The Lass of the Hebrides

She walked through the heather,
That bonnie Scottish lass;
She didn't mind the weather,
Or how long it would last.

Her hair it was fire,
Her eyes green gems.
Her dress was quite pretty,
Embroidered 'round the hems.

And then we stormed the Hebrides!
And she never more stood at ease.
The fury of the Northmen she despised with her might--
we had brought to her land such great plight.

But she evaded the savage,
She hid from the berserk--
All those who would ravage
Her lovely framework.

And I, son of Thorguld,
When her beauty did espy,
Did not a moment her hold,
But urged her to fly!

For a woman is not an object--
Not a creature so fair!--
For the cruel whims of men to subject,
So I far, far I sent her from there.

Where did she go,
The Hebridean lass?
Did she recall how I helped her so,
How at her I made no pass?

Long dead in the isles,
She lies with her mothers,
And Sven here reviles,
The evil of his brothers.

But I recall, I recall,
A thousand years thence,
Her who stood proud and tall,
Longing each day to make recompense.

Where are the horns?

This question is pretty much unavoidable whenever people look at me. They want to know where the horns have gone.

The horns never were.

That's right. Vikings with horns are a falsehood from that uekte Wagner (more on him later) and the 19th-century Romantickism.

Vikings don't really need horns. First of all, I think they'd've been a pain to attach to the metal helmet; second of all I think they'd be a bit of a liability for when one slashes down with a sword or a two-handed axe. Also, we're fearsome enough as it is.

We can scare the habit off a monk without horns, heya! We sing our Vikings rowing songs, yell our battle-cries, and charge, heya! There is no need for horns when a Viking is making his move, his eyes shining with the lust for battle and for geld. No need for horns when a berserker is making his fierce foray into the field!

Also, we have dragon-prowed ships, which people see and can strike fear. And the glint of steel swords and spear-points.

It wasn't horned helmets that made people pray to God to save them from the fury of the Northmen.

It was pure, unmixed Northman fury.

HEYA!!

Beowulf & Grendel

I like the movie Beowulf & Grendel. It has some good representations of what Vikings were like in the 6th century. And it looked wet and cold much of the time, which is good, 'cause that's pretty accurate. It was also good pathetick falacy, if you ask me, to make it cold and autumny with this Troll running around eating people and stuff.

Far* says I should separate the Viking from the movie-goer, that it helps you enjoy stuff more. He says that as a Classickist this is what he does all the time. Whatever, heya!

I mean, I get what Far's saying, right? However, I just have to mention their portrayal of Grendel.

He was a big hairy guy. Tall, sure. Overly hairy. And with a language that was mainly grunts.

Not. A. Troll.

Sorry, guys. You'd think Icelanders would know. Maybe Icelandic trolls are different from Norwegian and Danish ones. Maybe it was the Canadian or UK bit that ruined the Troll; Far doesn't think there've bin Trolls in Canada for a long time, if ever. (Being a Classickist, he just thinks they're mythickal.)

I mean, they got the bit where if you kill a Troll's far, he's gonna go crazy and start killin' all sorts of people and eatin' them an' stuff. Sure. No prob. I've seen it afore, heya! So Grendel was all Troll when he breakin' into the mead hall and tearin' Danes limb from limb.

And I would like to point out that, sure killin' Grendel's far was wrong, but Grendel's Trollpage (that's a Troll rampage) was several hundred times worse, really. And what's Beowulf and Hrothgar to do? Clearly killing this Troll is a matter of survival, not of ethicks.

Anyway, so here's the thing about Trolls.

They're a lot . . . wider than in the movie. Yeah, that covers it. Wider. Alotta times, they're taller, but . . . proportionally (that's it, right?) wider. With claws. And fur. Not hair, but fur. They're nasty, furry guys. And they have these scary-looking fangs. And freaky eyes, deep black ones, heya! Black ones that suck you in and draw you closer

closer...

closer...

AND THEN THEY EAT YOU UP!!!

There's no wild rumpus with Trolls. You say, "Let the wild rumpus start!" and then they tear you limb from limb and drink your blood.

Saw it happen to a kid named Max once. Poor guy.

There's a difference betwixt Trolls and Wild Things, that's all I'm gonna say.

Anyway, Trolls are not cool. You really just got to avoid 'em. If you see a Troll, don't kill it, 'cause if you only wound it, tomorrow night, he's crashin' through the doors to your mead hall and eatin' manflesh! And if you do kill it, and it's a got a kid somewhere, tomorrow night, or 15 years from now, that kid's crashin' through the doors to your mead hall and eatin' manflesh! Or if it's got a mom, she'll come crashin' through the doors to your mead hall and eat manflesh!

But if you come across a Troll and it agresses in anyway, kill it. Don't wait for poor Hygelac or Sigemund to get torn limb from limb and scattered across the grove of poplars. Take out your sword -- or, better yet, two-headed axe (suitable for hewing trees and other sichlike things) -- and kill 'im! Chop 'im down! You don't want to be a Troll's next meal! No manflesh for this Troll!

And then make sure you tell a scop, 'cause there's no point in killin' a Troll if no one sings about it. You gotta get some good songs sung about this deed. Man, if you don't tell a scop about your great deeds, then what's the point? Great deeds die if no one sings of them! Get some renown, my friend! Kill a troll, tell a scop, he writes a song, immortal glory! So. Easy.

In short: Beowulf & Grendel -- good movie. Trolls -- dangerous and hairy.

*Father in Norwegian.

My first post

I am glad to be part of this world of blogging now. Dad calls it the "blogosphere," but whatever, eh? Whenever I say "eh" I feel like a true Canadian, not an immigrant from some faraway country or a factory or anything like that, eh, but a true north strong and free Canadian, eh? What do you think, eh? Mind you, sometimes, I'm not so into "eh", eh?

Sometimes, I want to sound my barbaric yawp (I listened to Dead Poets Society once; should watch it with Dad sometime). I want to climb up onto the desk, only the ceiling in this basement apartment is too low. So, better, from the rooftops of the world! Climb up on top of this building, up above the toppest floor, on the shingles, with nothing above me but the sky and cry aloud:

HEYA!

Heya is way better than "eh", my friends. "Eh" speaks of uncertainty. "What do you think, eh?" "Where are we going, eh?" "That's a big one, eh?" "So, you're a Viking, eh?" It turns statements into questions.

HEYA!

There are no questions here! I am a Viking! I am proud and tall! I shall sound this yawp far and wide with my strength! I shall brandish my axe and cry aloud!

HEYA!