Oslo Forest

It was not an ideal moment, what with the town being overrun by soldiers. It was sheer chaos for the first few minutes, with men on horseback pouring in from the west entrance, and with little opposition. But it was not so bad as it seemed, and even the horses upon which they rode had a casual flare to their nostrils, as though at play and nothing more.

It was an event that the villagers had long grown accustomed to. However, each time it happened the initial reaction was as if it had never happened before; frenzy was always the first response. Some even talked of “the frenzy” with excitement on their tongues. “Will you wear this tunic, or that, during the frenzy,” a father once heard his daughter saying to a friend, and he promptly assured her that during the frenzy, she would be indoors with the other good women, and not out being the younger sister of the Whore of Babylon.

That a frenzy- the running, the stashing, the hiding, the jumping over tables, the yelling- was not really necessary was obvious, but most agreed that it made the following days more interesting when running, yelling, and jumping could be added to the memory of days past. It was that type of town, where nothing much happened, and you made your own fun.

It was a game.

How could it not have been? They knew that each month soldiers from Lord Montre would sweep in, collect up money, food, and any other remotely interesting available items, then sweep out and back to whence they came. Sometimes Montre himself would come, and explain to them again why it was necessary to take a portion of their money and goods, and how in the end, it was his gentle hand that made the production of such commerce and goods possible. On it’s face this would sound like the wolf at the door seeking applause from the sheep for his sheep consumption activities, but in actuality, there was more to it.

Montre was a scoundrel, and fighter, but also, a native son, and they knew that he would die for them if such a sitution arose. His was a family whose line in the area was long, and for every misdeed, many blessings usually preceded and followed.

It was during one of these moments that Rejitta Sunsdutter stepped out the back door to run to a friend’s house (for the women in excitement liked to spend the frenzy together and watch the strong and lovely ride by from upper windows), but instead grew afraid at the sound and rumble of so many approaching armed (and drunk) men. It mattered little if they were friend or foe, or cousin.

As she stood, stock still, a monk happened to be walking down the road. He saw her there, as he had often seen her. She alone was beautiful to him, and for weeks upon months he had observed her and longed to approach. It seemed too difficult to get the words out, impossible even. The fact that everyone knew the feelings in his heart did not at all help his efforts. There were many who laughed at him, and thought of him as a monk with no gifts. He could not heal, or fight, or make loaves from rocks. He perplexed the many, and charmed the few.

So this was his moment and he took up his courage, ran to her side and mouthed, “Quick, follow me.” Inside her house her father looked out from behind the window, and called to his wife: “Is that not the monk who speaks not a word, making off with our daughter in the middle of the frenzy? Oh now I have seen it all.”

“Climb over now and stand with me,” were the words that seemed to come from his mouth, and she complied, despite the dubious nature of the rescue, where one false step might send them both plunging down fifteen feet into the water well. He stood with one foot in the bucket, and she grabbed onto him, and they lowered themselves in, till they were floating just above the water below.

He still had not said a word to her, but in his arms she could feel him almost shaking.

“Do not let me go,” she said. She heard, in her head, his response.
“I will never let you go.”

And there they stood, swinging on a bucket on a rope in a shallow well, eye to eye, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, and the earth rumbling overhead.

These lips of mine here stricken lame,
without your love how shall I be,
here heart is calling out thy name.

I feel not just a burning flame,
I speak a thousand hopes to thee,
these lips of mine here stricken lame.

See this was the thing. After such a long pursuit, she finally loved him.

Most people in life are blessed, so blessed. Love comes to them in the form of a face and figure, and many times in a life. But it didn’t really happen like that for Asa at all. Of course there are some who whispered that the monks ought not to be looking for love in the first place, but he was of a faction of monks that did not hold that serving God and loving women might be mutually exclusive.

He found her. He had lived beyond thirty years. “I am older than Christ, and I liveth still, without love,” and then he found her. But her heart did not find him till seven years later. She accepted his attentions and knew his feelings, but she was not a one to set aside her many diversions and suitors. She was a busy one, and this tormented Asa. But he waited.

“I will show her constant love,” he said, and made himself her first and last resort, depending on her situation. He supplied her every need and want, and catered to her whims. She spent the morning accepting his gifts, and the night lavishing those gifts on others who appealed to her more.

Still he waited.

And as day follows night and the earth rolls over, her heart softened and her mind cleared and she saw there was only one who had stood by her always. She saw also that she had spent year upon year lavishing torment upon his soul, for as day follows dark, so too, her neglect followed her smiles, leaving him destitute in the night.

Now everything was different and she handed him love. He was filled with joy, and walked home by the long way, past the pastures and the far side of the river, mind aloft and thanking God.

He came to house and it was on fire. He could hear screams from inside. He stood for a moment watching, not so much the house in flames, but rather his own life.
He ran to the home and went inside. The flames lept upon him with a ferocious glee till his skin sizzled. He dashed around the lower floor, and could smell himself with each breath. Nothing. He ran upstairs.

Did you know Asa had powers too? Of course, all the monks did. Asa could absorb pain. Often enough, it was not even conscious. He did not feel physical pain, and therefore, was most careful in everything he did, lest he accidentally hurt himself without feeling the injury.

Upstairs he found a woman and child, but they were now dead. He was too late. He picked them up and carried them through the fire, and they burnt as one with every step. Once outside he set them down by the river that ran nearby. He leaned over to drink some water and saw his own reflection. He was black as coal, a tower of ash, and no features to speak of.

He thought of his love, and how she might see him; she would speak fondly of him for his courage, but reject him for his appearance. He looked again at his reflection in the water, and tipped over and in. He was never seen again.