I n Old Norse literature, we read of Viking warriors who fought as if in a trance, immune to pain, without armour, in an uncontrollable but strangely calm fury. They were the Úlfhéðnar, or Berserkers.
We also read about the Berserkers in the annals of the lands they invaded; often these men fought naked, and were worth five or ten ordinary warriors. Nothing short of a mortal wound could stop them. They literally had gone berserk, a word that is a gift from these men.
But were they men? Some anthropologists believe the Berserkers were not just abnormally large Norsemen who drugged themselves into fury before battle.
There is a theory that these were the last of a hybrid between larger-skulled, harder-boned Neanderthals and homo sapiens. Their extraordinary pain tolerance, power, and lust for blood is certainly evidence for this theory; but nobody really knows.
Duane Vermeulen, as I have described in a past article, seems not to acknowledge pain or exhaustion or the excuses of mere mortals. He has become known as Thor, but maybe he is the Bok Beserker.
I write this ode to him:
Mad as the blood wolf
You bite your shield
Throw aside the armour
And slay the dragon
Eat the wallaby
Rip the puma apart without fire nor iron
And when the darkness comes
And pantomimes your death
You smile and welcome the thought.
In your warm lair
You are a father
Gentle as hibernation
But as battle forms,
You change
Into a shape of wild fury,
Into the hardest of men,
Ravenous for carries
Looting the breakdown,
Plundering at lineout,
Laying waste to the ruck,
Mauling not just men, but even chariots,
Laughing with deep knowledge,
Passed down from times past,
Before the mists of the menagerie were formed.
Tackling as if possessed
By some otherworldly lust
For blood and bones broken.
Your foes shake their head
As they expire
And ask “what is that devil made of?”
What are you made of,
Beserker Bok?
You taster of blood,
Strong ox,
Intrepid hero
Who wades out into battle
With fired ferocity
And demoniacal frenzy.
Why do you furiously bite and
Devoured the edges of the scrum,
And gulp down burning coals?
How can you snatch live embers
And drink them into your mouth?
What is in your mad entrails
That allows you to take heavy contact
And keep coming,
Raving and raging
Against the almighty night team,
Even exultant during their haka,
Risking both victory and life,
And ever refusing to retreat
From fire or iron,
Blunting the spell of Sir Richard,,
With one glance of your eyes.
You leave your victims shivering,
Chattering their teeth,
Feeble and dull,
Speaking in hushed tones
Of TMOs and videos and stadium replays and modernity,
But we see them as you left them:
Chilled and discoloured.
While you howl in victory.
