Historical Setting: 793 C.E. Moorings at Bergenshalvoyen
The tale the storyteller offers tickles the sailors’ imaginations in one way. But for me, I think of her tender touch on my tired shoulders that day that set me grieving and leaving her there. Now I hurt for her all the more.
The one who is telling the story goes on.
“The wind was calm, the river like glass, the oars tipped deep and slow, with no more sound than a fish touching the surface. They came round the rock point, and there, laid out on the rocks, all alone, was…”
He is interrupted by the whooping and cheering of these men.
My guilty imagination sickens me. If I prayed for forgiveness, God would answer me to take the responsibility to make it right. What can I do now? Starring into the heavens, I chose not to pray for penance as so many brilliant colors parade across the winter’s night sky teasing my conscience like the laughter of a whole flotilla of drunken sailors. There is no beauty in the night’s dancing sky when I know, deep in my heart, the story he will tell is of a cruel abandonment.
He goes on, “Of course, they moored the ship, and each man there slipped over the gunnels and onto the rocks, creeping ever so closely toward the woman, laying there alone, facing skyward, unflinching.”
“They gathered around not to awaken her – she was wearing silken gowns in pinks and reds and golden strands of precious fibers…”
This storyteller is taking license to tell it his own way. I know Sjókona’s dress is common cloth of gray.
“Her hair flowed out on the pillow” – this story has a pillow? – “her hair in a lavish spread of silver – straight and pure…”
He is describing Sjókona’s flow of silver hair, but her dress was plain, and there was no pillow.
He continues, “Her lips were…” murmurs of anticipation among the listeners, “… were the cold blue of death.”
I suck back my howl of hurt and touch the pattern of the cross to my forehead and shoulders.
The teller of the story goes on, “Her skin was creased and crinkled with age, and her cheeks sunken in deep hollows. Her long, boney fingers were woven together over her heart, as she clutched a pendant of green jade, which those of us who are far travelers know is only found in the east.”
(Continues Thursday, May 1, 2025)
Lazarus Ink 