TRISTOON
THE INCORRIGIBLE

A spoof starring Beowulf's fiesty illegitimate daughter
(written long before Xena, I promise!)

From out the hollow Redwood, emerged a small warrior bedecked in the gear of the Realm. Tristoon fastened her chain mail and adjusted the sword at her side. Another day, another battle, she thought wearily. Was this not a tiresome thing? The tedium of having to search for a hollow tree in which to transform herself into Kleegor, Mighty Geat-Warrior, was pressing hard upon her patient nature. It was not so long ago that she puttered around the mead hall, serving ale to churlish Geats and remaining agreeable in her subservient corner. This life she had chosen to take on was more appealing to her adventurous spirit, but certainly had its inconsistencies. It was bloody hot underneath the helmet and mask. But what else was she to do? Her prowess would not be seen past the swell of her bosom if the disquise was taken away. And would they have accepted her assistance in the Battle of Lillehammer, had she appeared without mask and helmet and deep- throated voice? Likely, the Heathobards would have overrun the Geats, and today she would be serving ale to the Heaths, rather than joining in battle.

Tristoon arrived at the sight of this new siege during a crucial moment. The Geats had been losing ground steadily for hours, and the reception given when she came up over the rise was enough to show the sad state of affairs going on below. "Ah, fear not, brave commrades! `Tis the Mighty Kleegor, come to fetch us from the wretched jaws of death!" a warrior had shouted from his place behind a large tree.

Tristoon muttered from beneath the black mask, "Oh, for the sake of heaven, I only came to show you how to fight as a real man." Then lowering her tone to a deeper, more manly octave, she said to a stately Geat: "It is I, Kleegor, Defender of the Realm!" A loud whoop went up among the band of Geats, and the charge was on. The Heathobards were soon falling beneath the skillful edge of Kleegor's sword.

Kleegor had left the Geats with ten Heathobards when she took her leave. Twenty Geats were still standing, and it allowed them two per one, which she was sure would end in victory for the Geats, unless one of them mashed his toe on a stone. Then she had made her way back to the Redwood, ushering out the dwarf-people who had taken time out from their incessant cookie--baking to try on her clothes.

Emerging again as Tristoon, she took the beaten path toward Wulf Hall, ready to serve the mighty warriors as they returned from battle and told of their sweeping victory. A victory not so sweeping until the arrival of the broom.

Upon entrance to the mead hall, Tristoon pushed the heavy oaken door closed behind her, and turned, the endmost casing of the sword she carried hidden in a wrap catching a young man at the back of the knees, and swiping him to the wood planks in a most unceremonious thud. "Oh. Terribly sorry, young sir--" A pair of moist brown eyes peered up at her, and she experienced a twinge of surprise to find them free of malice. Indeed, they were quite humble.

"Begging your pardon, M'Lady..." said he, reaching for his redwood cane which had toppled to the floor. Leaning heavily upon the stick, he pulled himself up and bowed to her. "Wagtayl, at your service."

"Wagtayl...? I don't believe we have ever met, have we?"

"No, M'Lady. But I have watched you from a distant table as you served the Geat warriors. You are not like the other maids."

Tristoon frowned suspiciously. "How so?"

"I know not of what I speak, Fair One. It is only that you carry yourself unlike the others. At times I have caught sight of your eyes as you listened to the men...it is as if you have a secret, else you would not allow a smile so sweet at their warrior talk."

"My, what an observant little troll you are, Wagtayl." She watched him hobble away, smiling, and wondered what had befallen him so that he had to lean heavily on the redwood cane. And furthermore, was he wise to her charade? Was she found out? No matter, she decided. Even if he knew her secret, who would believe him, were he to speak of it? They would think him full of ale. Tristoon chuckled to herself.

Three moons had come and gone Heavenly bodies appeared & disappeared mysteriously in those days since the birth of Tristoon's clever masquerade as Kleegor, Mighty Geat-Warrior. The lack  of appropriate recognition for her war-like deeds began to prey heavily upon her soul. Thus, it was not so much a devastation when the unveiling took place.

soon disappearing beneath the jade-colored sea.  As she vanished from view, one young man sighed, "That I were Tristoon's swain..."
 
 

Her lungs fairly bursting, Tristoon swam under a protruding rock and came up under it, bobbing upward and breaking free of the water to her shoulders. Gulping and gasping, she peered around the dim, slimy cavern. Lowly, scaled creatures pupulated the ledges above, and Tristoon crinkled her nose at the musty mossy stench. Some servants are always in the way. Spying a dark cavity in the wall of the cavern, Tristoon made for it, filled her lungs with the putrid air, and plunged down, down, down, the journey so lengthy, she, for a moment, questioned her own sanity. Was it the right cavern? The cavern of Grunt, famed offspring of the wretched Grendel?

Tristoon began to feel the blood throb at her temples. Should she relax even one muscle, her breath would be gone, and reflex would inhale the murky water into her tiny pink lungs, and she would perish a laughingstock to her father's name.

All at once, she surfaced.

Blessed air rushed into aching lungs, and for a time, she forgot herself and flailed in the water, heaving and gasping for the sheer joy of breathing again. Calming, she surveyed her surroundings. Another cavern.

"This had best be it," she hissed, her voice coming back to her in an eerie echo. She paddled to the nearest ledge and pulled herself upon it, smoothing her hair back away from her face and wringing the water from the ends. Bones lay scattered over the surface of the rocks, and she could make out the rusty remnants of a few swords, a helmet, and corselette bearing an unfamiliar crest,  no doubt from some unsung would-be hero who never made it back to shore. She cleared her throat rudely and searched the far end of the cavern. Where was this infamous Grunt? "Yoo hoo!" she called. Receiving no reply, save her own rather pleasing echo, she called again, more as means to hear the reverb of her voice, rather than to summon. She smiled, and advanced a few steps. In so doing, she noticed the bones of a strange animal. "My, what a strange set of bones."

A reptilian-serpent slithered from the dark corner, hissing a threat. She looked down at him blandly. "Begging your pardon,but I don't speak sea serpent succinctly."

Tristoon enjoyed that night as thoroughly as the next few months. She spent most of her time being served her meals, and many maidens took delight in seeing to her every need. Some failed to return to the king when summoned, preferring to be wrapped in the comfort of skins in the hut on frigid days, aloft on every word Tristoon uttered.  And some, preferring her pleasure behind a secured door after the sun had dipped behind the trees. In the cool afternoons, she gave lessons to many of the Geats on grace and skill when handling  a sword. Try as she might, she could find ne'ry a one who possessed any semblance thereof. They only continued to stumble over their own cumbersome feet.

One late evening, Tristoon was awakened by a messenger as he pounded upon the door of her hut, telling her that Wiglaf requested her appearance with haste in his chambers. Tristoon covered the young maiden who had been sleeping, exhausted, next to her and dressed quickly to accompany the messenger who waited outside for a chance to walk with the Mighty Tristoon.

"Honorable Wiglaf." She bowed respectfully and he turned to greet her, motioning the footman to leave them.

"Ah, Fair Tristoon! I am in dire need of your service."

"Your wish is my command." This statement was later borrowed by Genies.

"A small village to the North has been destroyed by the fire dragon upon the barrow."

Tristoon lifted a delicate brow. "To be expected, Sire, fire dragons are notoriously ill-tempered."
 

"True."

"What would you have me do, my King?" Tristoon peered up at him, batting her lush lashes.

"I would have you kill him on the new day." Having seated himself upon the throne, he laced his fingers in his lap. Knitting needles weren't invented yet.

"Sire, the small Northern village has its own warriors. Why inquire of me?"

Wiglaf twisted the emerald ring upon his index finger. "The Geats have wont for the spoken word among other tribes, else they, themselves, become a small village."

"I understand, Sire."

"I'm sure you are in memory of the several villages whose men were killed in just such an attack. The women have since banded together to form a large village of women. Men are present there for only short times...well...at any event-- you have privilage to decline, Tristoon."

"I would not think of shaming you, honorable sir, by declining." She bowed fluidly and made a point of meeting his eyes. "It shall be done."

Wiglaf smiled. "I had not doubted your loyalty to the Realm for an instant, Fair Tristoon." He paused. "I must have my hand in your battle Tristoon...I have a gift, and a wise word." He leaned over to retrieve the cloth sack behind his throne. "This is rightly yours, Warrior- Woman."

She took the sack from him and peeked inside, frowned, and knelt to empty its contents upon the floor of the great hall. The echo from the weight of the objects reverberated throughout the silent chamber. "A mail-coat...a shield..?" She peered up at him in her puzzlement.

Wiglaf leaned forward. "The Great One laid them in my hands on the very barrow you shall stand upon at dawn....to pass on to a son he had not the joy to have born to him. Beowulf wished me to have them until such time as you took a husband....but I am a wise king, Tristoon. I see no warrior worthy or resilient to have you as a wife. You are a warrior in your own right...just as your father. The battle gear is yours, given in the spirit of Beowulf, to defend the Geats, and win the treasure horde as your father many years hence...you are fated, Tristoon, to follow his lead."

"I am silent before this gift, My King...I will be honored to don the war-gear of my father."

Wiglaf stood and stepped down to face her. "And now, the wise word, Tristoon...The Great One did not fail. Fate took him. And his sword was battle weary. Your sword is young and strong. Strike with it in the beast's neck. This is my wise word."

No sooner had Tristoon vacated the hall, than Hrontang slipped through the huge ornamented doors. Calling out to his king, he waited until Wiglaf stepped into the light, then dropped to one knee. " My Good King, may I have a word?"

"The hour is late, Hrontang," Wiglaf told him, moving forward with a frown.  "I beg your forgiveness, Sire, but I saw lamplight from yon window, and I must speak of this matter with you."

"Very well, I shall indulge your desperation." He folded his arms in a kingly fashion and waited.

Now that Hrontang had gained the King's full attention, he seemed at a loss for words. He jerked up his composure. And we all know how painful THAT can be. "You  will recall, Sire, that the Geats have fought many a battle. We have conquered  the Frankish tribe of Hetware. We huddled in the wood and watched them burn the bodies of their Frank brothers upon a blazing pyre Your basic weeny-roast and there, we came down upon them and came away victorious."

Wiglaf leaned forward in his throne, having seated himself upon the realization that Hrontang was about to become long-winded. "You have managed to portray how skillful you and your warriors are at interrupting a burial rite and slaying mostly unarmed and unprepared men. But strength and stealth, I see none."

"But Sire, she is a woman, after all, this Tristoon."

"And a fine example of one, Hrontang. A fine example to all of you. I recall a time when men-warriors were enough to protect our land. That pride has since withered away. There are tales of a village where the men were conquered and the women became the warriors. I say she will have her hand at the fire dragon, and before I risk the lives of countless blundering warriors. After all, she is the offspring of the great Beowulf himself. I have spoken."

 All discussion ended there.

It is difficult to define the means by which word of triumph preceeds the arrival of the victor. Good news travels fast. She had no sooner rounded the bend and come upon the entrance to the mead hall, than she was greeted by a collection of awed spectators. Tristoon stepped inside the hall and seated herself at one of the many rough-hewn tables, summoning the young maiden to fetch her an ale. The maiden did so without comment or complaint, having heard from the breathless messenger what had occured on the dragon's barrow. This irregular bit of news had set her youthful heart to pounding and she could feel the blood coursing through her veins at the thought of what one not five summers older than herself, had accomplished. Oh, to wield a sword as masterfully as the young Tristoon! she thought wistfully. ERA's first inductee.

The maiden returned shortly with the ale, and also placed a cornucopia before her new-found heroine. "My thanks, sister," Tristoon acknowledged with a disarming smile. The maid's face colored crimson, and she turned to find a corner from which to watch the beautiful she-warrior.

Tables began to fill, and eyes began to look on as Tristoon drank her first ale, ordered another, and said nothing of what she had done an hour before. Tristoon knew that had the slaying of the dragon been accomplished by a man-warrior, there would be revelry and ale-sharing and loud talk and laughter filling the mead hall. But none were willing to share her table. She was the start of a new breed among the Geats, and they were wary of her.

Then the door to the hall opened and silhouetted the form of a Swedish warrior. His blond locks fell just to the top of his shoulders, and he removed his helmet as he crossed the floor to her table. Swedes were notorious for their abrasive dispositions, and Tristoon was not the least bit thrilled to have him headed in her direction.

"I am Svenooto, Mighty Varrior of de Svedes. I haf come to look upon dis fair maiden vis a svord, about whom I haf heard so much."

So far, so good, thought Tristoon.

He bowed respectfully, took her hand, then dropped it again as if he were unsure whether to kiss it or shake it. "I imagined you a more portly one dan you are."

Tristoon cringed inwardly. So much for the benefit of the doubt. "Shall I  order rich foods and feast for days in respect of your imagination, M'Lord?" said she boldly.

The Swede's brow furrowed, he being not muchly pleased with the response of this maid. "You haf acquired a sharp tongue from yer manly battles, Fair Tristoon."

"Have you come to reckon with my disposition, or merely to engage in battle with me?" she countered.

"Mmmfph!" A Swedish Snappy comeback. The Swede seated himself across from her and motioned for the maiden to bring him an ale. "Fair Tristoon, brave verds fall fast from yer tongue. Vould yer tongue speak so svift a reply vis de bite of more dan one ale?" He took the tankard from the maid who served him.

"I have had two ales, my man. But perhaps if you harnessed your own free tongue, we would see who holds his ale with ease." She lifted her tankard and saluted him with a slight raising of her brow, and promptly finished off the dark liquid before taking another breath. She replaced the mug upon the table, smiled sweetly at him, her hands folded demurely in her lap.

The Swede straightened his corselet roughly, and snatched up his ale, gulped it down, and ran the back of his hamlike hand over his mouth.

Adjusting her corset, Tristoon waggled her fingers at the maid once more, and asked that a jug be brought to the table. whereupon the Swede and the Fair Tristoon began a contest of ale.

Upon the twenty-first mug, eyes bulbous and moist, the Swede swayed And it's awfully hard to sway a Swede and slid like a sickened serpent* to the floor of the mead hall, his blond head bouncing a few times upon the hardwood planks before remaining still. Tristoon had to lean over to see if his eyes were still open, for the Swede lay quite under the table.

Eight mighty fighting men looked on, and one remarked, "The Swede is quite under the table..."

Tristoon leaned back in her chair, flicked a stray grape into the floor with her finger, propped her feet upon the prone Swede, and replied, "Quite. And I drank him there."  Whereupon she summoned the giggling maiden to fetch another ale-- this one to toast her latest conquest. Her feet still propped ostentatiously upon the shoulder of the Swede, she sipped at the ale, a smile playing at the corners of her tiny mouth.

Well into the night, Tristoon sat watching the long table of mighty warriors consume their ale, quietly sipping the last of her own. One after another, they each met the end of the ale-drinking-either by joining the stately Swede upon the woodplanks, or by retching their way over to a basin, and putting the contents of their stomachs into it.

Tristoon soon found the entire atmosphere of the mead hall less than refreshing, and decided to take her leave.

Stepping over the scattered bodies of eight mighty warriors, Tristoon, light-headed, made her way to the door, and stepped out into the crisp Norwegian air.