The Lay of Thorpatrick

From EastKingdomWiki

Written by Toki Redbeard in kvithuhattr. A true story of events that occured at Pennsic 37 (A.S. 43,) replete with lessons learned. Names have not been changed.

Down in bog	drinking heavy,
pounding skulls	of skald and shirtless
North dweller	named just “Padruig”.
Blunt spoke skald,	“Bench-mate Northern,
“would that I	were you some days.
Wild you are	in woods of strife,
well-liked man	when maids pour ale.”
Padruig urged	Odin’s brewer,
“Keep your life,	kenning poet,
word-fame yours	for wit and skill.”
These two, when,	word-trade finished,
did seek food	from the merchants.
They left booth	both quite shirtless.
Mighty heat	like Muspell raged.
Modest skald,	man of red-beard,
tunic grabbed,	taking with him.
“Yet might cool	the August sky
and besides	I am,” he thought,
“not one who	wanders shirtless
into booths	where bread is sold.”
Padruig foiled	friend from donning
tunic fresh,	of fine linen.
Said he then,	“Some are shirtless
only in	August sky-fire.
‘Yet we few	fierce berserkers,
shirts leave home,	eschewing them;
proud we walk—	public heart-home.
Fine people	give piercing stares.
‘Ladies fair	and lords of court,
gawk upon	our grand display.
Not-pleased they	by nipples shown
in summer’s	sunlight tanning.”
Padruig said,	soft to word-friend,
“Modest skald,	man of red-beard,”
“You are man	met-well, refined.
Bare-sark go,	bear the staring.”
Loud they were,	these laughing men;
up the hill,	in heat wand’ring,
bare their chests.	Born by Padruig,
just in case,	comrade’s tunic.
Poet walked	passing fine-folk
in fair shirts,	shunning Northmen.
Coming soon	to crest of hill;
from bare-sark	he fast took smock.
Marketplace;	minstrels playing.
These two drunks	dallied briefly,
one shirted,	other bare-chest.
Slow at first,	sobered the skald.
Padruig bore	bottle low-slung;
strong the drink	he stored within—
Rus spirits	spiced with berries—
offered them	to all he met.
Bare-sark saw	singer winsome;
“Beloved girl,”	he grandly said.
Held her close,	hugged to bare-breast.
Wise skald asked	when friend met her.
“Here and now,”	half-bare one said,
released girl;	relieved was she.
Meal they sought	and marched they forth.
Food eaten,	free of trouble.
Padruig saw	small one walking
“Beloved girl,”	he grandly said.
“He’s a boy,”	Bairn’s mother snapped.
Pried skald ‘round	for place to hide.
Turning fast,	facing bright one,
Skald did see	his sage-friend, Unnr.
“Padruig, go	to greet do we.”
word-smith said—	wisely adding:
“One rule fast,	followed must be.
Let you not	your love profess.
Quiet elm	we’ve come upon
would shy from	shirtless Northmen.”
“Hello Unnr,”	hailed the word-friend,
meet you well	mate named Padruig.
“We have braved	warming sunlight,
questing food.	Found it, we did.”
Well did birch	welcome shirtless,
though if truth	be told she thought,
he stood close,	comfort risking.
Seldom she	such men observed.
“Padruig, tell	tunic have you?
Scarce your clothes.”	unscared, she said.
Spoke he truth,	spare-dressed Northman,
“Pennsic shirts	ne’er press on me.”
Rus spirits	spiced with berries—
offered he	to elm’s own lips.
But the flask,	bottle low-slung,
didn’t move	from mounting place.
Spirits’ fire	she fast declined,
backing from	bare-skinned stranger.
Wondered she	from whence they came,
Poet-man	and mate, shirtless.
Bare-one moved	e’en much closer;
“Beloved girl,”	he grandly said.
Held his ground,	and hugged her not.
Great the eyes	of glaring skald.
Much elm thought	`bout Thor-like oak,
bright his hair,	bosom naked,
tall and strong,	standing closely.
Thought she not	of Thor’s hammer.
Unnr than spoke,	offered word-fame:
“You I name	now Thorpatrik.
By this ken	be bare-sark called.
Better this	than the old name.”
Brought skald words,	“Better know you
than give name	while gift keeping.
Giver blessed	best when present
given out	to honor name.”
“Wrong was I,”	then Unnr said, “but
have I naught	for name gifting,
save sewing’s	silver needle.
With it sew	sore-needed shirt.”
Northman bare	bristled at this;
spooked by words,	spoken power.
Did mighty	magic give she?
Did she cause	crafty charming?
“Wise to take,”	whispered red-beard,
“Gift sits well	with ways of old.
Use this name	you’ll be famous.
Travelled well	this tale shall be.”
Taking pin,	tipsy Viking,
elm’s name-gift	acknowledged then:
“Think of me	as Thorpatrik
Well am I	at war re-named.”
Still was he	by strong drink swayed.
and his hand,	held the needle
Plunged it hard	in heart’s castle.
Bare, his chest,	bore the skewer.
Brow did flinch,	but fast he smiled.
“Beloved gift,”	he grandly said,
“Have I not	needle sticking?”
“Home,” thought skald	“I’ll hie us there.”
Fare-wells made	fast they left there
back down hill	to bog they walked.
Pain did come,	plaguing bare-sark.
“Breast does hurt,	“bears wound,” he said.
Whined he not	when in public,
but instead	bragged of piercing.
Each war-friend	was thus treated,
spike they saw	speared in bosom.
“How far in?”	he was asked then,
by the skald,	scanning steel-spike,
unknowing	of needles length.
Proud tall one	said, “Pretty deep.
‘I feel point	poking muscle,
arrowhead	entered my breast.
We should pull	piercer from me,
Lest sleep drives	it deeper in.”
Skald agreed	skin-dart needed
to come out	early rather
than linger	to light of morn,
but not his	burden was that.
Saw they friends	several dozen.
Pin-sharp stayed	standing proudly. Beloved gift,” || he’d grandly say,
“Have I not	needle sticking?”
Then at long	last arrived they
home to booths	in bog arrayed,
where Norse birch	boldly plucked him;
pricker short	she pulled, and said,
“Small piercing	you proudly showed,
as lance heaved	to heart’s-home deep?
Not lethal	this little pin;
more you whined	than might of steel.”
Yet bare-sark,	bragged through revels,
blood-red spot	boldly showing.
“Beloved gift,”	he’d grandly say,
“Now you see	where name-gift stuck.”
Here we leave	happy brothers,
bare-sark true;	brewer dwarven.
All learning	ample lessons.
Hearken now	Har-like wisdom:
Wisely drink	your draughts of ale.
Never love	loudly profess.
Strangers’ ways	welcome gladly.
Always give	gift at naming.
Never prick	your place of heart.
Envy not	other’s life-thread.
Come to like	your life unpierced.
Slumber not,	while needle sticks.

© Michael Dixon