Lögberg-Heimskringla - 09.07.1993, Blaðsíða 5

Lögberg-Heimskringla • Föstudagur 9. júlí 1993 • 5
Was it a duel?
Mr. Oleson writes glowingly about
his so-called fight for honour. It
must be stated that ever since he
killed the poor mouse Mortimer he has
not been the same. I believe I mentioned
it before that it seemed to us that have to
work with him, not to mention those that
live with him, that some hidden instinct
was awakened. My attempt to stop him
from further damaging his reputation by
exposing his poor poetic skills made him
more determined that ever to prove to the
world that he was equal to the best. Well
best intentions can tum out badly. And
so it has been for me. I have, in all hon-
esty had to watch my back, as this new
Mr. Oleson has been known to lie in wait
for me, lurking in shadows waiting for an
opportunity to slay again.
Only the ones that saw him in Fargo
during the Hjemkomst festival were wit-
nesses to his reaction on the discoveiy of
the Viking Village with all its weaponry.
He saw, or so he thought, his opportunity
to revenge that had so totally taken over
his all being. Yes he challenged me for a
duel to settle the score. It is not the way
of the Icelanders since the age of the
Sturlungs to settle disputes in this man-
ner. All the independence struggle of
Iceland was fought with words for the
skill of our forbears in the use of words is
well know around the world, the latest
proof of that were the successes of the
Cod Wars.
Tom Oleson obviously did not trust
his ability to settle the score in this man-
ner and at the sight of the weaponry of
the Vikings fell for the temptation, he
went for the axe. Out of pure concem for
his state of mind I played my part, and
yes, I selected the most harmless little
sword I could find, as I knew comparing
the size of the warrior to the size of the
axe he had chosen, that he would never
be able to do me, or anyone, harm. The
picture above this, if looked at closely,
will reveal that he could not handle the
shield and the axe at the same time, not
to mention the fact that his helmet fell
over his eyes to make it impossible for
him to see where I was.
If I was to die during this battle it
would not be by the axe but from laugh-
ter. At one point he raised the axe too
high and due to its weight, fell back-
wards, a most embarrassing thing to hap-
pen and on top of that to have to be
helped to get back on his feet by his assis-
tant editor.
Back on his feet he became fierce
looking. The helmet sideways on his
head, his face strained from holding both
the axe and the shield and h'e could be
heard to utter “Hackety-splackety”.
At that instance the Old Gods of our
heritage stepped in. Baldur the good,
spoke to Óðinn who sent Þór to ride the
skies. Such a wind rose in an instance
that tents flew and Viking Oleson, who
had managed to lift the
axe without losing the
shield, blinded by the
helmet, lost his balance.
The axe hit the ground
with more force than he
could have mustered,
and he himself was
blown away by the force of the wind.
Now Óðinn the wise spoke and declared
that the axe would stay in the ground and
would not be lifted by anyone but the
purest of poets. At this, having recovered
from the sudden interference by the
Gods, Mr. Oleson ran to the axe certain
that he would free it from the ground.
His humiliation became evident when he
had to sheepishly walk away from the
task with the axe still stuck in the ground.
The owner of the axe was angry and
demanded compensation. Viking Óleson
did not reveal what that settlement was
as he walked away from the battle
ground.
The battle was over, the wind had
died down and as I left the field I picked
up the axe and retumed it to its grateful
owner.
Obviously my attempt at stopping Mr.
Oleson’s poetry from appearing on the
pages of this paper has failed as he refus-
es to listen to reason. I will end this here
and now with these lines from Hávamál:
profit thou hast ifthou hearest,
great thygain ifthou leamest.
ByBírgir
Brynjólfaaon
By Tom Oleson
As the old saying
goes there are
some words that
can only be washed away
with blood.
A couple of months
ago, the acting, tempo-
rary and interim editor of
Lögberg-Heimskringla,
myself, was publicly
attacked on the pages of
this newspaper by the
Icelandic editor who
passes by the name of
Birgir Brynjólfsson and
who mounted a savage
and unwarranted attack
on my literary, particular-
ly poetic, abilities
because of a casually
written verse idly includ-
ed in an article about a
killer mouse. For the
greater good of the
paper, I endured this abuse
in silence, although, despite
Birgir’s public appeal for
Support, reader response was
100 per cent in my favour.
Most vocal was a someone
who signed herself only as
Mother of Four but whose
communication clearly
revealed herself to be an
educated woman of wit and
wisdom.
Nevertheless, the whis-
pered slanders continued
and I continued to endure
them in silent dignity, refus-
*ng to lower myself to my
critic’s level. Birgir, however,
yho for all his faults, is an
intelligent and widely read
nian, should have recalled
Njál’s Saga and the fate of
Sigmundur Lambason, who
was killed by Skarpheðinn
after composing a libellous
verse referring to the
Njalssons as “little dung
beards.”
As Njáll himself said, a
man cannot live without
honour, and the issue came
f° a head at the Hjemkomst
*n Fargo-Moorhead last
month, when word reached
me that Birgir was reciting a
scurrilous limerick about my
abilities as a poet, a limerick,
which, by all reports, didn’t
even scan.
Enough is enough and I
challenged him to a duel in
Ifue saga style — hólmganga.
Birgir turned a little pale but
had no choice. Fortunately,
j-% Viking Age Club of
Minneapolis was on hand,
fu% armed, and they provid-
ed us with weapons. A circle
was drawn and battle was
joined. It was fierce but short
or two reasons: one was that
lrgir had to bear the added
Urden of the knowledge
Hackety-splacketty,
Birgir Brynjólfsson ’s
Head was saved by a weather-
ly whim.
Still, though, the axe stays
sharp
Thirsting for those who carp
And, in particular, thirsting for
him.
that he was about to meet his
maker with a heavy load of
guilt; the other was that he
foolishly chose as his
weapon the short sword,
which is perfect for back-
stabbing but not too good in
face-to-face confrontation
with a man armed with a
broad-axe, the weapon of my
choice.
At the end of it, he lay
helpless on the ground. I
raised the axe high and
swung it down in the death
blow when a sudden gust of
wind came up so fierce that
it blew over tents and nearly
tore the shield out my hand.
In that fraction of a second
between life and death, it
occurred to me that this
might be a message from the
gods saying that in the grand
scheme of things there might
be some future purpose
even for this wretched
Brynjólfsson, and I stayed
my hand, with the razor edge
of the axe not a centimetre
from his neck.
Even in defeat, however,
he could not be graceful,
claiming that I would not
have won the duel if the
assistant editor hadn’t
tripped him, an act which
was entirely accidental and
had nothing to do with the
fact that she suddenly real-
ized my insurance policies
weren’t paid up.
As a final indignity,
instead of acknowledging
my magnanimity, on the
long drive home he con-
tinually referred to me as
Little Tommy Tittle
Mouse, which, out of
respect for the president
of the paper who was dri-
ving the sinister, black
Lögbergmobile, I had to
endure.
So the situation
remains much as it
was. There is, how-
ever, an interesting foot-
note. It appears that
Mother of Four was in
Fargo and witnessed the
duel, judging by this
communication received
is in verse, and from her.
As usual, it is in verse,
and in her preferred form
of the double dactyl. It is,
admittedly, not one of
her better efforts, but is
worth recording as the
account of an objective
observer:
The two vikings
— Oleson and Brynjólfsson —
in battle.