Open Writing

I heard it on the Troyvine that at this year’s Nordicfest in Libby, Montana, hordes of Vikingesque characters were running loose through the town in the traditional dress and regalia that have become the popular conception of the Nordvolk of more than a millennium ago. America is a long way from Scandinavia and even further from reliable accounts of the history of the region and its peoples. It in relation to the endeavours by Nordicamericans to accurately imitate my illustrious but bloodthirsty forbears that I am obliged to apply plume to parchment to set the record straight.

Far from recusing myself from this endeavour on the grounds that Viking blood courses through my arteries and veins, and that a dialect frighteningly close to those of Scandinavia was my mother tongue, I feel a pressing responsibility to tell the truth, even at the risk of upsetting generations of Viking imitators, and the designers employed by Chinese toy manufacturers.

But, "‘ey up, ower kid," such trivial considerations did not deter Galileo Galilei from risking the sword at his neck when he upset the world by declaring that the sun did not rush around the earth, but that the earth rushed around the sun, thus taking, some said ‘stealing,’ from common perception the satisfying notion that they, the people, were the central focus of the solar system and everything else that floated about in ‘that inverted bowl we call the sky.’

To many, their removal from the centre stage of soaring orbs was devastating, although probably less devastating that the notion – still hotly debated – for which credit must be given to the English naturalist turned geologist, that mankind is not a special creation of Almighty God, but rather the end result of something that crept quietly out of a sea of gloopy but promising soup to mutate and evolve into the grand specimens that humanity has become, but definitely ahead of the notion voiced by the Viennese neuro-physiologist that we were not even in control of our own minds.

These three body blows proved near-fatal to those of a certain temperament who were then unable, either to think for themselves, or became so overwhelmed by the postulate that they should no longer consider themselves special Creations of the Creator, and that because of the discovery that our Solar System is heliocentric, not geocentric, and that each of us is a being – ‘not a bus, nor a train, but a tram!’ - that can do no other than mutely endure psychopassively rather than exercise what we thought was the ability to control our psychic activity by virtue of our Free Will, a process that had elevated us beyond the hypoboorish intellect of beasts and pre-programmed insecta, and accept that we suffer psychical domination by internal and unalterable codes that rob us of self-determination, and must, therefore, obliterate from our minds all consideration of ourselves as the culmination and Grand Prix of Elohim’s Creative Sovereignty.

This triple calamity proved too much for many fragile souls, resulting in spiritual breakdowns socio-religious upheavals and the founding of two armed camps that have been in violent, opposition to each other ever since, with no end to the hostilities in sight.

When I am asked for my position, I readily answer that I am not diminished by not having the sun revolve around me, as superficial observation suggests it does; that I half reject yet half accept – the proportions may not be strictly equally divided in this equation – that whilst there are currents inside me which I do not always acknowledge, yet on the whole I am sufficiently possessed of a sense of being and responsibility that I am convinced that I am perfectly free to choose my own way through life, and am not trammelled by Satan on the one hand, nor coerced by Almighty God on the other; that I am free to choose from the good or from the evil, and shall cheerfully bear the consequences of the moral choices I make when I am called to account for my life in a coming day.

I also remark with immovable conviction that I am as convinced that humanity is God’s Special Creation, made on His own image, as I am that the biblical Garden of Eden is the whole of Yorkshire, and that these are my final positions, and that I do not need to ask the audience, go fifty-fifty, or telephone a friend. "Here," I shamelessly declare, "I stand. God help me, I can do no other!"

I mention the foregoing to prepare enervated readers for the affliction that I am forced to visit upon their weak shoulders by dint of a personal, vibrant, genetic endowment and by my acquired regard for the truth – an commodity not always covered by the aforesaid endowment – to correct false impressions that impinge negatively on my ancestors, the Vikings, who pushed the resident Britons (the dark haired folk we called ‘Welisc,’ a derivation of ‘Walh,’ or ‘foreigner,’ that gave rise to their later name, the ‘Welsh,’) out of Yorkshire’s Broad Acres up into the hills and mountains of Cymru where we chose not to pursue them further on account that the flatter the land the better we liked it, for after rowing a longboat from the northern climes of Scandinavia, and then being forced by our inquisitive and acquisitive nature to set about pillaging, looting, and taking foreign wives, etc, we needed to establish our communities in terrain that would let us to rest awhile because we anticipated that the Picts from the North and the Scots from the West might decide it was time we went back to where we originated. The first clues of these outlandish incursions were messages scrawled on trees, such as, "Vikings go home," and "Please may we have our land and ladies back?"

Fully aware that what is coming could prove too great a shock for Nordicfesters and others with entertaining if distorted views of our Vikingr heritage, I am attempting to approach it sideways at minus speed so that fragile minds will not be oppressed by the wrong kind [for them] of information to the extent that they fly into rages, squash grapes with their bare hands, kick sleeping cats, send their children to bed without supper, and bend all the spoons and forks in the house! It is an onerous duty that has been imposed on me by my princely birthright.

Well, gentle reader, I will say this, that those ancient Britons, who were not indigenous to the British Isles but incomers from Northern France, or Breton, hence the name Briton (proper spelling was almost unknown in those days), that appellation being derives from Anglo-French Bretun, from the Latin Brittonem, who were "members of the tribe of the Britons," from Britt-os, the Celtic name of the Celtic inhabitants of Britain and southern Scotland before the Fifth Century Viking, or Anglo-Saxon, invasion drove them into Wales, Cornwall, and a few other dark corners where they have maintained some striking features, language, and customs of their ancient, albeit rudimentary, civilisations. I do so like fulsome explanations.

But any such ‘Welisc,’ that happened to linger after hearing our bloodcurdling shouts whilst beaching our longboats up some gravelly inlet of the Yorkshire coast, whose precise locations were smeared in bull’s blood on the side of our ships together with the slogan, "Manifest Destiny," I say, if any such foreigners had lingered, then our well-disciplined troops pouring up the steep rises would have struck them as singularly not what-they-had-been-led-to-expect.

While it is true that we were flaxen-haired and angelic – Saint Augustine was later heard to remark on seeing our children sold as slaves to the barbaric tribes that we had not yet quelled, that they were Angles, remarked, "Not Angles, but angels!" He was right, of course. Yet despite our superficial ferocity [it was just an act], we didn’t really mean what we shouted to frighten our fleeing foes, such as, "Clap them in irons, me hearties!" and "They shall not pass!" or "Si, se puerde!" or "California or Bust!" and "What happens in Vinland stays in Vinland!" and so forth, some of which entered so profoundly into the common psyche that they are used by the desperate and dispossessed to this very day.

As I was about to remark – I hope I am not rushing this – if any of the ‘Welisc,’ had stayed to look, they would not only have discovered that we were the most genial of fellows, and that we found their dark-haired women singularly attractive, and also that we were willing to let them stay among us and work for us for no wages if they would not get hot under the collar, turn pink under their Woad, or take sticks, staves, spears, and seemingly cemented stale sausages, and launch assaults against us. But they would not, and so we were forced against our better natures to chase them off our newly acquired properties and institute a regime change, nolens volens, a political expediency of which traces survive to this day.

If any such had gone beyond admiring our natural physical beauty and facial attractiveness, they would have noticed our amazing helmets. The first thing they would have detected would have been the astonishingly complex structure of the convex conical head coverings that safeguarded us from showers of rocks thrown by gesticulating villagers that we took to be a Welcoming Committee cum Honour Guard, but whose subsequent actions persuaded us that they were of another order entirely.

They would have remarked on the high polish we had achieved on our crowning protective chapeaux, and the delicately engraved brass strappings set in artistic contrast against the bright steel, but they would not have seen what they would have expected to see – HORNS!

Although a scant few primitive Scandinavians [Scantinavians?] used horned helmets for ceremonial and burial purposes, not one Viking warrior donned one on his gloriously blonde and flowing hair. That is because it was obvious to us that such ornamentations would have been more trouble than they were worth. Imagine trying to pillage with your helmet forever slipping sideways on account of the weight of the horn! Such ludicrous appendages would have raised the centre of gravity way above the base and rendered the helmets unstable! Not only that, but if we had worn them for a laugh when invading, we would have been laughed out of the Islands.

The fat lady who sings the Valkyrie aria is a non-starter for any kind of activity other than standing stock still, upright, and, moving very slowly. Any substantial soprano who moves with any haste at all has had her helmet screwed down firmly onto her head, something that no true Viking would ever have done because it would have interfered with our stunning hairdos. We cannot help it if we are gorgeous and a trifle vain.

The portrayal of my piratical ancestors with horned helmets is possibly a misconception of some early depictions of our noble forbears whose ceremonial helmets, used only on high and holy days, and never for invasions, were frequently adorned with serpents, as were the prows of our feared longboats. Some quondam and ill-informed artist, who obviously flunked his history tests, interpreted the serpentine ornaments into bull’s horns, but in truth there were never any such adornments on our armour.

Such artists might have sought vindication for their false portrayal in what has been described as "a possible depiction of a Viking Age horned helmet," from a severely doubtful illustration on a tapestry depicting an Oseberg Viking burial, and from the supposed horns found on an ancient Danish toy, which are in fact either wheels or serpents.

Nineteenth century Swedish romanticism must take the blame for promulgating and maintaining this wrong-headed nonsense. Modern Nordicfesters with their penchant for accurate cultural details should know even better than their unenlightened predecessors that there is nonesuch as an horned Viking cappello, nor ever was or will be.

Even the primary owners of cattle horns – cattle themselves – know that horns do not belong on headgear. This fact is evidenced by experienced cows that have worn their own personal horns for at least a couple of years. A pair of which same beasts were overheard conversing after their own tusks had been bludgeoned off with a Bronze Age axe and had seen their stolen outgrowths being hammered into crude mounts on the helmet of one of their tormentors.

A disinterested bystander – a hornless porcine – heard one of them remark "They’ll never work. They are too heavy for marauding, plundering, and looting. And I should know! I’ve tried it myself, and my horns always got in the way!" Other cows within earshot nodded gently in agreement without ceasing to chomp their cuds. For these bovine beauties it was an open and shut case.

Mallory, in a fit of imaginative extravagance, put the skin and rag adorned King Arthur into mediaeval tin plate armour, thus lifting Arthur out of his authentic historical setting, and ludicrously plonking him down in the middle of the high age of European chivalry.

Mallory’s massacre of historical context is as incongruous as Shakespeare’s MacBeth having a wind-up alarm clock, King Arthur undressing himself with a tin-opener, or Ebeneezer Scrooge purchasing the big goose for the Cratchett’s Christmas dinner online.

BOY: "Hullo, Mr Scrooge. You look very different this morning! Shall I wend my sparkling way through the frozen snow to the poulterer and grab the goose for the family Cratchit and deliver it to the same on your behalf?"

SCROOGE: "Heck, no, lad. Going shopping on foot, especially in the deadly grip of an icy winter is old hat. I got one on eBay for a fraction of the price! The Post Office same day delivery service will have it there in under twenty minutes!"

In the environment of instant enlightenment in the Information Age, those who erroneously romanticise my Viking forefathers must now take the blame for not knowing from where they hailed, what they would, and what they definitely would not wear!

In the presumptuous certainties that inform advanced age, I am confidant that all such festivals held in the future will be completely accurate in detail as well as in spirit. With this assurance ringing in my ears under my relatively simple and unhorned helmet, I give our ancient Viking battle cry: "Fram! Fram! Cristmenn, crossmenn, konungsmenn!" Which, translated, is: "Forward! Forward! Champions of Christ, of the Cross, and of the king!" Perhaps the Nordicfesters got that detail right, even if kings are a bit hard to come by in the Americas.

Copyright © 2007 – Ronnie Bray

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED