The Outlaw & The Hero
He could hear them. Shouting, knocking, some still climbing, some still falling. He faced the bed, the sheets festering, full of evil magic. «This is not honor», he thought.
Many men heard of the deeds of Grettir the Strong while he lived, have you?
He was born in Iceland, son of Asmund, a well-respected farmer in Bjarg. Historical description relays little of him, only that he was ugly, ill-tempered, and a bad worker. No matter the task, Grettir would always fail. He once skinned his father's favourite horse, whom he had been tasked with tending to. Why? Because the horse had been greedy and stolen all the food from the other horses of course. That was the thing about Grettir. He did not like to do anything he was told do, but on his own volition he could achieve anything he wanted.
Before manhood, he was sentenced to lesser outlawry. He had lost his saddle-pack, another boy had found it and thought it his. Grettir thought not. Three years of Exile followed, which was spent in Norway.
«Damn you Glaum! May the Gods, old as new, curse you!», Illugi cursed. That Honorless slave, human in form only, had forgot his sole task, his shere purpose. The ladder was down, people were streaming up. The Island of Drangey was a naturally fortificated stronghold. A grey and barren rock located an hour of sailing from the mainland. The top was grassy and fertile, so much so that Farmers brought their sheep there to pasture. A dumb move, not only did the sheep, with some manner of regularity, thoughtlessly plunge over the sharp edge and into the freezing north-sea; But it also allowed the party of three, armed with only a rowboat, a sax and a sword, to claim the island for themselves. «Worry not, Kin», Grettir lamented, «I've seen odds worse than this»
«Sun-Moore!» The crew, or rather its remains, shouted in tandem. They had it thought it a bad omen to have such an ugly, ill-tempered brute in an encloased space. Providence had proved them right, but they dared not voice it, it remained a whisper. Yet, the sailors never thought they had been thrown so far of course in the storm as to land there. Today you would call it «Sunnmøre», located in the southwest of Norway. Grettir, poorly lacking in any manners and respect (he had been sleeping the entire voyage), marched on heedless.
Much was said of his endeavours in Norway, little is remembered. Thorfinn, a farmer of no small standing, talked greatly of him. He had ventured into a grave mound alone at night, only to face its sleepless, lifeless inhabitant and emerged superior with Thorfinn's lost sax. He had also defended Thorfinns farm, along with its contents (women and slaves, tables and tapestry) from a savage group of berserkr. Feigning hospitality, which Grettir could only feign it there was true will. He invited them in and acted cordially throughout a truly festive dinner (though not for the women attending), only to lure them to the boathouse and slaughtering them all single handedly. He also took down a bear with Thorfinn's sax, which had been bestowed upon him after killing the berserkr.
After the small matter that was his stay with Throfinn. Grettir sailed north from Thorfinn to Trondheim. There he met an old friend entitled Bjorn, whom he had lost to in a ball game as a youth. Grettir did not like him. Needless to say, Grettir cut him down. however not before treating him with some shabby slam-poetry, then known as kvad. Later, he was attacked by some of Gunnar friends in the open streets. Grettir lived, they did not, which made a man of notable repute, Gunnar, very mad. He sought counsel from Thorstein the Galleon and Jarl Svein, which ended the bloodfeud. To Grettirs dislike, they used words.
His exile served, Grettir returned to Iceland. People thought of him as the strongest and most promising of men, much was said about him - either over tankards, or over shoulders. Elapsing over a period of about a year or so, he succesfully slaughtered a old boy he did not like. He disgraced some brothers and ventured on till he heard something. There were whispers of a haunting at Thorhallstead, gracefully named by its chief inhabitant Thorhall.
Hook walked, his stride sure, his will fading. Grass underneath, sheer rock to all sides. He had been hired by the somewhat displeased sheep owners to fix the petite matter of «the worlds strongest, and most dangerous outlaw having taken over our lands and property». He had heard of Grettir, the fight with Glam. Rumors were unsure if Grettir was part of the world of the living, of civilization, or of the dead, of nature. Nonetheless, he had plenty of sword-fodder at his back, morale had to be held high. His stride was sure. «I may die», he thought «that pagan wench better had done the spell right».
Thorhall, a prosperous and somewhat likeable farmer, had hired a servant named Glam at the behest of Skapti. Skapti was a law speaker, whom had memorized the entirety of the Icelandic Gragas (Grey Goose, their ruefully well named law code). Therefore Thorhall trusted Skapti's advice, it would prove his bane. Glam was not unlike Grettir, which meant lazy and generally up to little or no good. He was also a believer in the old Gods (Thor, Odin, you know?). Thorhall was a christian farmstead, full of devout and pious believers in Christ. He greatly disliked how Glam on Christmas Eve of all nights dishonoured his gods by not fasting, but chugging down a dinner-load of meat and some ale for breakfast. However, Thorfinn was proven right in the god debate, when later that evening Glam did not return from his heroic practice of sheep herding.
«Fucking Hell», the men said. A trail of blood, snailing up the snowy mountainside across mangled and torn bits of something sheeplike, had led them to him. Glam was dead, his body all black and swollen in death, as his soul had been in life. «Lets get him to church, they said» Although not a christian, he deserved a christian burial. Yet, after heaving and hoing for an hour or so, they had not the power to move the body, not an inch.
The day after, they returned accompanied by a priest, thinking gods messenger would aid them, believing they could still be saved. They had oxen too, just in case. They got him as far as the flats before calling it the day.
The Moon in the open, a dead horse. Something was not right. Another Moon, another night. Dead people. People still alive whispering of the slave; the slave who died in the mountains, the slave who could not be moved, the slave who was now moving. Winternight after Winternight, men and livestock were found scattered and torn across the barren, moss covered plains surrounding Thorhall's farm. People fled during the day, they did not escape in the night. Soon only Thorhall remained. At night, lying in his bed he would hear the rafters creek. The beast that was glam was on his roof, riding it like a troll would a horse. The hauntings ceased during summer, as the days grew longer stretching almost across all of hours.
With winter came two things. The Dark. And not far behind it, Grettir Asmundarson. «I warn you, few who have stayed have deemed it wise. Some have died, some have fled after seeing the terror of Glam, some have lost their minds too». Grettir did not care. «If you do decide to stay, I will be very happy, few do. Solitude surrounds me». Grettir did not care if he was happy. Mustering his strenght he forced a horrible, crooked grimace. An attempt at smiling. «I would like to see this monster for myself, I think there are few things stronger than I».
Night came, the winds howled and the moon graced the frosty moss with its presence. Glam decided not to. The next day, Thorhall was pleased to announce that Grettir's horse was unharmed. Grettir did not like it. He had come to face the monster, to test and best his strenght against it. «It had better come soon», he thought. Another night passed by uneventfully, but in the morning Thorhall lamented that he had not found the horse in the stable. Only a pool of blood, escaping into a trail that lead to what was once a creature. Things were looking up.
On the following night the farmer had some grog (as usual) and proclaimed that it was indeed bed time. He cushioned himself deeply in the folds of the only bed in the long hall, prudently located as far away from the entrace as decoratively possible. Grettir kept his clothes on, but lay down on a bench next to the bed. He took a sheepskin from a coffer. His feet held one end in place against the armleans, while he stretched the skin over his head and clenched it tight, as hard as he could.
«Bunk....Bunk, Creek, Bunk», Glam had returned. Not riding the roof as much as perusing it with all the might of his heels. He soon grew tired by the lack of response and jumped down to the door. Grettir clenched the sheepsking tight. Peering through a small gap in the skin, he saw what he would later describe as the most horrid, deformed creature in all of nature. Hunched, it marched. Breath Rasping, he advanced. The creature saw the sheepskin and wondered what lump object it would find beneath. Curiosity; the progrees of man, the downfall of beasts. Glam took a hold of it and jerked. It did not budge. Once more, even harder. Nothing. Mustering all his power, he jerked a third time, tearing the skin in half. Grettir and Glam now stood face to face, each holding their shar of the Skin. Someone had to die. Grettir would not like it to be him.
A fierce battle, a fierce curse. Grettir ducked under Glams arms and squeezed him in an attempt to crush his spine. He failed. Glam shoved him off and grabbed his arms. Grettir used all his power, all his worth to break free, only to find the creature retreating. Knocking over what stools and crates still dared to linger in the purposelly barren hall, he was headed for the exit. Grettir did not think, he ran. He caught up with the creature by the entrance. A savage game of strenght, of honour. Glam trying to get out, Grettir trying to keep him within. Feeling his strenght fading, his honour slipping, Grettir did what the monster did not expect. The monster tried to take him in close in a feeble attempt to chrush his life. Grettir charged back, sending both flying towards the exit, whilst still entwined. Mid-flight Grettir plunged his legs forward, bracing them against the archway. They did not stop. The creature fell back. The archway was torn to pieces by the force. Yet, the archway retaliated by severing both Glams arms from the shoulder.
There were no skies, no promise of rain. There was no wind to howl, no sun to shine. All that existed was the frost laden ground, and high above it, the moon. The monster lay at the bottom, Grettir on top. Moonlight revealed the horrid deformities of the monster to Grettir. Then a whisper, a promise, a curse.
«You have spent much energy, Grettir, in your search for me. Nor is that to be wondered at, if you should have little joy thereof. And now I tell you that you shall possess only half the strength and firmness of heart that were decreed to you if you had not striven with me. The might which was yours till now I am not able to take away, but it is in my power to ordain that never shall you grow stronger than you are now. Nevertheless your might is sufficient, as many shall find to their cost. Hitherto you have earned fame through your deeds, but henceforward there shall fall upon you exile and battle; your deeds shall turn to evil and your guardian-spirit shall forsake you. You will be outlawed and your lot shall be to dwell ever alone. And this I lay upon you, that these eyes of mine shall be ever before your vision. You will find it hard to live alone, and at last it shall drag you to death»
Hook laughed. To think that the man, the legend would be utterly undone by a curse was the ultimate irony. He knew that Grettir had not cared about religion, all he cared about was power, honor. It had gotten him far, but Glam's curse had weakened him. Although he did not become stronger after their encounter, he was still the strongest man in all of Iceland. If he was still a man.
The witch had sent a piece of driftwood, unnatural, beset with a curse against the currents towards drangey. Grettir had found it and was now hopefully in bed, shivering in agony. Thinking about his honor, his death.
People claim, I do not, that Grettirs fight with Glam was the pinnacle of his career. However, many adventures remain...Oh, perhaps you have not heard of his Full Outlawry, his meeting with the King himself!
They say he swam naked across a wild sea in a storm. I believe them. He had spotted some fire on the other side, and ventured across. He had hoped to borrow some with him back across the blue so as to kindle a fire where his companions where sitting. However, the curse set in. He emerged from the waters frozen from top till toe. Upon entering the cabin he believed to hold some fire, the ominous men within misstook him, sadly, for a troll. Long story short, they made a big fuzz and burnt the hut down, sadly with themselves still inside. Also, they were big shots in Norway, making a lot of people angry at Grettir.
After this Grettir met with King Olaf of Norway to prove his innocence. To no surprise for the medieval historian, it was trial by fire. He failed. A boy slammed him with some poetry, making him drop the torch he was parading towards the church. Thus he failed. Deemed an outlaw to the death, anyone could kill him, withouth reprisals. No one was allowed to help him (Though Grettir's rather superb knack of strenght made some people think otherwise.
This hollistic endeavour eventually leads him to the end, Drangey. But before that, he is bested in strenght from a man named Lopt (who later turns out to be a troll). He kills another ghost, a handfull of men and a She-Troll. He peruses the wild, finding shelter in home-made cabins, a cave and a mesmerizing valley of Ice. However, for some untabgible reasos people are always trying to kill him, which leads him to the creed that an isolated Island (Drangey) will be his rescue (It will not).
Illugi drew his sword «I'm the brother of the strongest, most feared outlaw in history. I am power, I am kin. I am Honor, I am Blood» The thin rotting door exploded in a mist of brown shrapnel. For a while he was dazed, his world foggy. Then he saw him. Hook steadfast in the entrance, parading the treacherous, lecherous and thoroughly severed head of Glaum. The sight filled him with Rage, Power. His torso heaved upwards by the volition of the straining muscles in his legs. His arm bent back, reaching for his bed-stricken brother, only to decide otherwise and rebound towards Hook. Hook stepped aside.
This can be said of Illugi. He was strong and brave. But not as strong as his kin, Grettir the Outlaw. After a brave fight, he was cut down. The sick and meek Grettir, soon thereafter, unable to lift his sax. But he managed one last feat, to become the longest living Outlaw in Icelandic History, to the great detriment of Gisli Sursson.
After his death people felt bad. After all he had done a great deal of good. He had helped people fight monsters, wights, bears, trolls, bersekr, you name it. In recognition of this lauable fact, he was duefully entitled a christian burial and a dash of tears. Oh, and also, his unknown son, Thorbjorn Hook travels to Constantinople to avenge him. A tale for another time perhaps?
(Closes the book) «But grandfather, how come only you remember him?», they clamented «Well, it is not only I who remember. Have you not seen the movie Beowulf?», the old man whispered from his rocking chair. «He who raced across the ocean. Battled Grendel. Saved the kingdom, only to grow old and die, but not before slaynig a fire-breathing dragon of course. One of the few mentioned in western litterature.» His grandchildren paused at that. «Come now, I think grandma's roast Turkey is just about ready.»
True, few christians wanted to accept the noble deeds of the pagan barbarian known as Grettir. He was neither smart, nor kind. Only strong. But people whisper, and soon the whispers reached the isles of Orkney, and then the Frenchly occupied Britain (Sadly for the Vikings who held London for a whole day) . People talk. But whispers transform as it is carried across the lips of men. It morphs and stirs, until the whisper is no longer the truth but what one deems the truth should be. What truth do you think it is? The Mighty Hero Beowulf, or the Powerul Outlaw Grettir?
