I met him for the first time beneath the Yggdrasil, known to some as the Tree of Life. Why this cosmic Tree of Life disclosed itself to me I will never know. I had only ever heard of it described to me by my father, in hushed tones, the excitement in his voice sending sparks throughout my attentive frame and causing each hair on my arm to stand at attention. My encounter with the Tree, however, is not as important as the events that followed. For I came across the Tree on several occasions after the first. My wonderment, I will save for a more appropriate occasion. It is who I met beneath the tree that left a stronger impression on my younger self. A small boy who spent most of his time building hideaways in the rotted out trunks of ash trees, pretending to be a fearless nomad traveller, collecting rare species of moths.
He was descending an old wooden ladder bare-chested with a basket of all kinds of fruit perched atop his head, the light of the sun, I recall, bending and dispersing through the thickness of the foliage as if it were the groping arms of Aten, reaching for their Pharaoh king. For the Cosmic Tree of Life bears countless types of fruit, you see. Waxy, golden apples so perfectly spherical you can barely bring yourself to eat them. Sweetly scented stone-fruits dripping with nectar and possessing powerful healing properties. Bunches of grapes so divinely juicy they drive mortal men insane. More than a few women have spent sleepless nights alone in bed, silently cursing their husbands for their infidelity, unaware of the true scenario in which he has woken in the night to the beckoning of the galaxies and led to wander, blinded by his insatiable hunger for the fruit of the tree, unable to locate its whereabouts (for it only appears to those who are deserving).
On the day we met, I had run away from my father after losing one of the prized family vases on my return from the market, weary and laden with valuable antiques. My father had been forced to part with them by my mother upon the diagnosis of my little brother with a strange illness. Such a decision had to be made to afford the services of the town doctor, a medicine man with three fingers too few, and a look that makes it seem he is staring right into your head reading your every thought. He said my brother was inflicted by an "unwellness of the psyche". My father said it was attention-seeking.
Needless to say, not many appreciated (or could afford the price my father uncompromisingly assigned to each) the vast collection of Grecian urns, Indian relics of worship honouring the many forms of Vishnu, Krishna, Radharani and Ganesha, Nordic horns, built out of conch shells and Peruvian weaves wrought from the fur of alpaca, the result of a life-time of archaeological excavation and travel that had lead my father into several life-threatening scenarios, which he delighted in telling while my mother grit her teeth disapprovingly and busied herself in the kitchen, making slightly more noise than was necessary for the preparation of pumpkin soup.
My favourite story was the prophesied battle of Ragnarok, in which the gods at play, caused the heavens to split open, heralding the destruction of the nine worlds, and the doom of men and gods alike. Nought could do a thing to prevent prophecy coming to pass.
BEFORE THE WORLD GOES HEADLONG, NO MAN WILL HAVE MERCY ON ANOTHER!
My father's voice swells, bouncing off every reflective surface of our home as he delights in re-telling the gruesome details of the fight. Telling the story with such passion, one almost forgets these were events occurring thousands of years ago and that he could not possibly have been there ripping Fenrir from nose to tail for swallowing his father.
Odin, swallowed alive and whole by a wolf, is avenged by his son. The people are forced to flee their homes. The great solar disc is blackened while the earth sinks into the sea, the stars vanish, steam rises and flames touch the heavens.
Returning to the tale at hand. As I approached Kjetil, he turned to face me, and lifting the basket from atop his head a peacock appeared between his legs, hidden until that very moment. It stood with the same majestic stance of its master. With a small nod of his head that communicated more than any amount of words, he turned and began walking towards the hills and I knew he expected me to follow him.
Without looking back even once to see if I am following, we climb the goat tracks that wind throughout the hills for a period of time unknown to me. Baby goats dance joyously around me as I pass, Towering tree spirits wave their branches seductively and whisper in my ear. the wind blows wildflowers in my direction and sweeping towards me they form a wreath that falls gently over my head, coming to rest around my neck. I am filled with joy and a love so great I can barely breathe.
What a beautiful day. What a perfectly beautiful day.
The world is a beautiful place to be born into.
He slows to a stop and turns to me, opening his arms wide. I fall into his embrace, clumsy and drunk on the spirits of the trees, calling out to me. He tells me I am one of his tribes-men, though he does not speak a word. I sense something similar, but lack the knowledge to express my feeling. A vibration of the matter within me, moving, like a magnetic pull dragging me towards this silent steward of the hills.
He instructs me to read from the ancient text printed on his back. One part of the text is a section on astronomy. It teaches that the sun and moon have chariots driven by the wind, that the year consists of 364 days, and that human sin causes the heavenly bodies to depart from their courses and create nebulae explosions. My head is filled to bursting with the words I have read, a heaviness overcomes me and I feel my eyes disappear in to my head and the sensation of falling.
Roused by a change in the air, the shepherd beckons. We drink goats milk, warm and frothy, right from the tit as we watch the sun being dragged once again into the underworld.
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