Gerald tasted the brew and made a face. I felt somewhat offended, for my beer is reckoned good, and asked him if there was aught wrong. He laughed with a harsh note and said no, but he was used to beer that foamed and was not sour.

“And where might they make such?” I wondered testily.

“Everywhere. Iceland, too—no…” He stared emptily before him. “Let’s say…in Vinland.”

“Where is Vinland?” I asked.

“The country to the west whence I came. I thought you knew…wait a bit.” He shook his head. “Maybe I can find out—have you heard of a man named Leif Eiriksson?”

“No,” I said. Since then it has struck me that this was one proof of his tale, for Leif Eiriksson is now a well-known chief; and I also take more seriously those tales of land seen by Bjarni Herjulfsson.

“His father, maybe—Eirik the Red?” asked Gerald.

“Oh yes,” I said. “If you mean the Norseman who came hither because of a manslaughter, and left Iceland in turn for the same reason, and has now settled with other folk in Greenland.”

“Then this is…a little before Leif’s voyage,” he muttered. “The late tenth century.”

“See here,” demanded Helgi, “we’ve been patient with you, but this is no time for riddles. We save those for feasts and drinking bouts. Can you not say plainly whence you come and how you got here?”

Gerald covered his face, shaking.

“Let the man alone, Helgi,” said Thorgunna. “Can you not see he’s troubled?”

He raised his head and gave her the look of a hurt dog that someone has patted. It was dim in the hall, enough light coming in by the loft windows so no candles were lit, but not enough to see well by. Nevertheless, I marked a reddening in both their faces.

Gerald drew a long breath and fumbled about; his clothes were made with pockets. He brought out a small parchment box and from it took a little white stick that he put in his mouth. Then he took out another box, and a wooden stick from it which burst into flame when scratched. With the fire he kindled the stick in his mouth, and sucked in the smoke.

We all stared. “Is that a Christian rite?” asked Helgi.

“No…not just so.” A wry, disappointed smile twisted his lips. “I’d have thought you’d be more surprised, even terrified.”

“It’s something new,” I admitted, “but we’re a sober folk on Iceland. Those fire sticks could be useful. Did you come to trade in them?”

“Hardly.” He sighed. The smoke he breathed in seemed to steady him, which was odd, because the smoke in the hall had made him cough and water at the eyes. “The truth is…something you will not believe. I can scarce believe it myself.”

We waited. Thorgunna stood leaning forward, her lips parted.

“That lightning bolt—” Gerald nodded wearily. “I was out in the storm, and somehow the lightning must have struck me in just the right way, a way that happens only once in many thousands of times. It threw me back into the past.”