THE LAY OF WALMART
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE (CONTD.): Part 2, written in ballpoint pen on printer paper, was found in the ruins of a Walmart in suburban Boston, Massachusetts, following a bloody siege by persons described in media reports as a gang of methamphetamine addicts connected with the Russian mafia.
PART 2
Ingibjörg and those of her ilk
Sent me and Magnus to more ditapps
Than memory can contain. Twenty and two
Were the reckless recruits, all renowned warriors.
On Sverðvík’s shore they stood, steaming,
Ready for the recital. Tales from Tóki,
Told many times, from Magnus’s memories.
Mead he served to the men, full horns.
Looming from a longship’s proud prow, he spoke.
“The ship we sail today, fighting the Fatlanders
Is but a box, oarless, ordinary. ATTO they name it.
To it Ingibjörg Sends me. It’s on a great cart.
“Vikings love to shove ships
Up onto the shores of realms ready for ruin.
Just so, I’ll attack with the ATTO
The glass gates of the Walmart
“Like a dagger, driving deep, not stopping
Till the blue-vested guard, the till-keepers,
Towers of trifles, the cart crushes,
Ramming, reaming out of its way.
“Furious Ingibjörg, future-fearing,
By then will have Sent Storolf.” Magnus’s sword
Swung round toward he of that name,
Grizzled but great-framed, giant-killer.
Storolf recited: “Inside of the ATTO are
Oddments, weird wares, dangerous distractions.
I ignore them. Brace my body on the bulkhead.
Ride through the ruin of the glass gates.
“Silence is my signal to dart to the door.
From it I face east down a wide way.
Vexing my vision, many marvels. Ignore them.
Magnus my guide. I go where he shows me.
“Eastward, thence, lies victory for vikings.
Counting the cairns, the merchandise-mounds.
Standing in the center of the wide east-west way,
Stop at the sixth. Atop it’s an image:
“A fair lass, tresses flowing,
Like the lush Linndalsfallet,
Where it rushes over rocks,
Teeth shining like Snæfellsjökull.
“Cradled in the lass’s hands, a bottle.
Bewitching brew, beautifying the hair.
Below it, many more such, stacked like soldiers.
That is the landmark that leads me to the left.
“A long lane, laden with loot.
Its Rune is like Berkano: the Beginning.
Its number, one score and five.
Let it lead me north. Little more to say,
“For in fewer than five paces
Is what my hand has hungered for
Since I found myself in Fatland,
Alone and naked: Numberless knives, new and needy.”
“Furious Ingibjörg, future-fearing,
By then will have brought Brand.” Magnus’s sword
Swung round toward he of that name,
Berserker of Zealand, brutal and bearlike.
Brand recited: “Vexing my vision, many marvels.
Storolf shows my way. Stop not where he does.
Brand goes beyond. Count cairns thrice more.
Number nine is a doll-dump: toddlers’ toys
“Painted purple and pink, smiling like simpletons,
Box-bound. Brand there turns right.
A long lane, laden with loot.
Shopkeepers screaming. Pay no mind.
“Clashing carts may cause trouble. Don’t be deterred.
Vikings can vault them, berserkers bash them aside.
All the way to the wall goes Brand.
Heaped there are hammers. Axes also.
“Spades, saws on long shafts, all manner
Of death-dealers, racked and ready
Or stacked like firewood on the floor.
Commandeer a cart, kill its keeper if need be,
“Fill it full of those death-dealers, leave nothing
That might be handy for hewing heads
And severing sinews in the struggle to come.”
Thus the berserker, bright-eyed, blood-lusting.
“Furious Ingibjörg, future-fearing,
By then has Halfdan Sent.” Magnus’s sword
Swung round toward he of that name,
White-bearded king-slayer, lord of legend.
Halfdan recited: “Vexing my vision, many marvels.
Ignoring them, I wait. Ingibjörg sends more.
In the meantime, knives from Storolf,
Axes and hammers from Brand, harden my hand.
“All told, my band is four. My companions three
Are Thorolf, Bild, and Glama. Travel to the tenth cairn.
Turn to the left. Toys stacked to the ceiling.
Do not let them beguile the eye.
“Long lanes, laden with loot.
Wide ways, well made for waging war,
Like the roads of the red-crested Romans
Ordered just so, as warp and weft.
“Too many for merchants to memorize,
Marked, therefore, with runes they can read.
Romans wrote them first. The fat ones stole them,
As well as Arabs’ numerals, arranged below.
“For each district of the treasure-town,
A Roman rune written, raised high.
For each lane lying below it,
An Arabic number to know it.
“Their runes resemble ours often.
Others are different. One’s like a fish-hook.
That’s in the northeast of the store,
Norsemen’s native land, all the good gear.
“Forests of fishing-poles you can see from afar.
Ropes for rigging. Machetes for making way
Or bringing battle. Don’t be delayed though.
Go till glass gleams on all sides. Behind those wide windows,
“Boxes, brick-sized, written with runes, stacked to the ceiling.
Glass is nothing to Glama. Hammer in hand, he has at it
Shears shelves, loots little boxes, carrying them in carts
Down long lanes to the wall of the wonder windows.
“Halfdan hastens down the glass-lined lane
Till the way to the wall’s barred by a counter.
Behind it, bang-sticks of the Fatlanders
Counter-keepers looking askance.
“They’re the only true foes we must fight at first.
Don’t be deceived that there’s no swords at their sides.
Bang-sticks instead, shooting sling-stones
Faster and more fearsome than arrows.
“At a distance they’re deadly. Get close quick.
For of fighting at arm’s length, axe to axe
They know nothing. Rush at them right away
If their hands are empty. Lie low otherwise.
“Hunker down, holding my tongue,
Till I hear Heid, who’s the only one
Who can get close to the guards.
When the shield-maid has their attention,
“That’s the time to burst in bravely.”
Thus Halfdan, gray-hamed, picked out for his patience.
Magnus’s sword-tip, swinging this way and that
Picked out each warrior, each shield-maid.
In turn, each told the tale, written by Tóki,
Foretelling the future of what was to come,
The doom to descend on the Fatlanders’ storehouse,
What deeds each warrior would do, and when.
Under the awning of the longship, idle till now,
Ingibjörg waited, sipping stew of spotted mushrooms,
Eyes lazy, but hal
f in this world,
Fingers fondling her broom-twigs.
Magnus met her there, sharing the shade,
Smelling the scent of eldritch herbs,
Gathered round the gunwales, we felt the glamour.
Ingibjörg had Sent him, sticks thrown, die cast.
Storolf she Sent next, blade-bringer.
Brand the berserker, Halfdan the wise,
Heid the shield-maiden, Glama, Bild, Thorolf.
Tóki was taken. Ship sank from my sight.
I beheld a big box, shiny steel.
It must be the ATTO. I darted to the door.
Vexing my vision, many marvels. I ignored them.
Magnus my guide. I went where he showed me.
North of the nose of the great cart, the ATTO-bearer,
Where it had crashed to a halt after driving deep,
A forest of fabric, as had been foretold:
Clothing of all colors, made for men and women,
Bigger than any bazaar. Beyond that, the marvel
Magnus had mentioned, too strange to speak of:
Wonder-windows, a wall of them. The great gift
Of the Fatlanders is these: panes of perfect glass
Showing not what lies beyond them,
But images, effigies, prophecies, wonders.
Painted in piercing light, melding many hues.
Bright as berries, flickering like fire.
Like the windows of Christian cathedrals
When lanced by the light of the sun.
But not frozen forever, as those are;
Images in movement, flashing and flitting.
Tóki was here to take treasure,
Reading the runes in those windows.
North went I, wandering in the wake
Of the shield-maiden Heid. Her hair
Was braided in back, hanging below
Brushing bare buttocks. Walking behind,
My gaze was beguiled. Gladly I’d go
To battle behind one such as Heid.
She raised her arms, baring herself
To a shocked shopper, a fat woman
Fondling fabrics. Heid, heedless,
Elbows bent, hands swung down behind head.
A knife she held there, stolen by Storolf,
Sheathed safely. She stuck it into her braid
Where the tresses came together at the nape of her neck.
Tucked in, held by her hair, until needed.
Remembering Magnus, Tóki took trousers,
Sacking a shelf-load, but went onward
North to the wonder-wall. East turned Heid.
Tóki’s eyes tracked her. She broke into a run.
Screams escaped from her mouth. Not war-whoops
But cries of terror. Not a word of the Angle-speech
Heid spoke. No matter. The men it was meant for
Heard it, and heeded. Heid was now bound
For the bang-sticks. Kept in that corner
Were the weapons of Walmart. Three guards
Gathered there, wondering what had happened.
Cart’s crash, shoppers’ screams, fleeing Fatlanders
Alarm had raised. And now a lass, not a stitch on,
Screaming for succour, coming on at a run.
What harm could she do them? Into the arms
Of the first Heid threw herself.
Out from the braid came that blade,
And into the back of his neck. As he dropped,
She closed on the next, arm whirring.
The third aimed his bang-stick, ready to shoot
Till an axe struck home in his head,
Hurled by Thorolf, part of Halfdan’s band,
Running round from the long lanes
Marked by the rune of the fish-hook.
The first part of the fight was now finished.
From the ATTO, attackers kept coming.
Asmund, Icelandic berserker, far-famed.
Hrani, the shipwright from Sweden.
Arngrim, Hjorvard, Yngvar, Snorri,
Mighty Thord. Magnus gave each man a task.
Sending them this way and that.
Hostages were herded and held.
Strange sheets of wood, wide and flat,
Formed the flanks of a new fortress
Wrapped and roofed in bright blue tarpaulins
Lashed down with lines.
The West-march of the Walmart
Held all the food in the world,
Bottled beer by the boatload,
Frost-kept food, milk and meat.
Setting up for a siege behind barricades
The Norsemen fetched food, collected clothing,
Turkish trousers with flies in the front
Kept closed with clever contraptions,
Tiny teeth, meshing like millipedes’ legs,
Gnashing, knitting, concealing the naked.
Zipper the Fatlanders called it.
Cock-catcher it was to Hunfast, the hapless.
Chains, padlocks, ropes of wrought steel
Fetched forth from the long lanes
Curved round the captives’ necks.
But all turned to the source of a sound,
A big bang, like the trunk of a tree
Snapping in a storm, making all deaf.
A Fatlander, about to be fettered
And fastened to the fortress’s side,
Had pulled out a small bang-stick,
Concealed in his clothes, shot a stone,
Struck Saemundr, Yngvar’s son,
Beloved brother, oar-puller, sword-swinger.
He had taken on a troll once, outside of Eiðar,
Bested him in battle, hand to hand.
But the bang-stick’s stone had struck a lung,
Saemundr’s life-blood gushed out of his mouth.
He fell like a tall tree. Magnus took a machete,
Held it in the hero’s hand, sent him to Valhalla.
Another bang bloodied our ears. Thord cursed.
A stone had struck him in the arm.
A third bang as Thord threw down, thrashed
The man who’d murdered Saemundr,
The coward who killed from afar.
The stone struck no one, hewing a hole
In the wooden wall, tearing the tarpaulin.
Face down on the floor, the Fatlander
Rose not again. Murder-loving Magnus,
Riven by rage, grabbed an axe,
Swung it into the spine of the shooter,
Severing two ribs, just by the backbone,
Adjusted his aim, swung again,
Rending the ribcage, separating the spine.
The shooter’s screams went silent
As wind whistled through those wounds.
His struggles ceased. Magnus opened the man
Like the spreading wings of an eagle, blood-bright,
Lungs loose, open to the air now.
A clashing cart was fetched, dumped out,
Making room for the murderer’s remains.
Magnus shoved him out through the glass gates.
Fatlanders’ fear-cries resounded, Sirens screamed.
Magnus made his way back to the fast fortress
We’d made around the wonder-windows.
Translator’s note: “The Lay of Walmart” breaks off at this point. Surveillance camera footage, combined with eyewitness accounts compiled from surviving hostages, agree that from this point onward the author, Tóki, was kept busy learning how to extract cartographical data from computers in the home electronics section.
Journal Entry of
Rebecca East-Oda
NEXT DAY, I.E.,
SATURDAY AFTER THANKSGIVING
Temperature 39F.
Our dining area has been designated a “War Room” and is now matted with cables of various descriptions. Most of these have something to do with Mortimer’s efforts to “boot up” the new GRIMNIR system, which is going to be his improvised ragtag replacement for ODIN. It runs
on something called the dark net, of which the less said, the better. Fielded a telephone call from a representative of the cable television company complaining that we have been making all sorts of connections to dodgy servers and are in danger of having our service cut off. Played the little old lady card, feigned ignorance, requested technical support which I knew would hold them off for days.
A few years ago when we dug the book out of the vegetable garden, and made all of that money, and transferred the property to the East House Trust, and ceased to become its legal owners, it felt as if I had sawed my right leg off. But only for a few days. When it became obvious that this made absolutely no practical difference, I forgot it had happened. Since then it has only entered my awareness when we receive a property tax bill or some such, and I see the official name on the address label. Today, however, it is much on my mind, as it gives me a sort of detached emotional status from which to view all of these goings-on. SUVs, obviously belonging to some sort of government agency, are parked on the streets around us, drawing comment from the neighbors. Presumably they are spying on us, but they make no effort to cross the property line.
At two in the morning, three people climbed over the back fence and caused us all sorts of alarm before we recognized them: Felix Dorn, Esme Overkleeft, and Julie Lee. They had got together for late-night drinks at the Apostolic Café and made the decision to defect from DODO to join our little ragtag reboot thereof (Julie being the obvious instigator given her romance with Mortimer). Then they all stayed up all night talking. Now they are sleeping in shifts in Mei’s old room, the guest room, and the floor of my sewing room. (Chira Lajani, they report, counts herself among us in spirit, but dares not defect openly from DODO lest it interfere with her younger siblings’ immigration status. She might be able to function as a mole, but these are early days yet.)
From them we were able to get more news of what has been going on at the Walmart. Our access to the message traffic on the ODIN system was of course cut off the moment Mortimer left the building, and since then we were limited to what we could glean from television news reports and Internet rumors. The powers that be at DODO—which by this point basically means Gráinne, since she seems to control Blevins absolutely—are not even aware that Felix, Esme, and Julie have come over to our side, and may not appreciate that fact until the three of them fail to show up for work on Monday morning. In the meantime they still have access to the ODIN system over their phones.
The Rise and Fall of D.O.D.O. Page 59