A young boy approaches the display case that houses the Tollund Man, looking in on the frail figure. He sees a small, peat black body lying in fetal position. Reflexively, the boy places a hand on his neck when he sees the rope. He taps on the glass, drawing the attention of the old museum docent.
“Ah, the Tollund Man. What a sad tale. He was found in a bog right here in Denmark, you know. The peat and muck mummified his body, and you see him now exactly as he was found. Or, almost. His head and skeleton are the only authentic parts of his body. When he was found in 1950, modern preservation technologies were strictly head-based. The rest of him is a replica, built on his bones.”
The boy touches his neck again, and looks at the docent, confused.
“Right, yes. It’s assumed the Tollund Man was a human sacrifice, rather than an executed criminal or disliked member of Scandinavia. The way he was found—holding himself, eyes and mouth closed—imply a sanctity to his death. Now, what’s interesting is that his body was so perfectly preserved that even his last meal was left intact. A porridge, made of barley, flax, and seeds, along with some fish and—”
The boy pulls on the docent’s trousers.
“Why?” he asks.
“Oh, well, the peat had kept much of his organs—”
“No,” says the boy. He touches his neck one more time. “Why?”
“…We aren’t sure.”
“Oh.”
The two of them stand facing the Tollund Man. The docent looks around, aware that they are the only two in this corner of the museum. He drums his fingers on his trousers and adjusts his glasses.
Then, he answers, “You know what I think? I think a man like this must’ve had a home, with a garden and such. And I think he shared that home with a wife, or maybe a husband, and they were everything to him. And when the council came and told him he had to go, his wife or maybe husband cried until the sun rose the next morning. And he didn’t cry, because he couldn’t.
“And I think on the day he had to go, his wife or maybe husband found him sitting on the cliff’s edge, watching the sun rise. And I think the Tollund Man hadn’t shaved that morning, and fresh stubble poked out of his chin and lower lip, and he clutched blades of grass between his pale fingers and let his bare feet cool against the sky, and he felt the wind on his face and the sun on his skin, and he inhaled, trying to catch the sweetness in the air. And I think the brilliant orange sun painted the marsh below him in reds and golds, and fields of poppies swayed in the breeze, and the clouds were swollen and full, only an arm’s reach away. And I think he whispered a thank you to his gods, and his wife or maybe husband sat behind him, and they wrapped their arms around him, one hand on his shoulder and one on his chest, and they felt his heartbeat. And they would’ve stayed there forever if they could.
“This is where the elders found him. They were dressed in the ceremonial sheep skin, and they carried the traditional woolen hat and ceremonial shoes and sacrificial porridge in their thin arms. And I think the Tollund Man studied them carefully, and he admired the gift it was to grow to an age where your wrinkles become the contour lines of your skin, and your bones the last part of you left standing, and your body gray and sagging and alive. He gripped his wife or maybe husband’s hand tight and kissed them on the lips and whispered goodbye.
“He walked with the elders down to his village, and I think it was here that he considered what would happen to his garden. It was his job to tend to the garden. The radishes, carrots, parsnips, celery, and spinach were all his. So were the poppies. Would his wife or maybe husband tend to them in his stead? He was doubtful of their skill in gardening, but nonetheless he guessed they might try and learn in his absence. Or, he realized, in grief they might forget his garden and let it die. I do not know if he felt panic then, or relief.
“The Tollund Man did not think again until the dance. As the sun sank in the sky, his village surrounded him in song. He stood proudly in the center, decorated in dyed clothing and flower petals, with his eyes fixed on the horizon line. An elder cut his blond hair short, barely visible under his hat, and his fingers gently held a cream-colored poppy, and his friends and his family and his enemies and acquaintances, all who looked just like him, chanted the words and played the drums and cheered and hollered to the sky, and even the goats and the sheep and the cattle and the birds and all the flowers and fields and trees and wind and all his gods joined in chorus to celebrate his end.
“And this, I think, is when he cried.
“It started slowly at first, only a mist upon his eyes, but soon those drops turned into streams that danced across his face as his village danced across his life. Around him, the dancers swirled faster and faster, becoming blurs of color and sheepskin as their chants thundered through the Tollund Man’s body. He fell to his knees, screaming and sobbing, spit taking flight and snot breaching his lips. He felt the contour lines of fresh wrinkles burn into his skin. His tears sizzled across the burning wrinkles and formed steam, which rose up above the village and left him alone.
“When the time came, the elders brought him to the edge of the marsh, and they took his clothes and ceremonial shoes, and they wrapped a noose of plaited animal hide, that one right there, around his neck and led him to the tree where they would kill him, probably a European Aspen, with new leaves budding on the branches. And I think he considered how old this tree was, and how long it had been alive, and he wondered if it felt joy or sadness to kill him, and he wished they’d met under better circumstances.
“And as the sun dipped below the horizon, the elders held up the Tollund Man while his noose was tied around the boughs of the tree, and from that height he could see the marshes and the cliffs, and the flowers and the gardens, and the people and the gods, and the last of the sunlight danced in his eyes, and he drank in the whole wide world.
“And when he was dropped, he made one last show of being alive, he must’ve, and he reached down and he grabbed his legs and he hugged himself tight. And one thought, just one, rang so clearly through his mind that it left him and sang to the world, the echoes of which are still harmonizing, forever, inside his well-preserved head. Still here, if you listen.”
The two stand there, breathless. Then, the boy’s mother calls for him, and he takes a step back. But before, he waves the docent close, and he whispers in his ear.
“I hear it.”
*****
Keegan Grau is an emerging writer from Arizona who is studying Physics and Creative Writing at Northern Arizona University. He enjoys storytelling, improv, and reading Pratchett in his free time. You can find him and his upcoming performances @keegangrau on Instagram.
