We are living in the Anthropocene Era, the time of "man", when human impacts cause the Earth to cry: the glaciers melt, the seas rise, fires and torrential floods batter the lands.

It all really started with the industrial age, and thus the breakup of medieval Europe was the very beginning.

Book One of the Anthropocene Sagas transports us to the beginning of the end of the old ways; the original Icelandic sagas were being written down and the Black Death swept through Europe. The resulting scarcity of labor contributed to the demise of the landed gentry and the rise of the industrial proletariat. Then came the coal plants and centuries of increased CO2 injected into the planetary atmosphere and here we are now contemplating the end of time. This was predicted in various mythic traditions, notably the Viking sagas (Ragnorak) and the Book of Reveleations, also known as the Apocalypse of John the Divine.

Hence, these Anthropocene Sagas begin with a story of the Plague, which, for the people it impacted, was something akin to what we imagine a nuclear holocaust to be.

Chapter One

Icefjord 1348: The End of Time

The angel opened the Seventh Vial, unleashing a Great Pestilence upon the face of the earth, and the people were much afflicted.

~ John the Divine

Those were days of woe. The sky darkened to a foreboding gray sheet of low cloud which would give neither rain nor snow. The sun had not come out for months and the villagers grew weary and despondent. After many years of prosperity, evil came upon the face of the land. The crop failed, and their meager stores of grain dwindled. Hunger was everywhere, and fervent prayer yielded only more suffering.

By night, red Mars chided from beside Orion; the soothsayers wore faces drawn long with foreboding. Winds that chilled to the bone came up hard, stinging the eyes and ripping the flesh with tumbleweed, sand and gravel. The dogs couldn't be quieted and their howling set the wolves to commotion; children cried and would not be comforted. Scholars of the Copernican science had predicted an eclipse, and some feared that the unusual celestial alignment would mark out the beginning of yet more evils. Others foresaw a new beginning, and the town divided into two camps: the camp of hope, and the camp of fear.

When the appointed time came, the moon cast its shadow upon the sun and all became as night in the middle of day. Soon the sun was entirely blotted out, and crowds lined the streets watching the heavenly spectacle. A gasp went up as all could see the silhouette of a hooded horseman riding up onto the grey ledges which overlooked the village. The rider wore heavy gauntlets, filthy boots, and a black helmet which obscured the face. The steed’s hooves kicked up a cloud of brown dust and ice along the edge of the cliffs.

The sight of this strange intruder sent a wave of dread through the onlookers, even those who had hoped that the astrological alignment would offer reprieve from their troubles. The rider moved swiftly as the darkness increased. When the sun was completely blotted out, the intruder pulled a vial from a leather saddle bag.

Accounts vary as to what happened next. All agree that the rider was careful to hold the vessel at arms length and downwind. Some contend that the container was carefully opened and its contents ejected into the wind. Others say that it was simply smashed on the rocks. All agree that the rider took pains to avoid any contact with the sinister content, a noxious powder, as it scattered to the far winds.

No one doubts that within the vial was that odious potion which unleashed the tribulations which were soon to afflict all of humanity with grief such as none had ever endured before.

Chapter Two

The Ship of Fools

Icefjord, Iceland 1348

Long after the eclipse, everyone in the village speculated endlessly about the enigmatic solo figure on horseback. Sigurd Arnarson was equally learned in the Viking sagas and the Bible stories, and so his neighbors sought his view.

“This is a spirit of the type known to the ancients as a Draugr, or “again-walker. This is the deceased person who does not go to Valhalla. Neither do they go to the goddess Hel’s realm. Unlike the Haugbui, which haunt their burial mounds, the Draugr roam about, unsettling the living.”

There were other theories. His father believed it was the ghost of a Mongol prince killed during the Great Siege. Sta Fróadóttir, his wife, said it was a demon or a fallen angel. Ingólfr Syr claimed it was Lucifer himself.

All agreed that it was an evil spirit.

A series of frightening omens followed in the next days: Lars the Hunter fell among the rocks and smashed his skull; several women miscarried. The huge white bears were reduced to emaciated skeletons, and not one walrus was to be seen. The falcons and jays were gone; only the raven and albatross remained in any number. Children ceased their normal play on the ice. Women neglected household duties and spent hours crossing themselves, pleading with the ancient deities.

Soon, traders came with unwelcome news from the lands across the sea. They recounted in detail how “the Black Death” had vanquished the Empire—worse, they said, than the invasion of the Saracens. Siegfried the Elder, famous for his ability to see the future, explained these accounts.

“A tempest from Hell has ravished the Empire. It is the dread plague foretold by Holy Scripture. Be certain the day of reckoning is upon us, and the Lord will judge us for our sinful ways. My children, Apollyon is coming for us, in fulfillment of prophecy. We cannot avoid that which is ordained by Heaven.”

Siegfried, usually optimistic, had never been wrong before. Dread gripped everyone, rich and poor alike. This was something beyond fear; it was raw collective terror. Panic spread in odious ripples, infecting everyone it touched.

Desperate measures were taken to forestall the inevitable. Heresies, magic, and witchcraft resurfaced from their secret enclaves. The pious would not interfere with the resurgence of forbidden practices. Who would dare thwart a possible success? Anyone claiming esoteric knowledge was treated with a new reverence.

The indigenous people of the north seemed confident and fearless about the coming plague. A group of villagers went to Sigurd’s hut to ask if they should seek their help.

“Yes, the Inuit can help us. They lie outside of our God’s wrath. The Norse gods and the god of Abraham have no jurisdiction over them. They can provide aid and comfort, but they cannot save us. We must prepare for what cannot be avoided. It is written in the prophecies of the Christians. So too, in the Nordic canon. Some call it Armageddon. Some call it the battle of Ragnarok. It is upon us but it will spare the original inhabitants of the ice lands. They will survive with their igloos, their kayaks, and their sleds. Seek out their wise women and sages; they can assist... but they cannot make us immune to this plague.”

This assessment did not slake the villagers’ thirst for good news, and so they broadened their search for guidance. Strict religious types lined up to consult astrologers and herbalists. Any school of thought that offered a glimmer of hope was exalted. The more far-fetched, the more adherents it attracted. The strange, the fantastic, and the occult exert a strong appeal when reality is an impending nightmare.

Despite these measures, every week brought new, increasingly terrible accounts of the spreading epidemic. Each report indicated that it was closer. Continental Europe. Then came the Anglo-Saxon lands. Now it had broken out in the Faroe Island – a short sail away. The imminence of the plague had the effect of subduing ancient quarrels. and suspected atheists showed up in church in many cases for the first time in years.

There had been many campaigns against heresy in the lands across the water, but Icefjord had repelled the most extreme partisans of intolerance. There was a faction that adopted the strictures of Orthodoxy, but things had settled into a truce between that faction and the followers of the Old Ways. Some people still maintained the saga traditions, but most felt obligated to harmonize them with the tenets preached by emissaries of the Empire.

Peace descended on the village with regard to these disputes as everyone prepared for the inevitable difficulties. Despite, or perhaps because of the impending exigencies, it would not be long before the old contentions returned. Fears grew, and the most fearful vigilantly policed their neighbors for any sign of fever. If a citizen had not been seen for more than a day or two, someone would be sent to make sure they were not on the sick bed. A few people contracted random chest congestion of the usual sort, but as yet there was nothing out of the ordinary.

* * *

One day sails were spotted on the horizon and soon a boat sailed into harbor. It flew no recognizable national flag and appeared so weather beaten that it hardly looked seaworthy, A crowd of villagers lined the wharf. A subdued din went up as the people argued about whether to allow sailors to disembark.

Hallveig Fróðadótti was the most articulate. As she was with every affair of community concern.

“Don’t let them off the ship! They will bring the plague upon us.”

“You have no idea whether or not that is true,” said Anders Anderson. “Perhaps they have a cure.”

His suggestion gained favor. Ingrid Clairesdottir spoke up. “Yes, let them bring us news. Perhaps they will have news of a cure. Maybe they can tell us how to lift the curse that has come upon us.”

The boat came into harbor and many of the local people waved them in. It docked, and a plank slapped the wharf. Out stepped a man wearing pointy shoes and no coat, just a ragged leather shirt. It was tattered, as were his pants. Behind him, someone played a flugel horn.

“Good day, my lovely Icefjorders!” The man had long, shaggy locks of curly brown hair, dark eyebrows, and he wore a red felt hat with bells on it.

“I am Captain Simon Le Chaundelere, adventurer, shark rider, mermaid tamer, visionary and skipper of the SS Ess Ess Maidenhead. I am also an Arch-Priest of the Flagellant Mendicants. Rejoice, for we have come to save you from the wrath of God.”

A murmur went through the crowd of villagers.

“But what about the plague?” inquired Hallveig Fróðadóttir. “Can you save us from that?”

Someone in the back laughed nervously. Hallveig Fróðadóttir gave the person who had laughed a pointed look. “What are you going to say now? Can you stop the plague from killing us all?”

The Captain wrinkled his brow. “The plague is God’s wrath. We are indeed those who are called ‘the Flagellants’. We have gained the Lord’s favor, and He has spared us. Just look at us!”

He twirled around, arms extended, palms up, indicating the motley crew. “Are we not happy?” The ship’s crew raised a ruckus. Their spokesman continued.

“Welcome us, adopt our ways, and follow our simple requirements,” he said, looking around at his shipmates. “Accommodate us, and you will be spared from this terrible disease that has afflicted the entire continent.”

Frau Hallveig Fróðadóttir was poised to further interrogate the newcomer, but a cry went up from the middle of the crowd.

“Yes, we will accommodate you. We will do whatever it takes. Help us gain God’s favor so that we may be spared this terrible plague.”

A loud commotion broke out, most of it favorable, but some voices in the crowd were asking what these people wanted from Icefjord. Ingólfr Syrthe, always the skeptic, scoffed at the proposal.

“This plague has nothing to do with God’s favor. It is a matter of the ether, the foul air from the cities pollutes the ether. What evidence do we have...”

Before he could say anything more, a chant went up. “Let them in, let them in!”

The clownish “skipper” broke into a big grin and walked out onto the plank, arms held wide. He walked right up to Hallveig Fróðadóttir, wrapped his arms around her, and planted a kiss on her forehead.

“Sister! We will please the Lord and he will spare us his wrath. May God’s mercy come upon this land.”

She pulled away from him with a look on her face that was half annoyance and half disgust. The few remaining doubters were outnumbered by the mob, and the travelers poured off the ship onto the dock. They were beating on drums and playing fifes, dancing as they walked, and soon almost everyone on the dock was dancing like children who had just had their first taste of mead.

With a face of stone, Ingólfr Syrthe looked on, standing beside Sigurd and Hallveig..

“This is disgusting. Look at these drunkards! We don’t know anything about these strangers, and now they have the run of the city. but something tells me we will regret letting them disembark.”

“There’s not much we can do, Sigurd. It seems that they have won many adherents.”

“Let’s watch them carefully, and counsel all who will listen against their foolhardiness.”

The travelers marched to the city gates in tattered, blood-stained rags, flanked by bewildered but approving locals. They beat on pots as makeshift drums but carried elaborate banners with gold tassels and bright eagle-crested staffs. At their front, a young boy carried a large cross made of timbers as thick as his waist. The cross was longer than he was tall, and it teetered precariously as he bounced along the road with a pack of lunatics at his heels.

Every dog they passed barked ferociously until the procession passed.

In the center of the mob, a knot of grim men marched in tight formation, striking themselves with leather whips, some with metal spikes, all of them drawing blood and the most loathsome shrieks. The Captain marched in the front, beside the boy with the cross. He shouted constantly, announcing that his crew could fend off the plague for any village in which they were permitted to conduct their ceremonies. He also informed listeners that to offend the newcomers would bring bad luck, enmity from the Lord, and assured destruction.

On behalf of his crew, he demanded unrestricted access to the community, including meals and lodging. Without waiting for permission, his legion proceeded to go up to the front door of every hut in the center of town. They stationed themselves in pairs, entering the huts, which were all empty because the whole town had turned out to watch the ships.

Frantic householders split from the crowd, each one entering into a heated negotiation with the travelers who had planted themselves at their homes. The flagellants who were not directly involved with a homeowner continued to wail and scream as they beat themselves and one another. The Captain insisted that they would not stop the whipping until all of them had been accepted as house guests.

The wide-eyed locals wondered how anyone could inflict such pain upon themselves.

Behind the squad of self-flagellants, a tall man who wore something like a priest’s smock lectured the astonished onlookers. Each shriek, he claimed, saved one Christian soul from contracting the plague. With enough self-punishment, it was hoped, the Lord’s appetite for human penance would be satisfied. Certainly, he reasoned, humanity had suffered enough: a deluge of corpses littered the known world.

He told the villagers that their only hope of escaping the fate that had befallen the lands to the east was to show hospitality to the newcomers. It was necessary for each villager to accept one or two flagellant guests and provide free lodging – otherwise, the Lord’s protection would be withheld, and the oncoming plague would exact retribution.

“The day of the Lord cometh, and He shall separate the wheat from the chaff. Fear his mighty sickle.”

The flagellants had roamed the land from the Atlantic to the Baltic to the Mediterranean, demanding that every village in their path quarter them as demanded. Those who interfered with the holy propitiation could expect their families to be compensated with the worst brunt of the approaching disease. “In accordance with Scripture.”

Those who fed, clothed, and housed the rovers would be spared. It was, essentially, spiritual blackmail. And medical blackmail.

After presenting their ultimatum, the main body of flagellants continued to parade in circles through the town center, swinging their whips with carnal glee. All of them were sweating and bleeding; some of them were coughing. Many of the local people were at the entryway of their huts, arguing with flagellants who wanted lodging.

Halfdan the Shepherd spoke up loudly so that everyone else could hear him. “Is it not obvious to anyone that the plague was a direct punishment from the Lord? Let us avail ourselves of His mercy through good works. Let us help His humble servants.”

He offered to quarter four of the flagellants in sheds on his grazing field. As soon as he made this offer, a favorable attitude to the flagellants took hold. Then came a mad rush by the villagers to take on the lodgers. They competed with one another to find travelers to invite into their homes. A few almost came to blows in vigorous bidding to take on as many as possible. Those who welcomed the band of rovers thought they were cheating the devil. They would do anything to avoid catching the plague. If putting up with the flagellants might save them from the Black Death, they were so much ahead in the game; if not, what did they have to lose by having some company for a while? Some, oblivious to the plague, believed they were performing a sacred task looking after the visitors.

Nevertheless, a sizable group of villagers remained distrustful of this band of sectarians and stepped back, avoiding any commitment.

“Let the dimwits take them in.” Sigmund, the son of Lars, who had fallen among the rocks, was skeptical. “Most likely, they themselves carry the plague. Look how many of them cough.”

Other skeptics surrounded him, their faces drawn. They remained silent as the believers left, taking the flagellants back to their homes. The doubters knew that there was nothing they could do at this point. The madness of the flagellants would continue in spite of any intervention. It seemed likely they would lash out at anyone who interfered.

As the din of the drums and the bells and the whips subsided, there was a still moment, and then someone down one of the alleys started wheezing and coughing. The skeptics who had remained behind looked at one another with eyes that asked whether to go over and check up on the person who was coughing. Everyone knew that close contact with someone who was sick with the plague would increase the risk of catching it.

And yet someone had to look after the ill. Hallveig Fróðadótti volunteered.

“I will go. Everyone else stay back. In case.”

She headed between the rows of huts. There, lying in a snowbank, was a child. Nine or ten years old. The child’s brown eyes locked onto Hallveig’s.

“Aunt Hallveig...my Mom is sick.”

Hallveig Fróðadótti screamed, grabbed the child, and ran to her sister’s house. Her sister lay on a cot with a wet rag on her forehead. She did not move. She did not breathe. She was dead.

***

APPENDIX: The Original Publication of The Anthropocene Memoirs was on Geof's Ko-fi site where you can also buy us a cup of coffee.

Prologue: Icefjord 1348 - The End of Time
Chapter One: Vector
Chapter Two: Rendezvous in Iceland
Chapter Three: The Crusader
Chapter Four: Hammer of Witches
Chapter Five: Ship of Fools
Chapter Six: Confessions
Chapter Seven: As They Burned Heretics

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