235. White Branch, White Crow.
235. White Branch, White Crow.
'Much had changed.'
Árós had changed a lot.
The wooden houses had become stone ones, the perpetually muddy roads that had never known dryness had become neat paved streets that stayed clean whether it rained or not, and the distinctive rural smell that only those who had experienced it could truly appreciate had given way to the scents of seawater, food, and the four seasons.
Underlying all this were the worries Hrolf and I had shared, such as which swamp to dig a new manure pit in, and the blood, sweat, and tears (except mine) of the craftsmen who, unable to bear my badgering to build a sewer system immediately, had toiled away with copper, iron, and other metals trying to somehow make a hollow round pipe.
Of course, I did not wish to dismiss that series of efforts as futile, but from the moment we embraced the brilliant architecture of Rome, the North Sea's technology, which had been frustratingly stalled, had stretched out unhindered and reached the transformation now before my eyes.
To the point where I could no longer see the old Árós that remained in my memory — rather, the Eastern Roman cities I had seen in Cherson, Constantinople, Adrianople, and Nicaea now overlapped before my eyes.
The difference, however, was that the motifs decorating the streets clearly revealed the cultural sphere of the North Sea, and for some reason, the statues that had been so solemn in the Eastern Roman Empire had come here to the North Sea half-naked and expressed the human body in delicate detail, which gave a freer impression.
The somewhat static and rigid feel of Eastern Roman culture and art probably owed to the aftermath of the massive religious bomb of iconoclasm that had occurred only half a century earlier. But no matter how stifling that Eastern Roman social atmosphere was, a stone statue of Tyr with his upper body stripped and shouting like Heracles was a bit...
Moreover, Lord Freyr for some reason wore a long dress that delicately revealed the lines of his body and gazed up at the sky, and the North Sea people, who were surprisingly open about gods and sexuality despite their rather rigid social structure, rather liked it and clapped their hands, welcoming it without any resistance as the advanced culture of Miklagard (Constantinople).
In truth, if they went to Constantinople, they would be disappointed to find all the statues either covered or smashed and an atmosphere still cautious with lingering remnants of iconoclasm.
Rather, the reason such high‑level sculptures became possible in the North Sea was the passion of Leon, who had diligently recruited his friends (eccentrics) from the homeland with the call to come to Árós, the city of dreams and freedom, and unfold their dreams, and the result of those friends, responding to that passion, gradually releasing the limits of conscience and religious discipline that had hung over their heads and hearts.
Since people liked it so much and I had no intention of stifling the artists' creativity, I had simply left them alone, and as a result, Árós was perhaps developing the most unadorned and free atmosphere on Earth before AD 900.
Of course, since these artist types endlessly pursued something stimulating and novel and eventually ended up in Sodom and Gomorrah, I would have to tell them that projects which truly corrupted our North Sea's beautiful (?) fine customs must be taken deep into the remote mountains to be enjoyed alone or abandoned altogether.
But at the moment, from the great square and the stone houses and taverns that followed the gentle downward slope, crossing the small stream that ran through the middle of the city, past the old‑town houses that still bore traces of the original here and there, and up the gentle slope again to my former home now used as officials' offices, and the hill where the great temple of Hel stood—
When I saw the sounds of people laughing, chatting, and enjoying themselves everywhere in Árós, and the night sky once filled only with starlight now full of the flames they had lit, I could only think that so far, I and this city, the people of the North Sea, were doing well.
"Sseuuu~ pi‑hughuuu~ sseuuu~ pi‑hughuuu~"
My senses, which had been fully appreciating the atmosphere created by the night sky and flames, were suddenly drawn to the steady breathing of the living creature bearing the weight on my left shoulder.
How fresh and full of phytoncide the breath coming from that small nostril was.
Of course, Sigmarr was not a tree so he would not emit phytoncide, but the breath the baby exhaled had a sacredness that purified a person's mind, such that I could only express it that way.
'Cute little guy.'
Bokshiri, whose identity had become apparent as his snout gradually protruded and grey fur grew, contrary to the concerns of those around him, seemed to have recognized my family as his own, and was merely a dog that wagged his tail and flopped over asking for belly rubs whenever he was around us.
Along with the two large cats he hung out with, Skoll and Hati, he had eaten and lived so well that he had ended up turning into a pig.
It might have been a predestined fate for the two cats who hated moving, but how had Bokshiri, who used to run around and tease the gentle reindeer in the front yard at every spare moment, become that obese?
Probably the cause was that enormous gluttony, which made him drool from the corner of his mouth even as he sat huddled beside me now, dozing off and nodding.
"You pig."
[jjonggeut-]
Even as he drifted halfway to dreamland, when he heard my cursing, Bokshiri's pointed ears perked up, and I could not help but laugh. Since my left arm was occupied by Sigmarr, I tried to lift my cup with my Örn arm, but—
"Hm?"
On my Örn arm, Inga's lovely crown, emitting a phytoncide similar to Sigmarr's, leaned against me and was breathing out with a similarly steady, rhythmic breath.
She must have been unknowingly tired from attending the great feast that had already lasted three days.
[Uahahahahaha! Oh! To Oleg, Conqueror of Huntadun, Savior of the Finns, Woodcutter of Liubice! To the hero!]
In the feast hall, which I had slipped out of under the pretext that young Sigmarr and my wife needed rest, Sigurd, who had a newborn son Hardaknut just like me, was leading the atmosphere and throwing a raucous party.
Of course, Hardaknut and Sigurd's wife, Æthelthryth, the great landholder of Northumbria, had long since withdrawn.
It felt like only the other day that Sigurd's face was streaming with tears, snot, and even drool when Hardaknut was born.
Shaking my head at the thought that time had already passed so quickly, I moved my Örn arm as slowly as possible and carefully brought the cup of water to my lips.
Basically, aside from sewage treatment, I had paid a great deal of attention to hygiene in order to improve the quality of life for my people and myself, such as separating animal pens from living spaces, encouraging people to wash more frequently, and since they were already good at combing, drinking water boiled whenever possible, and so on.
In addition to my incomplete knowledge, Eastern Roman medical texts had also been flowing in and were being incorporated one by one into North Sea culture.
In a sense, the people of the North Sea at that time were so captivated by the shocking phenomenon that was Fylkir Helgi Ragnarsson that they scarcely noticed it, but truly everything surrounding them—their laws, religion, living environment—was changing.
The moment I emptied in one draft this glass of clean water—which could be seen as one of the products of that change—Inga, who had been quietly asleep, turned her head toward me, and her brown eyes, flickering in the firelight, silently held my face.
That combination of colors—red and white, brown and gold all mingled—held a bewitching power that pulled at primal human desires.
When such lovely lips curved like the body of a bow and slowly approached me, I had no strength to defy that absolute command.
As the summer night sky, the sounds and lights of the festival, and to these were added soft sensations and a lovely fragrance, my mind broke free at last from its multitude of plans and concerns, predictions and decisions, and poured all its energy entirely into one person alone.
We laid our grateful son—who, once asleep, would never think of waking unless thunder struck or his own will to rise arose—in the custom-made, extra-large baby crib that Leon had specially crafted, and covered him with an adorable blanket up to his navel.
When Bokshiri, who had perked up his ears and briefly raised his head, let out a great yawn and dropped his head back down, Inga and I collapsed together as though crumbling onto the soft bed—a marvelously crafted combination of gentle fabrics blending Sámi, North Sea, and Eastern Roman patterns, along with animal furs and weaves.
This place was the highest point in Árós.
Amidst the people of the North Sea—who, all at once, experienced a spiritual sense of unity and ascension as longing and mourning for the dead mingled with the joy and exultation of victory and glory—Inga and I, hand in hand, crossed whatever boundary our reason had been guarding.
And in that place, only human instinct returned to the primordial cave and the emotion of wanting each other remained—beneath the summer night sky, they mingled without restraint and burned fiercely.
*****
A newborn. The strongest child among the countless newborns of the North Sea and Árós.
Originally something the people around him had bandied about as a jest, it was now a fact accepted as truth even by those who had once spoken of it in jest.
The eldest son of the Fylkir, who had instilled such conviction in those who had been half in doubt. Sigmarr was truly a special child.
He was not on the level of the Buddha, who was said to have taken ten steps immediately after birth, pressed down upon heaven and earth with both hands, and declared that he alone would walk the path—
Nor had he yet achieved any legendary or mythic feats like his father, who was reborn bearing the intact memories of a previous life and displayed a power rarely seen twice in the human world.
Yet from ancient times, the white raven was a creature of sacred legend.
Hvíthrafn.
That title, which designated an impossible existence, was bestowed without hesitation by the people of the North Sea upon a newborn barely past six months of age.
No one knew who first spoke this title before the newborn's name, but all nodded in agreement.
Those who journeyed to Árós to behold the Fylkir and his heir Sigmarr with their own eyes went about proclaiming, one and all, the otherworldly quality of the Fylkir and his son.
The white raven was thus the aspiration of the North Sea, embodying in one vessel the reverence and adoration for their ruler and the expectation for the succession of the demigod—and that aspiration was Sigmarr.
May this dreamlike rule be eternal. Even if reborn hundreds or thousands of times, they would willingly bow their heads and follow; they would sweep away everything that blocked His path. May the bloodline of myth descended upon this world flourish. May it never be broken.
This faith and affection—so terribly blind as to be almost frightening—was even stronger among the mothers of the North Sea, who guarded their households and raised their children, than it was among the warriors who had followed at the Fylkir's side and witnessed his unbelievable feats of valor.
The miracle of no longer having to worry that one's children might freeze or starve to death held that kind of power.
And so, the daily growing influence and wealth of the Cult of Hel was, according to the will of the Fylkir and the High Priest, seeping once more into every corner of North Sea society.
Of course, young Sigmarr could not possibly know what chain reactions his own appearance was setting off throughout North Sea society.
But unlike his father, who had already experienced one life and had a wall erected between soul and mind from the moment of rebirth, the newborn's pure white soul and mind accepted without any trouble the realm of unreality that had begun with his father.
"Uee- uee-u-"
Young Sigmarr still loved his mother's brown eyes. No—he loved everything about his mother, but especially when she looked at him, her eyes filled to the brim with love and laughter. Sigmarr felt happiness.
And Sigmarr loved his large father. Unlike his mother, who was full of soft lines and sensations, his father's lines and sensations were thick and intense—but when those gleaming green eyes shone brightly and held Sigmarr's face within them, Sigmarr wanted nothing more than to rest his own heavy head upon those broad shoulders at once.
It was astonishing that a child just entering his seventh month already perceived the world in this way. But what was more astonishing was that Sigmarr, unlike other children, did not fear falling asleep and waking.
Sigmarr was not afraid of the darkness.
He loved the warm embrace of his mother, always by his side, and the solid presence of his father, which he could feel even when he was not near.
But when he closed his eyes and wandered a little through the forest of darkness, following the songs of beasts who resembled Bokshiri and guided him, a vast palace full of gold and darkness and light gleaming far in the distance revealed itself.
"Uu-a- ee-"
As he enjoyed himself watching the beasts who sprawled about in comical poses and thrust their heads forward, at the end there was always a woman in a golden mask who stroked Sigmarr's plump cheek with a gentle hand.
And then, that palace—filled with light and darkness, somehow resembling Sigmarr's own nest—slowly receded, and the newborn's eyelids would slowly open.
"Ee- ee- e-"
Just above Sigmarr's crib, a small mobile in the shape of a longship that Helgi had crafted with his own hands floated gently, and Sigmarr's day began with Inga, sensing his stirrings, rising and approaching her beloved son.
And as Sigmarr beamed brightly at the sight of his mother's face and her soft touch entering his field of vision, he recalled: behind that beautiful golden mask, the face of the woman he could not see had definitely seemed to be smiling.