Back in 2011, when we were in the throes of packing up and refurbishing the house to sell, I let this blog fade to black. Inertia (a.k.a. Newton's First Law) is more powerful than Physics class ever implies. Even having a folder labeled "Blog fodder" and occasionally slipping a .TXT file into it wasn't enough motivation to pull this monster out of its cryogenic tube.
After I made the decision to go with a Monday-Wednesday-Frivolous-Friday schedule, however, it was amazing how attuned my spider-senses were to potential topics. And that even without the additional stimulus of working in an office chock-full of people. (Cats and finches, as a rule, are not the best of muses.)
But sometimes--only sometimes, mind!--inspiration does not exactly kick in the door like the baddie in a B-grade kung-fu movie. Unlike Victorian writers, I don't have the luxury of brining my synapses in absinthe until inspiration hits. (And we won't even go into applied chemistry as practiced by Ernest Hemingway or Hunter S. Thompson, m'kay?)
That's where the intersection of history and literature come to the rescue.
Mercifully, the Society for Creative Anachronism doesn't have any rules or norms about couples having to "match" in their chosen eras. So my Renaissance Venetian persona doesn't bat an eyelash at her Norse husband's outlandish costume or customs (much less the fact that they're living about half a millennium apart in time). Also, by osmosis, she (meaning 21st century I) has a distinct appreciation for a poem known as Höfuðlausn, which translates as "head-ransom."
Höfuðlausn is a poem within a larger work known as "Egil's Saga." Egill (with an extra "L") Skalla-Grimsson, unsurprisingly, is the hero of the piece. Egill had a long-standing feud with the king of Northumbria (part of Viking-age England). Through mishap, Egill finds himself stranded in Northumbrian territory. But rather than being considered cowardly, he presents himself at the court of the king. Which was certainly enough to merit consideration for a Darwin Award...even without the fact that the king is known to history as "Eric Bloodaxe."
But don't touch that dial! Egill has an ally at on Bloodaxe turf. This go-between (Erinbjorn) plays to King Eric's machismo, pointing out that killing a lone enemy under the cover of darkness would be more than just a little sketchy. As post-script, he reminds the king that Egill just happens to be a famous poet, and that perhaps Egill could be (ahem!) "persuaded" to provide a catchy PR piece for the king.
Now. If you want to grok the classic Norse, you need to grok the concept of what they called "word-fame." In their religion, all things--including the earth and even the all-powerful gods themselves--would eventually be destroyed. But "word-fame," having one's name on the lips of generations yet unborn--that was immortality. It was a powerful ideal--echoing through through centuries to the words Shakespeare puts into the mouth of Henry V at Agincourt.
And, it seems, this was too tempting an offer for Eric Bloodaxe to refuse. Then--as Egil's Saga tells the story, anyway--was the "head-ransom" composed and memorised in a single night. And Egill--though never really reconciled with the King or vice-versa--is allowed to go on his way unharmed.
Thus, when I realise that it's a blogging day and it's already after dinner and I've yet to be ambushed by a snappy meme or fresh twist on current events, I can't in good conscience wimp out. (Granted, there are parts of the internet even meaner than bad ol' King Eric Bloodaxe: I'm looking at you, reddit!). My Gentle Readers are of course more forgiving. But maybe that--as well as the memory of Egill Skalla-Grimsson--is more of an incentive to bring my A-game every single post.
Skål!
