So on Friday he decided he would be a Saxon for the week-end. First he grew a beard—a thin scraggly one of blond and red hairs that was hard to see except in direct sunlight when it would glow like fire. He would fondle the hairs growing on his chin and contemplate the nature of his ancestors.
They would come crashing armed with swords and axes. More so was their cunning, their ability to strike a balance between trade and warfare that actually was a true social revolution with a society based on conflict. The struggled masses would toil in fields burned by frost while not understanding the goal of their labors.
For recreation he became ruthless, taking food from children and telling crude stories. He would lie to women in an effort to propagate and not be undaunted by birth control. Much to his surprise people accepted his superficial charm as some kind of sheath for his evilness. His success gave him power and he liked how it felt when it would pump through his hands like blood warmed artificially.
It also meant he could dance, so he did—first in his room where no one could see him, and then later in the park or sometimes a club. People would always mistake him for being Scottish or Irish and he would have to give a long explanation as to what a Saxon was. Not just any Saxon, though, an Anglo Saxon.
Late one night—so late that it was actually early—he was confronted by four angry young men in the street. They pushed his confidence into a nearby alley and he found his back was guarded by a brick wall. There was a door, but it was locked. The turned to face the thugs.
One of them had golden hair. “You're a Saxon? How dare you do this to your brother.”
“My name is Eric.” The blond one said. “It doesn't matter who my ancestors were. I am only the here and now in the same reality that will beat you.” He giggled at the prospect of using an ancestral bond as a weapon. “I shall sharpen my ax.”
He turned to the dark one. “Surely you can see some brotherhood? Despite your dark hair I am still kin.”
The dark haired one spat and said “My name is Adam. Your people first came to raid and plunder, and then later to swindle us in trade with your pounds. You are no friend to me.” He gave a big grunt of effort as his fist collided with flesh.
The black one said “Don't look at me brother. My name is Jacob and my family had their traditions used against them, a cunning ploy by those brought to our land by boats. He had fast feet that could kick very high.
“And you?” He said, looking at the one from the east. He could see that man bore no weapon or malice.
“But for you I would not believe in God.” Said that man. “My name is Michael and only someone such as I would understand that curse.
He staggered home and aided his healing by binding his wounds. The ax was sterile and the fists bound by leather so he was able to stand shortly after sunrise. He was able to hide his injury as Micheal’s words rang in his head. He decided to go to church to see if he could imagine the pain.
So that's how he found himself in a house full of people pretending to be Jews. Their claim of a new year seemed absurd when framed by the surrounding trees that were deep into autumn. He sang their songs and chanted their prayers but only incense filled his head.