The Extremely Epic Viking Tale of Yondersaay
Page 24
Usually, on Christmas morning. But not today. Because on this particular Christmas morning, Scathe had bounded out of bed as cheery and optimistic as it was possible for him to be. Today was different. He, Silas Scathe, had single-handedly—indeed single-mindedly—defeated that despicable old fool Odin and had forced him to surrender his treasure. To him. Silas Scathe. The one and only. The victorious!
Scathe took his espresso on the terrace. It was a beautiful morning, crisp and clear, if cold. Something was different—he couldn’t put his finger on what exactly had changed, but he was different now; he had changed. This must be how the Victorious feel every day! The sun was bright, if not warm, and the ice gave off a subtle purple hue. Scathe sipped his coffee, had a croissant, and went inside to get dressed in his ordinary, everyday, non-Viking clothes.
When he was ready to leave, he turned off the lights and locked the doors. He remembered to empty and unplug the refrigerator. As he was carrying out his chores, Scathe was getting more and more excited thinking about the treasure that was finally his after all these years.
He gathered up the old warrior’s battle-ax from the armour in the Great Hall and his wooden spade, remembering that Odin had said they were crucial. How could he have been so foolish all these hundreds of years? How could he not have realized that the ancient skalders’ poems, which sang of using the battle-axes of warriors and spades of wooden construction in the uncovering of the earth’s greatest treasures, applied to Odin’s great haul?
Scathe closed the heavy front doors and took one last look at Violaceous Hall as he descended the mountain. He was singing to himself as he walked. He was swinging his battle-ax, chopping the heads off flowers and shrubberies as he went, no longer pretending to be gentle and kind. He could not hear their cries of pain or protest anyway; it was no longer Christmas Eve—they no longer had a voice. Nor would they for another whole year.
And he’d be long gone by then.
Scathe decided to stroll along the Beach of Bewilderment one last time and to approach his treasure trove from the River Gargle. He ascended the dunes and crossed the bridge between the whirlpool and the waterfall. He sauntered to where he remembered the Tree to be. The Tree he now knew as Rarelief the Splendiferous. The Tree with the purple leaves and the purple ribbon tied around it. The Tree with the treasure buried among its roots.
Scathe approached the entrance to the Crimson Forest. The birdsong echoed his feelings of joy and triumph. Usually there was only such voluminous and various birdsong in his back garden. How apt that they would sing for him down here like this today!
He cast his mind back, before the sauntering and the strolling and the one last look and the locking up. He was sure there was something he was forgetting … He drank his espresso and ate his croissant and cleared out and unplugged the refrigerator. Then he had glanced out over his icy courtyard, he had seen the purple glint off the ground and the peaks of the mountain, but something was different. He was sure of it; something he wasn’t able to put his finger on was missing.
Scathe stopped and finally looked ahead of him into the Crimson Forest. Then he realized what it was, that little something not quite right.
His battle-ax dropped heavily to the ground, and his spade fell beside it. He took a small step forward, and then another one; his jaw went slack, and his mouth fell open.
There, in front of Silas Scathe, at the entrance to the Crimson Forest, was not one oak but thousands of oaks. Not two elms but thousands. The forest was replete. It was living and thriving. All his trees were there, back where they had first been all those hundreds of years ago. Every tree that he had had his men uproot and transport to his private courtyard in the topmost part of Mount Violaceous was back, here, in the Crimson Forest.
All around were trees, encroaching onto the banks of the River Gargle, sidling halfway up the mountain, creeping forward toward the village and backwards over the dunes to the sea. Densely packed: hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of them.
Scathe dropped to his knees and flung back his head. The scream came from such a deep and black place; it was so piercing and so pained that it affected all the island creatures no matter who or where they were. Every last bird in the forest took flight in terror; creatures ran for cover. Babies shivered, and grown men wept.
The sound that emerged from the rankest, most fetid place within Scathe came at the precise instant, the very millisecond he realized something else was desperately, desperately wrong.
Tied tightly so it could not float away, fluttering in the early morning breeze was a purple ribbon. Not just on the Tree, but on every tree—every oak, every elm—on every one of the thousands and thousands of trees that encroached all around and up and beyond. Toward the village, scaling the mountain’s slopes, even receding over the dunes to the sea. A purple ribbon on every tree. Literally.
THE END
Acknowledgements
I owe a debt of gratitude to a great many people. The book started out as my Masters in Creative writing thesis at the University of Cape Town. I’m grateful to my teachers for their expert advice, encouragement, and support, especially to Ron Irwin, Jean McNeil, and the late Stephen Watson. A shout out to my fabulous classmates: Hazel Woodward, Sue Sega, Sally Cranswick, Penny Busetto, Mo Ismail, Marcus Low, Paul Leger, Sam Wilson, Charlie Human, Monica Jacobs, Lisa Lazarus, Ellen Banda-Aaku, and Nape Montana.
Massive thanks to my writing buddy Kira Schlesinger for her daily chats in the research commons and for keeping me sane, well, more sane that I otherwise would have been. Thanks also to Robin Moger, another research commons desk mate for his friendship and support and for being an astute and constructive early reader of the book.
Luke Fiske was an inspirational teacher and supervisor, always kind, thorough, thoughtful and encouraging. I wouldn’t have written this book if not for Luke, he believed in it from the beginning – if you didn’t like it, it’s all his fault.
Thanks to Michelle Magwood and Olivia Birdsall, the first anonymous readers of the book, for their words of praise and encouragement. Extra love to Michelle for her continued friendship.
I’m so thankful to early readers of the book, Mary Auxier for her exquisite editorial advice, and to Libby Ferda, Ciaran MacGlinchey, Rachel Ferriman, Michele Rowe, Joanna Trollope, and Jack Ritchie. Thanks to Emer Horgan and her friend Tatsuo Kitagawa for translating the line of Japanese.
To the best agent in the world, Ali MacDonald, you are the cat’s pajamas and the bee’s knees.
Thank you to Georgia McBride for saying yes to this book, and for everything that’s happened since then - it’s been a wonderful ride. Huge thanks to my lovely editor Tara Creel for her diligence and support, and to Jaime, Nicole, and the rest of the indefatigable team at Tantrum Books.
AOIFE LENNON-RITCHIE
Aoife Lennon-Ritchie is an Irish writer and actor. She lives in Cape Town, South Africa with her husband and two children. She is only one-sixteenth Yondersaanian, but she has red hair and white skin so is often mistaken for a full Yondersaanian.
If you would like more information on Yondersaay, have a look at the author’s website www.aoifelennonritchie.com and the book’s website www.extremelyepic.com. For even more information, or to go to the island over the school holidays, try emailing the Shetland tourist board, the Yondersaay tourist board, and the Scottish tourist board and ask to be invited to Yondersaay.
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Table of Contents
Praise
For The Extremely Epic Viking Tale Of Yondersaay
Pronunciation Guide
PART I: YONDERSAAY
Please Use Other Door
Would the Miller Siblings Kindly Come to the Principal’s Office
Going to Yondersaay
The King of the Danes
The Little Secret
Dudo and the Bear
The Ravenous Bear
Landing on Yondersaay
The Butcher, The Baker
Dudo Meets Jarl Olaf
At the Greengrocer’s
The Night before Christmas Eve
The Violaceous Amethyst
How to Conquer Yondersaay and Become its Lord and Master
The Wooing of the Jarl’s Daughter
The Wooing of Brunhilda Thunder Thighs
The Wooing of Brunhilda Continued: The More Fun Version
The Wedding of Dudo and Brunhilda
PART II: CHRISTMAS EVE
Dawn on Christmas Eve Morning
The Red King of Denmark
Rarelief the Splendiferous
All the Christmas Eves
Violaceous Hall
Silas Scathe Lands on Yondersaay
The Long-Term Plan
The Animals and the Trees, the Sands and the Rocks and the Waters
All the Trees
The Dungeon
The Boy King meets the Jarl
Pedigree
Greenbottle Blue
The Wooing of Róisínín Rose White
Dani’s Backpack
The Fight to the Death of Brokk the Chiselled and Kind of Heart and Dad the Limp and Dripping
The Tome of Tiuz
Right or Left
The Great Sacrificial Yuletide Festival
The Oracle Pronounces
The Final Rays of the Sun
Home
An Ordinary, Everyday Christmas Morning
The Millers
Mr. Scathe
Acknowledgements
About the Author
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