Fiction February #2 - Brandr eða leita lofa

The second entry for "Fiction February" is a piece crafted for creative writing about a year ago. Having read the Grœnlendinga Saga, I was inspired to write a piece of historical fiction using it as a background. I had a twenty page epic in mind and ended up writing only seven pages when the demands of vague historical accuracy became difficult to maintain. Mrs. Pyke also thought it absurd that 10th century Danes would speak Shakespearean English. So while it ends rather abruptly, it was certainly fun to write. Also, Mrs. Pyke said that the bard in the story "is certainly some ancestor of mine, for he shares my verbose style." As for the theme, it seemed humorous to send a Viking on a quest not for some random object, but for love instead. That quickly became a problem, as you can see...

Brandr eða leita lofa

(Brandr and the Quest for Love)

The smell of alcoholic beverages filled the air of the crowded, poorly lit mead hall. Arnfastr the Dane leaned over a kettle of mead, half-drunken and bored. He and his men had spent the entire day patching holes in their longboats preparing for the long voyage to England, and they were ready for entertainment. None was presenting itself, and they were about to start stabbing each other when the door to the mead house slowly slid open.

Cold air and ice flew in from the frigid Danish night, and a frost covered stranger wearing a feathered hat crept in. All eyes in the building glided onto him.

“Prithee, gentle Northman, might I seek refuge from the winter night within thy mead hall?” the man asked, an earnest look in his face.

Arnfastr merely looked puzzled, and stared at the feather in the stranger’s hat. The rest of the men began to murmur quietly.

“I am Jørge, of Dublin. I have just returned from faraway Ireland to bring a most fascinating thing to the land of Denmark. I am a bard, and I sing tales of extraordinary heroes, to help while away these cold winter nights” said the man, hoping to catch their attention.

“Sing us a tale, and if we like it, thou may stay.” replied Arnfastr, as his men began to applaud their good fortune.

The bard removed his hat and coat, pulled up a glass of mead, and began to sing:

In the days of King Forkbeard, 1000 AD

When men sailed through

The land where dragons be

A young man, Brandr the True

Embarked on a journey…

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He knew this day would come, yet he had been dreading it. Ever since his eighteenth birthday, when he refused to join a raiding party destined for England, he had been unpopular amongst the clan. He knew they would ask again, and a second refusal would have dire consequences.

Brandr watched the Jarl approach, high atop a steed. The Jarl was clad in leather, with green designs painted on large shoulder pads. He had a long, blonde beard which was rather unkempt. Two Huskarls followed closely behind, their swords brandished. Brandr ran outside his house to meet them.

“Brandr, son of Magnus, I hear thou hast been courting mine daughter, Ingridr. I wouldst have none of it. Thou art not fit to be the son in law of a Jarl.” roared the Jarl through his beard.

“I wouldst be loyal and provide her every need!” answered Brandr.

“Fool! Thy name means “sword”, yet ye refuse to join our war parties. I offer one final chance to thee. Join our ranks, and I will give ye Ingridr’s hand in marriage.”

Brandr was an odd boy. He had no desire to help the King conquer England, he had heard reports that a new, uninhabited land, Green Land, had been discovered. Why did they need to conquer somebody else’s land? However, he did wish to marry Ingridr.

“My name means firewood, not sword.” replied Brandr. “But I will join thy ranks.”

And join, he did. He was given the armaments of a Viking Warrior, and set sail immediately towards England. There was a long sea journey, followed by a long campaign of pillaging and village razing. Brandr was an unorthodox Viking, and spared many victims.

The entire time, his thoughts were on Ingridr. He couldn’t wait to return home, to marry her. At last, his tour concluded and he returned to his village, to find that in his absence, Ingridr had married another.

Brandr was a now broken man. He could no longer live happily in that village, so he packed supplies, stole the Jarl’s horse, and fled north. He continued to flee north until forest turned to sea, and then he fled west until reaching a port. He considered fleeing back east again, but then a better idea came to him.

“Green Land,” he thought to himself. “I may flee to Green Land, verily.” Yes, Green Land, a land so Green, so temperate, that the man who discovered named it Green Land. It wasn’t like Denmark, land of frigid winters and colder women. Green Land was a fresh start, a new opportunity. He could find a lady, settle down, and live a life of seclusion there, far away from the cares of the world.

But first, he needed to find passage. He sold the horse to some Swedes who had just arrived in the country, for enough gold to purchase his passage to Green Land. He had to wait four months for the boat to be readied, but the time passed quickly as he dreamed of the pretty girls of Green Land. He often wondered why people laughed at him when he told them where he was going.

It was a long sea voyage from Denmark to Green Land, especially in a longboat. Brandr passed his time by growing an impressive beard.

At last, the Green Land coast appeared on the horizon. It was mid summer at the time, and Green Land was indeed Green. Brandr exited the boat, and began his quest for love.

It proved to be a very pathetic quest, as it quickly occurred to him that there were no single women in Green Land. Colonization had barely begun a decade prior, and single women could not afford nor did they desire to go to a land like Green Land. There was only one, an elderly woman who had no teeth…

“Thy song bores me, Bard. Perhaps thou mayest liven it up, or perhaps my men shall make ye eat thy feather!” yelled Arnfastr. The rest of the men in the mead hall began to look restless.

“I beg thy apologies” replied Jørge, a little nervous. “I was just reaching the exciting part.”

The old woman was actually a witch in disguise, and when Brandr refused to marry her, she called upon the powers of the pagan goddess Hel, who summoned a mighty dragon to attack Green Land. It was the Nidhogg, the most feared creature of all Norse mythology. Brandr was caught unarmed, and was forced to fist-fight it. The battle lasted for two months and six days, but at the end he was victorious.

When it was over, he was very tired and slept for a month. When he awoke, he found that Green Land had changed. It was now winter, and it was very cold. He realized that not only were there no girls in Greenland, there was also very little green.

Distraught, he began to inquire as to why a land that was arctic for most of the year would be called Green Land. He was sent to see a man named Leifr, who told him of how his father, Eiríkr, had discovered a giant block of ice floating in the ocean. Eiríkr claimed it in the name of the Vikings, and in order to attract settlers he had named it “Green Land.”

Leifr was very apologetic about the whole thing, having recently converted to a strange religion called Christianity. He didn’t think that his god would approve of such false advertising, and wanted to make up for his father’s deception. Leifr was an explorer himself, and offered Brandr a chance to join in his expedition. He accepted, and within six hard, cold months, Brandr was back at sea, headed west.

What was west of Greenland? Nobody knew. A man named Bjarni had told Leifr that a large, forested land possibly existed there, but he had no proof.

Brandr was becoming an excellent rower, and his beard was easily the most impressive out the whole crew. He was still an unhappy man, though. He didn’t care what was west of Greenland, as long there were ladies there.

Soon, they encountered many long, barren, rocky islands. Leifr was excited about this, as it seemed to confirm the rumors of a new land further west. He called the place “Land of The Flat Stones,” and pushed the crew on.

A week later, a strange, wooded coast appeared on the horizon. The men sailed along the enormous shore line, following it. There were many, many trees there, and Leifr, who always knew an apt name when he saw one, called it “Wood Land.”

As they sailed along the shore, Brandr realized that he had been away from Ingridr and his homeland for more than a year. Everyone was excited to find this new, bountiful place, but the social opportunities seemed very scarce here. He wondered if people lived here at all.

Finally, Leifr ordered the boat ashore. It was the middle of October now, and the men had no desire to continue sailing into the winter months. They decided to spend the winter there, in the unknown land.

The men spent the first month ashore exploring. It was a temperate region, full of open fields, forests, and meadows. Leifr named it “Meadow Land,” and soon they were constructing wooden shacks to live in.

There were ample resources to be found here, abundant salmon, wild fruit, and green grass even through the winter. It was a far better place than Green Land.

But Brandr still could not be happy. The life of an explorer was empty to him. Many of the men had wives back home, waiting for them. Brandr had no one.

Still, Brandr was stuck in Meadow Land until the rest of the men decided to leave. Finally, spring rolled around, and the crew began to get homesick. Leifr decided to sail back to Green Land, to tell of this new discovery. The men repaired the boat, and soon Brandr was at sea again.

Brandr hated the water. He liked forests. He wondered if his quest would ever end. He wondered if he should return to Denmark.

“But the night turns to day, fellow Norseman, and I grow weary of the song.” said the Bard, yawning a little. Some of the men were asleep, some were too drunk to care, but some were seated in anticipation.

“Did he slay another dragon?” asked one, who obviously had enjoyed that part of the story.

“Prithee, tell me, did he ever find what he was looking for?” asked Arnfastr.

“That is a song for another night. I thank ye all, kind Norsemen, for the shelter of thy mead hall. I will go shortly, but I, Jørge Brandrsen, vow to return to finish my tale, verily.” answered the bard, who then fell asleep.

Fiction February #1- Weeoniweekeenee Blues

After a long silence, I have decided it is time to resume updates. I have some creative writing pieces I haven't shared yet, but they are slightly different than the previous fare. I prefer to write non-fiction personal narratives about me being stupid. However, in the past I have also at times delved into the realm of fiction. I'm afraid I'm a bit less "Uncle Arthur" at times with my earlier pieces, and this piece predates everything you've seen up till now. I wrote this as a Sophomore in high school. I would have been not quite 16 at the time.

It was a typical English class writing assignment that ended up bringing me fame and infamy. I submitted it to a Creative Writing contest from La Sierra University, and to my surprise, I won First Place. The prize was $100 dollars, but I couldn't claim it because I was a racist. Apparently, after the judges presented their chosen entry to the school board, the board screamed "We can't reward this boy! He used the very derogatory word "Indian" to describe someone of the Native American persuasion! Oh well, easy come, easy go. It's been so long since I wrote it that I have a hard time feeling like it's actually mine, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. Some parts I am quite proud of, and other times it's like WHAT WAS I THINKING!?

It is the first thing I ever wrote I'll actually claim as mine though, so it's special to me. The very first thing was about an Archaeologist creatively named Edward and his retarded assistant named Achoo who went around the world finding artifacts together. There were about five two page chapters that are safely buried in my 4th grade notebooks, hopefully never to see the light of the internet.

Anyway, here's the "racist" story. As usual, blogspot wreaks havoc with the formatting....

Weeoniweekeenee Blues

My name is Travis Henderson. I work as a sheriff for the government. It can be emotional work, sometimes requiring me to evict people from their property. During the summer of 1924 I was sent to small town in Kansas, to help plot out some new park land. Most of the evictions were standard fare, until the local deputy pointed me towards a dwelling which was indistinguishable from the great amounts of plant life which had found a home there. The wacky kind of look on the deputy's face as he sent me into "Crazy Old Man Tanner’s" house didn’t seem like a good sign.

I’d dealt with difficult evictees before; this couldn’t be much worse then the Howell eviction, and certainly no worse than the Drysdale eviction. I felt pretty confidant in my abilities, and went towards the Tanner house with confidence.

After much scrutiny, I managed to find what appeared to be the door. No sooner had I begun knocking, then I was greeted by a raspy, loud voice.

"Who’s rattin’ on me door?

"Sheriff Henderson", I replied.

"Law enforcement! Well how ye doin?" said the voice behind the door, which then opened with a surprising amount of force.

Before me stood a tall, elderly man wearing little more then overalls.

"Come in! Come in!, I sure ain’t never had an officer of the law show up at me door before!"

I was then grabbed, and pulled indoors (although indoors was little different than outdoors). "I’ll sit you here in me best chair an’ we can talk! Name’s Jake Tanner."

Attempts at reason proved ineffective. "Mr. Tanner, I have something I need to discuss with you, so if you would---" I was interrupted.

"I was a rancher ‘round here say... forty-five year’ago".

"That’s good sir. Now-"

"I had nearly... twelve cows" interrupted Tanner.

Realizing that I was not going to get anywhere with this, I decided to allow him to finish introducing himself.

"Near...Say...1867 was it? Ner, mighta been round ‘77. These fellows decided ta build a railroad ‘cross the state. Now this wes’ fine en’dandy’ cept they didn’t have enough cash ta’ finish building that sucker."

"Couldn’t they take out a loan?’ I meekly responded

"Maybe they shoulda‘, but they durn’t."

"Durn’t?" said I, questioning his grammar.

"Durn’t."

"Sir, may ask how this relates to today?" My request fell on deaf ears.

"Now they got ‘round halfway done when they quit, and to make back some of ‘dare losses they ripped up all the iron they laid down an’sold it. So what you got was this line o’ripped up ground an this tall iron pole which was gonna do somethin’ but I never found out an’ I didn’t care’ cause it durn’t matter"

While I was trying to digest this convoluted information, Tanner pulled out an apple and began to chew between words.

"Now when you got this big metal pole stickin’ out in a plain, it’d look kinda odd eh?

I agreed.

"There was’ this small Indian tribe, you see, an-"

It was my turn to interrupt. "Sir, I’m not here to discuss..." I had meant to say "Indians", but I didn’t finish because he kept right on talking.

"-and they were sorta like outcasts from normal Indians, ya see, ‘cause their name was Weeoniweekeenee which meant somethin’ in some Indian lang-oo-age. Not sure which lang-oo-age or’ which tribe named em’ but their name translates to...er..."

He had paused. Now was my chance! "There is going to be some new park land here and..."

"Good! Good!" he burst out. "Now, their name meant ‘They who are not so bright.’ an’ they was right named too. It was sorta like an Indian funny farm, only no white coated boys!.

This amused Tanner because he laughed for a good thirty seconds or so, spitting out what little apple was left in his mouth. After calming down, he went back into his odd narrative.

"There was only ‘round a dozen Weeoniweekeenee, an’ their leader’s name was "Great Chief Buffalo Biscuits" which was a odd name even fer an Indian." Anyways, this chief was out runnin’ around through the area the other Indians gave ‘im. If I can member right, it was round a dozen acres, an’ wouldn’t ya know it? That metal pole them railroad fellows left behind happened to right smack in the middle!"

He then handed me an apple, which I accepted gratefully. I didn’t figure on being able to leave here anytime soon anyway.

"Well, if you was a half-crazy Indian, an’ you never seen a metal pole like that before, an you didn’t have nuthin’ to do, what would you do?"

He must not have expected me to answer because he did not stop.

"He wandered right up to it an just sorta stared. Don’t know how long he stared but it musta been awhile. Anyways, thats how I found ‘im. Standing there lookin’ at that pole. I walked over an’ spoke what little Indian I knew. He asked what that pole was an’ I tol‘im. You know what I said it was?

Another question I wasn’t supposed to answer.

"I tol’im it was a sorta like a spirit stick, you know like a divining rod? I tol’im that if he leaned up ‘gainst it and just put is’ear to it the Great Spirit would talk to’im an’ he would be like a prophet."

He laughed again, not quite as long, but since he wasn’t eating apple this time it wasn’t as painful.

"Would ya’ believe he took my word for it? He parked ‘imself right gainst it en’never left ‘cept once a week to relieve im’self.

"But how did he survive? Who fed him?" I asked, surprised I had got some words in, and even more surprised that I cared.

"His fellow Weeoniweekeenee brought ‘im his vittles, en’ ‘ol Buffalo Biscuits just et it up, right there. You know what’s even funnier? That pole was holler, en when the wind blew, it kinda made a whislin’ noise. Mister Biscuits knew this was the great spirit talkin’ to ‘im."

"Did it ever tell him anything?" I asked, hoping he would finish up and allow me to get to business.

"It sure did, that ol’ chief interpreted many words of wisdom from that ol’pole. It tol’im such wise things as " Saddle Green Happy." en’ "Fuzzy Sitting Beef".

This was followed by such a boisterous explosion of laughter and knee slapping that a light sprinkle of dust fell from the ceiling into my eyes.

"He’s still there, he is! If you go out past Johnson Ridge an’ walk past toad hill he’ll be right there! Ask ‘im if the spirit’s talkin today!"

As he was saying this, my patience left me. The park would just have to wait until Mr. Tanner passed on, or make a monument out of him or something. I picked up my hat and as I made my way towards the door, he called after me.

"Wait! I’ve got another story ‘bout a bear, a bandit, and a pair of stilts!

"Another time" I replied.

"Another time" He replied, in a voice marked by loneliness.