Sorm lies awake for most of this final night. Only now and then does he doze off for a little while. It feels like he is living someone else’s life, as if he doesn’t belong here right now. However, he has worked through the events of this approaching day in his mind so many times that he knows what to do and what to expect.
So many times has he imagined the events of this day that he can smell the aromas and feel the textures in advance. He even knows exactly what the clothes of the ceremonial guards who will come to fetch him, will look like, with all the fine needlework down the front panel of their coats. As he lies there in his bed he works through the day ahead of him in his mind, making sure that everything has been covered. It may feel unreal, but it is important and thousands of people depend on him to play his part well.
Finally he gets up out of his rather rudimentary bed of straw and skins, with his feet standing on the cold stone floor. He hangs a mantle of skins over his shoulder, fastens it with his leather girdle and attaches his short sword. Finally he puts on soft moccasins rather than those noisy leather boots. It is very early in the morning. The fire in the hearth of this small sleeping hall has burnt down to a few embers. It is very cold.
The time has come to commence with the business of this important day. Someone is lying in the bundle of skins at the foot of his bed and this person rises quickly when he takes his first step. It is Krijger, the loyal and formidable soldier. He has worn half of his war-suit during the night in order to be ready at the drop of a hat. He is taller than Sorm, with very broad shoulders, and he wears his black hair cropped short like that of his lord.
“You don’t have to walk with me now, Krijger,” says Sorm and places a hand on one broad shoulder, “rather tend to the dying fire as we shall need it soon.”
“Yes, my lord,” comes the reply in a sleepy but very gruff voice.
However, when Sorm walks out of the door and down the corridor of stone and wood, he can hear the footsteps of his ‘shadow’ following a few yards behind him as always. Krijger bundled another soldier out of bed to tend to the fire so that he can be with Sorm.
Sorm has taken his bed lantern with him. He walks through one of the more beautiful and well constructed parts of this ancient castle, to his special room. Even here though he can see that the castle is not ideally constructed for the kind of war that could ensue after today.
He reaches and steps into a small room and closes the door. He can hear Krijger assuming a guard position outside and a short clanging of a weapon against the stone as he does.
Sorm has selected this room for himself long ago. It is small and does not even have a window to the outside. It contains a rough but sturdy table and an equally rustic chair. A cross made of glazed clay adorns the one wall. A pillow in a shades-of-autumn cloth covers the seat of the chair. Two woven mats in the rich colors of a far-away land, one on the floor and one on the wall, finishes off the furnishings of this room. Two torches on brass hooks are supposed to supply the lighting, and Sorm lights one with his lantern. Then he places the lantern on the table.
The only other object on the table is his old leather-bound Book. He sits down on the chair and picks up the Book. His hand thoughtfully caresses the assuaging old cover. “The magenta Book,” is what his dad used to call it. The church fathers could not have been very pleased with the monk who made this copy. The hand-drawn decorations in the Book are extraordinarily flamboyant and colorful. It is an exotic work of art. The drawings are often magenta, a color not favored for the Book. The very first page has space for only the first verse of Genesis 1 because of the extravagant curls and decorated figurines.
“Father,” he thinks as he touches his chalcedony necklace containing his essential remains, “you went away too early, and I am not ready for this yet.” He had not even gotten to know his own father properly in that time of constant strife and skirmishes.
Sorm remembers little of his childhood. It is as if he has to rely on what others tell of it because he wasn’t really there. He was a sickly child initially, and somehow grew too slowly or something, leaving him smaller than his age group. Eventually he could not leave home and join the army for training at the customary age of twelve. He could just as well have been nine then, judging from how he looked at the time.
So in stead he was sent to Edburg, the monastery town on the furthermost point of the peninsula in the north-western side of the country, for safety and for academic education. There he got to know their small and dilapidated fleet, and at least the marine troops got to know him. He learnt a little bit about war and fighting from them.
Sorm always did his best to gather some supporters to help him with burden that was to fall on his shoulders. His writings and letters at the monastery impressed some of the church-leaders and royals. He also invented some ingenious modifications for the ships to make them faster and more manoeuvrable.
Much later he eventually joined some army units for a few weeks on patrol and inspection of the border towers. In that time he got through to some soldiers and officers in his own way, and gathered some supporters amongst them. Krijger and his friends left their units to follow him when the news of his father came and he had to hurry back to the castle. Some marine troops met up with them there. Most of his supporters have slept with him in the small sleeping hall for the past few days.
One thing about which he has not been totally honest with anyone, is his private espionage network. This he has slowly put together during his preparations for this time. Here it was a loyal supporter in a far-off town, and there it was a young monk who had read his writings, or a soldier he saved from some trouble and arranged to be transferred to a border post, or a family member of Krijger. He did not live like others of his standing would, because he used his allowance to fund the setting up and maintenance of this network of informants.
That is something he has learnt from Krog, his teacher at the Edburg monastery: “Always know more than you’re letting on. Only a fool flaunts knowledge that he does not even have.”
Unfortunately he already knows way too much. He regularly receives reports about what is going on, from the far north of the country to the holy city Chalcedonum in the south and beyond…
Sorm falls down on his knees beside the chair. It is a combination of fear of, and excitement about what is to come, that has kept him awake at night lately. He feels too young and weak for the role that he has to play. Can’t it rather be someone else’s burden?
Then he remembers some else the wise old monk taught him: “Fear and excitement go together, because you must use the excitement to overcome the fear.”
He can hear Krijger moving his weight to the other foot outside the door. Sorm opens his Book and reads: “No-one should dare look down on you for your youth, but you should rather be an example to them…”
Then he gets up, puts out the torch, picks up his lantern and opens the door. Krijger looks at him with many questions in his eyes.
“Krijger, I place great value on you and your loyalty,” says Sorm quietly, “stay close to me today.”
“Yes, my lord, like a shadow,” he replies, slightly embarrassed, with a bit of a grin.
“When we are alone, please call me ‘Sorm.’”
“But...,” protests the giant warrior.
“I am more in need of another friend than of another soldier,” says Sorm.
“Yes….Sorm.”
They walk further down the passage and reach a rickety wooden stairway. Sorm leads the way up two flights to a heavy door. He knocks, throws back the cape of his mantle to expose his short blonde hair, and walks into the room, leaving Krijger to stand guard outside.
It is warm inside the room with a huge fire in the fireplace. As usual, the curtains in front of the lead glass window have been tied up so that his mother can see the sun rise. A servant girl curtsies and scurries out through a second door. He sits down on the old bed in the middle of the room and looks down at his mother. She looks very pale and gaunt and lies with her eyes closed, yet she is breathing slowly and shallowly. He takes her weak hand in his own. She looks tired as ever but briefly opens her eyes in a hard-fought smile.
The door where the servant exited, opens and his little brother and sister enters the room. They quietly sit down next to Sorm. He hugs each one of them and then gets up with a new determination, his hand resting on his sword. With one last look at them he walks to the door and outside to where his ‘shadow’ patiently awaits.
They walk in silence back to the sleeping hall. From a few feet away they can hear that things have changed inside. The men are up and about with their preparations.
Sorm pauses for a moment and then it hits him: All the sounds, smells and colors, just like he has imagined it, almost as if he is watching his own life from a distance. Then they enter the hall, smelling the aroma of the salted meat that some of the men are grilling in the fire-place. Others are busy folding their bedding to put it away for the day. Sorm walks through them, making time to make eye contact, greeting them and touching some shoulders. He pauses to warm his hands at the fire with them. Then he goes to sit down on his own at a table at the far side of the room. He calls out to a tall thin man who has been waiting by the wall.
© J.M. Conradie
So many times has he imagined the events of this day that he can smell the aromas and feel the textures in advance. He even knows exactly what the clothes of the ceremonial guards who will come to fetch him, will look like, with all the fine needlework down the front panel of their coats. As he lies there in his bed he works through the day ahead of him in his mind, making sure that everything has been covered. It may feel unreal, but it is important and thousands of people depend on him to play his part well.
Finally he gets up out of his rather rudimentary bed of straw and skins, with his feet standing on the cold stone floor. He hangs a mantle of skins over his shoulder, fastens it with his leather girdle and attaches his short sword. Finally he puts on soft moccasins rather than those noisy leather boots. It is very early in the morning. The fire in the hearth of this small sleeping hall has burnt down to a few embers. It is very cold.
The time has come to commence with the business of this important day. Someone is lying in the bundle of skins at the foot of his bed and this person rises quickly when he takes his first step. It is Krijger, the loyal and formidable soldier. He has worn half of his war-suit during the night in order to be ready at the drop of a hat. He is taller than Sorm, with very broad shoulders, and he wears his black hair cropped short like that of his lord.
“You don’t have to walk with me now, Krijger,” says Sorm and places a hand on one broad shoulder, “rather tend to the dying fire as we shall need it soon.”
“Yes, my lord,” comes the reply in a sleepy but very gruff voice.
However, when Sorm walks out of the door and down the corridor of stone and wood, he can hear the footsteps of his ‘shadow’ following a few yards behind him as always. Krijger bundled another soldier out of bed to tend to the fire so that he can be with Sorm.
Sorm has taken his bed lantern with him. He walks through one of the more beautiful and well constructed parts of this ancient castle, to his special room. Even here though he can see that the castle is not ideally constructed for the kind of war that could ensue after today.
He reaches and steps into a small room and closes the door. He can hear Krijger assuming a guard position outside and a short clanging of a weapon against the stone as he does.
Sorm has selected this room for himself long ago. It is small and does not even have a window to the outside. It contains a rough but sturdy table and an equally rustic chair. A cross made of glazed clay adorns the one wall. A pillow in a shades-of-autumn cloth covers the seat of the chair. Two woven mats in the rich colors of a far-away land, one on the floor and one on the wall, finishes off the furnishings of this room. Two torches on brass hooks are supposed to supply the lighting, and Sorm lights one with his lantern. Then he places the lantern on the table.
The only other object on the table is his old leather-bound Book. He sits down on the chair and picks up the Book. His hand thoughtfully caresses the assuaging old cover. “The magenta Book,” is what his dad used to call it. The church fathers could not have been very pleased with the monk who made this copy. The hand-drawn decorations in the Book are extraordinarily flamboyant and colorful. It is an exotic work of art. The drawings are often magenta, a color not favored for the Book. The very first page has space for only the first verse of Genesis 1 because of the extravagant curls and decorated figurines.
“Father,” he thinks as he touches his chalcedony necklace containing his essential remains, “you went away too early, and I am not ready for this yet.” He had not even gotten to know his own father properly in that time of constant strife and skirmishes.
Sorm remembers little of his childhood. It is as if he has to rely on what others tell of it because he wasn’t really there. He was a sickly child initially, and somehow grew too slowly or something, leaving him smaller than his age group. Eventually he could not leave home and join the army for training at the customary age of twelve. He could just as well have been nine then, judging from how he looked at the time.
So in stead he was sent to Edburg, the monastery town on the furthermost point of the peninsula in the north-western side of the country, for safety and for academic education. There he got to know their small and dilapidated fleet, and at least the marine troops got to know him. He learnt a little bit about war and fighting from them.
Sorm always did his best to gather some supporters to help him with burden that was to fall on his shoulders. His writings and letters at the monastery impressed some of the church-leaders and royals. He also invented some ingenious modifications for the ships to make them faster and more manoeuvrable.
Much later he eventually joined some army units for a few weeks on patrol and inspection of the border towers. In that time he got through to some soldiers and officers in his own way, and gathered some supporters amongst them. Krijger and his friends left their units to follow him when the news of his father came and he had to hurry back to the castle. Some marine troops met up with them there. Most of his supporters have slept with him in the small sleeping hall for the past few days.
One thing about which he has not been totally honest with anyone, is his private espionage network. This he has slowly put together during his preparations for this time. Here it was a loyal supporter in a far-off town, and there it was a young monk who had read his writings, or a soldier he saved from some trouble and arranged to be transferred to a border post, or a family member of Krijger. He did not live like others of his standing would, because he used his allowance to fund the setting up and maintenance of this network of informants.
That is something he has learnt from Krog, his teacher at the Edburg monastery: “Always know more than you’re letting on. Only a fool flaunts knowledge that he does not even have.”
Unfortunately he already knows way too much. He regularly receives reports about what is going on, from the far north of the country to the holy city Chalcedonum in the south and beyond…
Sorm falls down on his knees beside the chair. It is a combination of fear of, and excitement about what is to come, that has kept him awake at night lately. He feels too young and weak for the role that he has to play. Can’t it rather be someone else’s burden?
Then he remembers some else the wise old monk taught him: “Fear and excitement go together, because you must use the excitement to overcome the fear.”
He can hear Krijger moving his weight to the other foot outside the door. Sorm opens his Book and reads: “No-one should dare look down on you for your youth, but you should rather be an example to them…”
Then he gets up, puts out the torch, picks up his lantern and opens the door. Krijger looks at him with many questions in his eyes.
“Krijger, I place great value on you and your loyalty,” says Sorm quietly, “stay close to me today.”
“Yes, my lord, like a shadow,” he replies, slightly embarrassed, with a bit of a grin.
“When we are alone, please call me ‘Sorm.’”
“But...,” protests the giant warrior.
“I am more in need of another friend than of another soldier,” says Sorm.
“Yes….Sorm.”
They walk further down the passage and reach a rickety wooden stairway. Sorm leads the way up two flights to a heavy door. He knocks, throws back the cape of his mantle to expose his short blonde hair, and walks into the room, leaving Krijger to stand guard outside.
It is warm inside the room with a huge fire in the fireplace. As usual, the curtains in front of the lead glass window have been tied up so that his mother can see the sun rise. A servant girl curtsies and scurries out through a second door. He sits down on the old bed in the middle of the room and looks down at his mother. She looks very pale and gaunt and lies with her eyes closed, yet she is breathing slowly and shallowly. He takes her weak hand in his own. She looks tired as ever but briefly opens her eyes in a hard-fought smile.
The door where the servant exited, opens and his little brother and sister enters the room. They quietly sit down next to Sorm. He hugs each one of them and then gets up with a new determination, his hand resting on his sword. With one last look at them he walks to the door and outside to where his ‘shadow’ patiently awaits.
They walk in silence back to the sleeping hall. From a few feet away they can hear that things have changed inside. The men are up and about with their preparations.
Sorm pauses for a moment and then it hits him: All the sounds, smells and colors, just like he has imagined it, almost as if he is watching his own life from a distance. Then they enter the hall, smelling the aroma of the salted meat that some of the men are grilling in the fire-place. Others are busy folding their bedding to put it away for the day. Sorm walks through them, making time to make eye contact, greeting them and touching some shoulders. He pauses to warm his hands at the fire with them. Then he goes to sit down on his own at a table at the far side of the room. He calls out to a tall thin man who has been waiting by the wall.
© J.M. Conradie
