261. Autumn Butterfly (3).
261. Autumn Butterfly (3).
It went without saying, but the sea was rough.
Not the immediate violence of a robber holding an axe blade right under your chin, but the kind of violence that kept surging in, wearing down your will until the moment it broke, then dragging a body bruised all over and battered into ruin down into an endless depth.
If one must ask which was the more terrible and horrifying pain, I would say both were equally miserable and made breathing hard, but the seawater side had a slightly saltier flavor.
[Splash! Splash!]
Swishhhhh---
The waves approached without a sound, yet to the ears of those facing them, it seemed the rebuking voice of Njord could be heard. The waves that drove in one after another soaked the whole body, and Njord's stern gaze, asking if you dared to overcome his trial, pierced through Flóki's heart from the sea filled with darkness and the sound of the wind.
But while it might have been different if they had never experienced it, the hearts of seafarers who had already weathered storms might spit curses in the face of the saltwater that entered through nostrils, earholes, and sometimes even their eyes, but not a single one of them let out a scream filled with fear.
[Splash!]
"Ah-pupu! Kkak— ptui! Jarl Flóki! You surely know this place is the very maw of the storm!"
"Kkhheum! Puheung! This shi— why is salt coming out of my nostril? Jarl Flóki! It seems Njord is not easily revealing his inner depths this Dagr!"
"We'll make sure our lives' worth is well paid! You old geezer!"
[Splash—!]
The crewmen of the great longship spat out foul curses as rough as their dispositions. Yet, only men with such tenacious spirit would entrust their bodies to Flóki's mad expeditions, so Flóki was rather glad for the unbreakable hearts of those water-beasts. At the very least, he would not die alone on this lonely sea. That sort of feeling.
The problem was that the eldest son of the household was being thoroughly soaked in the increasingly thick and explicit banter of the sailors. But was this not all a path he had chosen himself?
[Splash!]
"Keok! Kak— ttu-et! This fu— Father! I'm telling you, today is rough! By Njord's beautiful and luscious twin balls I swear it, let us turn back a bit! The Fylkir told us not to overdo it! All three of Odin's holy raven chicks flew straight back to the Faroe Islands! Hey, stop being so damn stubborn!"
"What the! You bastard, aren't you Flóki's son? Hey, you punk! What kind of mouth is that to your father! Though I'd say you're right for once!"
"Leave him be— he took in less seawater through his nose so he's like that! Not pickled enough yet, that's why!"
"Listen well, greenhorn! Whatever ship you board, on a longship, the captain's command is absolute! Don't you forget that if you weren't Flóki's son, that plump little arse of yours would've been kicked right overboard and dedicated to Njord by now—"
[Splash!]
"—rrrrr! Puh! Don't you forget!"
North Britain, South Britain, West Árós, South Árós, even a mad bastard from Novgorod who came from beyond the far eastern sea of Árós.
Wherever their origins lay, however many winters had passed, once they boarded a longship together, from that moment on they were all brothers. The crew who had spent these past several months together had already bound one another with tough knots invisible to the eye.
Flóki felt a conviction that now, at this point, it would be right to risk it all. The crew's abilities and their coordination with one another had risen considerably... and even as the shadow of the Faroe Islands began to fade behind them, rather than feeling unease, the crew seemed to have acquired the peculiar equanimity of men who had already given their lives over.
"That's enough! We're turning the ship around! You bastards sitting on the starboard side who still have the strength to chatter! Grab the oars, quick!"
"This shi—"
[Splash!]
"—Keok! Keokeok! Puh! Oh, in Njord's name! Let a man curse!"
"Captain! Can't we just make the loudmouth bastards grab the oars!"
"In that case every last man here would have to grab one!"
"Uhahaha! Row the oars! Heed the command of Hrafn-Flóki!"
Flóki's longship turned its back, glaring at the storm rising far away. Standing on the longship rowing along the path the three ravens taken as guides had flown, Flóki stared long and hard beyond the storm.
Just like that, Flóki and his crew returned to the docks of the Faroe Islands, adding yet another line to the record of defeats they had suffered countless times since the fourth month of winter. But what awaited them instead was the warm commendation, food, and drink of Jarl Rognvald, who had seized the dominion of this place without trouble.
And on top of that, the gazes of a few maidens who showed curiosity toward the outsiders visiting their closed-off island village.
Exactly fifty men. Among Flóki's crew that filled the standard complement of a new-model longship, there was only a single man who did not rush cheering into the tavern. None other than Flóki himself.
Regrettably, Flóki's eldest son dashed faster than anyone else, throwing his arms around some blonde woman. To seek a woman after a grueling voyage was a man's instinct, but the problem was that the hair color of the woman he embraced changed every time.
'Thor, I beseech you, please strike down just a single bolt of lightning upon that immature fool's head...'
Was this all not the fault of Flóki himself, who had turned his back on stability to seek out adventure? Still, he decided to be grateful that his eldest son was at least no eunuch.
Having reached roughly that conclusion, Flóki lit the lamp with whale oil and began to write something akin to a report on parchment.
At first, it had felt strange for Flóki's hard and scarred hands, covered in wounds everywhere, even to hold a quill. But since the greatest patron and spiritual pillar of the expedition, the Fylkir himself, had personally requested it, even if he were told to write with his feet instead of his hands, he would write without a single complaint.
[Tap-tap-tap— Scratch— Scratch— Tap—]
He dipped the quill into the dark blue ink and, stroke by stroke with great care, inscribed the newly mastered Rune letters onto the fine parchment.
[To the strongest in this world, from Flóki, a deficient man who repeats his failures, reporting yet another defeat. Njord is truly the most diligent of the Aesir tribe. Today he stirred a storm upon the distant sea—]
The Rune letters settled one by one onto the parchment with a sound now grown familiar, forming sentences.
For Flóki, this was like a ritual, so that throughout the act of inscribing the sacred Rune script whose order the Fylkir had established, an effect akin to meditation was called forth in Flóki's mind.
It calmed feelings like regret and impatience, resentment and rage, cast off useless ambitions for honor, and blew away the anxiety of uncertainty, leaving behind only the goal that must be focused on now.
[Scratch— Scratch— Tap— Scratch—]
[—Thus my crew's skill has gradually risen, and it seems the currents of this sea, the winds, the sky, and the constellations are slowly becoming familiar to my eye. My Fylkir. O great one. All glory is yours alone and failure is solely mine, so should I fail and not return, I hope these foolish records I leave behind may be of some help. If, that is, another idiot who would repeat such dim-witted deeds ever appears.
My Fylkir. I dare say, O foolish one who believed in this idiot. All I know how to do is press forward, so I soon intend to ram headlong into Njord to demand he make a path. How much seawater have we swallowed already? Has the time not come for Njord to cease? Come to think of it, the Fylkir already killed the gods, so how can the dead meddle in the affairs of the living?
I shall now press onward. My Fylkir. May you ever keep your health.]
[Tak—]
Flóki's heart was quietly becalmed as he laid down the quill.
You cowardly bastard! I waited for so damn long!
Flóki raised his head and gazed at the deep darkness beyond the reach of the oil lamp.
Did death lie beyond that darkness? Or life?
He would soon find out.
He did not leave any separate letter for his family, especially his wife. With what face could he, when he was dragging along his most precious treasure, his eldest son?
My wife. I shall return alive. I am sorry.
He sent a sliver of his inner thoughts riding southward upon the storm, and among the people of the Faroe Islands organizing the tools needed for whaling, Flóki and his 49 crewmen launched upon the sea once more.
The night before. Uncharacteristically, Flóki had told them to drink their fill, but not a single one of the 49 crewmen set foot in the tavern. Each had spent his own time alone, and the sailors gathered well before the scheduled departure time, lit a campfire, and sat silently, doing nothing but watching the flames.
"I intend not to return this time if we fail to find new land. So—"
So let those who wish to stay behind remain.
Flóki did not bother to speak the last words aloud. The eyes of these stubborn, self-willed sailors were already filled with defiance.
"... So hurry up and get on the ship! You pig-like bastards! Scrap-guzzlers! You who are like herring cast aside half-eaten!"
Starting with Örn's son who was first to board, the crewmen who did not share blood but had already become family each found their places.
Soon Flóki and his expedition pushed off vigorously from the docks and, with skilled hands, cut through the sea-lane the storm had passed, a path they had traveled countless times already.
And soon they passed the very spot where they had met the storm the last time.
It ought to be the same sea, yet could it be so different?
The sea parted a path as if enchanted by something, and the wind stoutly supported the sail. Moreover, even the current beneath the waves the longship slid over seemed to add to their speed.
They had never experienced such speed before; Flóki and his crew were dumbfounded yet felt unease. Already, the Faroe Islands showed not even a shadow and all around was the distant open sea filled with the horizon. What if, at this speed, there was no landmass in the direction they were heading?
Then at that point, they truly would all become fish food.
And Flóki wanted to sear that damn land into both his eyes without fail.
"Go! Messengers of Odin! Show us the new land!"
[Flutter! Flutter! Ka-aak—!]
"Oooh— Tha, that— that damned birdbrain! Where's it going!"
"Erai! Spit back all the earthworms I gave you!"
"Damn it, Odin! Good riddance!"
The first raven released into the sky circled above the ship for a moment, then flew desperately toward the direction the longship had come from.
The crew jeered at it in chorus, but the will of a beast was not something to be freely twisted.
Shortly after, Flóki advanced a little further and released one more, then advanced a little further and released another into the sky. But one of them circled around and then came to sit at the bow of the longship, and the other, like the first, flew toward the direction the longship had come from.
And the last one remaining. Even the crew, who had been watching the situation while busily cursing, sank into silence, and Flóki's heart, as he took the raven out of the cage, pounded as if mad with tension.
This raven had been unsettling from the very moment he first caught it, being far too docile. Even now, as he held its leg, far from flapping its wings or pecking with its beak, it was quietly watching Flóki's every move.
'Njord. No, all our gods. Hel. Fylkir. Grant us your help.'
He had set aside the fear of death or failure. If worst came to worst, he would simply drive the ship recklessly southeast following the guiding stars. Flóki himself was not much concerned about his life, but he needed to keep all these foolish men alive.
The Fylkir had provided abundant support and bestowed upon them a monstrous longship, so they could hold out for a full week at least.
Therefore, he had to succeed this time, no matter what.
[Pudeudeuk! Flutter! Flutter!]
Holding the twig Flóki had given it in its jet-black beak, the raven soared into the sky with all its might.
The creature circled around the ship, then soon began to gradually widen its gliding circle.
Then, letting out a long cry once, it soon flapped its wings toward a direction slightly to the west of where the longship was heading.
"Oooh— that thing, where's that thing going?"
"What the, could this really—"
"What are you doing! You stupid, stinking bastards! Open the oar ports and shove in the oars right now!!"
"Grab the oars! Give chase to that divine messenger of Odin!"
"Odin! I believed in you! Damn it!!"
"Let's go! Sons of Njord! All praise Flóki the Raven!"
"Flóki the Raven! You filthy lucky old geezer!"
The crew's morale, which had sunk all the way to the deep seabed, surged back in a flash, as quickly as their foul tempers flared.
The longship moved forward as vigorously as the raven flying with all its might.
Whether the crew was making a racket or not, Flóki moved in a daze to the bow and stared at that distant horizon.
Thus, after pressing onward for a long while more, a vast, gannet-gray shadow began to ripple before their eyes.