from water, their functional habitat, to underground—“when we find evidence of behavior which is irrational from the point of view of our knowledge, we…look for an explanation…[that includes]…the humanistic factor…of this behavior” (Kobylinski, 11). He cites other potentially symbolic presences of ships in Viking culture—boat-graves, graves simulating boats, intentionally sunk boats, model boats, and boat iconography on coins and rune stones—and in cultures around the world to assert that “the diversity of rituals suggests a complexity of meaning…the wide geographical range and long duration of these phenomena suggest their importance and common acceptance in socio-cultural systems” (Kobylinski, 11). From these, he concludes the ship to be an “archetypal symbol,” and that connection of the ship symbol with water symbolism, and that “[funerary boats are symbols] connected with symbolism of water, and with the transport symbolism of a journey involved in every rite of passage” are valid, universal assertions, regardless of cultural context (Kobylinski, 13). Kobylinski notes that burials were done far from the home—the eagerness to create distance between home and the body, which was believed could rise from the dead, led the Scandinavians to bury beyond a body of water (Kobylinksi). Perhaps it is from this practice that the Norsemen believed “the world of the dead [to be] across a water barrier”—ships would then serve as appropriate transportation (Kobylinksi, 15). Brogger’s observations that the “[Oseberg, Tune, and Gokstad ships] lay with [their prows] pointing…towards the sea” support Kobylinski’s claim where Kobylinski himself does not (Brogger, 88). Indeed, this confirms the Norsemen’s symbolic regard of the ship, but without additional evidence of this nature from other cultures, Kobylinski’s ultimate conclusion that the ship is an archetypal symbol seems weak and overgeneralized.

Schjodt, too, opposes Kobylinski’s methods and conclusions; he believes that to “[investigate] the symbolism of ships in Scandinavia, we must look to the mythic framework” and that “archaeological artefacts [reveal nothing] about this relation” (Jens Peter Schjodt, 22). Contrary to Kobylinski’s assertion that the ship’s status as a universal, archetypal symbol does not rely on cultural context, Schjodt looks directly to the textual evidence, analyzing specific encounters with notable ships in Norse sagas and myth (Schjodt). In spite of Schjodt’s reliance on the text, his findings corroborate with those of Brogger and Shetelig, who state “the grave-mound became…a common property of folk though…the dead man lives in the mound…his home is…the mound, the grave…this belief was ineradicable” (Brogger and Shetelig, 101). Schjodt affirms this symbolic connection between ships, graves, and home—ships belong to the “fertility god, Freyr,” bearing the dead on to “Valhalla, the warrior’s paradise, or Hel,” the final abodes of the dead (Schjodt, 23). To further the connection, Kobylinski describes the prevalence of boat-shaped halls and homes in Scandinavia: grave mounds formed from upturned boats house the corpse, just as buildings for the living bear have arched ceilings resembling the hull of a ship (Kobylinski). This common depiction of the ship as a home represents a divestment from its function as a sea-going vessel—it is useless grounded, and yet, the ship manifests itself in these numerous aspects of Norse life. From here, it is apparent that the ship is a significant aspect of Scandinavian society, transcending its utility in commerce and war to take on a more mythological and symbolic role.

Synthesizing the conclusions of these pieces of secondary literature, which often contradict or disagree with one another, in order to reach a cohesive and adequate understanding of the significance of ships in Viking Age Scandinavia is a serious undertaking. In spite of the multitude of scholarly interpretations and conclusions, the aforementioned works delineate common sources of information, specimens of ships found in burial mounds and the saga text. Analysis of these sources can provide a tentative understanding of the concrete function of ships in their society, but also an abstract view of their roles. By any interpretation and by any method of coming to that interpretation, the ship was a hugely important fixture in Norse society—Dreyers Forlag, in the publisher’s note to Brogger and Shetelig’s The Viking Ships: their Ancestry and Evolution, eloquently states “ships were not only a means of transportation…home life, religion, warfare, arts and crafts—all are reflected in the Viking ships and their furnishings” (Brogger and Shetelig and Forlag, 5). While the scholars may disagree on how that importance can be quantified, or in what ways it can be quantified, they all seem to conclude that ships are a worthy avenue of study in regards to Scandinavian culture, and offer particular insight on their society as a whole.

Works Cited

Brogger, A. W., and Haakon Shetelig. The Viking Ships: their Ancestry and Evolution. Los Angeles: Knud K. Mogensen Publishing, 1953. Print

Holck, Per. “The Oseberg Ship Burial, Norway: New Thoughts on the Skeletons from the Grave Mound.” European Journal of Archaeology. Vol. 9, No. 2-3 (2006): 185-210. Web. 28 Jul. 2013.

Kobylinksi, Zbigniew. “Ships, Society, Symbols and Archaeologists.” The Ship as a Symbol in Prehistoric and Medieval Scandinavia. Ed. Ole Crumlin-Pedersen and Birgitte Munch Thye. Copenhagen: the Danish National Museum, 1995. 9-18. Print.

Schjodt, Jens Peter. “The Ship in Old Norse Mythology and Religion.” The Ship as a Symbol in Prehistoric and Medieval Scandinavia. Ed. Ole Crumlin-Pedersen and Birgitte Munch Thye. Copenhagen: the Danish National Museum, 1995. 20-24. Print.

Sprague, Martina. Norse Warfare: the Unconventional Battle Strategies of the Ancient Vikings. New York: Hippocrene Books, Inc, 2007. 165-138. Print.

Unger, Richard W. The Ship in the Medieval Economy 600-1600. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1980. 75-113. Print.

Melkorka's Gold Arm Ring, Response to Laxdaela Saga

“The Saga of the People of Laxardal” exemplifies the family sagas of medieval Iceland—it follows the marriages and suitors and descendants of Gudrun, one of which is Kjartan, who descends from Irish royalty. Kjartan’s father Olaf-Peacock reclaims his heritage as an heir to Ireland on his mother’s behest. Melkorka, slave concubine of Hoskuld, daughter of King Myrkjartan of Ireland, gives her son Olaf three tokens to prove his lineage: a knife and a belt will readily identify him to Melkorka’s nurse, but it is a “heavy gold arm ring” that will confirm him to the king (“The Saga of the People of Laxardal,” Page 304). The arm ring is a token from the king to his daughter, from princess to her son, a physical manifestation of their vertical, filial bond. However, it seems illogical that a trinket, which lords give to followers in other sagas, would so strongly represent the ties between parent and offspring. King Myrkjartan’s reaction to and treatment of Olaf’s display of the ring deepen the mystery, showing that the ring is more than a bit of proof of genealogy, or even purely representative of the strong ties between family members, but rather indicative of more complex social bonds between Myrkjartan and his descendants.



The gold arm ring immediately establishes and reinforces the vertical connection between Myrkjartan, Melkorka, and Olaf. When Melkorka introduces the ring into the plot, it lends credibility to her claim that she is the daughter of “Myrkjartan…a king in Ireland” from where she was “taken captive…at the age of fifteen” (290). Like Hoskuld and wife Jorunn, the reader is skeptical of Melkorka’s claims and still views her as a suspicious woman “of dubious origin” (290). Therefore, the gold arm ring is irrefutable evidence to Olaf, Hoskuld and Jorunn if he returns favorably from Ireland, and the reader of Melkorka’s lineage, and is the sole basis of her credibility up to that point. The other set of tokens, the knife and belt for the nurse, introduced concurrently, are a representation of a fictively vertical relationship between Melkorka and maternal figure. Compared to the “treasure” of a gold ring, these tokens are more humble, supplementing lack of grandeur with sentimental value (305). On the other hand, it seems strange that a father would give his daughter a heavy piece of jewelry when she “cut [her] first tooth” as an infant, especially if the ring is large enough for Olaf, a grown man, to wear on his arm when he arrives in Ireland (305). In other sagas, kings give gold rings to their followers, forging a horizontal link: his gift to his baby daughter appears insincere and unsentimental. While the arm ring is concrete evidence for Myrkjartan’s paternity, it destabilizes their vertical kinship, and gives it an inappropriately horizontal character that appears in Myrkjartan’s interaction with Olaf-Peacock.

The superficial assumption that the ring symbolizes a powerful vertical bond follows Olaf through his meeting with his grandfather, but is quickly dispelled with close analysis similar to that above comparing the ring with the other tokens. While the knife and belt elicit a strong emotional reaction from the nurse, the ring appears to mean less to the king. When the old nurse sees the tokens, “tears of joy [come] to her eyes” and she “[doubles her happiness] by seeing this outstanding young man” as Melkorka’s son—the tokens precede her recognition, and thus are a direct representation of this fictive, but strong, vertical bond (310). On the other hand, Olaf does not reveal his kinship with Myrkjartan until he establishes rapport. Though the king’s reception of Olaf is far from cold, he is initially uncertain about Olaf’s origins, but nonetheless gives him respect and hospitality on the basis of his courtesy and demeanor. This difference between Myrkjartan’s and the nurse’s reactions shows the divide between the love they bear for Melkorka’s son, and, by extension their vertical bonds: the nurse unconditionally loves and accepts Olaf by trust in the tokens, but Myrkjartan places more value in Olaf’s worth as a man, independent of his inheritance. King Myrkjartan’s reception of Olaf initiates a relationship that deviates from the default vertical that the arm ring establishes, taking on horizontal character. Olaf acquires Myrkjartan’s good opinion initially by his impressive bearing and manner, and secures it by proving his worth in battle. He accompanies the king in “warding off both Vikings and other raiders” and proves himself to be “a clever and daring commander” well worth respect and praise (310). While it is the arm ring that confirms his blood ties to Ireland and validates Myrkjartan’s decision to name Olaf his heir over his own sons, it is Olaf’s leadership and prowess in battle that prompt him to make that decision. When Olaf denies this opportunity for wanting to “enjoy a brief spell of honour than a long rule of shame,” he essentially rejects the vertical bond represented by the gold ring, and solidifies his horizontal relationship, a relationship of warrior peers.

King Myrkjartan’s relationship with Olaf moves away from grandfather-grandson to king-follower with this rejection, and they part “as great friends”—the king follows the precedent of other saga lords by bestowing costly gifts, “a spear with gold inlay, a decorated sword and much other wealth,” when Olaf leaves. These gifts are much more suited to a fighter like Olaf than Melkorka’s ring, and much more reminiscent of a horizontal transaction of a liege lord rewarding a follower with wealth. The arm ring that previously embodies the direct progression of generations from Myrkjartan to Melkorka to Olaf can no longer adequately summarize their relationship, as it has left the vertical and expanded its scope horizontally.

The conversion of Olaf’s relationship with the Irish king, hinted at from the initial introduction of the arm ring, developed in their first meeting, is fully realized and established in their parting. Through his time with King Myrkjartan, Olaf takes on an identity as a warrior in his own right, not to be defined as the son of a slave or even the son of a princess of Ireland—the transition of his relationship with the king transforms from purely vertical to almost purely horizontal, rendering the ring as a symbol irrelevant and obsolete. Olaf’s liberation from his identity as a lowborn child of a concubine casts a different light upon Melkorka’s gold arm ring: indeed it is evidence of her high birth and a symbol of her vertical relationship with her father, but is also a shackle of dubious birth and related stigma. Olaf’s adventures in Ireland shed him of this identity and give him the means to prove his worth to his grandfather outside the scope of unconditional filial love—by rejecting his offer to rule Ireland, Olaf breaks these figurative shackles of family obligation, and embarks on his journey to become a great man regardless of his birth.

Works Cited

“The Saga of the People of Laxardal.” The Sagas of Icelanders: a Selection. Pref. Jane Smiley. Trans. Katrina C. Attwood. New York: Viking, Penguin Group, 1997. Print.

Worms on a Ship, a close reading of Chaper 13 of Eirik the Red's Saga

Eirik the Red's Saga is the companion to the Saga of the Greenlanders. The two together make up the Vinland Sagas, which detail the Norseman 'discovery' of North America centuries before Christopher Columbus. I, as an undergraduate who is taking this class to kill off a Reading & Composition requirement, am in no position to say what exactly went down, but, like R+L=J in the A Song of Ice and Fire fandom, I find the evidence that Vikings visited North America convincing and exciting. Anyhow, this is my paper. I received a very unexpected piece of praise for this, so I hope I can keep it up through the end of the summer session.

“Eirik the Red’s Saga” follows the Icelandic colonization of Greenland, and subsequent exploration of North America led by Thorfinn Karlsefni and Bjarni Grimolfsson. The harrowing voyages of the Icelanders culminate in Chapter 13, wherein Bjarni’s group finds their ship infested with worms. They agree to divide in half, one portion to return to Greenland, and the other to die at sea. At first glance, the chapter is bizarre and illogical—while its placement could be chronologically appropriate, Chapter 13 directly follows and precedes chapters resolving the plot of Karlsefni and his lineage, disrupting the continuity of the saga. Its content, too, is strange: sagas infrequently dwell on one event for an entire chapter, and in such great detail. This collection of superficial observations marks Chapter 13 as an abnormality. However, closer analysis reveals Chapter 13 to be rich with symbolism and insight into the social dynamics of Bjarni’s ship and, by extension, the entirety of the Norseman explorations to the frontier, affirming the chapter’s significance in the saga.



Superficially, Chapter 13 appears to be yet another bizarre that impedes the progress and threatens the survival of the Greenlanders. Indeed, the worm incident follows the precedent of other strange, horrifying events that the Norsemen encounter in the west; among sightings of one-legged men and natives, the party’s encounter with the beached whale bears the strongest resemblance to the events of Chapter 13. When the Norsemen face starvation one winter, the unpleasant Thorhall prays for Odin’s help. Odin, presumably, sends forth a beached whale, whose meat causes sickness throughout the group, after which “…they cast it off a cliff and threw themselves on God’s mercy…” (“Eirik the Red’s Saga,” Page 668). Like the whale, the shipworms represent a threat to the survival of the Greenlanders, monsters belched forth by a savage and un-Christian ocean. Like the whale, they are manifestations of the fundamental fear of the unknown, and are reminiscent of iconic Biblical beasts: the serpent and the leviathan. This religious lens affects the interpretation of the deaths of Bjarni and the men on the ship: their deaths now mark them as martyrs. Bjarni, who takes initiative in dividing the group fairly, and later gives his spot on the boat to the Icelandic youth who “… [is]…upset about dying,” leads this martyrdom, suggesting an analogy to Jesus Christ (673). The religious theme surrounding this chapter breaks it from the initial, superficial assessment as a mere aberration in the continuity of the saga by imparting onto it heavy symbolism suggesting deeper meaning. Furthermore, this strong bias is consistent with the role of medieval monks transcribing the sagas—with that assumption, the reader can then interpret Chapter 13 to be a sermon, communicating both the dangers of the godless new world, and the piety of sacrifice.

Even so, further analysis is necessary to understand the gravity of the chapter, the scale of the danger and thus the scale of Bjarni’s sacrifice, and its symbolic relevance relative to the rest of the saga. Initially, the chapter reveals little peril in the infestation: aside from the speculation of the survival group, there is little to convince the reader of the certainty of Bjarni and his men’s death. Closer examination reveals indisputably mortal danger: the worms tunnel into the wooden ship, water would fill the tunnels, and the ship would inevitably capsize. “Bjarni Grimolfsson and his group [are] borne into the Greenland Straits and [enter] Madkasjo (Sea of Worms)...”—only after their ship passes these through these waters do they realize their infestation (673). Naming two bodies of water suggests that the party has gone far enough offshore that they cannot make landfall before the worms significantly compromise the ship, thus dispelling any ambiguity about Bjarni’s fate. With this assumption the reader can trust the survivors’ conviction that “…Bjarni died there…along with the others on board his ship…,” and that their decision to split the group, and Bjarni’s to stay, is literally a matter of life and death (673).

If the reader can understand the mortal peril in which Bjarni Grimolfsson and his crew find themselves in, then the ship’s collective movement to solve this problem becomes more momentous. Chapter 13 places emphasizes collectivity where elsewhere the sagas do not: Eirik as head of household make the decision to relocate to Greenland, and across the sagas, the godar and thingmen, men of status, make the laws at the Althing. Chapter 13 challenges this executive power: every decision is made by vote, each man with equal share. They decide by majority to split the group, and draw lots to determine who lives and dies, demonstrating that none is fundamentally more deserving of life than another. That the men decide to vote on their collective survival demonstrates their collective trust. When the dissenting youth says, "‘That's not what you promised me when I left my father's house in Iceland to follow you…’" he indicates that he trusted Bjarni, and trusts him now to acknowledge his request (673). Bjarni indeed switches places, showing that he is willing to sacrifice himself to maintain that trust. This chapter’s exploration of cooperation and trust is one compelling facet of the saga. While Chapter 13 represents one of many hardships the Greenlanders face in the new world, it uniquely examines the complex social and moral implications behind a dire, mortal decision.

In spite of this passage’s emphasis on collectivity, it portrays Bjarni as the epitome of generosity and honor for his men. Such a keen investment in describing and praising Bjarni suggests that the events truly were retold by the survivors on the boat as a testament to his bravery and leadership in adversity. That the incident occupies an entire chapter, and is thick with description and dialogue uncharacteristic of sagas, implies Chapter 13 to be the author’s commemoration Bjarni’s sacrifice, and a remnant of survivors’ guilt from the returning party. Therefore, it is reasonable to conclude that the author adequately communicates the returning party’s wishes to pay respects to and give due credit their lost companions’ sacrifices and express guilt at their own survival. The abnormality of this chapter in narration style and placement is superficial. Close reading reveals Chapter 13 to be rife with deeper meaning, expanding the scope of the saga to include explorations of complex social and moral dilemmas, religious ideology, and trust formed and kept through suffering and adversity.

Works Cited 

“Eirik the Red’s Saga.” The Sagas of Icelanders: a Selection. Pref. Jane Smiley. Trans. Katrina C. Attwood. New York: Viking, Penguin Group, 1997. Print.