Still, I did not know what the Northmen called these evils, or how they thought of them, though I had viewed the handiwork of the beasts that tore men to pieces.
King Rothgar spoke again, in some haste. I took from the manner of his speaking that he wished to say some words before all his warriors and earls arrived. He said thus (from Herger): “O Buliwyf, I knew your father when I was myself a young man, new to my throne. Now I am old and heartsick. My head bows. My eyes weep with shame to acknowledge my weakness. As you see, my throne is almost a barren spot. My lands are becoming a wild place. What the fiends have wrought to my kingdom I cannot say. Often at night, my warriors, brave with drink, swear to topple the fiends. And then when the bleak light of dawn creeps over the misty fields, we see bloody bodies everywhere. Thus is the sorrow of my life, and I shall speak no more of it.”
Now a bench was brought out and a meal set before us, and I inquired of Herger what was the meaning of the “fiends” of which the King spoke. Herger was angry, and said I was never to ask again.
That evening there was a great celebration, and King Rothgar and his Queen Weilew, in a garment dripping gemstones and gold, presided over the nobles and warriors and earls of the kingdom of Rothgar. These nobles were a paltry lot; they were old men and drank overmuch and many were crippled or wounded. In the eyes of all of them was the hollow stare of fear, and there was hollowness in their merriment, too.
Also there was the son named Wiglif, of whom I have earlier spoken, the son of Rothgar who murdered three of his brothers. This man was young and slender with a blond beard and with eyes that never settled on anything, but moved about here and there constantly; also he never met the gaze of another. Herger saw him and said, “He is a fox.” By this he meant that he was a slippery and changeable person of false demeanor, for the North people believe the fox is an animal that can assume any form it pleases.
Now, in the middle portion of the festivities, Rothgar sent his herald to the doors of Hurot Hall, and this herald reported that the mist would not descend that night. There was much happiness and celebration over this announcement that the night was clear; all were pleased save Wiglif.
At a particular time, the son Wiglif rose to his feet and said, “I drink honor to our guests, and especially Buliwyf, a brave and true warrior who has come to aid us in our plight-although it may prove too great an obstacle for him to overcome.” Herger whispered these words to me, and I caught that it was praise and insult in one breath.
All eyes turned to Buliwyf for his response. Buliwyf stood, and looked to Wiglif, and then said, “I have no fear of anything, even the callow fiend that creeps at night to murder men in their sleep. This I took to refer to the “wendol,” but Wiglif turned pale and gripped the chair in which he sat.
“Do you speak of me?” Wiglif said, in a trembling tongue.
Buliwyf made this response: “No, but I do not fear you any more than the monsters of the mist.”
The young man Wiglif persisted, although Rothgar the King called for him to be seated. Wiglif said to all the assembled nobles: “This Buliwyf, arrived from foreign shores, has by appearance great pride and great strength. Yet have I arranged to test his mettle, for pride may cover any man’s eyes.”
Now I saw this thing happen: a strong warrior, seated at a table near the door, behind Buliwyf, rose with speed, plucked up a spear, and charged at the back of Buliwyf. All this happened in less time than it takes a man to suck in his breath. [19] Yet also Buliwyf turned, plucked up a spear, and with this he caught the warrior full into the chest, and lifted him by the shaft of the spear high over his head and flung him against a wall. Thus was this warrior skewered on the spear, his feet dangling above the floor, kicking; the shaft of the spear was buried into the wall of the hall of Hurot. The warrior died with a sound.
Now there came much commotion, and Buliwyf turned to face Wiglif, and said, “So shall I dispatch any menace,” and then with great immediacy Herger spoke, in an overloud voice, and made many gestures toward my person. I was much confused by these events, and in truth my eyes were stuck upon this dead warrior pinned to the wall.
Then Herger turned to me, and said in Latin, “You shall sing a song for the court of King Rothgar. All desire it.”
I asked of him, “What shall I sing? I know no song.” He made this reply: “You will sing something that entertains the heart.” And he added, “Do not speak of your one God. No one cares for such nonsense.”
In truth, I did not know what to sing, for I am no minstrel. A time passed while all stared toward me, and there was silence in the hall. Then Herger said to me, “Sing a song of kings and valor in battle.”
I said that I knew no such songs, but that I could tell them a fable, which in my country was accounted funny and entertaining. To this he said that I had made a wise choice. Then I told them-King Rothgar, his Queen Weilew, his son Wiglif, and all the assembled earls and warriors-the story of Abu Kassim’s slippers, which all know. I spoke lightly, and smiled all the while, and in the first instance the Northmen were pleased, and laughed and slapped their bellies.
But now this strange event occurred. As I continued in my telling, the Northmen ceased to laugh, and turned gloomy by degrees, ever more so, and when I had finished the tale, there was no laughter, but dire silence.
Herger said to me, “You could not know, but that is no tale for laughter, and now I must make amends,” and thereupon he said some speech that I took to be a joke at my own expense, and there was general laughter, and at length the celebration recommenced.
The story of Abu Kassim’s slippers is ancient in Arabic culture, and was well known to Ibn Fadlan and his fellow Bagdad citizens.
The story exists in many versions, and can be told briefly or elaborately, depending upon the enthusiasm of the teller. Briefly, Abu Kassim is a rich merchant and a miser who wishes to hide the fact of his wealth, in order to strike better bargains in his trade. To give the appearance of poverty, he wears a pair of particularly tawdry, miserable slippers, hoping that people will be fooled, but nobody is. Instead, the people around him think he is silly and preposterous.
One day, Abu Kassim strikes a particularly favorable bargain in glassware, and decides to celebrate, not in the accepted manner of treating his friends to a feast, but by treating himself to the small selfish luxury of a visit to the public baths. He leaves his clothes and shoes in the anteroom, and a friend berates him for his worn and inappropriate shoes. Abu Kassim replies that they are still serviceable, and he enters the bath with his friend. Later, a powerful judge also comes to the baths, and disrobes, leaving behind an elegant pair of slippers. Meanwhile, Abu Kassim departs from the bath and cannot find his old slippers; in their place he finds a new and beautiful pair of shoes, and, presuming these to be a present from his friend, he puts them on and leaves.
When the judge leaves, his own slippers are missing, and all he can find are a miserable, tawdry pair of slippers, which everyone knows belong to the miser Abu Kassim. The judge is angry; servants are dispatched to retrieve the missing slippers; and they are soon found upon the very feet of the thief, who is hauled into court before the magistrate and severely fined.
Abu Kassim curses his bad luck, and once home flings the unlucky slippers out of his window, where they fall into the muddy Tigris River. Some days later, a group of fishermen haul in their catch, and find along with some fish the slippers of Abu Kassim; the hobnails of these slippers have torn their nets. Enraged, they throw the soggy slippers through an open window. The window happens to be that of Abu Kassim; the slippers fall upon the newly purchased glassware and smash it all.