“It was not an easy thing at all,” Jon said. “Being young in such a hard place. We often thought of escape; but where to go? Hvamm was a faraway place with many hazards on the road, between here and there. And they all would have gotten on with their lives, without their little Snorri.”
A long cloud passed in front of the mid-morning sun, stealing the glow from the Sunroom, like a shadow timed to dim Jon’s tale.
“Good times and bad times. Above all the lessons, the most enduring lecture came from Loftsson himself. It was not given in a classroom, there was no study of it or examination. But it was the thing most remembered because it was about kings. Small kings, like chieftains, and mighty kings, true monarchs that united the people of the land through conquest or alliance.”
Jon told the story of Jon Loftsson taking young Snorri by the hand, walking with him down the winding cart path to the banks of the Ranga River, not far from the church. Sitting, listening to the flowing water bubble and hum as if it had its own voice and could speak truths of life and nature, or sing about the wonders of the earth and heaven, though Snorri imagined it was the sound of Valhalla. This is the place where Loftsson told the boy that he had a responsibility to contribute to the betterment of his fellow man; that they bore this obligation because they were born to be leaders, because they came from royal blood, descended from the first King of all of Norway.
Snorri was enraptured by the knowledge that he was of the very few that were made special above all others.
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