Are you sitting comfortably?
Posted: Thursday, 28 August 2008 |
I've written a story! I humbly submit it in the full understanding that Hermit Life is a very hard act to follow.....
Nearly 91Èȱ¬
My eyes are closed but my ears are open. The men are laughing and cursing and I can smell ale – I think my flask split when I landed. There is a rough blanket thrown over me, and a flake of snow lands on my nose. It is cold enough to make me blink in surprise and I open my eyes and look around me. Some homecoming, this! We have travelled such a great distance that I barely recognise my own land. Was it always so small, this island? Of course, until I was chosen to go with Rognvald’s men, I knew no other life. From my earliest memories at my mother’s skirts, to the first time the jarl’s man cast his eyes upon me, I knew only the warmth and safety of hearth and family.
My family. I feel my eyes sting – from dust or tears I cannot tell. Am I nearly home, or lying dreaming in a makeshift desert camp, listening to the men tell tales of the cruelty of the barbarian? Many a night I slept with their murmuring in my ears. I often heard their cries too – either in pain or the heat of passion. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference. All men are the same when their heads rest heavily upon your breast in deep slumber.
My vision clears and I make out a dozen or so men, wrapped in woollen cloaks against the snow flurry. This ancient mound may have walls of thick stone, but we had to breach the roof to get in, and the hole we made was not small. Still, it is a good enough place to lie low for a while. We’re stuck here, says Helgi, at least for a day or two. The men are easy with it; they play dice, flip coins, make bad poetry extolling their courageous exploits in the Holy Lands. Of course, the skaldic verse says nothing of the drudgery of war – the rats, the liquid bellies, the blisters from a foreign sun. We don’t get much of a mention either; the women – well, girls, really, although I feel like I’ve aged a lifetime in the three years we’ve been away. Join the Crusades, they said, and see the world. Sometimes I think all I saw were dirty pots and scabby members.
Thorfinn nudges me with a foot. ‘Hey,’ he grins, ‘See what Erling’s doing.’ He laughs at his friend who is carving something obscene on the wall. I smile and tease Erling for his lack of finesse. ‘You do better then,’ he growls, throwing his metal point on the ground. I pick it up thoughtfully. A smooth piece of stone just above head height tempts. What should I carve? I steal a torch from a sleeping man. My name? Too commonplace. A cross, symbol of our struggles in Eastern lands? That was no fight of mine. And then, I know. My mind soars back to the dusty Jerusalem alley, where I am watching an old Arab scratch a mythical beast onto my ankle, and press ink into the scraped flesh.
In this stone chamber of the ancient people I lift up my skirts, look down at my dragon tattoo, raise the metal point, and start to carve.
Nearly 91Èȱ¬
My eyes are closed but my ears are open. The men are laughing and cursing and I can smell ale – I think my flask split when I landed. There is a rough blanket thrown over me, and a flake of snow lands on my nose. It is cold enough to make me blink in surprise and I open my eyes and look around me. Some homecoming, this! We have travelled such a great distance that I barely recognise my own land. Was it always so small, this island? Of course, until I was chosen to go with Rognvald’s men, I knew no other life. From my earliest memories at my mother’s skirts, to the first time the jarl’s man cast his eyes upon me, I knew only the warmth and safety of hearth and family.
My family. I feel my eyes sting – from dust or tears I cannot tell. Am I nearly home, or lying dreaming in a makeshift desert camp, listening to the men tell tales of the cruelty of the barbarian? Many a night I slept with their murmuring in my ears. I often heard their cries too – either in pain or the heat of passion. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference. All men are the same when their heads rest heavily upon your breast in deep slumber.
My vision clears and I make out a dozen or so men, wrapped in woollen cloaks against the snow flurry. This ancient mound may have walls of thick stone, but we had to breach the roof to get in, and the hole we made was not small. Still, it is a good enough place to lie low for a while. We’re stuck here, says Helgi, at least for a day or two. The men are easy with it; they play dice, flip coins, make bad poetry extolling their courageous exploits in the Holy Lands. Of course, the skaldic verse says nothing of the drudgery of war – the rats, the liquid bellies, the blisters from a foreign sun. We don’t get much of a mention either; the women – well, girls, really, although I feel like I’ve aged a lifetime in the three years we’ve been away. Join the Crusades, they said, and see the world. Sometimes I think all I saw were dirty pots and scabby members.
Thorfinn nudges me with a foot. ‘Hey,’ he grins, ‘See what Erling’s doing.’ He laughs at his friend who is carving something obscene on the wall. I smile and tease Erling for his lack of finesse. ‘You do better then,’ he growls, throwing his metal point on the ground. I pick it up thoughtfully. A smooth piece of stone just above head height tempts. What should I carve? I steal a torch from a sleeping man. My name? Too commonplace. A cross, symbol of our struggles in Eastern lands? That was no fight of mine. And then, I know. My mind soars back to the dusty Jerusalem alley, where I am watching an old Arab scratch a mythical beast onto my ankle, and press ink into the scraped flesh.
In this stone chamber of the ancient people I lift up my skirts, look down at my dragon tattoo, raise the metal point, and start to carve.
Posted on Stromness Dragon at 17:35
Life in Stromness, writing stuff, staring out of the window, history, growing veg at the allotment.
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