153. The North Sea Wants to Run (3).
153. The North Sea Wants to Run (3).
"Jarl Miroslaw. My eyes have gotten dim lately, so light a few more candles, would you."
Miroslaw had painstakingly set the mood, but the kind of gloom that conspirators would love to tap-dance to was blown away in one shot by Ivar's grumbling.
"The room is a bit dark indeed! You there! Quickly, light the candles!"
"Yes! Jarl Miroslaw!"
No matter how much power the people in this room, starting with Jarl Miroslaw, wielded in their respective regions, before Ivar Ragnarsson—a warrior who had already reached the realm of legend and, more importantly, haloed as the brother of the one who fills what was lost—they were fireflies before the sun, fish before a cat.
In other words, at a word from this being who seemed of an entirely different species, Miroslaw's posture shifted in an instant from solemnity to servility, and servants, scurrying under their master's bark, rushed in with candles and placed flames about the long table and here and there.
"It's good to be bright! We'll enjoy darkness plenty after we're dead, let's live bright while we're alive, bright! Isn't it good to be bright? Hahahahaha!"
"Hahahaha! Well said! Jarl Ivar! Hahahaha!"
Merchant who had the east in a tight grip or not, for Miroslaw, who knew well the true face of Ivar—the ferocious Norseman whose name was widely known even as far as the Khazar Khaganate—it was a cold sweat situation.
"Hahaha! Ah- come to think of it, Jarl Miroslaw. Does the one who fills what was lost know about this... Marmaros meeting?"
Beneath the casually asked question was a heavy gaze, weighty enough to drown a man.
"Of course! Jarl Ivar! I have already reported all matters to the one who fills what was lost! I sought secrecy only to keep away those like Rurik, who are utterly inflexible and cry for nothing but blood!"
Miroslaw, tense, stood at attention and shouted. Ivar, who glanced sidelong at this, soon swept his gaze over the entire assembly, who had stiffened up just the same.
'Helgi has his careless corners sometimes. Is it because he's too strong? One or two gatherings like this springing up wouldn't really harm the North Sea, but...'
The fellow might even wish for a few Jarls to break away... Hadn't the positions of Konungr or the one who fills what was lost been forced upon him in the first place?
To have devoured land broad as a pig and then neglect it like this. Ivar, who could not fathom such audacity, decided he must speak with Björn about internal discipline and instantly changed his expression.
"Haha! Hrorek, that friend is rather particular, it's true! But after all, Karelia is something requiring flexible approach... Now I understand! Come, come, let us all have a drink first!"
""Yes! Jarl Ivar!""
Ivar, laughing brightly and draining his cup, and the other Jarls, creaking like a robot with a malfunction somewhere.
The meeting, layered with diverse interests under the pretext of marble, continued late into the night.
*****
It was a day when the excitement of the tournament's first day carried on, and all the North Sea folk were buzzing with the preliminary rounds of stone throwing, boulder lifting, and the short-distance race.
At Eret's deer farm—busy in autumn like farmers, preparing for the winter—a guest arrived from the south.
[Hmph-hmph-! Hmph-!]
[Eeeeeek! Eeeeeeeeek!]
As reindeer, proud of their imposing antlers, diligently snorted at the appearance of new humans and greeted them with bizarre cries as if welcoming them.
Amidst sheepdogs running about restlessly in all directions, bursting with uncontrollable energy, was Eret.
"You said the one who fills what was lost sent you?"
His only child and their proud son-in-law.
At that name, which brought a smile to his lips just to think of, Eret's mood became exceedingly pleased.
[Khieeeeeek!]
The giant deer, reading its master's mood, also roared(?) vigorously and pawed the ground.
"That is correct! Jarl Eret! My name is Miroslaw, a man who runs a small trading business in Polotsk beyond the eastern sea!"
"Pleased to meet you. Jarl Miroslaw. As you can see, I am the master of a ranch that raises deer, reindeer, sheep, and goats. I know not what business you have with a humble man like me, but please, follow me."
It was not the cute reindeer he had seen at the residence of the one who fills what was lost, but from the sight of Eret, sitting on the back of a beast that deserved the name monster and laughing heartily as he turned, something indescribable—even a sense of intimidation—was felt.
Walking along the two giant antlers, Miroslaw's mind turned furiously.
'A deer farm, he said, but isn't this practically a fortress!'
Even if the northern land is barren, the land enclosed by a wooden palisade was of such size, and the number of people working below surely exceeded at least a hundred.
The numbers of deer, reindeer, goats, and sheep easily surpassed three digits and seemed to threaten four digits.
Moreover, among the workers, robustly built Norsemen were visible, but the majority were Finns who looked slightly different and had leaner bodies.
'He is no mere farm owner.'
[Clang-! Clang-! Clang-!]
[Khieeek! Khiiik!]
"I said stop that damn hammering! Tch!"
Hearing the hammering echoing from afar, Eret clicked his tongue as if deeply displeased, and soon escorted Miroslaw and his Polotsk guards and arrived at a long longhouse.
The deer, which seemed twice the size of a human body, eerily lowered its body for Eret to dismount easily, and when Eret, who leaped off with a cry of 'Heave-ho!', slapped its nape, it snorted and disappeared from sight with a haughty gait.
"Now, let us go inside."
"Thank you for your hospitality. Jarl Eret."
After telling the guards to stay here a moment, he followed Eret into the longhouse.
Deer hides and antlers hung everywhere, woolen coats in the middle of being worked on were visible, and thick cuts of meat dangled from the ceiling. The bow and arrows hung on one wall were well-maintained, and a sword that clearly had been recently received was, at a glance, a masterpiece among masterpieces, worth its high price.
'Not a farm owner, but a rich man.'
Just as Miroslaw's posture grew even more respectful upon meeting a truly wealthy man, Eret, bearing steaming drink, bread, and salt, sat on a wooden chair and soon could ask Miroslaw the whole story.
True to his nature as an excellent merchant, Miroslaw conveyed only the core of the matter succinctly.
Eret, who had listened to the tale during the time it took to empty a cup of ale, quietly stroked his forehead and murmured lowly.
"Finns... Karelia... Jarl Miroslaw. I know not how much you know of us, but strictly speaking, I am not a Finn. Broadly viewed, we share one root, but I am a Sámi."
Eret, who had been sifting through some distant memory, let out a hearty laugh and poured ale into his empty cup, and Miroslaw listened intently as if determined not to miss a single word.
"Finns, also called Suomi, as the name shows, can be said to be distant relatives of us Sámi. Besides that, there are Kven living up north in places where one might wonder, 'Can people even live here?', Karelia Finns, Veps, Eesti, Liv... All these tribes are collectively called Finns, but in truth, they are as diverse as this."
"For an outsider, it cannot be helped. Are not the ones called Norsemen, Rus, and now North Sea folk themselves a mix of many tribes when you look inside? Angles, Saxons, Picts, Svear, Danes..."
Anyway, tribes were things that changed their names following the strong. Their ancestors of the far past would have lived under far more names.
"Ho ho. Indeed. A name holds just that much value. It is like clothing that can be changed at any time, if needed for survival. Whether Karelians or us, the way of living is not greatly different. If one follows the family ties, tangled as complexly as wool, there is not one or two who have distant relatives beyond the eastern sea... So I think I can be of help."
"Oh- Yes? Thank you. Jarl Eret!"
"Thanks for what... Let us consider it making up for a poor hosting. If I can be of help to the one who fills what was lost, what would I not do?"
Presently, Eret rose from his seat, pushed open the door of the longhouse wide, and let out a long whistle, shouting.
[Hwiiiiiiik-!]
"Eskola! Has anyone seen Eskola!"
A whistle sharp as a blade. As the shepherd's signal and voice, impossible without long practice, rang out, whistles and the name Eskola soon drifted from all over the farm, and presently, with the sound of horse hooves, a Sámi man—no, a Sámi man dressed in clothes slightly different from Norsemen—came hurrying.
[Clop-clop!]
"Whoa-! Elder! You called?"
The man, who sprang as if bouncing off the shaggy horse with nimble movements, asked Eret in a respectful tone, and Eret handed him a cup and spoke.
"Eskola. I am sorry to call a busy man like this, but did you not tell me before that you have family beyond the eastern sea?"
"That's right, Elder. My younger sibling, called Haapala, is there."
"Oh. That is well! It would be good if you could convey my words to the chieftain there."
"Just say the word."
"Say that there is a matter of very great import, and if they have a mind to, they should send a man to announce it. Telling them that Helgi, the Grand Chieftain of Árós, has a task to entrust should suffice."
"!!! Understood. Elder!"
Eskola, who had been composed, now wore an even more determined expression, hurriedly mounted his horse and vanished.
Miroslaw, who had been staring blankly at Eret as he blew the whistle again [Hwiiiiiiik-!] and shouted, "Karjala! Has anyone seen Karjala!", shook his head vigorously to regain his senses and hurriedly asked.
"Jarl Eret! What is happening right now?"
He had come to gather information, but hadn't the father-in-law of the one who fills what was lost—who turned out to be a hidden master(?)—set something in motion?
Although he had promised the one who fills what was lost with bold words, Miroslaw had in fact been planning to enter the lands around Karelia, pour in silver coins and grain, and draw out a trade agreement.
[Hwiiiiiiik-!]
Eret, having let out one more whistle, answered Miroslaw's question calmly.
"From here to the sea where the sun does not set in the north. Us Sámi have traded with Norsemen since ancient times, and at last, by the generation of the one who fills what was lost, we are virtually no different from being subordinate to him. To spend a bitter winter, unimaginable to you people of the south, without hunger... That power is truly godlike. Do you know?"
Eret unfolded in more detail the tale he had once told the one who fills what was lost when offering meteoric iron. Having even taken his daughter, whom he had worried over for missing her marriageable age, to the one who fills what was lost, the latter was already not a stranger to Eret and the other Sámi.
One could say he was the first king these property-less nomads ever had. Though he himself may not know it...
"But the Suomi beyond the eastern sea— that is, the Finns, are different. They are more numerous than us, and more attached to the land than us. That trade you are thinking of will not last long. I hear the quantity the one who fills what was lost desires is not small, and the Karelian tribes will not likely dig out those stones themselves for you. In the end, you will have to enter that land, and they will not comply."
Jarl Leon had also spoken. That this Marmaros stone was labor just to dig out. In the end, it meant specialized manpower must enter, and if the Karelians wouldn't even allow the footsteps of outsiders, wouldn't the only remaining method be the axe?
"If the one who fills what was lost, as I have heard and seen, were to move directly, I wonder what method even those stubborn iron-heads could have... but before that, let us try a traditional method. There is a good chance of success. My daughter's childbirth is imminent... Should her husband not be at her side for that?"
Clicking his tongue, Eret let out another long whistle.
"What is this... method you speak of?"
"We usually try to possess whatever we desire. By whatever means or methods necessary."
The face of Eret, grinning broadly, was no longer that of a simple farm owner or a local magnate.
*****
On the day when the second day of the Great North Sea Athletic Meet successfully drew crowds without any incidents.
North and east of Árós, the snowball that Jarl Miroslaw and the 'Marmaros Meeting' had set rolling began to grow larger and larger.
"Haapala! Have you heard the news? Eret the Elder from across the western sea sent word that Helgi, Grand Chieftain of a great tribe, seeks a very great trade!"
"Lehto! Have you heard the news? They say the dragon of the western sea is distributing overflowing grain! I heard there are conditions."
"Peura! Have you heard the news? There is a Grand Chieftain called Helgi in the west, and they say he is a son of God! He seems to be helping us through the winter, but there seems to be an obstacle!"
The rumors gained flesh here and there and were processed to suit each listener's taste(?), but the core content was consistent.
That in the land of Karelia, upper side of Lake Ladoga, lay what the dragon of the west desired.
The Finn chieftains, who well knew the deific abundance possessed by Grand Chieftain Helgi, began to stir little by little.
For unlike across the sea, in this land of lakes, a bitter winter was scheduled without fail.
☆☆☆☆☆Reference☆☆☆☆☆
Kansantieteen kuvakokoelma, CC BY 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
Suomi 1
Falkman, Severin (1831-1889), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
Suomi 2.
You can see the clothing and appearance are quite different from Norsemen...! The language was different too! It is of the Altaic language family, no less...! The Finno-Samic Wars. Did they really exist...!
Hehe. The name Finn was actually given by their neighbors; it is unknown if they called themselves that. It's highly likely they called themselves Suomi, but... The name Finn itself is recorded on runestones around Uppsala in Sweden, so it seems Norsemen definitely referred to their friends to the east and north as Finns back then...!
Anders Ekman, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
Albert Edelfelt, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
This is the famous story of Bishop Henry's Death.
The protagonist in both pictures is a Finn named Lalli. It's a tale of him killing the first missionary, Saint Henry or Heinrich, but it is a creation.
Probably a story created by Christian missionaries, but you can see the belligerence of Finns that remained even up to the 11th century...!