I heard on the street today, concerning the current talk about Henrik. Just Henrik.
Henrik was once know to disguise himself as one of the townsmen, allowing him to take the temperature of the community. He’d go from door to door, seemingly peddling his wares, but no one really knew it was him. He’d be shooting the breeze, or telling an anecdote, something destined to become a part of the oral history of the country, something that poets would ponder, making small children cry with delight, when encountering them, later on in their lives.
Others might mention how they admired him and his modest ways. “I once heard how Henrik solved an otherwise unsolvable problem” a man would relate to his neighbor. Then there was the time when we were in doubt if the local levee would keep the water masses at bay, when the storm of the century pounded this part of Denmark. Wasn’t it Henrik atop his white stallion rallying the men and women, tired beyond reason, hoping against hope that their efforts would ring true in the end?
Henrik would have nodded in agreement, if he had been present with me, hearing how his name was the first thing that anyone mentioned, even before “Good Morning” echoed throughout the households in this proud Scandinavian Country.
“Funny, how there was a time, when the people feared the thought of one man being able to turn the tide of despair into one of hope and anticipation of what was to come”. It’s hard for me to believe, but it was the truth, there were those that doubted Henrik’s Wisdom, relying instead on old Wife’s Tales, and superstitions to ward off the evil spirits in the rocks and the trees.
I wouldn’t want to say that his path glowed after he had passed by, but I had the illusion that it did….