Watching a sea, an old man sits. How long has he sit here on this weathered bench, he has lost count. When he was young, when the world was young, he would ride here, barely looking at the dancing waves. Rather, he would close the eyes rather be wounded by the maddening lapping, this tempting call from the sea, he would close the eyes until the sound would cut it too raw to bear it longer. Later, he would walk there followed by the merry shouts of his children. The little inlanders were excited by the waves, safe in the knowledge that their nights were spent on un-rocking ground. The flight soaring through the clouds of the seagulls was a delight for them to enjoy just as must as the tales of yore when the world was so young they were not yet born.
- Is it true, Father?
- Did you witness it, this feat?
Yet, when it has happened it was the only place where he could survive this gaping wound. The Sea he could not see had been the only healing he had found to distract him for this un-ending bleed. The dance of the seagulls, the waves licking the beach, the tall cliffs had risen to help him survive. Survived he had; as for Life, he was not interested into it. But for his children, for his family. For his cubs, he had stormed and roared. And fought. Fought his own kinsmen angry at his betrayal covertly jealous at his success. While he defeated the Franks who tried to renegade on the treaty along settling old scores. He has fought and survived. The bear was ruling, was still ruling. Ruling on a bench watching the waves, eternal prisoner of a land which could not be called home.
His land is up North. Far from the sunny beach tickled by the joyous waves, there is a realm made of snow and ice. A kingdom devoured by fjords where the sea bites deeply into the land like a great wolf tears apart the tender flesh of its prey. This is his home, where men board long ships to cut deep inroads into the realms of in-landers. This is his home where like packs of feral animals, his people come back with the booty made from raids.
He will never raid again. If only because he is too old; because he cannot but see a blur despite his squinting at the seascape. At first he had avoided looking at it, and then he had been too busy to do so. Now that he can, he cannot. He is still a giant and he has still – contrary to many elders – a thick mane to protect his scalp from the Sun. But snowy hair does not replace poorly eyes. All he sees now are shadows, shiny vague shapes made worse when the Sun is bright. Lately, his son has given him minders! As if he needs minders. The servants have been terrified at first albeit they start talking to him like one talks to an unruly child.
- Please, Your Grace, do not walk here. There is a hole in the ground
- Be careful, My Lord, the steps are unsteady.
Hold my hand. Hold this stick. What will come next? Be fed like young chicks are fed in their nests? He would send his nurses to Hel but for the fact he knows the servants sincerely wish him well. He cannot wish for a better son. The young duke cares for his sire; with his sister, they compete at what they can find to make the life of the semi-blind giant as easy, as pleasurable as can be. But for one thing. He will never see again; he will see less and less.
Thus he sits in front of this steely blue expanse of sea listening at its waves and the cry of the birds. Until Night comes. Until his own Night comes and frees the bear from these invisible shackles. Until then, he is obliged to tolerate these men who wish him well but who he feels are just as bad as a bear-minder.
Until…
Shadows. Shadows behind him. And known footsteps.
- I brought you company, Your Grace.
The servants are obedient. He speaks and is obeyed. This young son of his does not tolerate insubordination. Which cannot but be expected when in one's veins flows the blood of the Great Emperor.
- I shall be King, Father.
- And I shall be a Duchess!
- No, you can't!
- Yes, I will!
Th e cub is still a duke who looks at the large neighbour called Frankia with thunder but his daughter is now a duchess. A duchess in lands further south. If Paris still debates whether technically his children are legitimate or not, the court of the Duke of Aquitaine has not wasted time at making up its mind.
One day, a grand lady which Frank accent was singing has stepped out of a carriage bringing with her a youth. Boys had been boys; once the first moment of surprise at discovering they shared the same name, the children had run and played. The woman had kept his daughter a moment under scrutiny; a wistful smile had danced on her lips before she had given consent to the child to go outside with the boys.
- My son needs a wife.
- He needs to grow a beard along more than a few inches.
It was too early; it was too soon. He had hoped for a reprieve when he had always known that one day, his little shield maid would ride away from him. Smiling gaily at a dazzled betrothed just as old as her. Men can keep their sons but never their daughters. Gydda died and his lovely daughter who was taking so much after her mother has left. Worse, unlike his niece, again and again he was reminded of his loss, of his inability to see how grown she was now as letters regularly reach his duchy sent with the absent one.
That his sister can rule over a clearly besotted brother-in-law never ceases to astonish her brother. All he can remember is a stubborn sibling; the old man remembers the smile of her mother. The smiles of a time when the world was young. Deadly maybe yet vibrant.
Ah, children. Little worries when they walk little steps; much bigger worries they give their parent when they walk a man step.
- Hear me, Father. I will be king. I was born to be king. The Franks may have denied my claim; who cares? I shall be king. I owe it to my blood line.
- Your sister has great plans. She intends to become the grandmother of one.
This time, the brother has nodded in approval. Both children still compete at being equals, for the same goal. Whoever is the first one will gladly cheer for the runner-up. The late emperor' grandchildren will make him proud. It may take a long winded road but one day, their bloodline will sit again on a throne. The crown will be theirs. Be it Frank or else.
The servants are used to these moments where the old man gets lost in the sea of the terrible thoughts which must dwell in the mind of a man known to be the most dangerous warrior of all. He has done this and that, killed without as much as the wink of an eye acknowledging the heap of dead bodies piling up at his side. He betrayed his own kin! His soul must be darker than the darkest night. Yet when faced to the old giant, people know better than mock the humbled beast.
First his children would not tolerate it. The vivacious beauty who rules over Aquitaine loves her sire to bits. If he had erred in the past when the world was young, she is making sure that his soul does not linger in purgatory. The great lady is forever building churches, bequeathing riches to monasteries as long as the monks pray, pray again and more for her beloved father. And her brother is not the last in this race against time to save his father soul. Chronicles are being written in poetic language exalting his genitor. His father was faithful to his grandfather; was ever so loyal to his wife. As for being a traitor, he was a young exile, betrayed by his own people!
They are not alone, the young duke and his sister. The duchy is populated by children desirous to ensure Paradise to their fathers. With their mothers, their siblings, they rewrite facts, they edit events. Reality becomes misty and a world which was young gets brand new colours along very slanted angles. Normandy is full of children who deny truth; who destroy a Pagan past along startling proofs of a misbegotten history. They approve of a fairy tale where bad boys become dashing heroes. If their cousins in the North shrug their shoulders at the unbelievable fraud, the Normans of today pay no heed. Good fathers cannot lie; caring fathers are blameless.
The old man knows about his children' devotion. They are good kids who make him proud but frankly, they should not worry. He will get to Heaven; he is not afraid. He has a plan.
- Erm, Your Grace, your visitor is als… is an old man. The climb to your seat has made him out of breath.
Not bothering to answer, he moves his still large frame and signals the black shape to sit by him. An old timer like him does not fear one who is panting like he is hearing.
- Now, you, old man; if you make His Grace unhappy, if you unsettle him I shall blood eagle you myself… whatever it may mean. I shall be hovering nearby, My Lord. The sky is cloudless but Rain can come all of a sudden and we do not want you to catch Death, do we? No, we don't.
The old man sighs.
- Whoever you are, I warn you. If you are another monk sent by my tiresome daughter to save my soul, I will show you what a blood eagle means.
The voice coming from the hooded figure cannot hide a chuckle.
- I have been called many things, but a monk, never. One should never complain at having loving children. For fear of burying them before their time.
The duke does not like to be rebuffed; the old man does not like the new ways of this young world he does not belong. In his days, warriors did not need to cut their hair so short. In his days, one kept a thick plait covering pat of one's shaved scalp. His son along the other young bucks of the court in Rouen shows a partially shaved skull along a short Frankish haircut. And would rather been seen naked than wear facial hair. As for tattoos, this beehive of Christian warriors tut-tuts at the ways of their elders as if they were the knowing ones. The old man knows the world is young; like them a long time ago, he has done things which have got the tongues of his own elders wagging.
As if he could read his mind, the guest speaks in cue.
- Your son would cut an impressive figure in Kattegat. You are tall; he is taller. Like my eldest. This next generation seems to be made of giants. Giant fools, that is.
There is no answer to the assertion. No need to bother to approve facts standing in front of one's nose. Children playing at pretending to be men.
- I have heard Torstein sons are living here. Under your care.
- They are good kids. Sharp eyes, like their old man… I miss him.
The silence is companionable. Nowadays, there are not many left who remember Kattegat. Most are dead who fought him; who later fought at his side. His duchy has been at the beginning more of a ramshackle band of outcasts exiled from the North of crimes unsaid. If the Thing had ever entertained the hope they would come back, they would accept their punishment for having been disloyal to their king… well, the council must be covered by moss and grass. They have never returned; they: the forsaken outlaws. Rather the traitors to their clans, to their kind, they have settled here like a pack of wolves makes his a new forest found in a new valley. A pack he leads; he has led. A new leader has risen from his blood line. A young leader probably as tall as his ancestor the Great Emperor and just as shrewd. The old duke has saved, has preserved his inheritance; but his son… his son has plans.
Never will I make inroads into Grandfather's realm. Besides, it's mine. I will not raid my own land. But… there are other lands which wait for me. And there is a land which owes my blood line big time!
The shy smile which accompanied the artless claim has wounded him deeply; more than he admits. Aching still at the memory, he blesses this semi-dark world which is nowadays his gaol. Memories can wound, years and years later, the past does not want to be buried.
- When was it the last time, you walked in Kattegat?
- A long time ago, I am rather a wanderer.
- My brother would like you. Did you know him… I mean King Ragnar?
The Bear warrior, the hero who has led the Franks to resist Ragnar cannot; will not acknowledge his brother. After the last siege of Paris, a siege which showed the gates obstinately closed to the Wrath of the Norse Men, he has been called a traitor, forbidden to ever show his face in Kattegat. Should he return he would be hanged! No noble death for him, no eagle soaring through the skies to deliver his soul to Valhalla. No humble death by decapitation. Only the noose of the coward would do for him. Not that he cared; not that he has ever wanted to return to the North, to a land where there was no sun outside his brother' shadow. Home was his duchy. The man who was born to raid was eager to settle, to experiment with farming. His duchy has a prodigiously fertile soil. Many of his people have forsaken their old Gods for the chance to farm in his land accepting as a given the Frank bride and the hidden Christian priest behind her.
- Yes, I have known. Him and you. When the world was young.
The old man smirks. Youth does not imply naivety; old age does not equal senility.
- I certainly gave plenty of food for thoughts in Kattegat. I have been quite a dark horse.
- We all made mistakes.
- Still, I killed Arne…
His friend. His real friend. Like Floki for Ragnar. In the rage of battle, he had killed his friend. Decades later, in another realm, under a different sun, Arne blood still stains his hands.
- He knows you were blood-drunk. Only a fool tries to reason a berserker during battle.
- He was my friend. My true friend. I have made so many stupid choices…
How come he is remembering Arne? Unless he is simply admitting – at long last – to remorse. Accepting responsibility for the death of so many. Including deaths given by the cruellest of blows, love. As if he knew the pain hidden behind the clouded eyes, the dark figure changes the subject of discussion.
- Your son is a fine lad, be proud of him. I am sure he will get this crown that he deserves rightly. I wish I was a bit younger to travel south; I have heard his sister is a beauty. They say she is wiser than her years. They say…
- She does not compare to her mother. She is but an echo…
The visitor has been duly warned not to take the old man back to the sombre days which followed … The duchess is not missing; she sleeps. She is occupied. She is not here but she will come back. If she has rallied her father troops by ceaselessly encouraging them to fight Ragnar warriors during the famous siege which has made the King famous; her husband has built stone after stone thick walls of denial. This is his secret crack.
After it had happened, the great beast wounded at it was, has carried on. Pretending to live and it has lived. Just like Lagertha who had to stay because of the children, the duke has stayed for the sake of his brood. Has fought when they were threatened. Yes, he has protected his family, living a life which has brought him no solace, no consolation. The old man has persisted by pretending that the missing one was there. Simply, she was unseen always occupied at something else. As long as this was accepted, he has made do. Was there ever a choice for him? The ones who stay behind, the ones who are not allowed to raid, they know the cost. This never ending auto-flagellation, this accusation of having failed to protect one's family, these two elders know and the slightly sagging shoulders of both shows their memory is a cruel ruler.
- Your duchy is much admired.
- I have but followed the plans the duchess has devised.
- What do you think of Wessex?
- Alfred? He seems alright. Full of ambitions like my lad. I knew his father… he-he, I should say I have known his father' horses very well! Too well!
The old man knows what comes next. Northumbria. This stain on his shield. This indelible stain on his honour…
- When… it happened, when I was informed, I had just… it had just. I could not. I could. I should have sailed to his rescue.
The avowal comes broken and the shadow accepts it. But it is far from accepting it gracefully.
- What? You would have come! Your duty, our duty is to our families. Naturally, you could not come. You had your children to take care of. You were alone, their sole parent. If your shield maid had been around, yes, this would have been different. But the children had only you to protect them. Do you suppose the king of Frankia would have sit idle on his brand new throne while you were away? You had to stay. Knowing Ragnar as I have known him he would have been furious against you. You did well.
- Bare is the back which has no brother to watch for it, Aelle killed Ragnar.
- This was the fate the Gods had willed for him. Who are we to discuss the will of the Gods? Christians say – wisely – that the Christ God works in mysterious ways. Egbert paid for his treason! Aelle too.
- My nephews… I mean Ragnar 'sons…
The wanderer laughs again. They are too old to lie. The duke who has never admitted to any sort of relationship with the illustrious family of the legendary Ragnar Lothbrok growls. Like a great beast when it licks its many wounds.
- I have walked in Kattegat when King Ragnar called Rollo his brother. I may be old but my memory is quite sharp. Duke Rollo, your brother was proud of you.
- Proud?
The berserker the man nicknamed Lothbrok was calling his brother has made so many mistakes yet when in time of need the great warrior has suffered without complaint. Yes, he has betrayed again and again the king of Kattegat but each time he has helped his brother to obtain the essential: the protection of his family. Against Earl Haraldson, against Jarl Borg and against Horik. Rollo has ceased to be loyal to his brother when a loyalty of higher calling has appeared.
Ragnar has enraged at his brother's betrayal in Frankia until he has seen a smaller figure running toward his brother. A figure heavy with child. This is when Ragnar has understood he had lost his brother for a reason he could accept though it was grieving him. Floki and his cronies, Harald and Haldfan howled bloody murder but Ragnar approved. Rollo was protecting his young family. All was right; all was fair. Ragnar found mercy in his heart. If not for the traitor; but for his echo of a grown Gydda. He spared the lovers; and the rest became the fodder of skalds. Poems were made of a berserker who had found love in the arms of a Christian Emperor; while less lucky Kings of the North cursed to the deepest hell fire the man responsible for the defeat. That gold and riches have been paid to the Norse people, was overlooked by the Men from Norway. They had made up their mind they would raid, rape and pillage the proud city of marble. They have been denied' just like children deprived of a cherished toy, the two brothers Harald and Halfdan had thrown a massive tantrum. Ragnar mercy would lead to his death… This was his fate, Ragnar's fate which unlike Rollo was not decreed to be happy.
- In this life of yours, were they worth of it, these crumbs of Happiness?
The old man does not answer. Closing his eyes, he brings back memories of his past. Crumbs as they may be as his happiness as a man has been short-lived to be replaced by a life dedicated to his family, he finds in himself the strength of a sly smile.
- Yes, worth every instant of it. My life may be long; but Eternity is longer. Now, I may lead a lonely life though I would lie if I said I have lacked company but I know I shall be happy again. Forever happy. I just have to wait. I am a patient man; a very patient one.
The visitor does not approve of this. Eternity when one has been deemed unworthy of Valhalla by the Uppsala priesthood? Eternity of happiness when one still wears a Thor hammer amulet around his neck?
- Who said I want to enter Valhalla? I have not sacrificed 100 men to Odin to enter Valhalla!
The shadow is startled. The scandal has almost caused a rift between father and son. Ever since, along his appalled sister, the very Christian young duke is pestering his sire with countless priests to save his soul.
- I had to. I had to make sure. Take this sacrifice Odin but this seat at the banquet table in Valhalla, I do not want it.
- Where will you go? Helheim?
The old man is also outraged. No, he will not go to the sinister realm ear-marked for criminals. He is going to the Christian Heaven!
- How? Everybody knows you talk to Odin!
- My soul. My Viking soul once I cross the one-way bridge to Afterlife, it will sail and find her. She has my arm-ring. Wherever she is, I shall find her. She will be waiting for me on the other side of the bridge and if Christ God' warrior angels deny me access at his gates, I shall climb his walls. I know she will be at the top' I know she waits for me. I will find her just like I know in my heart Ragnar has found Athelstan. I will find her. I have found her once; I certainly can find her again.
The shadow nods in approval. Such is the fate of Man that he looks to Afterlife to find and this time not to lose happiness. With a sigh, it seems it gets up to the man who cannot see much.
- You know at our age… we should enjoy what is left for us and spend less time exchanging pleasantries about what comes after Death!
The old duke sighs too. Discussing of the past is tiring; is wounding. Yet there is no other choice. One, when one is as old as he is now, must confess past crimes, and must take responsibility.
- What about a last raid? Well, raid is probably a self-aggrandising word. A gentle sail near this beach to enjoy the waves.
The old man demurs. It has been so long since he has held an oar and his lack of sight makes him a walking danger for everyone.
- Ta-ta. Your stamina at rowing has always impressed me. Once seated in your rowing bench, it will come back.
- Remind me of your name
The shadow complies but the name is lost in the sea gulls noisy shouts.
- I cannot. I can't. I want to be buried here. By her side.
That's what he wants; what he has informed his outraged son. One hundred lives sacrificed to the dark Gods for one free soul. Eternity apart from her is no Eternity. Take these lives Odin, let me be free and be with her. A deal is a deal. With Gods, a deal must be very generously given to obtain what one wishes to get. William does not understand but for one thing, his father is worried about getting into Heaven. With his sister, they try and try to settle their father, to assure him God has shriven him from the sins his Pagan soul has committed. Woe to who makes his sire unduly worried and this desire to protect the old man from this fear is shared by all his people.
- Dare unsettle my father and I shall blood eagle you myself!
The shadow has muttered he has no plan to do so. No will, no desire. All what the wanderer wants is to talk about the good old days when the world was young. When Lindisfarne was still hidden in the mist.
- I will slide by her side and I will finally sleep. And this time when I wake up in the night, my hand will not find a cold bed cover but her warm body. This is the raid I want to make: find her, find her hand, Know that this hand has my arm ring. Sigh with ease and fall back to sleep, content in the knowledge that tomorrow will be a good day and she will be around.
The visitor nods in approval.
- This is all what we really want. Just to be again with the people we love. Frankly, Valhalla is made for people who are loners! Fight all day and get drunk at the night feast. Not what a family man wants in his afterlife.
- Remind me of your name. I know your voice. It is … it has been so long… from Kattegat
The seagulls shout so loud, it gives an unbearable headache to the old man. There is this pain in his chest like the cut he has sustained climbing Paris walls, his old broken leg which has taken to be limping again and his head like it was used as a drum. Until the silence comes and he remembers the voice and to whom it belongs.
Now he sees again and he sees clearly. The cliffs and the birds which fly in the sky. The waves and the sea, blue as a dark mirror to the skies above. He does not pay attention to the shouts of the servants to run to his side.
- I still cannot leave.
- Why don't you ask her? Lagertha went and raided with us. She can come!
The hand he has for so long believed he would never hold again in this life where the world is young is proffered; once again he holds the fingers as his eyes rest on her. And he smiles softly.
- Don't be afraid.
- If I was afraid, I would not be here.
And he is not surprised at all as he walks on the beach holding the precious hand to see a long ship on which deck Lagertha and Athelstan stand. Now he knows for sure that he is equal at long last with Ragnar who waves at a passing raven.
- Time to sail.