Wyrm

The big square sail, woven from wool, billowed ahead of the wind that drove the longship across the open sea. The choppy waves crested over the boat dripping cold water onto the men below.  A man stood firmly at the back of the longship, his sealskin tunic protecting him from the worst of the weather. He battled to hold the steering oar in place, keeping the longship heading towards the Saxon shores.

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At last, they neared land. Watchers on the shore fled the shingled beach as they saw the carved figurehead leading the way. The curving neck topped with a dragon snake’s head, mouth open, sharp teeth exposed, could only mean one thing – Vikings.

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Orak’s lengthy scaly body coiled around the longship. If the Vikings aboard had noticed his presence, they did not comment. Orak the wyrm had remained still, harmless, with only the occasional puff of fire, throughout the treacherous voyage. Actually, Orak for once had no thoughts of hurting anyone, nor eating them. He was at last on an adventure. He had often watched the boats head out to sea, replicas of his kind proudly leading the way. He longed to go with them, to brave the towering waves, to feel the thrill of racing through the water, to do more than slither on his belly on the ground.

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Vikings were fearsome warriors, intrepid travellers, exploring new territories and taking by force what they needed. In truth, they had little option. The cold northern lands from where they originated were harsh and unforgiving. Wresting food from the land was hard, survival itself was precarious. There were easier places to find the supplies that enabled them to thrive, and later, to take the land as their home.

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The powerful oar at the back turned the Viking boat, the men using the banks of oars on either side to cruise along the coast till they found the wide mouth of a river. Straining against the river water racing towards the sea, they made their way inland. At last, they stopped, having found a place where they decided they wanted to stay, about twenty miles north of London, on the River Lea, or River Lygan to give it its Saxon name. More Vikings in their longships joined them. They cleared the area of the local people, and built a fortress for protection.

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Of course, the people who had lived there were not pleased. Neither was their king. King Alfred himself rode up the river to see if he could create an obstruction to block in the Viking ships, rendering them useless. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles record that King Alfred’s plan proved successful. The Vikings abandoned their ships and fled overland. They set out on a long march, heading for Bridgnorth on the River Severn.

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Orak was dismayed. The precious boats had been left behind. These valiant men of the sea huh were now walking, carrying their belongings on their backs. And Orak was once again forced to slither on his belly through the grass and mud. He followed the Viking warriors, who ignored him, or at least they tried to. But it was difficult to ignore a wyrm the size of Orak. He may have had no legs and no wings but he was still a fearsome sight, blowing streaks of flame and steam to express his discontent. And of course, no one knew if they would be his next meal.

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Marching through a barren countryside does not have the appeal of combatting the towering waves of the sea, nor even gliding on the wide smooth waters of a languid river. Not for fighting Vikings, and definitely not for Orak the Wyrm.

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He gradually fell further and further behind, losing interest in the men in front of him, and paying more attention to the countryside around him. It was much greener than the icy north he had left behind. Actually, it was quite nice, the sun warming his scaly coils in a surprisingly pleasant way. He parted company with the Vikings somewhere around Tamworth. They carried on no doubt with a huge sigh of relief. They did not stop to find out what had happened to him.

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Wyrms live a long, long life, especially if they are not challenged by great warriors hoping to build a name for themselves. The Vikings and the Anglo-Saxons were too busy making names fighting each other to go looking for glory from a fight with a wyrm.

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Orak explored his new kingdom at his leisure. He slithered far and wide. He still does this now, carefully staying away from prying eyes. He even visits this reservoir from time to time to gaze at the boats on the sun-glittered water. There is little evidence of his visits apart from the marks he leaves in the mud when it’s wet, and in the long grass of the meadows. These marks look suspiciously like tyre tracks. Do not be deceived. Tread carefully when you see them. Be warned, stay away from the cover of bushes where Orak lies. He may be hungry.