Viking Tale.

Confined in the cryptic wasteland 
Story written in response to the picture. Will continue writing sequels. 

Fog lingered passively over the inclement Norwegian dale marshland, nightfall was fast approaching and eerie swamp sounds were the only sound of life. Ominous clouds scudded across the sky, threatening to enclose all with their prodigious magnitude. Placid raindrops, gradually growing in strength, fell lazily onto the land.

 Suddenly the unambiguous sound of slushing footsteps could be heard vividly across the valley. A group of half a dozen men strode forcefully, with stretched slushy footfalls in knee deep water. Vikings. Stubborn hard-headed men. The group forged ahead for hour after hour, painstakingly wading through the cold water.

Their faces were pale and impassive; fearless, or so it seemed. At the head of the band walked a colossal beast of a man. He had a large, resolute face with icy blue eyes, a forehead engulfed by what appeared to be a permanent frown and a broad mouth with a plethora of glossy white teeth. It was alleged that his teeth were so shiny that he could lure a flock of Crows by merely smiling in their direction. However, all these striking attributes were dwarfed by his giant, red nose. His companions had similar characteristics and although less impressive, they would still bestow quite the fright upon ordinary folk like you and I.

However, one man remained who did not share his companion’s traits; he was a small, skinny, bony-faced man who gawped nervously in every direction.

“Abi!” bawled Gathum, the mammoth man. 

“A-a-a-ye Sir” came a vague reply.

 “How much further to this alleged glass case?” Gathum turned to the rest of the group and spoke in quite a sarcastic manner. “Not just any glass case lads; it is the house of a tree, a tree of which the roots are a woman, a supposed beauty. Legend claims that if one break the glass the tree will evaporate, freeing the fallen beauty. Our ruler - bless him - deems such tales genuine and wants us, his humble warriors, to obtain this beauty. Abi here claims to have found this lost prodigy, hence our presence in this wet wasteland”

 The group made no effort to obscure their displeasure. Then spoke the eldest of the bunch. Garda was short rather chubby with plump ears and beady eyes the most notable of his features. OI, Boss, can’t we chuck him to the lake, mon”… He never completed his sentence.                                                                                              

There it was: the glass case with the tree growing from it. And inside bound by the tree lay a woman. “It is true then” said Gathum, “Aye” emanated the mumble of disbelief from his companions. Gathum spoke again, “Kori, Kotkell! Fetch the hammers!”. “Aye aye, Boss” came the reply from the twins. “Gathum, come see this” The big Viking directed his gaze to his right hand man. Moldof was tall well built with long black hair. He had a straight nose, a copious beard and fists as big as sarsens.

 “What troubles Moldof?”

“Read here Sir,” Gathum read the words engraved in capital on the foot of the glass case.  BEWARE, THIS PRECIOUS JEWEL IS PROCTECTED.

 Wham! A gargantuan thud was followed by the sound of shattering glass. Kori and Kotkell had fetched the hammers and opted to destroy the glass. The tree evaporated and the woman was unbound.

Precipitously ascended terrifying sounds of growling and havoc. The water at their feet dried out instantly, the bucketing rain ceased. The uproar stopped abruptly. Everything was noiseless. Out of nowhere came the most lurid creatures, blood curdling beasts of burden. They were small, about the size of a pony. They had the face of a dragon, body of a lion and a tail with deadly spikes. They were upon the twins in seconds. Kori and Kotkell’s feeble efforts to guard themselves were hopeless. They were slaughtered in seconds.

With rapid nimble movements, the swamp waters returned.  The hideous creatures vanished. Sounds of eerie swamp life returned, once again drops fell from the dark clouds above. The remaining members of the group stood in silence. Abi fixed his gaze on the woman. She hoisted herself upon her feet and stood momentarily inert. With perceptible movement her arm raised, her diaphanous fingers transformed into a fist. Her index finger straightened. “What is she doing?’ Abi questioned in baffled conduct.  “Pointing” Said Moldof. Suddenly the glass case and tree flounced from the earth and repossessed their captive.

The Vikings did not dare to touch the case. Instead they opted to move towards the enormous rock the woman was directing to. Moments later Gathum noticed more words on the rock. He read it out loud. “Whoever lays hand upon the glass case shall perish. A great journey is required to unbolt the precious Jewel.  Begin, by finding the old man of the mountains”. The Group glanced nervously at each other. Each knew, what lay ahead would be the journey of a lifetime.

                       END OF PART ONE 

    I will be posting PART-1 of my new story this week. And will continue to add to it. 

  Here is a preview:

 Precipitously ascended terrifying sounds of growling and havoc. The water at their feet dried out instantly, the bucketing rain ceased. The uproar stopped abruptly. Everything was noiseless. Out of nowhere came the most lurid creatures, bloodcurdling beasts of burden. They were small, about the size of a pony. They had the face of a dragon, body of a lion and a tail with deadly spikes... 

Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment

I had to write this story in response to a picture I received. 

In a gloomy little room sat a strange man, on a fragile brown chair, old and creaky. A mild breeze caressed his dreary face.  His gaze shifted to the yawning window, staring the zephyr straight in the face.  In his hand he held a wooden pipe.  A mysterious pipe of sorts, from which peculiar images glided into the abyss of imagination. He was teased by the temptation of youth, as his thoughts transpired into shapes of mystery.  Shapes, which could be seen floating out the bowl of the pipe.

  The strange images were butterflies, instigated by the child within. Butterflies of overwrought thought. Would he ever see youth again? What lingers in the future of an immortal creature.

 Sorrows  infected his existence of which humanity was the prime. As his thoughts transformed to mankind’s origin, the mysterious floating shapes changed. They were now images of a crying baby. So young and innocent, yet born with a destructive nature. The images altered, they were now phantasmagorias of atrocious entities exposing the brutality of mankind. They ceased abruptly as the man choked. “So innocent”, he muttered in contemptuous fashion.

  Anew he placed the pipe into his mouth, once more beautiful butterflies blew out of its bowl. The intense images he imagined intrigued him to such an extent that he was on the verge of insanity. Why could mankind be blessed blissfully by the approbation of being mortals? And he be doomed with the curse of immortality? “I would not waste it like common dogs!” he screamed, causing the butterflies to evaporate in flaming terror. The man’s thoughts trailed off into perpetual silence as he strove to alienate himself from the matter. Clumsily he stood up and staggered towards an obscure object hidden in the corner of the dimly lit room.  The object appeared to be a dining room table. Laid on the table was a remarkable oil lamp, crafted out of pure gold with diamond dust dramatically imbedded in the resolute handle.  Its glass had enchanting colours, twirling in cohesion with the small flare within. Engraved on side of the glass in silver was the word “IMMORTAL”. The man took hold of the handle and ambled toward his chamber, the groaning of the stairs could be heard vividly as he lethargically clambered upwards. 

I watched patiently, waited upon sleep to ensconce him. “Who am I? I sense you contemplate”. I am the walls, the roof the floor; I am the one who endured generations amid the immortal man. Plentiful imparted, onward we go. 

A dozen times the clock sounded, midnight. Squeak screech Squeak, crackled the panels in metronomic symmetry as a young lad slinked up the rickety staircases. His intent was to pinch the oil lamp the man had carried upstairs. He was sincerely absorbed by its beauty and splendour, which looked even more breath-taking in his command. Without warning a hefty hand slammed around his wrist.  He struggled to tear it off, but it would not budge.  “How vain of you, Youngling” the immortal bawled, “you come into my abode and bid to steal my exquisite gem whilst I lay fast asleep”. He fixed the boy with an unwavering glare. “What is your name, Boy?” he mumbled in a gentler voice. “P-P-Peter, Sir”, came the startled response.  “Run now, young Peter; bring word of the wealthy man on the hilltop”. He released the young boy’s wrist and watched as he rushed with thrilling haste towards the nearby village.                                                                                                                                                                

Dawn broke over the lazy countryside, all was quiet and serene. Then fell the sound of a scream.  “I am Don and I challenge you, so-called Immortal, to a dual ‘til death” roared a knight dressed in apparels of pitch black physiognomies. Gradually I experienced my door being unbolted and slowly floating ajar. The immortal stepped onto my decaying porch; his eyes were impassive as he strolled idly to encounter the knight. Out of the pipe in his mouth glided dreams. They were of a man, grey in years, his father. “You will not age, you will not sicken, you will live forever my son. Be warned however, by man you came to be immortal and by man you could perish”.  The words he heard a thousand years ago echoed in his heart as he drew his sword.