04: Svartedauden (1349 AD)

Loke… Loke… Jeg er ikke helt sikker på om jeg er våken eller sover. Loke… Loke… Om stemmen som kaller navnet mitt er drøm eller virkelighet. Jeg hører den klarere nå. Det er min mor. Hun har grått i 2 dager og 2 netter. Helt siden det ble klart at jeg var smittet. Meg. Bare 17 år, sier hun igjen og igjen mellom tårene og hikstene. Men ingen unnslipper Pesta. Kvinner, barn og menn, unge og gamle – hun kommer for oss alle.

Jeg får akkurat åpnet øynene mine litt. Uklart gjennom vinduet kan jeg se bladene på trærne har tatt sine årlige fargerike former. Røde, gule og oransje blader som flyr sakte gjennom vinden på gårdene. Det er så nydelig, jeg elsker denne tiden på året. Måneden husker jeg ikke. Det kan vel egentlig være det samme. Jeg blir bare 17 år uansett. Jeg vrir hodet så mye jeg kan ned mot kroppen min. De blåsvarte byllene er store nå. Overdel av kjortelen min, ved brystet mitt, er dekket i størknet blod. Jeg må ha hostet opp enda mer i dag. Stemmene i rommet fortsetter rundt meg, men jeg klarer ikke forvandle dem til ord. Mor er her. Far også. Og mannen fra i går. Han har kommet helt fra Oslo, for å sjekke og forklare hva som skjer med meg. Da han var innom i går, mente han at dette var Gud som var sint og straffet oss. Han mener det er den eneste logiske forklaringen. Over hele landet, noen sier til og med over landegrensene, faller vi som fluer. Det går bare et par dager, sies det, før man hoster opp alt blodet i kroppen og dør. Jeg har ikke lenge igjen.

Jeg føler det var i går jeg for første gang hørte historiene om Pesta. Hvordan hun farer landet rundt med boken sin, hvor slike som jeg har stått. Hun har med seg en rake og en kost. Bruker hun raken på deg, får du kun byllene og har muligheten til å slippe fra det med livet i behold. Men får du kosten også, da kommer hosten og blodet. Da er det for sent alt. Noen fortalte også om hvordan det kom et skip til Bjørvin i Bergen, tidligere i år, og at Pesta kom med det skipet fra England. Idet de losset av varene, brøt sykdommen ut og de døde alle sammen. Sykdommen spredde seg kjapt gjennom hele Bergen, og plutselig var den her også. Flere prøver å finne forklaringen på denne forferdeligheten, men ingen er sikre. Noen steder i nærheten her ga de jødene skylda, og forfølgte og drepte dem alle sammen. Men Pesta fortsatte å hjemsøke alle våre hjem.

Plutselig fosser blodet ut av munnen min igjen. Jeg vil slutte å hoste, men jeg klarer ikke. Det er som om noe annet enn meg selv bare presser de siste blodskvettene ut av kroppen min. Jeg er veldig svak nå, det kjenner jeg. Min mor bøyer seg over meg. Jeg hører ikke hva hun sier, jeg kjenner bare tårene hennes som lander på ansiktet mitt og triller nedover. Loke… Loke… Jeg begynner å høre kallet igjen, som tidligere. Men denne gangen er det ikke min mor. Det er døden. Det er over. Loke… Loke…

03: Middle Age (900 AD)

Now if you may, humble people of our town, please applaude our magnicifent hero, the great knight Lord Rowan of Canterbury III the Brave! The town square was roaring. Never had they seen such a perfect man in all his mighty stature, never had they experienced the presence of such a legendary knight. Women fainted of his chivalry, every child in all of Europe dreamed of being him. And now he stood here, with the crowd applauding and cheering his name in the town square, commonly known in every town as "where it all happened". Here you'd find merchants selling fine goods from all over the flat world we live in, taverns with exquisite beer and not-quite-so-exquisite women and at special occasions like today a heroic salute or the more often public punishment with the pillory. Lord Rowan landed in the formen category, as he gazed proudly over the crowd, standing with his basic knights equipment; shining armour, shield, sword and lance. He was soon off to the next tournament, in which he expected another smashing win and a following fantastic fiest. Rowan! Rowan! Rowan! the crowd cheered. Rowan! Rowan! Rowan!

Gradually the cheers changes, from ecstatic young women and children to a far angrier and older deep voice. As a small rock smashes against the back of my head, I properly comprehend the situation. I have been daydreaming again during labor, and the angry shouts are being slinged from my fathers exhausted mouth. ROWAN in the name of the Lord if you will not stop this heretical dreaming of yours I swear I will smack you till' your face is as blue as the heavens He created, he shouts furiously and I swear he doesn't pause once in the sentence. To be fair, this is a quite terrible day to be 'dreaming heretically'. It's the first of two days each week in which we did a day's work at the demesne, the Lord's part of the manor. A quite nice man, the Lord, taking little of our products and only demanding two days of labor a week. I hear some Lords north of here require four days of labor a week, and some take half the goods which the manor's peasants produce. However, our Lord is quite expensive with the use of the manor's mill, oven and winepress, so we refuse to use those facilities as much as we can stand it.

There are sixteen other families living on the manor, and most of them are quite nice. Our houses are small and cold, and our food is simple and just enough to survive. But it's not horrible. The smaller children have plenty of space to play on, and it's quite enjoyable listening to their laughter as we older ones work. We get our free time as well, and with plenty of other boys on the manor it's not all bad once we get off the fields. The Lord even has a beautiful daughter, Marigold, who lives in the manor house on the demesne. With golden hair floating along her back, the bluest eyes a boy has seen and a smile which melts your bones. I believe I am deeply in love. If only I were more than a simple peasant's son. A knight in shining armour, that's what I'd be. Saving my damsel in distress and living out our days in happiness. But as the priest preaches; God has decided this is our place in life. This is our fate. We are born peasants and we will die peasants.

02: Ancient Rome (50 BC)

Caesar! Caesar! Caesar! The unanimous cheers of the prominent thirteenth legion are overwhelming, as the man himself, Gaius Julius Caesar, arrogantly takes in the rightful applause. Over the last eight years, the general has conquered the whole of Gaul and defeated every barbarian in the cold lands north of the Rubicon. And as I'm standing here, roaring our generals name in the midst of 3000 brave war veterans, I still find it all unreal.

As every man in the empire is called up for military duty by the age of eighteen, I always knew the day was coming; however, I never felt prepared. I remember the day prior to my birthday, finishing the daily work on my fathers crops home in Southern Hispania, just outside Cordoba. My mother cried as I rode away towards my probable death, fighting for a city I had never seen. I was to fight in the conquest of Gaul, a war in its final stage. Upon arrival we were given helmets, tunics, armors, spears, swords, shields, daggers and sandals. And suddenly, there I was standing, as a scared newbie in the frontlines (the newest recruits were put first in line, as a "buffer" for the veterans, editor) of the Roman army.

I return from my daydreaming as the cheering ends and Caesar raises his voice in a speech to his loyal minions. Apparently, he is not perceived as the same successful hero back in Rome. He speaks of Rome, a city which does not love its people, but is ruled by corrupt aristocrates. He believes the power should lie with the true leaders, the soldiers protecting the Empire. The whole legion is firing up, inspired by our general. He finally requests us joining him in restoring Rome to its people, to which our response is a resounding and unanimous YES.I am currently not sure what this means. However, the talk of the more experienced amongst us is civil war. A bloody one. Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant.  

01: Hunter-gatherer society (15000 BC)

Steady, son. Patience; you need to time it right. My father's voice chime inside my head loud and clear. My heart is in my mouth as I feel the ground rumbling beneath me; the beast (a Mammoth, editor) is approaching. Steady, son. You've only got one shot. Sweat is dripping down my shaking left-hand fingers holding onto my bow. In the other hand, I hold my arrow tightly pulled back in an attack position. This is it. Though I have been hunting for some seasons, I have been restricted to smaller animals such as deer and bison. Never have I gone face to face with a beast of this size. A huge, hairy creature rising at 3 times the human size (about 5'4'', editor), and arguably the heaviest of all animals (8-12 tons, editor). The beast is not a predator and thus not a directly dangerous being. However, it could easily squish a young man like me with its enormous figure, and hunting of this proportion would definitely be caricatured on our community's cave walls for seasons to come.

I feel ages have passed these few seconds, but finally it appears directly in front of our hiding spot. Yummy, my father grins behind me with the other 30-year-old elderly hunters. Giant tusks pierced through the air ahead of its skull, giving me my definite aim for the most effective weakening of the beast. A tough shot, leaving me petrified of missing and startling the animal. However, as I know our tribe's women are finding little fruit or nuts to gather in this landscape, my tribe's hungering tummies are driving me forward. Now! my father exclaims, and I let the arrow go. Leaping through the air, it soars perfectly towards the animal's head. The second before it hits feels like an hour and I am still scared to death of missing my aim. Nevertheless, as the beast screams in agony I have never felt more delighted, and stand back to enjoy my victorious shot as the older men further attack the animal with their spears. A new skilled hunter has arose, and though my father and most men of our tribe are soon at the end of their lives, we shall neither go hungry nor cold in the future.