157. Festival and Sacrifice (3).
157. Festival and Sacrifice (3).
The Suomi people were strong people.
Wasn't there a saying?
Not the strong survive, but the survivors are strong.
If that sentence was true, it was a sentence that existed for the Suomi people.
Short summers and long winters. Long and harsh winters.
Forests that had to be fiercely cut down to farm. Extremely dense, deep forests where even fire struggled to spread its sparks.
And on top of that, wherever there was ground fit for footing, large and small lakes, streams, and natural reservoirs formed by frequent rain were invariably situated.
In this natural environment where wetlands, forests, and lakes tangoed together, anyone had no choice but to be humble.
Humans were not yet the complete masters of this land, and for life they had to offer sacrifices to greater beings and seek permission.
The first thing Karelian warriors, who had thrown themselves into a deep forest where snow had already begun weighing down branches, witnessed in the thick shadows was not a person wearing layered cloth clothes, bows, arrows, spears, and fur hats similar to their own, but the scent of a beast flickering with an ominous shadow.
"Shh! Don't move."
What the wise one, Takala, who had risen to the position of great chieftain through this winter, desired from the gods was an indiscriminate raiding war.
It was nothing new, but its purpose was different.
If this was not done, all tribes settled around Lake Ladoga in Karelia would be exposed to threat.
Though Karelian warriors were those who thoroughly kept the fundamental iron rule that in hunting, the one who sees first had the advantage, and in a fight, the one who strikes first had the advantage,
the forest on the eve of winter seemed intent on reminding humans once more of a rule they must never forget: this was not a place where only humans roamed.
"Damn. The wind is blowing that way. Just by the shadows, at least four, five? The whole pack is moving."
Due to the nature of not giving separate names to tribes, the hunter of the large tribe settled west of Lake Ladoga and the captain of this raiding party felt his entire body's hair stand on end as his long experience and instinct warned him.
"Territories have overlapped. Slowly move back—"
[Uwaaak!]
A great scream, let out only just before death, rang through the shadowed forest, and those who no longer had any need to maintain concealment hastily scrambled to their feet and ran backward.
The beasts with yellow eyes watched their retreating forms from the darkness. Their gazes, still starving and ferocious.
The sudden large-scale movements of humans were also affecting the beasts of this region. The great hunting season had come upon the land of Suomi.
*****
Even the shepherds of Árós, proudly draped in wolf pelts as large as themselves, had flocked to the docks. Among them were those trying to bring their herds of livestock into the city, causing an unexpected emergency at the guard posts regardless of whether it was the west gate, east gate, or north gate.
"No, I'm telling you, I live here!"
"I understand very well. But if you bring all that livestock in, there will be no room for people to enter, won't there? Did you not hear the word of Fylkir? Even Fylkir's valiant horse Camembert must wear a dung bag within this city—surely these livestock have no such thing, do they?"
"Ah— really!"
Though it was dangerous to impose stereotypes and prejudices on people, even the shepherds, who were unadorned facts—ignorant and strong men—became utterly meek before the name of Fylkir.
For the guards, experiencing this sort of magic was always something novel and thrilling, but amid the ceaseless tide of people, thoughts of warm homes, wives, and children were growing acute.
The main cause of the city's boiling excitement.
Fylkir Helgi Ragnarsson was slowly warming up ahead of the swimming competition.
'I'm a bit nervous about this.'
If he were a 21st-century YouTuber, streamer, or BJ, he would be overjoyed at this chance to boost subscribers...
But Helgi, who lacked the ability to wield public attention this way and that, had only led armies of ten or twenty thousand. As he prepared to compete before a crowd that seemed at least ten times that, the burden felt by the athletes who had stepped up in the earlier events came to him keenly.
'I shouldn't only award prizes up to third place; I ought to give meaningful gifts to everyone who participates.'
Usually, the phrase that simply participating holds meaning was used to console someone, but certainly, participating in a competition of this scale was no ordinary feat.
"Ready—!"
Stórolf's voice, which could be called a human horn, boomed out in place of the hoarse Ræfill and Oleg, and the people thronging the docks looked up at the tall wooden towers.
I had made them with reference to a bungee jumping platform. I had wanted to make the 11-meter height, said to evoke the greatest fear in humans, but I failed because I didn't properly know the meter unit.
Roughly, I made three sections—'high diving platform,' 'higher diving platform,' and 'really high diving platform'—and below them, I set up goal zones made by cutting blue cloth and green cloth into circles. The aim was to dive three times, each into a different goal.
The nearby blue cloth was 2 points, the distant green cloth was 3 points. No artistic score. Something vague and soft like an artistic score did not suit our sensibilities.
"Begin!"
[Dung—! Dung—! Dung—! Dung—!]
Stórolf, acting as the horn, struck the large drum I had commissioned with great force. Unexpectedly, drums using animal hides were also possessed by us Norsemen, and Sigurd had informed me that tracing their origins made it highly likely they came from the Sámi people.
The only thing I had done was enlarge the size with a sturdy wooden frame and large hide.
Stórolf, who had a strong streak of showmanship, was so taken with it that he stripped off his upper garment and pounded the drum enthusiastically, even though he wasn't even participating in the competition.
While the satisfied gazes of the women landed on Stórolf's back, the eyes of the men focused on the competition finally reached Mursia, the athlete standing on the third stage, the 'really high diving platform.'
The athlete took a deep breath, the audience held theirs. The drumbeat sounded steady and powerful.
At last, having finished gauging distance, height, speed, and so on, the athlete stepped forward with a vigorous voice, seeking the god.
"Heeeel—aaaaaaaa!"
[Shweeeek—! Pungdeong!]
As befits an event demanding precision and courage, the warrior of Mursia maintained his posture to the end and entered the water arms first.
When he cleanly passed through the difficult green circle far away with an accurate dive, cheers and applause burst out everywhere.
"Good! That's it!"
"What's that fellow's name?"
"Mursia! Mursia!"
I glanced back at the expression of Uba, currently Mursia's administrator, and he still maintained a poker face. Only his ears were slightly red, which seemed to indicate he secretly coveted victory.
Stórolf lowered the drumstick and called out the next athlete's name. The somewhat tranquil diving competition, with everyone loudly cheering, eventually ended in Mursia's victory, but
the tension did not dissolve; rather, it began to heighten further.
Because the day's highlight still remained.
"Inga, I'll be back."
"Just don't come in last."
Inga smiled playfully, pulled my arm, and her lips touched my right cheek.
In an instant, happiness welled up and something in my lower half surged. Exercising superhuman mental strength to control all of it, I accepted Inga's impish challenge.
"I'll return before this chair goes cold."
"Haha! Don't overdo it. I'll move around diligently and keep it warm."
A mischievous smile hung on Inga's face as she promptly moved to the seat I had vacated.
This won't do. Full power it is.
I lightly pressed down the tip of her pert nose, then turned my body. Unlike Inga's gaze filled with love, I met the eyes of my two ugly brothers, who were full of competitive spirit as if facing a life-or-death mortal enemy.
"So the day has come. The day the undefeated march of Helgi Ragnarsson is broken."
"Ahh— Sigurd. I'm sorry, but the glory is mine. Through today's victory, I shall be reborn as the Konungr of the sea."
Sigurd and Halfdan, wearing only white garments like Halfdan, were loosening their joints here and there.
Just like with Inga, Áslaug and Bothild were cheering them on loudly, and all the Konungrs and Jarls, including the two mothers, were rooting for Sigurd and Halfdan.
Among all of them, my only supporter was Inga. Even my own mother was cheering for Sigurd.
Was that what they called the underdog dogma? Sympathy and support for the weak?
Hah.
I was accustomed to this. I had always been the strong one, a man fit for the villain's role.
Wasn't the man who smashes clichés me, Helgi Ragnarsson?
In my dictionary, there was no such youth-passion-sports drama where the underdog wins.
"It's still not too late, Sigurd. Halfdan. Give up gracefully. I'll absolutely win today."
At my words, the two brothers grinned, their expressions identical. How could they possibly look equally insufferable.
Of course, my own face was probably wearing a similar smile.
*****
[Dung—! Dung—! Dung—! Dung—!]
[Fylkir! Fylkir! Fylkir! Fylkir!]
Was it like this if God had personally descended upon this land?
Björn, who was leaning against the railing in the VIP seats attached to the railing as everyone rose from their places, suddenly had that thought.
From the moment the athletes entered side by side, drumbeats and cheers had already been ringing out, and the shouting in unison itself became a colossal power, so that every cry of 'Fylkir!' felt like the hammer of the sky striking down.
"Fylkir! Fylkir!"
"Helgi Ragnarsson!"
"Helason! Odinsson!"
Just by his entrance, the Jarls who had personally walked the battlefield together with Helgi exuded ferocity as if facing an enemy, and those who had not earned the glory of fighting alongside Helgi grasped their swelling hearts and poured out the overflowing thrill with all the power of their throats.
'I saw Helgi born with my own two eyes and saw him fall asleep in my father's two hands, yet it is still difficult to believe.'
Look now at that tiny (though in truth he had been an unusually robust infant from the moment of birth) and round child.
Beside him stood Sigurd and Halfdan. This wasn't simply because they were his younger brothers—they were warriors who could compete for the top rank when compared to any warrior. The distinguishing features of the family: broad shoulders, solid waists, thighs and calves dense as oak hardened by long training.
Next to them was Harald of Kaupang, who seemed to be the most handsome among all the people Björn had seen since his hair first grew.
Sigurd was also a blond handsome man who wouldn't be outdone anywhere, but honestly, he fell a little short before Harald.
Was that all? By the nature of those good at swimming, every one of them boasted a beautiful physique, but all those people, if not given special attention, were invisible because of the presence of a single person.
Even setting aside the weight of a name, title, or house. Even so, among the countless people down there, only one person entered the eye.
A giant with easily three heads taller in height. Black hair swept back, reaching his shoulders.
A torso broad enough that three ordinary warriors could fit inside it.
Honestly, seeing such a figure, one could not think of him as the same kind of human.
No matter how brilliant Harald of Kaupang's golden hair was, no matter how perfect the warrior physiques of Sigurd and Halfdan were,
it was utterly meaningless. Because Helgi Ragnarsson was truly a man born for victory. The very aura he emanated was different.
"Reaaaaddy—!"
Even the notorious philanderer Stórolf, whose fame as a playboy already resounded, was tense, and though his voice cracked, no one paid it any mind.
With a single gesture from Helgi, silence fell over the arena.
In that silence, the athletes stood at the starting line, tense.
"Chaaarge—!"
Stórolf, so tense that he shouted a war cry, but again, no one paid any mind.
[Kwaang—! Shweeeek—! Cheombeong!]
"Aaaagh—!"
"No—!"
As if a hawk that had reached full speed passed by one's side, Helgi kicked off the wooden starting block the instant the start signal was given and soared up.
The starting block, unable to bear that brutal force, shattered, and naturally Sigurd and Halfdan, standing on either side, fell right into the water.
'What on earth is that...?'
Regardless, after shooting forward like an arrow, Helgi flew a full third of the track's length, then smoothly entered the water. In the water, he swam like a dolphin, advancing another third,
so that by the time he actually revealed his face and swung those absurdly thick and flexible arms this way and that, he had already reached the end.
[Shweeeek— Kwaang! Chwahaak! Pababat!]
"What is that?"
"What is that?"
Among the crowd stricken by collective aphasia, Helgi flipped his body in the water in a way never seen before, kicked off the turning point with all his might, and naturally, leaving the smashed wooden support of the turning point behind, Helgi created a wake like a dragon and returned to the starting line in exactly the time it took for Stórolf to shout 'Charge!' and blink three times.
"Puha—! Did I win!?"
'Yes, you won, you monster.'
Björn, who could only let out a laugh at that absurd sight, chuckled hollowly and drained his beer. He gazed at the clear blue sky and sank into thought.
'Suomi... Whether it's marble or whatever, if that place falls under Helgi's influence, the truly most important thing is something else.'
Everyone chattered about Marmaross or whatnot, but it was a fact the clever Hrólfr or Ivar would already have known.
The old fox said to have come from Rome, the one called Damian, must have had another purpose in obliquely approaching this 'Congress of Marmaross'.
'The Volga... It means securing another trade route across the steppe to Atil.'
Ironically, in Björn's heart, whenever he thought of the east, the west—Iberia—kept coming to mind.
Was there an ember he himself had not yet known he had left behind?
☆☆☆☆☆ Reference Material ☆☆☆☆☆
Arne Becker, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
The last wolf caught in Finland (1911).
As you can see, these fellows were large. Large and heavy... Of course, the average human height was shorter, but considering that, they were even more dangerous animals in the past...
These fellows especially targeted young children, so ultimately, it was a relationship where one of the two had to go extinct.
The wolves of Russia and Scandinavia were particularly large; they became smaller toward Western Europe or Italy, but paradoxically, people died more in France.
Paul Hudson from United Kingdom, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
It's a Sámi drum haha. It holds a strong shamanistic connotation, which is universal across all nations lol.
Briangotts, CC BY-SA 3.0 <http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/>, via Wikimedia Commons
Major Viking trade routes.
The Volga route Björn mentioned is the red line on the map. Riding the waterway that begins from Lake Ladoga down across the steppe leads to Atil of the Khazar Khanate, and beyond that, the Abbasid Caliphate.