180. Winter Sun (2).
180. Winter Sun (2).
It felt as though my mind were being pulled into a distant, fathomless abyss.
Into a darkness with no stairs anywhere in sight to return by. I forcibly beat and held onto my mind, which kept trying to burrow deeper.
As usual, whenever we had time alone, my wife and I had tried to talk only about each other as much as possible.
That the baby's movements had grown more frequent. That although I could see nothing of it, her body had put on flesh in every nook and cranny. That both grandmothers were doting on her as if she were Hardhaknutr himself.
How strong the four reindeer that Inga's father, Jarl Eret, had newly brought were. How Bokshil, no matter how you looked at him, was a wolf, but his behavior was exactly like a puppy, and so on.
Although she was heavily pregnant, Inga moved without any particular difficulty and never suffered from morning sickness, so I had let myself relax a little.
'Helgi, just a moment. Something feels strange in my body.'
And with those words, amniotic fluid flowed beneath Inga's feet. She even bent over, supporting herself on my body.
That was exactly as far as my mind's recorded memories went.
"Torbjörn! Clear the way!"
I shouted loudly, then immediately lifted Inga's body firmly into my arms, keeping her upper body perfectly fixed to minimize any shaking while my feet moved swiftly yet softly. I ran just as ninjas move stealthily over rooftops.
Three times I glanced at Inga's face: her whole body quivering, a low moan escaping her, cold sweat beading on her round forehead.
Before I knew it, I had arrived at the temple of Hel, situated next to my old house and office. I remember seeing my urgent expression and Inga in my arms and shouting something at the priests, every one of whom had turned pale.
After that, the two mothers, who had been with Hardhaknutr and Æthelthryth, hurried out, and the priestesses, moving swiftly, guided me to a large bed in the deepest part of the building.
'Helgi, nothing bad will happen.'
With a violently trembling hand and voice, Inga stroked my face, hiding her own eyes full of fear. As I stood there blankly, unable to do or say anything, Mother Asta pulled my arm and ordered me to wait outside.
As I stammered, my mind and body were already in front of the long bench placed before the building.
The sight of myself pacing back and forth in exactly the same spot where Sigurd had paced a few days earlier was laughable, but even more than that, all sorts of crooked thoughts uselessly flashed through my overactive mind at the speed of light.
'Will Inga be all right? Will the baby be all right? Surely it will be fine—isn't her body under the goddess's protection? How did Father go through this six times...? How did Áslaug give birth to five...? How long does it usually take? Will it hurt a lot? How long did Æthelthryth take?'
Just then, Sigurd, who had been released from house arrest and was loitering around Hardhaknutr, appeared before me with a face as white as the servants who were dashing about in confusion.
"Helgi! Damn it! She'll be fine! Inga is a strong woman! Hel and Father, Odin, Tyr, Freyja, Thor—they would never let your wife fall into danger!"
"Right, she'll be fine. She has to be."
As if the memory of Hardhaknutr's birth had returned to him, Sigurd paced alongside me, muttering, "She'll be fine! Helgi, she'll be fine!" while rolling his eyes so wildly that the serpent in them seemed to dance.
Still, perhaps even this stupid pacing gave me a little strength because there were two of us. The trembling in my hands, of which I hadn't even been aware, subsided a little, and I drew a long breath in and out, following the breathing method that Inga instinctively used when she was in my arms.
"Seu-eup- Huuu- Seu-eup- Huuu"
Then Sigurd, who had been pacing beside me, also followed my breathing.
"Seu-eup- Huuu- Seu-eu-eup- Huuuuu-"
He was the Konungr of all bards, they said—his lung capacity was quite good, wasn't it?
"Come to think of it, it truly seemed like an omen, Helgi. Until yesterday evening the snow was pouring down, yet this morning around sunrise it stopped as if by magic, didn't it? A child upon whom the sun's energy lies thick. There is no way the child of Helgi Ragnarsson would be ordinary...!"
It was Sigurd's remark that showed exactly what I had most feared for my unborn child—that the enormous expectations of the North Sea were already fixed upon him—but even that clumsy comfort gave me great strength now.
"Tha-"
"Eung-ae-! Eung-ae-! Ae-ae-! Ae-ae-! Eung-ae-!"
"-nk you."
And the second shock of the day, which came out of nowhere, was a little stronger than I had expected.
"Uh-"
"Er-"
"Eung-ae-! Eung-ae-! Ae-ae-ae-! Eung-ae-!"
Sigurd and I, both equally stunned.
The two fools busily exercised their brains for some time to understand the current situation, and I, the first to break out of the stun, soon entered a state of knowing nothing at all.
'What, was he born? My child? Into this world? My child? Into this world? Was he born? What?'
So this was what it meant for one's mind to go blank.
When I turned my head, not only the experienced Sigurd but also the inexperienced Run and Torbjörn seemed nailed to their spots, every one of them frozen with their mouths hanging open.
"Sigurd, by any chance-"
"Yes! That's right! Right! That's it! Good heavens, Odin! Right!"
'What's right...?'
Sigurd, his eyes brimming with tears, patted my arm and kept nodding, urging me to go inside at once.
Seu-eup- Huuuuuu-
I drew in a great breath and released it again.
I moved my feet and opened the large, wide main gate of the temple and entered.
The silhouettes of people hurriedly leaving and entering passed by me, but my gaze was fixed solely on another door right before me.
I reached the wooden door upon which Hel's emblem was beautifully engraved.
It was something I had always seen since childhood, so if I added a little jest, it was so familiar that I hardly even noticed it was there anymore—but that very pattern seemed to smile at me.
When I was young, I had thought it was grotesque because half the face was a skull and half a woman's visage, but why did it feel so warm now?
[Seureuk-]
The well-maintained door opened with a soft friction sound, and beyond the emblem of the goddess Hel, my mother's face came into view.
"Helgi. Come in. You must take your wife and child into your eyes."
Seeing my mother's gently smiling face, the tension and strength that had filled my whole body finally scattered into the air as I exhaled the breath I had deeply drawn in.
"Yes, Mother. I will. I shall."
Firmly seizing my mind, which was growing dizzy as if I had just fought a great battle, I followed my mother's guidance as she moved aside and slowly walked forward.
And there they were.
Just as in Inga's conception dream, within a brilliantly white radiance, was Inga, more beautiful than ever, and a newborn cradled in her arms.
More beautiful than walking through the deep morning mist of the Dnieper River, than the moment I first saw the white cliffs of Dover on the island of Britain, than the beauty of the golden sea I beheld in Constantinople.
The most beautiful sight I had seen since I grew hair in this world lay before my eyes.
My mother's hand touched my back and gave me strength, and I, who had stopped once more, resumed walking.
Áslaug, who had been watching this sight half with tears and half with a smile, stepped aside with the servants who had worked so hard, and Inga, drenched in sweat and smiling at me, and the child wailing vigorously in her arms, drew closer.
"Eung-ae-! Eung-ae-! Eung-ae-!"
"Helgi, it's a boy. A son who resembles you and me."
Carefully reaching out my hand, I cupped Inga's fine head, and, moving as unnaturally as a tin robot, I kissed my wife's forehead.
All the while, our child would not cease his loud crying. At my son's voice, my facial muscles slowly moved of their own accord and drew a smile.
"Inga. I'm so glad you and this little fellow are safe. Truly, so glad."
There were so many things I wanted to say, but the moment Inga's hand, no longer trembling, touched my cheek, I realized I didn't need to say anything at all.
For we had already exchanged every emotion.
I simply lowered my head slowly as guided by my wife's touch and quietly watched the toothless little one announce his presence with all the strength of his throat.
He was wrinkly, red, with no visible hair, yet his tightly clustered eyes, nose, and mouth were so endearing. And how was it that his tiny fingers and toes, the most important part for a man, and the round belly with a bit of umbilical cord still attached, were all so cute?
The anxiety and fear I had felt until now, the doubt about my own qualifications, fled from my heart in an instant, and in their place a kind of joy I had never felt before swelled and filled my chest.
"A name. Please give the child a name. A name for our first child."
"A name? Right, a name."
The little guy, who had been crying for a while, miraculously quieted his cries little by little when he heard Inga's and my voices. Did he understand? Weren't newborns unable to see or hear?
After I had sold my mind for a moment, Inga gently took my hand.
A name.
Ordinarily, in Norse society, people reused ancestral names, or, as in Sigurd's case, gave new names.
The truth was that the list of candidate names was narrowed down by the parents of the groom and bride in consultation with the priest Lodmagni, who could be called a human Wikipedia of Norse society.
And since the name was usually chosen from among them, my mother Asta had also recommended several names.
They were mainly names derived from the sun, the conception dream that Inga had dreamed.
Sǫlvér, 'Sun's Warrior.'
Dagbjartur, named after the legendary Konungr of my paternal line, Dag, meaning 'Brightly Shining Day.'
Or Ragnarr, after my father's name, 'Warrior, Judge.'
Every one of them was a name with a fine meaning, so I could not easily decide, but my wife, who had pondered them with me, had taken a great liking to one name.
"Sigmarr. Your name is Sigmarr. My son."
Sig, victory; Marr, renown.
A name made by taking one syllable from my grandfather Sigurd's name.
Just as there is no one in this world who does not know the name of the high-rising sun.
A wish that he become one who shines brightly.
"Eung-ae-! Eung-ae-!"
Looking at Sigmarr crying loudly, as if he understood, I was simply as happy as in a dream.
*****
Sigmarr Helgisson.
Even though it was but one of the countless names that would vanish futilely before the power of time.
To the people of the North Sea and its surroundings, this name was not something to be let pass lightly.
For the father who gave that name was none other than Helgi 'Sterkr' Ragnarsson.
Indeed, that name resounded ceaselessly from the lips of everyone who heard the news—loudly, sometimes in a small whisper, but without end.
"Sigmarr Helgisson."
"Sigmarr Sterkrsson."
"Heir of the North Sea."
"Son of the Dragon."
"The strongest baby."
From the northernmost Orkney of the British Isles, from Ireland across the way, from West Frankia and Lotharingia and East Frankia. From the lands of the Jutes and Geats and Danes and Svear, too. From Rus beyond the Eastern Sea, from the Magyars, from the lands of the Romans.
The times at which they received the news all differed. Yet whether high or low, everyone who knew of the North Sea took that name upon their lips.
"I heard a storm was raging, and it stopped the very moment Sigmarr Helgisson was born, is that right?"
"I heard that in the land of the North Sea, the sun beat down strongly for a full week. Does that make sense? Here the snow won't even stop."
"The son of the strongest man. Ah, this will make the nobles' arses wiggle, I warrant."
Naturally, the birth of the son of a man who might be called a living legend of the age at once became the common theme of every bard, and although it was not to the degree that he took ten steps as soon as he was born and calmly said, "I shall stand alone," various fantastical elements began to attach themselves to him.
That he had parted a storm, or summoned the sun.
Whether they were innocent people who sincerely believed such talk, or those who scoffed, calling them stories for children.
There was one thing everyone agreed upon.
And that was that the arses of the noble lords of the North Sea and the surrounding lands would indeed be set a-wiggling.
For Helgi, who worried about the excessive expectations and burdens that would be placed on his son, it was thoroughly unwelcome news. Yet the world was already whispering Sigmarr's name.