The Saga of the Herring
and the Ox Cart

by Lady Douglass Petryewood

NOW THIS IS the story of how Gyrth's great white ox cart was brought to a standstill by a fish.
Gyrth and his shield brother, Peregrine the Swift (Not So Swift said some), along with several flaxen-haired shield maidens, trade goods of every description, and a horn of Glenlivet the Great's very own Scotch mead, set out to find the feasting upon Ursus Major Mountain before the winter snows arrived.
As was their custom, the higher they climbed into the mountains, the lower the Scotch mead sank, and Gyrth claimed a larger share than he was wont to do claiming that it eased the cracked ribs recently given him by his shield brother, Two Block the Rock. Gyrth was impatient to arrive at the feasting where he hoped to find many and sundry diversions from his wounds.
Mitgaard the Serpent had fewer twistings and turnings than did the narrow, muddy, boulder-strewn mountain path under the wheels of the heavily-laden great white ox cart. Gyrth whipped the laboring oxen; they lurched unsteadily and sped forward. Perilous was their ascent as, with each bend of the path, the wheels of the cart came ever closer to the edge and the steep drop to the fjord below. Heedless of the nearness of the precipice, the weight of the load, or the struggling of the poor beasts, Gyrth drove the oxen relentlessly onward and upward.
When at last they reached the site of the feasting, the panting oxens' heads hung low in the yoke. Peregrine leaped lightly to his feet and sniffed the air. A feverish gleam entered his eyes.
"Gyrth! I smell herring!"
Now Peregrine was notorious throughout the land for his unnatural attachment to fishing for herring. As much as he delighted in standing shoulder to shoulder with his shield brothers, careless of being killed in nasty ways, so much more so was his craving to fish for herring. Furthermore, the keen blade of his yearning was constantly honed upon the stone of his lack of success.
"Gyrth! Go yet a little further onward and we shall come to a stream that teems with herring--I am certain of it! They swim so thickly there that we will only have to scoop them up in our nets and be on our way! Think of the feasting we shall have!"
Gyrth opened his mouth to protest, but as he did, he cast his gaze upon Peregrine. Grim determination was writ upon his every feature. Tears were forming in his eyes and his protruding lower lip quivered. Gyrth knew it was futile--when it came to herring, reason lost its light hold over Peregrine. With a groan, a sigh, and a worried glance at the gray clouds gathering overhead, he caught up the whip once more and urged the oxen onward.
"So how do we get to this bountiful stream of yours?" inquired Gyrth.
"Just around the next bend you shall see it," replied Peregrine. "Herring in such numbers that a warrior might cross that stream merely by treading upon their backs!"
The path became a little narrower, a little muddier, and a little more boulder-strewn.
"Peregrine, I fear you are mistaken! I see no stream and we are well past that bend."
"Gyrth, fear does not become a warrior! You must trust me! You above all others should know that I have a nose for these things. Can you not, even now, smell a trace of sour cream? Turn right at that lightning-scorched standing stone upon which is engraved, 'Leon Stormbringer was here.'"
The oxen snorted loudly, the thick cloud of their breath rose swiftly to join the much larger, ever more numerous clouds overhead. Gyrth turned right and noticed, for the first time with alarm, how the path grew more treacherous as they progressed. He noticed also the remarkable shortage of herring streams.
"Peregrine, this famous stream you describe which, in truth, must sparkle with the bright scales of herring just like ice crystals on a glacier--are you certain it exists?" asked Gyrth with mounting alarm as remembrances of previous herring expeditions darted through his mind.
"Gyrth, you above all others must know that the farther away the herring stream the better it is! Can you not even now hear the delicately moist palpitations of their gills? Continue on just over that ridge and I promise you that you will never see a greater congregation of herring this side of Valhalla!"
Ever upwards they had toiled, but now the narrow, slippery, boulder-strewn track dipped slightly downwards. The oxen lowed pathetically. Gyrth drew his warm, woolen cloak tightly about him as an icy gust of wind caught them.
"At least it hasn't started snowing yet," thought Gyrth prematurely, for at that very instant, large, wet flakes began to fall.
In a short while, they did indeed come upon a deep and cold tree-lined stream that ran merrily over the stones. Peregrine gathered up his net and set forth.
"Brother Peregrine, do not be long about your fishing for a warm longhouse with meat, bread, mead, serving wenches, and trade opportunities, awaits us and as you well know our horn is empty. As for me, I shall drive the oxen onward a ways that I may find a space in this narrow track to turn the cart around."


DOWNWARD THE path had gone towards the deep, cold stream, now upward once again it climbed becoming more and more impassable as it went on. The oxens' hooves churned the slick ooze. In time, the path widened ever so slightly and Gyrth attempted to turn the exhausted, bellowing oxen.
"Steady! Steady!" cried Gyrth.
Muzzles dripping foam, steam rising from their backs, bloodshot eyes rolling, the oxen turned sharply and began sliding in the thick mud, gathering more speed as they traveled downhill.
As swiftly as the well-shot arrow pierces the throat of an enemy, so swiftly did the tongue of the great white ox cart separate from the yoke of snorting, maddened beasts, and thrust itself into the soft bank of mud up to the front wheels. The terrified oxen disappeared down the mountain at a far greater speed than they had climbed it.
The white-browed shield maidens began wailing and weeping and attempting to disentangle themselves from the trade goods. Glass beads and ill-formed copper ornaments of the poorest grade were everywhere. Gyrth tore his hair, gnashed his teeth, and cursed Peregrine and his herring. He also cursed his cracked ribs as he set about digging the ox cart out of the mud with his bare hands having naught else to do the task. He found the hub caps to the ox cart where they had fallen upon impact and, being a thrifty sort, gave them to the blue-eyed shield maidens, confident they would find some use for them.
The snow was already higher than a frost giant's belt buckle by the time Gyrth rounded up the distraught oxen and calmed them down. With much coaxing, he reacquainted them with the cart, which once again was laden to the bursting point with hub cap-bedecked shield maidens and trade goods of every description.


EVENTUALLY, A thoroughly chilled, weary, mud-splotched, red-eyed Gyrth carefully brought his ox cart to a gentle halt beside the stream which was beginning to ice over.
Peregrine, who had been pacing rapidly back and forth, so much so that he had worn a deep rut in the snowbank, stood stock still and confronted Gyrth.
"What took you so long?!" he exclaimed. "There's not one fucking herring in this stream, I'm freezing my ass off, and we're late for the feasting!"
So they were both chastened as they set out again for their original destination.

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