The Saga of Peregrine the Hard of Herring

by Lady Douglass Petryewood

PEREGRINE THE Hard of Herring sat brooding in his longhouse. His household of numerous wives, farm animals, leman, and children bustled about him, filling the longhouse with life. But the corner where Peregrine sat staring at the flames of the fire was clenched in the black fist of gloom.
"I am a fierce warrior!" he thought, "The number of my dead enemies exceeds that of all the trees in the forest. I am a famous lover! The number of women and farm animals I have bedded is certainly greater than that of all the branches on all the trees in the forest. I can drink mead until I pass out and still make up a good story to explain what I do not remember the next morning. And yet the herring elude me! What have I done to be cursed thus?"
The tongues of flame licked the bottom of the huge iron gruel pot wherein Peregrine's supper boiled and steamed. One of his wives approached the hearth and stirred the gruel with a long-handled spoon.
"Supper's ready! Come and get it!" she cried.
The household members lined up, each one clutching a wooden bowl.
"Mother, are we having gruel again?" one child asked.
"I don't want any!" another exclaimed, flinging away his bowl; it struck yet another child who began to cry.
"Father, why don't we have herring to eat as the other children do?" asked an older child.
Snatching his cloak off its hook, Peregrine ran outside. He wandered down to the edge of the fjord and stared across the moonlit water.
"How can I face them again without a bucket of herring to fill their emptiness?" he said to the rippling waters. "I'm a failure as a fisherman! Who can I turn to for guidance in my disgrace and travail?"
Suddenly, his head lifted. His beard, wet with tears, sparkled in the moonlight.
"I shall call upon Grim Ferris the Old!" Peregrine exclaimed. "The All Father is by far the oldest and wisest member of the dreaded Lemming warband--likely he was there when the first herring spawned! His advice will be as sound as the timbers of his pavilion when the wind whistles across the deserts of Atenveldt."
Turning quickly upon his heel, Peregrine blew his nose on the border of his cloak and sought the path that led to the longhouse of Grim Ferris the Old.


NOW IT CAME to pass that Grim Ferris the Old was entertaining Leon Stormbringer and James the Purple and Paisley, in his longhouse that night. Upon his arrival, Peregrine found a sumptuous feast laid out upon the table. There were loaves of fragrant rye bread, a large wooden tub of newly churned butter, a generous wheel of cheese, and every sort of herring imaginable.
There was pickled herring in rich sour cream, herring in mustard sauce, herring in oil imported from the faraway land of extra virgins (not yet visited by Gyrth), salt herring, grilled herring with just a touch of dill, and Leon Stormbringer was making quite a smell as he smoked a rather large herring by the fire. There were tankards of mead large enough to quench the thirst of Völund and fresh berries with honey and cream for desert. Peregrine's knees felt weak.
"Welcome, shield brother Peregrine!" shouted Grim Ferris the Old with a hearty laugh. "Come, sup with me at my table and tell me what brings you here! Leon Stormbringer, James the Purple and Paisley, and I were just discussing a most ingenious plan they have devised to modify cooking pots for use as helmets."
Now Grim Ferris the Old was no coal biter. He was fully aware of the reason for the sudden visit.
Peregrine's futile quest for herring was no secret among the members of the Lemming warband. As the hound visits every tree and shrub, so Peregrine visited every stream, brook, rill, and rivulet he could find in search of herring but always came back empty-handed.
His lack of success clouded his reason and he refused to listen to those who suggested that, the herring, being a salt-water fish, was best sought in the sea. Hence his new nickname, "Hard of Herring."
The Lemming warriors were as taut warp threads on a loom as they waited for Peregrine to realize the error of his ways. The All Father perceived that the moment had arrived to take up the shuttle and begin weaving things together again.
"I am come to ask your advice," said Peregrine as he found a seat at the table. "I am in great distress . . ."
"Stop! Speak no further!" The All Father held up his hand. "The seriousness of your affliction is as obvious as a moose in a mead horn. This matter is far too grave to entrust to the judgment of mortal men. We must seek the wisdom of the gods! I will cast the runes for you."
The All Father, beloved of Loki, was a cunning man practiced in the many ways the runestones could be made to tell the story of his own choosing. He caused a portion of the table to be cleared and brought out a small wooden box carved with an intricate pattern. Inside lay a leather pouch which held the runestones.
"First, a libation to the gods and our ancestors, especially dear Old Granddad," began the All Father. He lifted his drinking horn on high this way and that as he contemplated and meditated upon the mead, then spilled a few drops upon the floor. All present solemnly followed his example, belching, snorting, and slinging mead to all points of the compass. "One by one, choose four runestones from the pouch and lay them in a row upon the table. I will interpret their meanings for you."
Peregrine closed his eyes for a moment, then reached into the pouch with a trembling hand once, twice, thrice, and yet once more and laid the four runestones on the table.
"Ah! Well chosen! The first rune is rad whose meaning is travel--you are about to embark upon a journey," said the All Father peering at the stones. "The second rune is ur whose meaning is ox--it would seem that Gyrth the Crafty is to assist you in this journey. The third rune is lagu whose meaning is water--the gods have ordained that the whale road shall be your path. And the last rune is ger whose meaning is abundance--the gods predict a favorable outcome to this journey."
"Can it be that at last I will find what I seek?"
"The runes are quite clear--tomorrow you must travel with Gyrth upon the sea and you will find your heart's desire. Return now to your home and sleep soundly. See Gyrth first thing in the morning and go where he leads you. The runes have spoken!"
As swift as Sleipnir to a mare, a joyful Peregrine leapt up and ran out of the longhouse. Grim Ferris the Old turned with a smile to Leon Stormbringer and James the Purple and Paisley.
"My shield brothers, one of you must away to Wolf the Shaggy's house and tell him to prepare his fishing boat to take Gyrth and Peregrine herring fishing at dawn tomorrow. The other must tell Gyrth to expect Peregrine first thing in the morning and lead him to the boat. Perhaps we shall have an end to this herring business once and for all!"


AND SO THE dawning day found Peregrine and Gyrth walking down to the water's edge.
". . . and last night the All Father foretold that you would help me on my quest," Peregrine was saying.
"Look!" ejaculated Gyrth, "It's an omen!" He stopped in his tracks and pointed at Wolf the Shaggy, and his lady, Bunnhilda, who were making their small fishing boat, the Sea Hair, ready for a voyage.
"Gyrth, you speak truly! It is as the runestones revealed! Let us seek passage with them."
Soon, Peregrine and Gyrth were rowing while Wolf the Shaggy took the tiller and Bunnhilda made the sail ready to catch the very first breezes.
By and by, the sail fluttered as strongly as a raven's wings then billowed out with a snap! and they were underway. Peregrine and Gyrth shipped the oars. Wolf the Shaggy, who was a most successful fisherman, brought the ship about and began heading towards the best herring spot in the entire fjord.
"Shall I get the nets ready?" asked Peregrine eagerly.
"We will not need nets," replied Wolf the Shaggy.
"Not need nets?! Do you propose to catch the herring one by one?"
"I do indeed for these are no ordinary herring," He had Peregrine's undivided attention. "They are giants!"
"Giant herring?!"
"The least of them is as long as my forearm. You shall see."
Meanwhile, Bunnhilda had Gyrth's undivided attention. She was a strong, spirited woman and good looking too. She was famous throughout the land for her summer garb which she sewed from a few carefully selected pelts of anorexic voles. Rumor had it that she was something of a sorceress as well for there was a story that once she had clothed herself entirely in leather made of fruit.
Both Wolf and Gyrth had courted Bunnhilda some years hence. Gyrth had even ventured to show her his mini mace once or twice. Shortly, though, he was distracted by a strange compulsion to spread his genetic material across as wide a segment of the female population as possible and they had parted. In truth, though, Bunnhilda fancied Wolf the Shaggy's great sword which fit its sheath so perfectly and always found its mark. And so they were married.
"Fishing poles at the ready," commanded Wolf. "I will drop the sail so we may slowly drift over the spot."
Peregrine nearly fainted with delight and giddiness when he caught the first fish.
"The gods be praised!" he exclaimed. "Wolf the Shaggy, your word is as sure as the defeat of our enemies when you are in the shield wall! This herring is too big to fit in my bucket!"
"Let me put it on a stringer for you," spoke Gyrth. "Then you will not lose it." He brought out a stringer, made one end fast to the boat, attached the herring to the other and threw it into the water.
Now the herring came thick and fast. It seemed that no sooner did a hook touch the water than another enormous herring was flopping around in the boat. Gyrth continued to add them to the stringer which became heavier and heavier.
"If the gods become angry with me and prevent me from entering Valhalla, this miraculous day of fishing will be enough to content me!" proclaimed Peregrine. "The curse has been lifted!"
"If I were to do something to really impress Bunnhilda," mused Gyrth to himself, "I might have a chance to keep company with her if Wolf goes a viking." Gyrth had carefully chosen his position in the boat so that he could readily observe the effect the breezes had on Bunnhilda's brief voleskin skirt as she leaned over the side with her fishing pole.
"Here is another herring for the stringer," remarked Wolf the Shaggy as he handed over the fish. The breezes blew a bit stronger and Gyrth's pulse kept time with the rapidly flapping voleskins.
The stringer had become so cumbersome that Gyrth was obliged to unfasten it from the boat and haul it in hand over hand. He attached the fish and slowly began lowering the stringer over the side.
A particularly lusty breath of wind caught the hem of Bunnhilda's skirt and steadily raised it higher and higher. Gyrth was enthralled.
The sudden sweatiness of his palms made it difficult to hold fast to the stringer. Rubbing one hand across his tunic, he brushed against the pouch that hung from his belt. This dislodged a large, cheap, glass bead from a hole in the pouch; it fell in such a manner that he trod upon it. Gyrth gave a startled cry as his feet flew out from under him and the stringer of fish fell over the side with a splash and sank.
They all turned to stare at Gyrth. It was as quiet as a snowflake hitting a glacier and just as cold.
"I . . . don't feel well," said Peregrine in a trembling voice as he slowly sat down.


MANY YEARS went by before anyone saw, much less spoke to Gyrth again. Some said he went a viking to seek the fabled land of extra virgins. Others maintained that he became a beserker for the Catholic Church. And some were certain that he went on to even more glorious escapades in Merchant Rows throughout the Known World. The saga continues . . .

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