The Snow on the Cross by Brian Fitts Page A

I found out soon enough, for it was to be my home for
the next two years.
    Eirik and Bjarni’s conversation died
abruptly as they noticed my approach.  I saw Eirik smirk as Bjarni stepped
towards me.
    “Bishop, welcome,” Bjarni’s voice
held a trace of laughter.  “Welcome to Brattahild.”
    I could tell Eirik held little
interest in me.  I was a body, nothing more.  What was worse, I could not speak
their language.  It was as if Eirik could see the weakness in me, and it made
me feel even smaller.   Eirik touched Bjarni on the shoulder and pointed to the
church behind the house then, curtly, turned and walked into the shadows of his
house, closing the door behind him.
    “Bishop, Eirik tells me you are to
lodge in the church.  He thinks it is the best place for you.”
    I looked at the little stone church. 
It didn’t look constructed very well, and I kept thinking about how well it
would hold heat in the wintertime.  It perhaps measured ten feet by six feet,
not much bigger than my cell would be upon my return to France .  I left Bjarni standing there
beside Eirik’s door and walked slowly over to the church.
    I thought about my cathedral in Le Mans with its high spires and golden
archways, the gardens out in the back courtyard, and the abundance of heat from
the fireplaces placed at strategic spots around the building.  This was a stone
hut that threatened to topple over in a strong wind.  I pushed on the wooden
door and listened to the wind whistle through the cracks in the walls.  There
was a single bench that stretched the width of the church in front of what
looked like a ragged wooden cross, slightly tilted, hanging by a thin rope from
a rafter that spanned across the ceiling.  This was the church Eirik had built
for his wife.  A single bench on which to pray perhaps and the only image of my
faith Eirik could muster hanging in front of it.
    I kicked at some rocks that had
collected near the door.  What had I done to deserve this ending?  I was so
preoccupied that I did not hear Bjarni come up behind me and place his hand on
my shoulder.
    “This is where your faith has brought
you,” he said coldly.  “It’s not real.  It’s a heathen story.”
    His words echoed my own while on his
ship, and they stabbed at me.  “Come back to Eirik’s house tonight,” Bjarni
continued.  “He has planned a feast to welcome you.  Tonight, you may speak
with Eirik the Red.”
    It was a small comfort to be welcomed
by pagans, but I needed food, and my appetite was beginning to return.  I
nodded and sat on the bench, staring blankly ahead at the cross that swayed
gently from its rope.  I stretched out my legs, hoping to relieve the burning
that was shooting up and down them.  Bjarni watched me for a moment, and then
turned to leave.  Where he went, I do not know.  I assumed he returned to
Eirik’s house to help prepare for the feast, but I would have been mistaken. 
He had, in fact, left with Eirik and Broin on a hunt to the north to seek wild
deer that roamed there.  I would not see them again until nightfall.
    The church I was lying in was a bit
larger than I had guessed upon first sight.  There was a small, although crude,
fireplace in an alcove on the left side.  Small clouds of ash were there, but
they were very cold, as if no one had used it for a long time.  I wondered if
Thordhild had been here recently.
    I would need fire.  Fire would help
my frame of mind, I decided, and I stepped outside to chop down some of the
scrub bushes that sprouted nearby.  I say “chop,” but I had no knife or axe to
cut with, so I attempted to pull one out of the ground with my hands.  The
roots were stuck deep in the frozen ground, and I could not move it.  I pulled,
yanked, tore, screamed, and kicked at the bush, but it still would not move.
    Perhaps I could have asked Eirik for
his axe, but I did not know if he had taken it with him.  Instead, I looked
down at my hands.  They were scratched