Tryggvi, Tea Bringer

by Lord Wolf Egilsson
and Lady Douglass Petryewood

IN HIS YOUNGER days, which none now alive can remember, Tryggvi Halftrollsonwilltravel was a famous wanderer. No country was too far, no passage so perilous, no scenic route too out of the way that he would not attempt it. Once he even traveled to a magical land as hot as Greenland is cold where there were strange plants with sharp spines and the very stars spoke to him. His chief pleasure was to see as much as he could along the way. No standing stone was too boring, no merchant's stall too tawdry, no village too small, no saint's relic too obscure--Tryggvi would see it all lest he miss any of the wonders around him.
One fine morning, in a faraway land, Tryggvi was in search of his breakfast. It had been a long journey as usual and there was nothing like a long journey to whet the appetite. As he came round a hill, he spied a most unusual inn. It was built entirely of large bricks as blue as robin's eggs. Upon the bright blue walls, in colors hotter than a blacksmith's fire, were depictions of extraordinary people and beasts. There was even one that looked like a serpent with feathers.
"If the inhabitants of this land know how to build such a colorful inn," thought Tryggvi, "who knows what other secrets there might be that a traveler could learn to his advantage? I must stop here for breakfast."
Inside the inn, some of the local people were enjoying a leisurely meal. Tryggvi noticed that everyone seemed to be eating the same thing--a reddish brown soup streaked with yellow. Being in the mood for more substantial cuisine, he ordered something else, but when it arrived it was a reddish brown soup streaked with yellow. Wanting to be on his best behavior in a new land, and being quite hungry by now, he decided to eat what he was given.
He tasted his food and was immediately overcome with respect for the inhabitants of the land. "By Balder's hairy breeches!" he exclaimed. "Such fare must be meant for the table of Valhalla, so fine it is!" He spotted a small bowl of curiously shaped green pickles and helped himself to a handful. As the tears ran down his cheeks, he dabbed at his eyes with the sleeve of his tunic, and tried to take in more of the details of his surroundings.
In the far corner, an old man wearing a strange conical hat sat alone in serious contemplation of a small vessel of some amber colored liquid. The hat was shaped like a mead horn that had been straightened but was decorated with little pink bunnies. As Tryggvi watched, the solemn man lifted the tiny vessel of golden fluid on high as if pondering hidden mysteries beyond the ken of mere mortals. Then he licked his left hand, drained the cup in one mighty draft, sucked on a piece of some green fruit, then blew upon a whistle that unrolled and had a feather on the end of it.
Tryggvi was consumed with curiousity. What could that cup contain that would inspire such reverence? Never in all his travels to exotic lands to imbibe in exotic substances, had he seen such masterful finesse and delicacy devoted to drinking. Being a gregarious sort, he could not restrain himself from approaching the old man.
"What sort of mead have you there, Master, that gives you such cause for contemplation?"
"It is called 'tea-killah,' stranger. Properly appreciated and judiciously administered, it opens the eyes of young women to older men's charms like nothing else can. But you must revere it's power and properly observe the three sacraments, for, if used incorrectly, it casts a spell to make all women seem beautiful--even those with too much facial hair."
Tryggvi reached across the table, grasped the old man by his serape, and respectfully lifted him several feet off the floor. "TEACH ME THIS MAGIC, MASTER!!" he bellowed courteously.
The old master got all choked up over his new student's enthusiasm and readily agreed to immediate lessons. He placed another vessel in front of Tryggvi and poured tea-killah into it.
"First you must show respect by covering your head with a ceremonial hat," the old man handed Tryggvi another conical hat made of a strange, lightweight material which shone like metal although it was not. It was decorated with rows of bright yellow duckies and came to a point much more quickly than this saga.
"Then you must apologize to this fruit, called a 'lime,' before you slice it up," said the old man as he deftly quartered the lime into small wedges with a delicately-wrought knife. He gave Tryggvi a second lime.
Wanting to impress the master, Tryggvi whipped out an ancient, much-used scramasax that had a patina of hard useage overlying many stains of mysterious origins, and delt savagely with the fruit which was reduced to many ragged chunks and blobs of pulp.
"Well done!" the wise master said, noticing the size of his knife. "Now for the salt!" Using the tip of his tongue, the master skillfully traced a line of moisture between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, then lightly sprinkled salt thereon. He passed the salt to Tryggvi.
Grabbing the salt cellar in one meaty paw, Tryggvi applied the same technique. With a tongue the size of a Jarl's portion of raw bear liver, he liberally drenched his other hand, leaving a gritty trail of saliva, mucous, and a variety of unknown substances. Yellow streaks of his previous meal were apparent. Gracefully tipping the salt cellar, he created a small mountain range of salt.
The master retched appreciatively, and proceeded. In one smooth, flowing motion, he licked the salt, knocked back the shooter, and sucked on a wedge of lime, then blew upon the whistle.
Haltingly, but with a heretofore undiscovered talent, Tryggvi adroitly thrusts a gob of lime up his right nostril, bites the top off one of the mountains of salt, and swills the tea-killah down in one heroic gulp.
The golden elixer passed his lips and was halfway down his throat when Tryggvi gasped, choked, and spewed it back out, spraying the master with the liquid as spindrift blows before a storm.
"You catch on quickly, my student," the master said.
Grateful tears streaming down his face, Tryggvi thanked the master and called for another round of lessons.


AFTER SEVERAL more lessons, Tryggvi rose to leave and staggered for the door. The master, from his vantage point on the floor, called out, "Remember! The Celts must never know of this ceremony!"
And to this day, Tryggvi, perpetually followed by the tender sighs of bearded ladies, continues to bring the culture and enlightenment of the tea ceremony to his less fortunate shield brothers in the Lemming Warband.

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