Jared links to a list of Christian urban legends. These are things like the Eye of the Needle gate outside Jerusalem and a rope tied to the high priest when we goes into the Holy of Holies (in case he dies there). I’m most disappointed by this one: “Voltaire’s house is now owned by a Bible-printing publisher.” I thought that was true, at least, that it was true within 100 years of Voltaire’s death. Bum.

Discussion continues at Trevin Wax’s blog.

One thing I neglected to tell you about, when I reported yesterday on my Viking weekend, was the singular honor paid to me during the Great Feast held on Saturday night. I was given a seat at the table of honor, which is pretty cool if you’re a Viking buff.

The feast was impressive. I over-ate. Almost all the food was certified “available” to the Vikings, but I suspect few real Vikings ever enjoyed a meal that tasty.

Part of the programme called for “the passing of the horn,” a tradition in which a horn of mead is passed around the hall, and each participant, when the horn comes to him, gives a greeting, tells a story, sings a song (nobody did that), or proposes a toast. I told one of my favorite true Viking stories, “The Tale of Thorarin Nefjolfsson’s Foot,” as recorded in the Saga of Saint Olaf. I give it below, more or less as I related it Saturday night.

The king and his men were in Tunsberg [a market town near present-day Oslo] one summer night. Among his retinue was Thorarin Nefjolfsson, an Icelandic merchant. Thorarin was a tall, thin man with a long nose and large hands and feet. He was not famed for his physical beauty.

The nights are short in Norway that time of year, and King Olaf woke before the rest of his men and looked around him in the morning light. He noticed that one of Thorarin’s feet had stuck out from under his blanket. He contemplated that foot for some time.

When his men woke up, King Olaf said to them, “Men, I have been awake a while now, and I’ve seen a sight worth seeing. A man’s foot so ugly that I’d be willing to bet there isn’t an uglier foot in the whole town.”

All the men looked at Thorarin’s foot, and agreed that it was indeed the ugliest they’d ever seen.

But Thorarin himself said, “I’ll take that bet, my king. There are few things in the world so strange that you can’t find a match for them. I happen to know where I can find an uglier foot right here in town.”

“It’s a bet,” said the king. “Whoever loses will have to perform a service for the winner.”

Then Thorarin pushed his other foot out from under the blanket. It was no prettier than the first, and on top of that the big toe was missing.

“I win the bet!” he said.

But King Olaf said, “Oh no. The first foot had five hideous toes, while this one has only four. Therefore I win the bet.”

The moral is: Never gamble with a politician.

The Phantom Tollbooth opened up author Michael Chabon and infected his entire circulatory system. He says, “It was while reading The Phantom Tollbooth that I began to realize, not that I wanted to be a writer (that came a little later, at the mercy of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle), but something simpler: I had a crush on the English language, one that was every bit as intense, if less advanced, as that from which the augustly named author, Mr. Norton Juster, himself evidently suffered.” (via Books, Inq.)

For many years I’ve been a little disappointed with Norwegians in Norway, because their “traditional” Easter observance in contemporary times has nothing to do with church, but rather involves taking a last ski trip to the mountains, and reading mystery novels.

This year I went away for Easter myself, on a strictly non-religious errand, so I stand self-condemned. I think if I’d realized the Return of the Sun event in Missouri was Easter weekend, I wouldn’t have done it. But I didn’t catch the subtle signs, like words on a calendar. And once I promised I’d go, I figured I’d better follow through.

On top of that, I really wanted to film some footage in an authentic setting for my book trailer. So I sacrificed Easter both to my Viking avocation and to my business concerns. Which makes me a hypocrite. I think there’s a lesson there.

I now know what Vikings smelled like. They smelled like smoke. Spend any amount of time in a building heated by an open hearth, and your clothes will be permeated with smoke. I don’t object to this. It’s actually rather pleasant (I’ve smelled a whole lot worse in my time). It’s just a point of information, based on experience.

It’s a long drive to northeastern Missouri from Minneapolis, but Mrs. Hermanson made it in good form, even getting pretty reasonable gas mileage, considering all my baggage. Her newly restored four wheel drive came in handy in rural Missouri, where it’s been raining a lot. Although I lived in Missouri for a year long ago, I’d forgotten the particular slippery quality of that state’s clay-based topsoil.

Ravensborg, “Viking Sam” Shoults’ as yet unfinished Viking fort, is located near Knox City, Missouri. The web site is here. And here’s a Picasso album of photos of the weekend. You’ll see me in picture number five, along with Sam’s son John.

Continue reading My weekend among the Vikings →