Fair Winds

"The tale is told in Ireland of the giant Finn McCool, and his constant battles with a rival in Hibernia, Benandonner. That island is supposed to be a clod of earth which Finn threw at Benandonner when he challenged him to a fight."

"But as Benandonner came closer, Finn realised that his rival was much bigger than he was, so he turned and ran home where he asked his wife to hide him. She dressed him in baby clothes and put him in a cradle. When Benandonner arrived, she told him that the baby's father was not home. When Benandonner saw the size of the 'baby' it was his turn to be afraid: he turned and ran."

Palle grinned at the grizzled warrior's anecdote. The ease of bearing with which he told it, and the unmistakeable glint of humour in his eyes were more than enough to show Erik's opinion of any element of truth in the tale.

"And what of Finn's rival? On your travels, have you perhaps heard a version of the tale as told by those who live at the other end of the 'Step Stones' Finn claims to have placed in the sea?"

Erik bellowed with laughter and poured himself a refill. A second drink horn appeared as if by magic, which he filled and passed to Palle without spilling a drop.

"I must be careful: I sense in you the quick wit of a true Bard! And yes, we've also traded with those who live but a few leagues of temperamental sea to the east, but such tales as they tell seem full of gloom and sadness. They lack the lively humour and spirit of the tales told in Erin – even if they are sprinkled with unproved claims and wild exaggerations! At very least, they bring a smile to the lips, and that alone is a precious gift!"

"But on the subject of 'precious gifts' there is another matter I would breach with you" Erik continued. His tone of voice altered subtly. He was no longer the jovial host sharing a drink with an honoured guest, and Palle was wary enough to notice the shift. There had been a number of occasions on their travels thus far when he had seen how Easten had avoided answering direct questions without giving offence, and he trusted himself to do the same. This was his first drink, and although he sensed its potency he was still (he hoped) in full control of his tongue. "You would know more about the lute Perori" he began. Since I can't avoid the subject, I might as well do it on my own terms, he thought. Erik sipped from his horn and nodded for Palle to continue. Palle settled himself on an amorphous lump of cloth tossed over some deck gear and waited for Erik to join him, out of the wind.

"I cannot claim deep knowledge of the instrument's history, other than to repeat what I have been told by her current minstrel, Easten."

Erik picked up immediately on Palle's very slight hesitancy.

"A curious choice of word, young priest! Yet, true as it may be, I think 'minstrel' is hardly the greatest compliment you could use for a Bard who has undoubted powers far beyond the commonplace, both vocally and in the skills he has demonstrated in the playing of this beautiful instrument. Does he not own it?"

Palle looked shocked at the thought, almost offended.

"No, never! Who could truly claim to own the beauty of the music she produces, the harmonies that please the soul of the listener, the chords which excite men to strive to their limits in battle, the tender melodies to ease the heart, encourage rest when the day comes to a close? She speaks to all: her message is one of Unity, Peace, Understanding”

" … and, it would seem, Healing. How else are we to explain the change which came over Easten when you laid Perori upon his breast?"

"Yes, that too!" Palle nodded his agreement. " And when a seasoned warrior such as yourself recognises these qualities, and how they might …" he faltered, not wanting to offend.

" … how they might be used to secure agreement between opponents, bring conflicts to an end? I'm no longer a young man, Palle. I've fought battles on land and at sea almost all my life, but I'm ready to lay my sword on one side and rejoin my family. I have one son who barely remembers me, and another who can only know of me through stories told in my absence! I've been alone far too long: hemlängtan, we call it: you would say homesickness. I sense that Perori might be an opportunity for me to put an end to my restless roaming of the seas, return home, grow old with my family.”

"A Viking who tires of war? That is something I never thought to hear: I might even be tempted to write a humorous ballad about it!" Palle observed, with a broad grin which removed any suggestion of ridicule or offence.

Erik seemed genuinely amused.

"Our songs and tales aren't all about blood, slaughter and glorious victories! We have a sense of humour, and laughter has its place in all our feasts and drinking songs! I like the idea of a song I can sing to my children and grandchildren which will amuse them as I sit at the hearth fire and allow them to fuss around me!"

"I could never expect to match Easten in verse" Palle cautioned "or the music which he coaxes so effortlessly from Perori, but if it pleases you I will make the best fist I can."

Erik nodded his approval.

"It seems clear to me that you regard the instrument itself, Perori, just as important to the songs and ballads as the words which you, Easten, or any other Bard might use to pen your verses."

"We men of war grow close to our favourite weapons, and many choose names for their swords: losing a well-loved blade or having it damaged beyond repair is something we take as seriously as losing a comrade in battle! You clearly have the same love and respect for your musical instruments, giving them names: indeed, you speak of them as if they were living entities, with their own essence of life!"

"Yet that is clearly not possible. At some time in history, each had to be fashioned by a craftsman or craftsmen, from wood and other materials which I grant were once part of a tree or other living object, but the tree had to be cut down and die before the lute you call by a name, and refer to as 'she', not 'it' could be fashioned. This is what I fail to understand ...?"

Palle nodded.

"What you have heard Easten and myself use when talking about this very special instrument, Perori, is a word from a language spoken only in Cymraeg, not in other parts of the country, and it translates as "music". It isn't (as far as I know) used as a 'personal name' but every person who speaks the Welsh language would know at once what you were talking about. Amongst the tribes and families I have worked for and lived with throughout my life - which has been considerably shorter than Easten's so far! - it is our custom to allocate Names carefully - some would say, grudgingly - and in every case we make the Name appropriate to the person who bears it for the rest of their life. Until the Church began the custom of dousing the heads of new-born infants with water "in the name of the Lord" most of our children - especially our Firstborn - took the same name as their father ..."

"Even the girls?"

"There was a time not so long ago when girls weren't considered important enough to be given names, or at least not before they approached a marriageable age!" Palle explained. "That was something else which this new religion has sought to change, and the idea of protecting or 'saving' something called their 'soul' which if I have understood the Priest correctly is invisible, untouchable, impossible to weigh or measure ... and yet we all possess one, or so they say!"

"Yet the old ways change but slowly, and many still give their children names which fit their nature or their skills and aptitudes. This is 'tacked on' to the name they are given when the Priest wets their heads at birth.

Palle paused for a moment to make certain he had Erik’s full attention.

"As far as Perori is concerned, Erik, it’s vital you understand that she really has her own personality. She deserves the honour and courtesy you show all your beautiful women!"

"But she is Easten's instrument, and I could never match him in skill! When his life ends, she will pass to one who is chosen in open competition at an Eistedfodd."

"I have my own instrument, and the few skills I possess, but this crab needs the solidity of land beneath his feet! I beg you, allow me to complete this passage and I'll see what I can do to honour the tale of your ... " he paused, momentarily lost for a suitable word to complete the sentence.

Erik smiled.

"We have a word we use for our unending travels, one which I think you might find useful! In our language, voyages are often called "resa": but we also have our own poets, storytellers such as yourself and Easten, and they often conjure up words they will use to avoid repeating themselves. For example, one I like the very sound of is togt - a word so ancient, none can tell me when it was first used!"

"It is also easier to say than many of the words of your Old Language which I have heard spoken" Palle observed, "and for that reason alone (and with your agreement) I will gladly use it in my account of your victories!"

Erik beamed, and stood. He thrust out his hand to seal their agreement, but suddenly his eyes flicked over Palle's head as if something had caught his attention. Palle spun on his heel, but he lacked a good six inches on Erik's massive frame. He saw nothing on the limitless grey seascape which reached to the horizon on all sides.

"Halloj! Skib!!" Erik bellowed, with full lungs. His sword flickered with sparks as he drew it and beat a dozen or so strokes on a shield snatched from a small pile stacked on the foredeck. Within seconds, thirty or forty men appeared, most of them fully armed and ready for action.

Palle stayed where he was: he knew better than to interfere. Easten dragged himself up from below decks too, with Moirag hanging on his elbow, clearly pleading with him to return below decks and rest.

Erik threw back his head and bellowed something to a sailor Palle couldn't see, but when a faint reply came a few seconds later he realised the object of Erik's furious torrent of invective must be a lookout, high in the rigging, who had failed to spot whatever it was Erik had seen from deck level. The two words were close enough: Palle realised that "skib" almost certainly translated as "ship", and from Erik's reaction he had not the slightest doubt that whoever was sailing it would not be one of Erik's long- lost cousins.

Easten looked up, saw Palle and gave him an unmistakeable come-hither gesture, which Moirag immediately reinforced. Palle dithered for a second, until Erik glanced in his direction and gave him the same order with a slashing hand gesture.

The open foredeck of a longship about to go into battle is no place for an inexperienced landcrab, Palle decided, and scurried to follow as swiftly as possible the instructions he'd received from two separate sources.