The town of Nordlaff clung to the edge of the fjord, wedged between the unfathomable depths and the unclimbable heights. The late summer sun struggled to penetrate the low cloud that obscured the mountains, rendering an appropriately sombre atmosphere at the start of what would inevitably be a sombre day. A miasma of foreboding clung to the town just as the town clung to its precarious location. As the townsfolk went about their early morning routines, their hopes for an auspicious day were being washed away with their night slops into the depths. For, of course, this should be an auspicious day; a day of rejoicing and celebration for one of their own.
This was the day that the great warrior and explorer, Eric the Red, would join his forefathers and the heroes in Asgaard; when he would sit with the ancient gods and retell the timeless sagas and drink from the bottomless horns and bed a thousand virgins.
This was Eric the Red who sailed far across the wild western ocean to the land of fire and ice, where burning rock issued from beneath land and sea; where boiling water sprayed ten leagues into the air; where fierce dragons dwelt and where enormous devils broke wind both night and day, leaving the air sulfurous and yellow. And yet he lived and returned to tell the tale.
Eric the Red, who sailed beyond the Land of Ice and Fire to the land of forests and vines; of elks, wolves and great bears; to the land where painted warriors would creep the forests unseen, and fight with stone tipped weapons. They were brave and noble and fought with honour. Like the Norsefolk, they planted their seeds in spring and honoured their young and women and their gods. Strangely, however, buried their dead in the sky. And yet he lived and returned to tell the tale.
Eric the Red who, while barely raising his great sword, White Bear Slayer, or even breaking into a sweat, bested the wild, blue skinned Pictish folk who dwell in the cruel and mountainous land across the west sea and who cooked every type of food in seal fat.
His great longship lay at rest at the jetty, awaiting its final, fiery journey. Already, his weapons and most precious treasures were arranged on board according to custom and tradition. The great warrior’s mortal remains were prepared and lying in peace on a bier in the great hall where oft times he had enthralled the townsfolk with his adventures and victories.
His fellow warriors were to bear their leader through the streets on broad shoulders and place him before the mast. His womenfolk would drench the ship and the departed with the sacred oils and unguents before the head of his clan cut the mooring rope and hurled the first of many flaming torches onto the vessel as it drifted towards the west, towards paradise.
And herein lay the reason for the air of trepidation that had infected the town since the great man’s passing: his only surviving son, Red Buttons, a trader of cloth and associated haberdashery, was away in the conquered land once known as Britannia, in the city of Jorvik. He was attending an annual cloth and clothing traders fair. Urgent messages had been sent with the news of his father’s demise and that his attendance at the ceremony was required as custom and tradition demanded. His curt reply stated that he was far too busy and that his only surviving son should stand in for him. It is true to say that there was little love or respect between the warrior and the cloth trader. It would also be true to say that nobody could be further from his sire in battle strength, in seafaring prowess and in sheer bravery; further, in fact, from everything that made a man a warrior, than Red Buttons.
Nobody, that is, except his only son, Red Herring, a trader in salted and pickled herrings. True, his products were sought after up and down the land of a thousand fjords and across the east sea to Danemark and the coasts of Germania. He had great plans to expand his business to the Land of the Russ and, in his wildest dreams, south to the fabled city of Byzantium. He was a man of ambition but only insofar as it concerned the salted and pickled herring trade. He had no time at all for the sagas, and the daring-do and conquests of warriors. He shunned the wenching and the quaffing of mead and ale in the great hall. His only connection to his grand-sire was his imposing stature and red hair but, whereas the warrior sported a great mane and beard of wild and shaggy red locks, his fishy grandson kept his dressed and neatly plaited. Most shockingly, and unknown among the Norse, he was clean shaven. This he achieved with an Arab-wrought blade that had cost him three barrels of his finest fish.
Custom, tradition and ancient law dictated that the solemn duty of the clan chief, along with settling marital disputes, leading the warriors in battle and much more besides, was to carry out the funeral rites in the time honoured manner.
Finbar, his Irish slave, returned with the empty slop bucket, tutting and shaking his head in disbelief. He’d already woken his master once, laid out the traditional funeral clothes, including the great bear-skin cloak worn by clan chiefs on such occasions for at least six generations, and prepared a bowl of oatmeal with honey and blueberries, to his master’s liking. The ancient battle-axe, for cutting the mooring rope, lay sharpened and polished on the table. Nothing stirred beneath the pile of woollen blankets and sheepskins.
“Master! You must rouse yourself; you have duties to perform for your clan. You must be shaved and dressed correctly. You must eat as it will be a long day and many hours will pass before the night’s feasting begins.”
A bleary face appeared and looked about the room. He focused on the bearskin. “Well, it’s not my clan and I’m not its chief and they can’t make me be its chief. And I’m certainly not wearing that stinky, moth-eaten old thing for a start! You can bring me the oatmeal; I’ll eat it here.”
“Master, we’ve been over this many times. Your father is the chief; he’s not here; you’re the next in line. You have to do it. If you don’t your grandfather will not be received into heaven or Asgaard or whatever paradise is called in these parts. You must. It’s the law!”
“Watch your tongue, Finbar. Must is not a word for slaves.”
There was a commotion at the door and in burst his grandmother. As fierce and as fiery as her late husband, she swung her long walking stick down upon the hapless fish merchant. But for the blankets and sheepskins, bones would have shattered. Oatmeal went everywhere.
“Get your fish-stinking carcase out of that fleapit and get my husband into Asgaard, you pathetic excuse for a man!”
And with that she stood back, stick raised, ready to strike again. Red Herring needed no second bidding. His back turned, he struggled into the ceremonial clothes, including the heavy bearskin cloak (stinky though it was). Heading for the door, he received a painful jab in the kidneys from the walking stick.
“The battle-axe, imbecile! Take the battle-axe!”
The little group threaded their way towards the great hall. Red Herring was itching and scratching in the unfamiliar clothes that were slightly too small. Although not a warrior, he was a large man and, because of the lifting and stacking of barrels of fish, he was very strong. Another poke with the stick.
“Stop that fidgeting; it’s undignified for a clan chief!”
“I’m not a ….” Another sharp poke.
At length, the procession got under way: the warriors carrying their late leader; the clan chief’s reluctant stand-in; the wailing women, and finally the townsfolk; all making their way to the small harbour and jetty to bid farewell to the great man. As the harbour hove into view, Red Herring realised to his horror that, in the panic not to be beaten to a pulp by his grandmother, he’d neither shaved nor brushed and plaited his hair. Feeling his chin, he could picture the shadow of a beard already appearing. Further to his horror, he was aware that his face was liberally besmirched with oatmeal, honey and blueberries. Little wonder, then, that people were staring. He could only imagine what his hair looked like!
“Leave your hair alone!” hissed the old woman, giving another sharp poke.
His jaw clenched, his left eye twitched and his grip on the battle-axe tightened. If she were a man, stick or none, she’d feel the edge of this axe! She was one of many who had teased and taunted and goaded him throughout his life. It was fine to have a trade and a skill but it was expected that every man, especially a large, strong man such as Red Herring, should also be a warrior and earn the honour of his clan and the respect of his peers in battle. He had adamantly refused to become one, hence the lifetime of torment. Chief among his tormentors was Cnut Thornogson, an immense bear of a man and woodsman who felled trees in the forests at the far end of the fjord. He was the fiercest and most feared warrior among the Norsefolk; a berserker in the heat of battle.
As the ceremony drew to a close and the last flaming brand landed on the burning longship, Thornogson bawled out, intending that all should hear, “You just about managed that, fish man, despite missing with the first torch; now you can go back to your stinking barrels and your smooth, girl’s face. We’ll choose a new chief! A true warrior!” And he turned to the crowd and roared with laughter. Some began to join in.
Red Herring had a red mist. Clutching the battle-axe in one huge fist, he swung it just above his grandmother’s sparse, grey hair, taking the top off her long walking stick and the head clean off Cnut Thornogson’s shoulders, the laughter still on its lips. After spitting on it, he kicked the head into the sea. The stunned silence that followed was only broken moments later when the old woman called out, “Hail, Red Bloodaxe, clan chief!”
The crowd joined in the chant as they carried the new chief aloft to the great hall to begin the festivities.
This was the day that the great warrior and explorer, Eric the Red, would join his forefathers and the heroes in Asgaard; when he would sit with the ancient gods and retell the timeless sagas and drink from the bottomless horns and bed a thousand virgins.
This was Eric the Red who sailed far across the wild western ocean to the land of fire and ice, where burning rock issued from beneath land and sea; where boiling water sprayed ten leagues into the air; where fierce dragons dwelt and where enormous devils broke wind both night and day, leaving the air sulfurous and yellow. And yet he lived and returned to tell the tale.
Eric the Red, who sailed beyond the Land of Ice and Fire to the land of forests and vines; of elks, wolves and great bears; to the land where painted warriors would creep the forests unseen, and fight with stone tipped weapons. They were brave and noble and fought with honour. Like the Norsefolk, they planted their seeds in spring and honoured their young and women and their gods. Strangely, however, buried their dead in the sky. And yet he lived and returned to tell the tale.
Eric the Red who, while barely raising his great sword, White Bear Slayer, or even breaking into a sweat, bested the wild, blue skinned Pictish folk who dwell in the cruel and mountainous land across the west sea and who cooked every type of food in seal fat.
His great longship lay at rest at the jetty, awaiting its final, fiery journey. Already, his weapons and most precious treasures were arranged on board according to custom and tradition. The great warrior’s mortal remains were prepared and lying in peace on a bier in the great hall where oft times he had enthralled the townsfolk with his adventures and victories.
His fellow warriors were to bear their leader through the streets on broad shoulders and place him before the mast. His womenfolk would drench the ship and the departed with the sacred oils and unguents before the head of his clan cut the mooring rope and hurled the first of many flaming torches onto the vessel as it drifted towards the west, towards paradise.
And herein lay the reason for the air of trepidation that had infected the town since the great man’s passing: his only surviving son, Red Buttons, a trader of cloth and associated haberdashery, was away in the conquered land once known as Britannia, in the city of Jorvik. He was attending an annual cloth and clothing traders fair. Urgent messages had been sent with the news of his father’s demise and that his attendance at the ceremony was required as custom and tradition demanded. His curt reply stated that he was far too busy and that his only surviving son should stand in for him. It is true to say that there was little love or respect between the warrior and the cloth trader. It would also be true to say that nobody could be further from his sire in battle strength, in seafaring prowess and in sheer bravery; further, in fact, from everything that made a man a warrior, than Red Buttons.
Nobody, that is, except his only son, Red Herring, a trader in salted and pickled herrings. True, his products were sought after up and down the land of a thousand fjords and across the east sea to Danemark and the coasts of Germania. He had great plans to expand his business to the Land of the Russ and, in his wildest dreams, south to the fabled city of Byzantium. He was a man of ambition but only insofar as it concerned the salted and pickled herring trade. He had no time at all for the sagas, and the daring-do and conquests of warriors. He shunned the wenching and the quaffing of mead and ale in the great hall. His only connection to his grand-sire was his imposing stature and red hair but, whereas the warrior sported a great mane and beard of wild and shaggy red locks, his fishy grandson kept his dressed and neatly plaited. Most shockingly, and unknown among the Norse, he was clean shaven. This he achieved with an Arab-wrought blade that had cost him three barrels of his finest fish.
Custom, tradition and ancient law dictated that the solemn duty of the clan chief, along with settling marital disputes, leading the warriors in battle and much more besides, was to carry out the funeral rites in the time honoured manner.
Finbar, his Irish slave, returned with the empty slop bucket, tutting and shaking his head in disbelief. He’d already woken his master once, laid out the traditional funeral clothes, including the great bear-skin cloak worn by clan chiefs on such occasions for at least six generations, and prepared a bowl of oatmeal with honey and blueberries, to his master’s liking. The ancient battle-axe, for cutting the mooring rope, lay sharpened and polished on the table. Nothing stirred beneath the pile of woollen blankets and sheepskins.
“Master! You must rouse yourself; you have duties to perform for your clan. You must be shaved and dressed correctly. You must eat as it will be a long day and many hours will pass before the night’s feasting begins.”
A bleary face appeared and looked about the room. He focused on the bearskin. “Well, it’s not my clan and I’m not its chief and they can’t make me be its chief. And I’m certainly not wearing that stinky, moth-eaten old thing for a start! You can bring me the oatmeal; I’ll eat it here.”
“Master, we’ve been over this many times. Your father is the chief; he’s not here; you’re the next in line. You have to do it. If you don’t your grandfather will not be received into heaven or Asgaard or whatever paradise is called in these parts. You must. It’s the law!”
“Watch your tongue, Finbar. Must is not a word for slaves.”
There was a commotion at the door and in burst his grandmother. As fierce and as fiery as her late husband, she swung her long walking stick down upon the hapless fish merchant. But for the blankets and sheepskins, bones would have shattered. Oatmeal went everywhere.
“Get your fish-stinking carcase out of that fleapit and get my husband into Asgaard, you pathetic excuse for a man!”
And with that she stood back, stick raised, ready to strike again. Red Herring needed no second bidding. His back turned, he struggled into the ceremonial clothes, including the heavy bearskin cloak (stinky though it was). Heading for the door, he received a painful jab in the kidneys from the walking stick.
“The battle-axe, imbecile! Take the battle-axe!”
The little group threaded their way towards the great hall. Red Herring was itching and scratching in the unfamiliar clothes that were slightly too small. Although not a warrior, he was a large man and, because of the lifting and stacking of barrels of fish, he was very strong. Another poke with the stick.
“Stop that fidgeting; it’s undignified for a clan chief!”
“I’m not a ….” Another sharp poke.
At length, the procession got under way: the warriors carrying their late leader; the clan chief’s reluctant stand-in; the wailing women, and finally the townsfolk; all making their way to the small harbour and jetty to bid farewell to the great man. As the harbour hove into view, Red Herring realised to his horror that, in the panic not to be beaten to a pulp by his grandmother, he’d neither shaved nor brushed and plaited his hair. Feeling his chin, he could picture the shadow of a beard already appearing. Further to his horror, he was aware that his face was liberally besmirched with oatmeal, honey and blueberries. Little wonder, then, that people were staring. He could only imagine what his hair looked like!
“Leave your hair alone!” hissed the old woman, giving another sharp poke.
His jaw clenched, his left eye twitched and his grip on the battle-axe tightened. If she were a man, stick or none, she’d feel the edge of this axe! She was one of many who had teased and taunted and goaded him throughout his life. It was fine to have a trade and a skill but it was expected that every man, especially a large, strong man such as Red Herring, should also be a warrior and earn the honour of his clan and the respect of his peers in battle. He had adamantly refused to become one, hence the lifetime of torment. Chief among his tormentors was Cnut Thornogson, an immense bear of a man and woodsman who felled trees in the forests at the far end of the fjord. He was the fiercest and most feared warrior among the Norsefolk; a berserker in the heat of battle.
As the ceremony drew to a close and the last flaming brand landed on the burning longship, Thornogson bawled out, intending that all should hear, “You just about managed that, fish man, despite missing with the first torch; now you can go back to your stinking barrels and your smooth, girl’s face. We’ll choose a new chief! A true warrior!” And he turned to the crowd and roared with laughter. Some began to join in.
Red Herring had a red mist. Clutching the battle-axe in one huge fist, he swung it just above his grandmother’s sparse, grey hair, taking the top off her long walking stick and the head clean off Cnut Thornogson’s shoulders, the laughter still on its lips. After spitting on it, he kicked the head into the sea. The stunned silence that followed was only broken moments later when the old woman called out, “Hail, Red Bloodaxe, clan chief!”
The crowd joined in the chant as they carried the new chief aloft to the great hall to begin the festivities.