166. Suomen laulu: The Song of Suomi (4).
166. Suomen laulu: The Song of Suomi (4).
Sometimes, watching life roll along, I thought it resembled a bowling ball.
Eat, sleep, do something, then eat again, sleep again.
There really wasn't much to it. Yet this damned life barreled forward, relentless and unhindered, crushing all the large and small worries of my existence like helpless bowling pins.
And beside me stood Sigurd, looking like he'd taken that heavy bowling ball square to the head.
"O Hel... O Freyja... Father, grandfather, ancestors..."
The man who praised God more fervently than anyone when singing was usually deeply cynical, but today Sigurd looked more godly than any Norseman I'd ever seen. The distinct air of free-spiritedness he usually carried about him was nowhere to be found, no matter how I looked.
It'll be fine. Nothing will happen. Calm down.
These three phrases just wouldn't leave my lips. No matter how much I prayed to God, this was Europe in 867.
The Norse, particularly the wife of a Ragnarsson where one could expect every care, were relatively strict about hygiene and cleanliness. But childbirth in this era was dangerous for both mother and child.
Hadn't my own father, Ragnar, lost his first wife and the two sons from that union?
Infant mortality was a terrible thing, but it was not unfamiliar. Horrifyingly, one of the primary duties of the temple of Hel was the recovery of the remains of the old and the young.
Of course, that had been a scene unseen since my arrival. But the anxiety felt from a father's standpoint was a different matter entirely.
"Sigurd. Sit down. It will be fine."
Mother Áslaug and Asta had both entered the space permitted only to women. All us menfolk, utterly useless for childbirth, were gathered outside the building.
The one who voiced the comfort I couldn't quite offer, saying it so casually, was our strapping second brother, Ivar. Beside him, our eldest brother Björn was also sending a steadfast gaze.
Still, having the two older brothers firmly holding their ground seemed to lend Sigurd great strength.
"Huh? Right. Yes. Should sit. Must sit."
[Tup-]
Like a child with emotional instability, like a fluffy dog circling its spot because its bottom itched, Sigurd had been restless for roughly two hours before finally ending his wandering and trying to give his knee joints some rest.
But fate seemed to cruelly refuse to allow Sigurd the sight of sitting comfortably.
[Aaaargh-! It's coming! A little more!]
Atheltris's pain echoed even outside the building at a fair distance, and as urgent voices flowed out similarly, this time Sigurd and all us brothers rose from our seats together.
Even Ube, who always had a calm impression, had his eyes rounded.
Brothers of such distinct personalities—each with light blond or near-brown hair—it was hard to believe we came from one father.
Yet the sight of exactly the same shade of green eyes rolling around, checking on each other, was so utterly laughable.
[Waaah-! Waaah-! Waaah-!]
Soon after, the long-awaited, vigorous cry of a newborn was heard in this world for the first time. Sigurd, stripped of his usual leisurely air and distinctive swagger, simply collapsed on the spot.
[Tuk-]
"Sigurd! Get a hold of yourself, good God! You must go in."
"Uh- Right. I must. Must go in."
Sigurd looked like someone had extracted only his soul with a giant syringe.
I hauled Sigurd up by both arms. Sigurd, not in full control of his body, had his left arm and left leg step forward simultaneously, but we somehow managed to enter the building.
The women who opened the door all had their hair wrapped in white cloth and carried blood-stained towels and water buckets. Fortunately, Sigurd mk-2, staring only straight ahead, was in no state to pay any heed to such minor details.
[Creak- Creak-]
The Ragnarsson brothers swarmed in behind Sigurd, who moved his joints like a robot. My mother Asta, with beads of sweat on her forehead, stopped the menfolk with both arms.
"Enough. You will all wait here."
"Yes, Mother!"
The Ragnarsson brothers answered in unison, like generals obeying a king's command.
"Sigurd, Sigurd! Do get a grip, for God's sake! You are about to meet your baby, and will you show him such a wretched sight?"
"Uh- Yes, Mother. I will get a grip, for God's sake. I must."
He was definitely nodding toward Mother, but his pupils were unfocused somewhere.
Phew-
Letting out a small sigh, Mother gently opened the inner room's door and went back in.
And before it stood six fools, each scratching their beard, combing their hair back, or folding their arms and biting their lips.
The firmly shut door slowly opened before the men, who each displayed their anxiety in their own way.
Beyond the door carved with beautiful wood, the intense scene of childbirth slowly revealed itself.
A place where, though hastily cleaned, traces of the pain Atheltris must have endured were visible everywhere.
On the bed placed in the center of it all, Atheltris—looking far more rational than Sigurd, who had not managed to get a grip—was smiling brightly despite an expression of extreme exhaustion.
In her arms, a small life wrapped in a tiny swaddle was raising its too-small hands and wriggling.
"Waaah-! Waaah-!"
A tiny life crying powerfully, as if something were terribly sorrowful.
It was Björn who pushed Sigurd's back as he stared blankly at the sight.
"Go on, Sigurd. He is your child."
"Uh- Uhh. My child."
This time, Sigurd stretched out his left arm and right leg, walking slowly like a relatively normal person.
The rest of the brothers did not move a single step, as if they had hit an irresistible barrier.
Finally arriving beside Atheltris and the baby, Sigurd exchanged low words with Atheltris, who was smiling brightly as tears streamed down her face, before placing his trembling hands near the child.
Tears flowed from the eyes of both mothers, and the unexpectedly sentimental Halfdan wiped his eyes as well.
At last, raising his voice's volume, Sigurd mk-2 spoke low to the child, his spirit now fully returned.
"My son. Grandson of Ragnarsson, son of Sigurd. Nephew of Helgi."
Sigurd's finger, sterilized with hot water, caressed the child's tiny hand, and the baby gripped his father's finger tightly with all its might.
"Haha! Your grip is full of strength. You are Hardeknud. Hardeknud Sigurdsson. You will be a sturdy man, strong as a hard knot."
Waaah-! Waaah-!
After roughly ten minutes had passed, Sigurd, who had merely smiled like a statue frozen before the child, was finally dragged away.
The two mothers finally ordered Sigurd, who showed no intention of moving, to be pulled out, and we brothers faithfully carried out that command.
Sigurd's face, dragged and marched out yet unable to stop smiling, held the happiness of a man who possessed everything in the world.
*****
Novgorod moved.
Of course, commerce between Aldeigja and Constantinople had been ongoing. But this movement was not about money.
'No, actually, was it a fight for silver coins?'
Three thousand troops.
Heavy infantry, all heavily armed with armor, spears, shields, and swords.
The pure strength of Novgorod, unaided by nearby large cities like Polotsk or Kiev.
Only a year had passed since they came under the wings of the Philkir. Yet Rurik was already feeling that power. The strength given by stability was something whose value could not be measured in silver coins.
At any rate, the morale of the Novgorod army advancing north with Oleg—always reliable, but seemingly broken through another shell since returning from Britain—was sky-high.
The reasons: First, the fight-loving people of Novgorod had been given a just cause. That was, the insolent lakeside fishermen had dared to arrogantly ignore the just (?) and generous (?) demands of the Philkir.
Second, not only had they dared to strike first against the Suomi tribes, who were as close as brothers (?!), but they had also raided the villages around Novgorod.
Just when the Suomi became close neighbors was quite unclear, but at the very least, it was true that the villages around Novgorod had felt threatened.
The distance between Novgorod and Lake Ladoga was at most half a day's travel anyway.
In Rurik's view, the Karelians, already beyond their chieftain's control, were full of intent to hold a festival of blood, and likely had nothing on their minds but preparing for the harsh winter soon to descend.
Truly, they must have been blind to all else.
'Thanks to that, we gained a cause. We have nothing to lose.'
It was a world where people plundered each other even without much cause, and now they were given a proper one.
The fervor of the Novgorod people, which had been simmering for a while, was now utterly unstoppable. Rurik finally drew his sword and advanced with all the momentum of a longship cutting through the current.
There were occasional tribes that attacked, judging only by the size of the vanguard, but they were all soon repelled.
Once the heavy infantry began their ponderous push, as long as their objective was clear, there was a limit to stopping them merely with arrows fired from the forest.
Nomads like the Magyars or Khazars could simply move their base of operations, but the Karelians were strictly farmers.
The tribes southwest of Lake Ladoga, which began surrendering one after another, accepted Rurik's rule and braced for the terrible fate soon to befall them. But the warriors of Novgorod did not plunder and burn.
For the warriors of Novgorod were no longer those who followed the thunder god Perun.
The reborn Novgorod followed the Philkir of the North, recognized by the very Emperor of Miklagard (Constantinople), and his goddess.
The Philkir, who had made the ferocious and barbaric horsemen pay tribute and caused even the slave traders of Polotsk to wash their hands of the business.
The warriors, whose chests swelled with a massive pride and honor they had never possessed before, followed the Philkir's words as if they were life itself. They heeded his command to refrain from needless plunder and win hearts, and so the Karelian tribes southwest of Lake Ladoga were able to avoid calamity.
Having thus naturally secured the stability of their line of march, Rurik and Oleg soon turned their horses west and headed for Vekalati, where fierce battle raged.
The warriors of the North Sea arrived at the eastern side of the palisade roughly two days after departing Lake Ladoga.
"Konungr Rurik!"
"Jarl Miroslous!"
On top of their existing rivalry, Rurik and Miroslous had gone through two athletic competitions, building a sort of fond familiarity.
The rulers of Novgorod and Polotsk greeted each other by clasping forearms.
"You have had a hard journey coming here. I have prepared a tent in advance, shall we head there immediately?"
Countless ships were anchored along the waterway, and all manner of supplies were continuously being offloaded on the eastern side of the palisade and far off to the west.
Taking one look at that scene and the fortress surrounded by sturdy wooden walls, Rurik knew the war was already over.
'What do they believe in to hold out?'
"Let us do so."
Nodding, Rurik followed Miroslous, who turned away first, and walked across the muddy ground. The eastern side of the palisade was kept neat, perhaps because it had not suffered any particular attack, but the Karelians sporadically sticking their heads above it did not seem so numerous.
'If they had fought us using the forests, lakes, and marshes, it would have been a headache. But isn't this just digging their own graves?'
The commanders of Novgorod, who had learned by listening to and analyzing how the Philkir waged war—both Rurik and Oleg, who had personally led troops under the Philkir's command—wore expressions of seeing something incomprehensible.
But the Tavastians or Karelians had no way of knowing what on earth was happening across the sea. Though even if they had known beforehand, they would not have meekly opened the way.
At any rate, inside the tent, which almost felt cozy, a table and chairs were set up along with that familiar crude parchment map.
Having heard the rough situation, Rurik nodded firmly.
"The warriors of Suomi and the Sámi have shown sufficient courage. We shall have to lend a hand as well. Is that not so? Jarl Oleg? Oleg?"
'This fellow, where did he go?'
Rurik, who had asked the question while turning his head to find Oleg after he had disappeared during the meeting, though he had definitely been sitting in front before.
And Oleg, leaning against the darkness of the tent's curtain with his arms crossed and thoroughly setting the mood, smiled, revealing stark white teeth.
"I will show you the reason the Philkir himself bestowed the title 'Conqueror of Huntadun' upon me and my warriors."
Oleg and his guards' shoulders were brimming with tension.