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It is not that the invitation is totally against convention. Redbeard is a karl, of a sort, though he possesses no land nor property to speak of, completely content to budget his existence in the recesses of a small cave. Poverty does not seem to bother him. Indeed, you have often wondered if it was he who was not at greater liberty, did not enjoy greater independence, with his single suit of clothes, his wooden token (which at first you had taken for the image of a sword, but which he later explained was quite the opposite), and his string of wooden beads in constant motion by his prayers--if he were not more at peace by the sum of these homely trinkets than the richest jarl in Nóregr, with all his jewels, langskips, and freeholds.
Yet the fact remained that he was a foreigner. A stranger. Moreover, a hermit, who seldom, if ever, involved himself in the affairs of others. Occasionally, one or another villager would make the climb up the winding, pebbled slope, pausing at the switchbacks to look out over the rolling dough of sea and the slanted files of smoke from the longhouses, continuing on until they reached the arch of his den, then calling his epithet between their winded breaths. They would never stoop to enter his lair, as you do now. What they pretended was dignity was, in fact, horror. Accustomed to the expanse of sea and sky, spoiled by the light and the wind between these limits, they could not long endure darkness or detention. And they feared whoever could.
So they would summon him and wait. He would appear at last, his bald head bent only a little by the low cover (for he was of a very short stature). And they would ask their questions, confess their crimes and passions, and take his counsel. Redbeard is learned, as you have said, which is rare enough, but he is wise and patient also, which is still rarer. He would say little, as if conscious of giving offense with his accent (which was indeed ridiculous), and the few words he did express were halting and strained, like an oar sweeping through frozen waters. Despite this, most solicitors descended the hills with a lighter step than they had climbed it, or at least with a confusion that distracted them from what would anyway prove to be temporary concerns.
But on this auspicious morning, you are disappointed to find him dozing, his curly beard hidden (the curls so much more unusual than their color), his hulking shoulders gently rising and falling in untroubled sleep.
>Wake him. You at least have the excuse of the invitiation, even if your intentions are more mercenary.
>Let him sleep. Leave the food and the torc on the table and trust him to understand their meaning.
>Wait for him to wake. He won't mind if you help yourself a little to the bread and cheese either, since he always ends up sharing whatever you bring him.
>Write-in
