The Saga of Saint Olaf (King)

Down in Guthbrander-Dale

K. A. Laity

CAST OF CHARACTERS:

 KING OLAF, sainted ruler

SIGVAT THE SKALD, Icelandic poet

KOLBEIN THE STRONG, steadfast henchman of sainted king

DALA-GUTHBRAND, rival heathen ruler

MRS. DALA-GUTHBRAND, rival heathen ruler’s wife

THORTH PAUNCHBELLY, steadfast heathen henchman

GHOST OF OLAF TRYGGVASON, dead ruler of Norway

THE SUN, large star in Milky Way galaxy

SUN: Somewhere in the general area of Trondheim, a poet sits,

composing the saga of Saint Olaf in fitts. [backs off stage]

SIG: "Now is the winter of our discontent

Made glorious summer by this son of Harald—no!

[rips up pages, wads it throws it away, taps pen for a minute thinking]

"Two religions, both alike in dignity

In fair Verona—er, Trondheim, where we lay our scene—"

No, no, no! [rips up that too] Ah, wait—[starts to scribble hastily]

"There once was a saint from old Norway

who could drain a horn faster than hens lay—"

[Enter OLAF and KOLBEIN]

OLAF: Sigvat! Don’t you sit there drumming [his pen, that refers to],

tell me how’s that saga coming?!

SIG: [hiding most recent scrap of paper] Very well, m’lord.

OLAF: Well—?

SIG: Oh, yes—very very well.

OLAF: [irritated] Let me make this perfectly clear—

I mean, let me give it a hear.

SIG: Ah. [shuffles papers, picks up one of the discarded wads], let’s see—.how’s about—

One great warrior, knew I,

was there, unto you like,

Guthbrand hight, who governed,

Gold-rich, over Dalesmen.

Equal, I would say, is

either enemy-of-gold-rings.

Lies he who, ‘mongst lair-hoards-

loathers, thinks he is greater. [smiles ingratiatingly]

OLAF: WHAT?!

SIG: [explaining, much nervous twitching of hands] Well, you see, it’s really a kenning, if you know what I mean, a dragon’s lair, so the loather of the lair’s hoard is the enemy of the dragon, so—

OLAF: Never mind you infernal man,

who the hell is this Dala-Guthbrand?!

KOL: [stepping forward] My liege if you’ll hear my gentle words,

I will relay what I have heard.

Dala-Guthbrand claims to be a lawful king,

and your praises, he refuses to sing.

Worse than that, he’s a heathen beast,

inviting Odin and Freyja and Loki to feast.

OLAF: A slip of the tongue I can easily forget,

calling god Odin is no real threat;

but the man who declares himself king in MY land,

will find himself feeling the wrath of MY hand!

[mumbles prayers during the following lines]

KOL: Shall we gather an army to crush him to dust?

SK: Shall we call upon vikings in helmets of—rust?

KOL: Shall we summon our faithful together this time?

SK: [looks to the audience] Why is it, I’m suddenly speaking in rhyme?

OLAF: Kolbein and Sigvat, the lord’s made it clear;

I must avenge this cruel slight, if it takes me a year.

Summon the berserks, the sword-flingers and axe-handers,

all the bow-stretchers and that crack team from Flanders.

To the top of the dale, to the top of the hall,

it’ll be slashing and stabbing and slaughter for all!

[OLAF and KOL brandish weapons eagerly, SIG joins in half-heartedly]

SIG: This can’t end well. [They all mime traveling (in circles, I suppose)]

[Enter DAL, MRS, THO]

DAL: So I hear this Olaf who calls himself King,

has come up to the Dales to hold a big Thing

[All look at him somewhat scandalized].

What I meant to say, let me make it quite plain,

he’s planned a meeting to turn us to a Christian vein.

MRS & THO: Ohhhhhhh.

DAL: [warming to his topic, yet seemingly unable to find a good rhyme]

He’s called us Thor-losers and big heathen bullies,

said that our faith all of good Norway sullies!

If he dares to come here, he’ll feel my rude anger,

I’ll set all the Dales’ farmers upon this wild stranger.

MRS: They’ll tear off his earlobes and split open his nostrils,

they’ll chop him with halberds and pointy swords hostile.

THO: I’ll brandish my sword ‘til he quakes like cold jelly,

lest one might swear my name’s not Thorth Paunchbelly—

and it is, you know! [they all agree]

MRS: I hear he’s just a big baby who trembles and whines—

THO: And I hear his men are a big bunch of swines!

DAL: A neighbor once told me he married a Swede [they all snigger].

MRS: I’ve heard it said, he can’t handle his mead!

THO: A milk-drinker, they say—what a sad, sorry state.

DAL: No wonder he rouses such festering hate!

A milk-drinking king, what a blight on Norway!

I’ll knock him so hard, he’ll land in the bay.

MRS: Yet all we need do, if he dares to come here,

is bring out our god from the Temple of Beer.

THO: Yes, Thor will soon have him knocking his knees.

DAL: I wouldn’t be surprised if he just turns and flees [they all laugh heartily].

[OLAF, KOL, SIG approach at last]

OLAF: My name is Olaf, how DO you DO?! [cf. "A Boy Named Sue"]

KOL: [waving weapon] Name yourself, peasants!

THO: We are no peasants, peasant!

KOL: [pedantically] Everyone who is not a king is a peasant. Olaf is king; ergo, YOU are peasants.

MRS: I really think the social hierarchy of medieval Norway has much more complexity than you give it credit for with such sweeping statements—

OLAF: [quite annoyed] WHO ARE YOU?!

DAL: [with appropriate attitudes]

I’m called Dala-Guthbrander, rich Dala-Guthbrander,

The one all the people admire—

Suave Dala-Guthbrander, brave Dala-Guthbrander,

Most popular man in the shire!

OLAF: Aha! So you’re Dala-Guthbrand [everyone rolls their eyes].

Nothing gets past me;

I’m the king here, don’t you see?

I hear that you’re all heathens,

and I don’t care about your reasons.

My god will smite you all—

and that god of yours will fall.

[much brandishing of weapons commences]

DAL: Oh yeah?

OLAF: Yeah!

MRS: Says who?

KOL: Says us!

THO: Your heads, we’ll split!

SIG: Can we just talk about it?

DAL: Let’s put it to a test—

OLAF: I really think that’s best!

SIG: Shouldn’t we wait until morning? It’s kind of dark and chilly just now.

MRS: Our god will gladly face you—and how!

DAL: Bring on the Mighty Thor!

[THO carries out the statue of Thor—OLAF et. al. look somewhat awed]

Behold our great god, he’s robust and hearty.

I dare you to face him, you—big old smarty.

OLAF: I’ll admit that your god has a dark fearful brow [turns to his compatriots],

I know we must beat him—but quick, tell me how?

DAL: I see you’re as scared as little tiny girls,

my god will soon strike you with thunderous whirls!

Thor brooks no nonsense, he crushes the meek.

He’ll burn you with lightning in a fit of pique.

SIG: I think I’ve had just about enough—you know

[confidentially to the audience],

I took this job thinking I’d be out of the snow.

But here I am standing in a cold windy farm,

I really just want to be somewhere that’s warm. Sigh.

DAL: Our god can jump as far forwards as back—

MRS: And when it comes to drinking mead, he never lacks—

THO: Milk-drinker! [even KOL looks embarrassed]

OLAF: I have always had a delicate tummy,

and milk’s the best thing, according to Mummy.

MRS: A milk-drinking chieftain is a pretty sad thing—

DAL: A milk-drinking god—that’s a real ring-a-ding-ding! [They all laugh]

Your invisible god is nowhere to be seen—

MRS: We might as well say it’s this muddy ravine. [They all laugh again]

OLAF: [really steamed now] Our god may be hard to see, but his power you’ll obey—

SIG: It is he who makes the sun climb the sky each new day! [the heathens look openly scornful and guffaw loudly, OLAF is just gobsmacked]

OLAF: Yesssss—uh—yeah—that’s right.

DAL: Ha! Makes the sun rise—tee hee!

SIG: And today with the rise of the newly born sun,

he will show your god Thor the real meaning of fun.

When his rays hit the idol, your god he will shatter—

and it, like your faith, will be nothing but tatters!

[heathens still laugh, but less confidently]

MRS: Bring on your god, we aren’t going to quiver

DAL: And when he’s killed dead—we’ll eat up his liver!

[OLAF & co huddle briefly to confer, while DAL et al dance around Thor. Clearly SIG has a plan, but the other two are focusing on bizarre and improbably plans to his increasing frustration—suddenly from off-stage a stately figure approaches (slowly so you can read his sandwich board)]

GHOST: Olaf, Olaf, use the FORCE! [disappears in similarly ghostly manner]

[SIG grabs KOL’s club and points to the statue to make clear the meaning of "force"; KOL gets it, but OLAF clearly does not understand for some time, though he eventually gets it]

THO: Milk-drinker! [others elbow him—the taunting is, after all, superfluous]

OLAF: [Triumphantly] Here comes the sun!

KOL: Now your god will run!

SIG: [realizing they’re not getting it, points toward sun rising to the tune of Grieg’s "Morning Mood" (hopefully)] LOOK!

[They all turn to see the SUN rise. Prompted by SIG, KOL takes his club and smashes the Thor idol to pieces. When at last the heathens turn (seemingly oblivious to the previous noise), they are aghast to see their god in pieces]

DAL: Good heavens, what power! What mystery is this?

MRS: If our god wasn’t in pieces, he’d surely be pissed.

OLAF: But your god IS in pieces and our might is now clear—

I hope that you now will bow down in great fear.

[They do so, trembling]

DAL: We thank you, mighty Olaf, for setting us straight.

MRS: We don’t often get the truth served on a plate.

THO: Though we’d have to admit it was kind of a trick—

DAL: We’re more than content to worship the stick! [They take KOL’s club with evident relish and much excitement, chanting happily "The stick, the stick!" and "Let us follow the stick!" etc.]

SIG: [Wearily] You can take the gods from the heathens, but you can’t take the heathen from the gods—or was that the other way around?

OLAF: Close enough for saga writing—I can’t wait to see how you capture my intense bravery and pious militancy [SIG smiles wanly]. Let’s to the feast—there’s plenty of milk for everyone! [OLAF & KOL head off chummily]

SIG: You know, I really wanted to be a dentist— [skulks off]

SUN: And so another day dawns under the gods’ watchful eyes. Let us all feast on potatoes, lasagna and pies. Down quickly your mead, or drinks of such ilk—but whatever you do, DON’T EVER drink milk!

—THE END—