Chapter 34 - the Dancing Pig
Ryeamund had the pleasure of seeing his three sons raised with the best possible education available in his society to be found. Because Eira brought this to the table as a mother, Ryeamund felt he had to do his part to best attempt to equal her contribution. He agreed to the sons being the biggest and strongest they could be, and agreed further to refine their very character to what her people wanted. The two oldest were full fledged big-men, and Ryeamund would not examine them himself. He had others approve or disapprove of them and their abilities and qualities, so that no one could claim they were the "son of whoever" as the reason they were what they were.
Eira had counseled, and Ryeamund had agreed with her. There were three stages in a child's growth to adulthood that were perilous. When very young, children hit a certain young age where the hands off policy was not going to cut it. A mother had to whack her hand upside a kid's head to curb the sharp tongue to adults. It was a quick and easy cure, they both agreed. Only then you could go back to the gentler policy, which the child now preferred. When used sparingly, it worked all manner of wonders on young children.
'Aye. The back of the mother's hand, is as salt upon meat. A pinch of salt, at the right time, does season the meat to be best. Too much or too little salt, will spoil the meal.'
Stage two generally occurred somewhere in the teens. Many got willful and once again free with a sharp tongue to adults. Acting like dimwitted giants to those around them if strong, or great mischievousness and small evils if weaker. Eira warned them that if whacking them upside the head or backhanding them across their mouth didn't produce the desired result, she would clonk them over the head with her small cast iron egg pot. Each of the two oldest boys had discovered much to their surprise, that Eira was not kidding about this feature.
Apparently it was not just an urban legend father spoke of, that mother was willful enough to clonk a full grown man over the head with a cast iron pot. Gareen had once uttered the famous last words "I should like to see you try to---" and he had woken up on the flat of his back on the dry laid stone floor in the kitchen, seeing little white dancing stars superimposed over the ceiling timbers that seemed so interesting to look at. Gareen had absolutely no idea why he had been sleeping on the kitchen floor, nor why he was so enthralled on gazing at these moving white things.
They were not really stars, they were more like soft little off white dots. The dots moved randomly, and had little "tails" that trailed behind them. Sort of like tiny little snow white tadpoles that did not wiggle, and moved in shifting yet somehow hypnotic straight lines.
"Mekall!!"
Eira called out tersely for the other brother. Mekall came running, mother's voice had sounded urgent.
"Aye, there ye be."
"Mother! What happened ?!"
"Well. Do ye see where I am standing? I tell you, I have not moved."
"Aye…?"
"Ye sees how yer brother lies, do ye not?"
"Aye…"
"Let us test your wits on the matter, then. What would ye guess happened here."
"Did… Gareen give you a sharp tongue one too many times."
"Aye… and nay… he has been giving me a dull, yet constant tongue. That? I will tolerate. It is a test of wits, a test of reckoning. Now then, yer brother? He has taken to puffing and standing up, as a rooster. Widening his legs out, crossing his big arms across his big chest he puffs out. Ye have seen him do it."
"Aye."
"Mekall, stand where ye brother must surely have been standing. Come, ye have my word on the matter, I swear I will not place my hand upon you."
Mekall was hesitant to do so. What with his gigantic brother laid out on the floor, sleeping peacefully at just past mid day with a giant bloody egg on the side of his skull and surely another on the back of his head. He went and stood in the spot. He was thinking how this could not possibly be a good thing.
"Stand as I described. Ye have my oath, that I only want to show you with words only, what his error was. A man with wits will kill him for that error."
"Now then, am I not wearing my robe?"
"Aye."
"Ye knows well, that there are two tiny knives up the sleeves. Daring a person and standing as such… what if ye did not know what a new man has on his body, hidden from yer eyes."
…and in the blink of an eye, Mekall saw mother zip! her tiny but wickedly sharp little knife over and firmly up into his groin. She must have a third tiny knife, in some location he did not know of. He glanced down, mother had not lied. It was clearly the dull edge of the little knife pressing up, he knew he was in no real danger.
"Aye. I would tell yer brother the importance of this, yet you can tell him later, when he is fully awake. For your benefit… he stood so, and dared me to put my cast iron pot upside his head."
"The list of errors, grows. He was not being polite, and was giving me a constant dull tongue. I spoke plain, about the iron pot. He then stood as a rooster, and dared me. So? I did so. You can see the result of that wisdom… now then. How to prevent this. Were Gareen being polite, as is best, our words would not have led us here. Then, had he not been playing rooster, this would not have happened. I have already shown you, that if you do this to a man who has wits? You will pay with yer life."
"Yer brother? He is sleeping, when he should be taking a short lesson from me. So, help yer brother up and into a chair there."
Mekall shrugged, and had to help his taller and thicker brother into a chair. He was all but dead weight, and all his brother's movements worked against his efforts. He finally managed to get the bulk of his head and shoulders up and over the ass of the chair, and Gareen was able to at least hold himself there. Hugging the chair seat. When Gareen was able to quit scratching his feet against the stone floor uselessly, he helped him up to get his own ass upon the ass of the chair, where it belonged. He had to hold his shoulders steady, to keep him sitting. Gareen had the most confused look on his face, and periodically would shake his head.
Mother leaned down with her hands on the table, and stared into his barely focused eyes. Then she addressed him tersely.
"Gareen. I will speak, and you will listen. My people, have spent a great deal of time, coin, and effort. All these labors have gone to but a single purpose. To select the best people, with the best abilities, and the very best character. Ye well know, I am called a 'kingmaker' in my lands. I am not a 'giant-maker' and I am surely not a 'fool-maker'. I will not see all this great effort go to waste… I will not see a lord grow bad character."
Each "not" she raised her voice on, was punctuated with a small cast iron egg pot bashed on the table forcefully. She paused briefly, before pointing the small iron pot at Gareen, sitting there quietly, finally able to focus his eyes a little bit.
"You. Mighty Gareen… you have great gifts. You are almost as mighty as Thor himself. The problem be? You are acting like the young Thor. Full of way too much pride for the gifts you were given by the gods. They are not your own to be proud of, they are gefts, and you will use them properly. You will act like the adult Thor, after he learned the error of his ways. I will not raise a giant son to become a burden to the people around him."
Eira then turned her steady gaze on the standing brother, and pointed the cast iron pot at him.
"And you? Ever crafty Mekall… you had best learn from this entertainment. Your gifts are many as well. You will not act as the adult Loki. You, will act as the young Loki did, and use the geft of your mischief to aid your brother, and indeed, the people around you. I will not see your useful mischief turn into self serving evil."
Mekall, as it turned out, the more mischievous of the two of the brothers? He had later to be administered this great honor twice before he figured out the folly of not following his mother's advice on how to talk to people and how to act like a lord.
No one really knew if mother had ever whacked Ryeamund over the head with a cast iron pot. One time the kids asked, Eira said no and Ryeamund said yes. Another time, it was reversed. Yet another time both said yes. Once, both had said no.
The third and final stage, if it ever came to that point? Which by design it never would, yet if it somehow did. Was the remote possibility one of the three sons reached adulthood and somehow developed bad character traits. North-men were known for being giant men, and the men in Eira's family line were known for height. Eira was over 6 foot tall, and the men were known to reach close to 7 with regularity.
This kind of height and strength made them a little over average height in their society, but they were not true giant men. Men went over 7 feet tall with great regularity some of them. The pure north-men were a hair taller than the RavinLunden, but were heavier and many were much thicker. Some Ravens cut with pure north-men were well over 7 feet tall, and thick as tree trunks of sleek muscle.
The mothers of these huge young men had to have some way of getting through to them, when a backhand would no longer have any effect whatsoever. A heavy wooden rolling pin, and a small cast iron pot… were found to be the two best options. The wooden rolling pin was actually too dangerous. Leaving the small cast iron pot as unlikely as it would seem, the only effective and fairly safe instrument for the job.
Ryeamund appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. He was in short thick burlap trousers. Barefoot and carrying his leather boots he favored when working with wood or metal. He had been filing a large piece of hard iron to use as a form, over which to beat red hot metal gone soft into shape. It would take days of steady labor in the summer heat. He had obviously taken a quick dip in the cold spring fed pond to cool off before returning to his hobby work.
"Woman. I thought I heard some ruckus in the kitchen. Is it any large matter?"
"Nay, Little Rye. Go about yer affairs. The boys were just enjoying a short lesson. I am well able to handle my own affairs in my own kitchen."
"If ye need nothing, then."
"Nay. We are done."
Eira was sure her cast iron egg pot would see the two oldest boys into adulthood with the character traits she required of them. Ryeamund was just the backup plan if all else failed.
Ryeamund would then have to step in and handle the matter if things came to a head. Things never went to that point, and both Eira and Ryeamund were completely satisfied with the character and nature of their two oldest boys. The youngest son, was still a wee little kid at this time.
There was a very brief period in the two oldest boy's developmental phases where they were in their late teens, and Eira had more or less the rapt attention of both boys if she verbally threatened them. Ryeamund and Eira both agreed, however, that particularly Gareen was starting to sort of "stand back" and watch Ryeamund. He seemed to be calculating. Perhaps their varying height, and varying thickness.
Ryeamund had never once seriously struck either of his two gigantic sons, who were much taller than he was. One day, he walked over to Gareen and Mekall, and he asked them if indeed, were they calculating how strong or how dangerous he really would be, if it came down to it. He smiled easily, he explained he was not threatening his own sons, he just wanted to make sure his sons believed he could. Were they curious?
Neither son wanted to try him on for size, but Ryeamund asked them if they were not curious. That it was okay to wonder. Ryeamund eventually got the late teen sons, who were soon to be big-men, to admit that on some level… could not some of the tales have gotten slightly taller over the winters. Ryeamund explained that they were now old enough, that if he could get mother's permission on the matter, they could travel somewhere and watch their father fight for sport.
Just this one time, Ryeamund explained, would it not be good sport to watch. They could each have horns of mead with other stout, hearty men. They could watch big, strong, muscular men fight for wagers in front of cheering crowds.
They looked at each other, and each took turns quizzing their father. Would they have to fight? No… was there no way this was a trick, and they had to fight their father? No… all they were being asked to do… was to go along on a long journey, and they could watch their father "act as a drunken tavern fool", as both Ryeamund and his kingmaker wife Eira claimed such behavior to be.
Each boy looked at the other, it sounded like a quite novel adventure. It took several days, asking Eira each day for permission. Eira finally "relented" and gave her leave of it. She winked at Ryeamund, and he winked back. Neither boy saw this.
The plan was formed. Ryeamund was a well known big-man up north. Any big-men passing through on errand would naturally stop and stay. Rest up, eat and drink and pass idle time. Be provisioned well and sent on their way. This was a very common occurrence, they all considered themselves blood brothers. The next time three men came through, Ryeamund winked at his two sons and asked what southern borderland district, was right now the rowdiest.
The men laughed, and rolled their eyes. The next district to the west was "bad", but… the next one to the northeast of that one? Was fast becoming legendary for the moment. The goon squad was having problems when sent down to quell "problem village taverns". They had to send down a larger goon squad of better selected men to get the desired impression on the locals. That you will not put your hands on neither the king's armor nor the king's armored merchants for no reason if they were leaving you alone.
The two late teen boys were eyeing each other silently. Father politely extracted the information out of the fellow big-man that he wanted. Which village, and which tavern in it, had the worst reputation. Surely there was one that stood out. Every village had one, the tavern where all the big woodcutters and all the big blacksmiths tended to gather every week's end, and spread blood and teeth around, and everyone would simply cheer and wager it for sport.
He was given a village name, instructions on how to get to the village, and the tavern was infamous. "The Dancing Pig" was where he wanted to visit.
Father started planning their trip, and the two boys were excited to see this adventure. It was not quite three weeks traveling to get there. Ryeamund and his sons dressed in common farmer's clothes. They arrived at The Dancing Pig on a WodenDay, and they would have to wait for the FreyDay evening for things to get really rowdy and "fun", he was told.
They rented the largest room in the tavern. They ate there and other places. They spent idle time visiting the blacksmith and the potter and the leather-worker. Ryeamund bought some things off of the local merchants to take back home for himself, the three boys, and naturally his wife.
When FreyDay evening fell? The place was in complete pandemonium. The two boys could not believe the drunken raucousness of the place. These were no big-men, these were drunken malcontents for the most part. The biggest strongest men did as they pleased. Pushed people around. Were very aggressive. Rude. People stole off of each other. Men got beat up and looted. One man was drinking and dancing with a pretty woman, and another man came in and explained that was his woman, and they were going to fight about it. Both men were eager to prove their point, and they beat the ever loving shit out of each other for about twelve minutes straight.
The tavern just hooted and hollered and enjoyed the show. The winner was bloody and lost a tooth. The loser lost several, and was bleeding and unconscious. He was looted, and dragged outside and thrown off to the side of the street. No one thought anything was amiss at all. This was clearly a completely normal weekend. Completely normal for "The Dancing Pig", that is.
Ryeamund explained that this was the exact type of shit-hole he had grown up in. It didn't take long for the boar to be done. Ryeamund paid for the three of them to eat and drink at one price all night. The boys were a little uncertain about all of this. This was not a good place to be in. It would be all but suicide to be here alone and not know anyone to have your back. Father didn't seem to be the least bit concerned. He watered his mead down, and explained to the boys he would not take full horns of fine-mead until "after he had provided entertainment for these fine men".
After all the unplanned fights and unplanned informal wagering, things got going. Men started boasting. Challenges went around. Men took the challenges. The men waited until all wagering was declared done, then they beat the shit out of each other, until one of them was unable to stand. Men cheered and booed and laughed and gasped. Women got as drunk as the men and fought. The tavern-keeper himself occasionally had to come out and take a stout ax handle and club a man down like a baby seal for getting rowdy with him and putting his hands on him in his own tavern.
The locals cheered and toasted the tavern-keeper, they had known it was coming, it was fine entertainment even he knew how to provide. Ryeamund asked his two boys to pick out the biggest, meanest, strongest "drunken ox" they thought would make the best possible opponent. The boys were seriously concerned for their father's welfare, and declared they could not make such a choice.
Ryeamund simply walked up with the two sons in tow, and approached the local reckoner, that was helping everyone wager. He explained that he wanted to "entertain" his two sons, and that he wanted to fight whoever was considered simply the most dangerous man they had to offer. The biggest, the strongest, the meanest. Big men started laughing, and Ryeamund laughed easily with them. When asked if he was a declared madman? Ryeamund politely said…
"Aye! I be a madman!"
And, he wanted to know… does this madman have to return home, and tell everyone he meets along the way, that the men drinking at The Dancing Pig were all cowards? Surely, some man could be found for him to be examined well. This man was shorter than everyone in the place. His big loose tunic and trousers hid his strength as best was possible. His quiet manner and politeness? Made him appear even smaller yet.
A big giant that had not yet fought. Stood up in the far corner. Declared he was surely the man he was looking for. Ryeamund smiled and went and sat down amid all the hooting and hollering and yelling and screaming and the hammering on the stout wooden tables. Odds started at five to one, then quickly went to ten and twelve to one. Things leveled off at fifteen to one. Ryeamund gave each of his sons a somewhat sizable bag of gold coins, and told them each to take a bet on either himself, or the giant. He reminded them that if they won? They would have a lot more gold, to spend any way they wished, buying anything they wanted. Father counseled them that even if they bet on the giant and won? With the odds going the way they were, they wouldn't make much.
The boys shrugged, father was right about that, they were both high reckoners. There were a lot of merchants in this village, and it was just off of a main trade route. It would take a couple days to see all the shops, and decide what to buy, and what to commission to be made.
Ryeamund calmly walked up to the giant that towered over him, and quickly had him swinging and missing. He cracked several of the man's ribs. Then he went and stood right in front of him and started trading blows with him. He closed both of the giant's eyes and split one open. He broke his nose. He split both his lips several times. It wasn't clear if he broke the man's jaw or just dislocated it, but he surely knocked a couple teeth out, and he definitely sprayed several of the people sitting too close to the fighting area with blood in their face, on their food, and over and in their goblets.
One man simply threw up, when a bloody piece of tooth went skittering across the table in front of him, and he realized he had felt a fine mist of warm salty blood land over his face and plate of boar. One of his friends declared him a coward and slugged him off of his chair. The man was somewhat drunk, and laughed it off. When his friend that had struck him was looking at the fight again, he had slipped the bloody piece of tooth into the friend's goblet. He had a dry wit about him.
His friend choked and coughed up the bloody splinter of tooth into his hand when he chugged his goblet, and threw up himself. Then, he got slugged by the man he had struck not long ago, and he then fell off of his chair. The other friends at the table hooted and hollered and toasted them soundly. This was what passed for idle end of week entertainment at The Dancing Pig.
Everyone was silent as the grave the last minute of the fight, when the big man hadn't went down yet and was still swinging at Ryeamund and wouldn't quit. Ryeamund finally knocked him flat and raised a giant split egg on the man's forehead that put him to sleep, and cracked his head off of the floor.
Ryeamund just smiled and waved to everyone, and walked back to his table where his two sons sat, quiet as church mice. The place exploded with a frenzy. Men hammered on the tables. Men fist-fought unplanned when they couldn't cover their wagers. The tavern-keeper had to ax handle two men to keep "order".
Everyone wanted to know his name, and where he was from, and what he did for a living. Men clapped him on the back and toasted him. Ryeamund just smiled and talked politely, and waited until the crowd's fickle interest turned to another big fight coming up.
When a serving wench came by to see what the fine gentlemen wanted? They got more plates of roasted boar and vegetables, and a bowl of hot water. And a clean rag or three would be nice. Some extra coins for the hot water and clean rags, and Ryeamund explained he had to soak his hands for a bit, in order to get the thorns out of his knuckles. It was an old woodcutter's remedy.
Ryeamund quietly explained that this was the behavior of drunken fools, and dimwitted giants. This was going to be the only time they ever saw their father act like a drunken fool in a tavern. They were not to brag of this tale to people in their own lands, that Ryeamund did not want the common people he led to fear him any more than they naturally did on account of how he looked with his shirt off when swimming in the summers.
Ryeamund took great pains to politely explain to his two boys, that it was likely a very good thing that they had responded to Eira's occasional iron pot up side the head. He explained that he took great pains to be as quiet and as polite to everyone as he possibly could be, so that Eira was not displeased with him for not acting like the son of a Rhyshian lord. A lord was expected to protect weaker people from harm, not threaten them with harm to get what they wanted, and not to harm them for mean spirited fun just because they thought they could get away with it.
Ryeamund pointed out it that if he judged mother's counsel to be superior, that they were to imitate their father and follow his own example.
Mekall was the one to ask gently, how he had known that the two brothers had been sizing Ryeamund up, wondering how tall the tales were, that they now saw were actually watered down tales. That Ryeamund had actually glossed over how dangerous a man he actually was.
Ryeamund explained that after a lifetime of dealing with unruly animals? A farmer comes to know the look in the eye, and that after long experience, he can see the look before it actually happens.
There were three things they were to take from this all.
--- never, ever, confuse gentle or polite with "weak".
--- you bargain with the lead animal. Once.
When they asked what the third thing was?
"Aye. I am ashamed I have to say it. Ye two? Will show good character, such as your mother requires of a lordship. You both have fine character now, yet ye will take care as ye take on full beards. Ye will not slip into the ways of giants and become a burden to people. Ye will set the example for high character, so that other men will follow yer example."
Then Ryeamund soaked his hands in hot water for a time. Had a couple of large horns of unwatered fine-mead. Ate several plates of boar and vegetables. Calmly picked a few shards of teeth out of his knuckles. While he calmly explained what it was like growing up in a place like this, how people had treated him as a kid. What he went through to put a stop to it all, and how it all ended with everyone scared shit-less of him. How that was in some way better than being hated, but it was no fun way to go through life either.
He explained he had not taught them to fight with their hands so they could end up like this. Waving his palm around, at the drunken pandemonium all around them. Strong men were expected to protect the weak, not to take advantage of them or they risked the wrath of Odin for listening to the whispers of giants. He explained further, that since both of them surely knew better? Their sin would be twice as great, and Odin's anger would be twice as harsh.
All day Satyr's day, there was some kind of happy bubble around Ryeamund in this village. People were curiously and suddenly smiling and polite. Ryeamund explained to his sons while out of earshot… this was how people were always supposed to treat one another, not only when the man was dangerous. Behavior such as this? Was what happened when there was no gardening, and only poor examples for the men to follow. Uncontrolled breeding of dimwitted fools with pretty but lazy and unremarkable women.
Ryeamund explained that these were pickles. These common people bore no responsibility for their ways. It was not their fault. There was no gardening going on. These men had nothing but bad and worse examples to follow. The women were illiterate and unable to control their sons past early childhood. The men turned into drunken giants. It was not their own fault, that the pickle barrel had been filled with piss and cheap wine. What other than complete chaos could anyone expect from such a recipe for pickles.
It took them several days for the three of them to browse all of the many merchant's shops. Decide what they wanted to buy or have made for them. They stayed at the tavern room for most of another week waiting for the commissioned items to be made and purchased before they left.
The boys realized that they were well used to seeing their father with his shirt and trousers off, as when he wore a small cotton cloth when he went swimming. They saw how other men looked at him, and the look on their faces as they studied his ox-like muscles. Father simply put a wet, hot rag over his face when men stared at him in the bath.
When alone, Ryeamund explained his "curse". What it had meant for him growing up. That it was what the north-men called "VinterBluden". How the north-men thought it was a great gift. How it made Ryeamund live by a code of behavior. He explained that after he had learned to read and write a little, and to speak much better, and perform rudimentary reckoning… it compensated for his portion of the curse that had created the need for people to show him the "one eye" when having fun with him that he not take them serious.
Did the two boys know why he was explaining this to them? They didn't, so Ryeamund spelled it out for them. Eira said she saw it in them. Blood and violence would not sicken them, but they were not to enjoy it. This was why they were never to abuse animals, let alone people. You can't start down that path, he explained.
"If ye misuse it, it be a curse. If ye use it wisely and only when ye must? Aye, only then it be a gift. The wisdom of Odin on this matter then, is this… only use yer strength and yer gefts, to help other people. Never use yer strength, to benefit yer self. It is too easy to be led into great evil in that way."
A Rhyshian Lord was never allowed to use his power to scare and intimidate other people outside of battle without just cause. A Lord was expected to protect the weak from Giants and turds, and to provide the proper example for other men to follow.
If any type of even limited gardening was taking place, and any simple animal husbandry was taking place? There would be intelligent men and women. The most dangerous men, would all be polite and helpful. Then, there would be something resembling a proper example for the lesser men to follow. The chaos would fall into order, within a generation or two.
This was what father and mother were doing in their district. They were spending their entire lives trying like hell, to set something up that would make life better for everyone. Because no one, Ryeamund said, should have to grow up in this sort of shit-hole. It was tearing the very fabric of the kingdom apart.
"Aye, sons. Look around ye, and see with yer own eyes. Do ye see what comes of throwing simply anything into the pickle barrel? I see great strength. I see bravery. I see men of quality. If these men had but some proper example to follow? They would all make fine big-men. And, sadly, it is all being wasted. The high king's fondest wish, is for these men to act decent, and to fight the enemy… not for them to fight each other."