Typical Teen Tells Tale
by Sean Gyll (Steve Argyle)
Davis Dart Volume 52 Number 2; Monday, September 24, 1973, page 6
“Gadzooks, knave! Arise! Your Sire calls ye! Out of bed now, it is the morrow!”
“Aye, rogue, I hear ye.”
My name is Angwulf. That rough tongue is Cerdic, my manservant. I am the first son and heir of Herlgoth the Hefty, a great warrior and thane of King Swen Forkbeard. I am, I suppose, a typical Anglo-Saxon teenager.
After a hasty meal of cakes and ale I approach my father.
“Hey, Sire, what’s happening today?”
“Well, Thengal and I were going out for a little recreation.”
“Oh, the Danes back?”
“Aye. You want to borrow the horse?”
“If I may.”
“Would you rather come with me and lop a few Danish heads?”
“Sounds like fun, but we had something planned.”
“So be it. Have fun and don’t take any oaken thrupences.”
The day had dawned bright and clear, as is so often the case when it does not rain. I went to the armory to fetch my goodly blade. It was named Helmbiter or in the vulgar tongue called by some Wilkenson. On the wall hung the great sword of my father, Sword. Its ancient title was Byrncrist or Mail-cleaver.
I jumped upon my valiant war steed. His name was Faestrunner, called Speeder by the peasants. He was a noble beast of the purest Heinz breed.
Urging Speeder to his swiftest gait, a fleet canter, I surmounted the low kneehills which surrounded our valley with a natural wall that protected it from occasional marauders too stupid or small to scale the sheer knolls and mounds.
After three hours of hard riding that put many a furlong between me and my home, I halted. There I met my friend, Wealgreth, the Witty.
“Knock, knock,” he said.
“Not now please!” I cried. “We have a long way to go.”
After a hasty meal of milk and honey we mounted up. “Did you hear the one about the Dane who got caught in a storm by the peasant’s cottage?”
“Shut up!” I suggested and we spurred off.
We traveled many leagues[i] to a village by a river. As we approached a cottage a fair maid stuck her head out of the window. “Greetings my good lookin’ wayfarers,” she said politely.
“Are there any more at home like you?” I said, making the correct reply.
The door opened and Wealgreth and I entered to pick up our dates. After a hasty meal of moon and sixpence, we mounted up; and riding double, were on our way.
We went to a dance at the local mead-hall, which was richly decorated with superbly mimeographed tapestries and thumbtack mosaics. Then we took them to the Goode Provender, a local inn, café and wagon-stop.
After a hasty meal of frankincense and myrrh, we started for home. Wealgreth had been living up to his name when he fell silent. A shadow passed over his face and he lost his wit.
“A shadow had passed over my face and I have lost my wit,” he said. We all breathed a sigh of relief when I heard them. A street-gang of Danes was approaching.
“Hey,” said the leader, “look at the knaves with the wenches.”
“Forsooth,” agreed the gang.
“How about a little kiss from your flaxen-haired prize?” he sneered and sidled up close. I kicked him hard in the knee and dug my spurs into Speeder.
A fast walking Dane caught up and pulled me from my steed.
“Har, har, har,” stated the huge Dane, standing over me with a malicious grin. He wielded a gigantic meat-tenderizer. I flinched at the sound of a blow. But when I opened my eyes, my tormenter was still standing above me, looking oddly different in expression. Indeed, Wealgreth had hewn off his head from behind.
Wielding Wilkenson, I gained my lost steed and girl and hot-footed it for home. Upon arriving, I treated myself to a hasty meal of squibs and crackers and went to bed.
[i] A league is about 7 furlongs, or a knot short of a hectare.
[This is the only surviving piece I have from a set of stories Steve Argyle wrote for the 'Davis Dart', the high school newspaper he and I worked on together. Steve, if you have any more installments, or if you have some comments you want to add, send them over & I'll incorporate them here. -ed]