I remembered the little Chukchi girl. I remembered my reflection in the black eye of the dying narwhal. Was the image of me I’d seen in both of them the truth? Or was I right before? Was there really no truth at all?
“But that isn’t why he killed himself, lad. All he had to do was quit whaling... and he did that. He couldn’t make it fishing, but he gave it a damn good try before that storm ran him aground. Run of bad luck, that. Been anywhere else he could have taken a loan and got his boat back in the water, but them Newfies are a greedy lot.
“No matter what anyone tells you, he didn’t kill himself on account of all the dead whales... or his failure at fishing... or even your mothers death. He killed himself so you’d find another way to make a living, lad. When he saw who and what he was, he realized he’d made you in his own image.” Another pull and the bottle came up empty. Davies frowned at it, then set it carefully aside, moving with the exaggerated precision of an experienced drunk.
“Your Da, he said to me, ‘Get him off the docks for me, Hadarstad.’ Uh, that was my name back then, lad, but you don’t want to be using it around the docks, eh?”
“I won’t.”
‘“Get him off the docks,’ he says. I think he told half dozen or so of us this. He was drinking some too, as I recall.” Davies pointed to the half full bottle I’d set aside. “You through with that?”
I pushed it across and he tipped it back.
“But, hell,” he continued, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “I wasn’t cut out to be showing someone else how to run their life. Just an old drunkard. Your Da, he would have been better off to tell you what he thought himself.”
I touched his arm, thinking of all the long nights we’d spent drinking together. In his own way he’d been watching out for me. “Thank you all the same, Davies.”
“Wasn’t nothing.” He aimed a black-nailed finger at the tusk I still held against my chest. “Now that’d be a sight, wouldn’t it? Four and a half meters?”
• • •
Polmak was elated. “You did it!” he cried several times over, ‘“You actually did it!” I tried to give him the narwhal tusk, eager to be rid of the incriminating evidence, but he backed away from it. “You have to take it to Anastasia,” he said. “If I touch it, I’ll diminish its powers. Even if that weren’t the case, I still couldn’t take it through the falls. Just take it through and touch her with it. The power of the horn will do the rest.”
He caught me roughly by the shoulder. “When she releases the sword,” he commanded, “bring it to me.”
I turned and started up the ascent to the cave behind the falls, saying nothing about his preoccupation with the sword when the daughter he hadn’t seen in centuries was about to awake.
She lay exactly as when I’d last seen her—if anything, more beautiful than before. It was a fragile beauty, a frozen instant of perfection. Kneeling beside her, wiping the dripping water of the falls from my brow, I had a moment to consider the nature of time.
If time is a straight line, like the flow of a river, then this place is some side eddy, a stagnant pocket where nothing moves. Yet this is not the only anomaly in the current: there’s a new void in the flow that represents the narwhal’s place, gone because of me.
If time is a circle, a continuous cycle in which we blindly play our parts again and again, then the narwhal will swim his beloved seas again—until I come for him once more, a stage play ad infinitum. Fate decrees that I commit the sin of murdering him. Free will does not exist. Without a choice, I’m innocent of any wrong. Would that I was as free of guilt.
If time is a diverging set of infinite lines, each with its own sequence of cause and effect, then somewhere is a time line where I declined Seeglook’s offer and, perhaps, the narwhal is alive and well. Perhaps on that same time line, Erik Karlsefni fishes with his father, fishes just for the joy of the catch, laughs and dreams something other than nightmare pools of blood and bone.
No matter which theory’s true, if there is any absolute truth to be found, I had no idea what magic could be used to halt time’s passage. All I knew was what power would restore it. The narwhal had traded his future—a span of time measured in polar migrations and mating seasons, in summer seas and new calves—to shatter this arrested moment. I had made that decision for him. I had traded him.
Just to see the sunlight strike Anastasia’s eyes.
Again, there was no physical manifestation of the magic as it worked. No flash of light, no thunderclap or smoke. For a moment, I thought it had all been for naught, but then, ever so slowly, she opened her eyes. Blue. They were incredibly, sky-envy blue. As deep and as clear as the pond on the other side of the falls. She looked from me, to the horn, to the cascading sheet of water behind me.
“Polmak?” she asked weakly.
“The other side of the falls,” I answered. “That magic still holds him at bay.”
She let out a sigh, briefly closing those beautiful eyes. “Who are you?”
“My name is Erik Karlsefni. Polmak sent me to awaken you.”
Her eyes shot open, electric with sudden fear. She tried to sit up, but she was too weak. When I tried to help her, she pushed me away. “I won’t harm you,” I assured her.
“If Polmak sent you, then you’re no friend of mine.”
“It’s true that he sent me, but what I do, I do for me alone.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because you must. You have to trust me.” I leaned closer. Eyes like hers could see right through a man, peek into the depth and the soul of him. “Look into my eyes and tell me what you see there. Am I a threat to you, m’lady?” The title came naturally, as if I’d spoken to women that way my entire life.
Anastasia looked, her blue eyes so close I could see tiny flecks of gold in them. I could feel her breath on my face. I could smell her hair. “I see pain in your eyes, Erik Karlsefni.” She touched my brow, lightly, her fingertips magically easing the dull ache left by that evening’s rum. “I see honesty, too. Honor and pain, Erik Karlsefni, these are the things that make you who you are.”
I reached out and took her hand. Incredibly, she allowed it. “I want to help you. I believe you’ve a story to tell me, and the first part of that story is that Polmak is not, as he claims, your father.”
“My father? Hardly.”
“And Rosendal—”
“Is my king, my champion, my husband.”
I gripped her hand tighter. “I’m sorry, Anastasia. Rosendal is dead.”
I held her while she sobbed, her face buried in the rough wool of my coat, her soft hair on my cheek, the warmth of her body through the thin opal gown a magic unto itself. “Polmak killed him,” she cried. “I tried to save him, but he was already sinking. The water must have dispersed my spell.”
“Tell me from the beginning.”
She pulled away, wiping the tears from her face. Most women are ugly when they cry, but Anastasia’s tears lent her beauty a vulnerable poignancy that enhanced rather than subtracted from her feminine perfection. “At first it was me Polmak wanted,” she said. I felt a stab of guilt; was I any better? “Later, when he learned about the powers of Rosendal’s sword, he wanted both. Polmak befriended Rosendal, showed him places and things he’d never even suspected. Places like this. Places accessible through the power of the sword.”
“Polmak said he created this place for you.”
“A lie. This is Rosendal’s legacy. Rosendal made this place with his love for me.” More tears then. I held her hand, touched her face, wished that I could somehow take her in my arms and erase the pain. “In time,” she continued, “Polmak knew enough about the sword to betray Rosendal. He brought us all here and, by using me as hostage, he forced Rosendal to relinquish the sword. Without it, Rosendal was no match for Polmak’s magic. Polmak struck him down. Rosendal fell into the pool. I tried to save him, but you say that he’s dead.”
“I saw his body at the bottom of the pool.”
/> “Then we are lost. All I could do was take up the sword and run, do my best to keep Polmak from getting it.”
“You were successful at that, m’lady. Your magic is no minor thing. Surely with my help, you can overpower him.”
“My magic is too subtle, too earthly to overpower Polmak’s. Mine is the magic of gardens, of household and hearth.” She nodded toward the cascade of water, “Wards to keep evil at bay. The magic of small animals who hibernate. I thought,” she said, “that I would sleep here forever.” She stroked the narwhal tusk. “Who’d have thought Polmak would find a creature that doesn’t exist?”
“Who’d have thought he’d find me?” I muttered.
“You mustn’t blame yourself. Polmak has had vast experience manipulating others.”
I reached beyond her and took up Rosendal’s sword. It was light for its size, precisely balanced and seemingly made to fit the palms of my hands. “There is but one way to end this.”
“Even with that sword, you’re no match for him, Erik Karlsefni. Better that I put myself back to sleep. Better that I spend eternity behind these falls.”
“He’d only send someone else through with another horn, Anastasia. Worse, he might break the magic you’ve placed on the falls and come through himself. If the sword is what he wants, then I’ll give it to him.” The edge was incredibly sharp. I imagined it piercing those black robes and the man beneath. Anastasia caught my arm as I rose to leave. “He’ll kill you.”
I smiled at her, memorizing every line of her face, thinking I might never see her again. “I’ve been dead for a number of years anyway, m’lady.”
“Wait.” She tore an opal strip of cloth from the hem of her gown and tied it around my arm, proving that I’d been right about that strip of cloth fluttering from Rosendal’s shoulder. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed my cheek.
“Stay here,” I told her, my voice shaking. “If he kills me, he’ll have the sword. He’ll use it to leave this place. But at least he won’t have you.” Then I turned and stepped back through the falls.
Polmak was waiting. He held out his hands for the sword and I rushed him, screaming like a madman and swinging for his head. He waved his arms and it was as if an invisible battering ram struck me and hurled me aside. Reeling from the blow, I still managed to scramble to my feet, raising the sword for another charge.
The wizard laughed. “So she’s enlisted you to fight for her. What did she promise you, a place beside her here in her garden?”
I rushed him again.
“You’re a fool, Karlsefni,” he hissed. “You’re only here by my grace.”
And I dissolved. The sword, substantial and real, slipped through my fading fingers and fell to the ground. The smells, the sounds, the light of the forest faded and were gone...
... replaced by the darkness of my cabin on the Valiant.
• • •
I got out of my bunk and paced, striking my thigh painfully on the corner of my desk before I opened the shutters and let in the cloud-filtered midnight sun. I’d given Polmak what he wanted, the sword. How stupid of me! I’d given him the sword and he’d discarded me. I’d come away with nothing, not Anastasia, not my dignity, not even the flask that had been my grandfather’s. It lay at the bottom of the pool with Rosendal.
Wait a minute.
What did she promise you, a place beside her here in her garden?
Polmak had lied, telling me he had created that paradise. But the truth was that Rosendal had created it for Anastasia. Why, then, had Polmak referred to it as her garden? Was it just a loose phrase or did he believe that Anastasia had created the place? He must, for surely if he knew the truth he would never have let slip that other line when first we met:
We make these places... from our very soul, from who and what we are in life... So long as we live, so long as we believe, these places exist.
Rosendal wasn’t dead!
Anastasia said she had tried to place her hibernation spell on him as he sank. Because Polmak said he was dead—obviously, Polmak believed he was dead—and because I relayed that information, Anastasia believed she had failed. But the truth was that he couldn’t be dead. If he were dead, then Anastasia’s garden would cease to exist. Rosendal was asleep at the bottom of the pool!
If I could get back, if I could take the horn to the bottom of the pool and awaken Rosendal, if I could get the sword into Rosendal’s hands, if Rosendal—with me there this time to protect Anastasia—could defeat the wizard...
It was too many ifs to contemplate, all of them hinging on my being able to get back there. And here I was stuck in my cabin on the Valiant in the middle of Baffin Bay.
What is magic? Is it a belief in something? Polmak said so long as we believe in them, these places we create outside of time exist. Was that not magic? Was magic like truth, more potent and tangible by degrees of persuasion?
Turning, I caught my reflection in a mirror. Honor and pain, Anastasia had said. She’d left out defeat. That was all I saw now. It hung on my face like guilt and remorse, like the weight of hearing that my father had shot himself, like the man that Chukchi child wanted to believe she had found. But I wasn’t that man. I was me. And though I’d done some horrible things, I’d done good things too. Those good things had to be there somewhere, hidden in the depths of the mirror. All I needed to do was look harder, to look beyond the loss and defeat. I searched. Mirror, mirror; on the wall... No luck. I couldn’t find the man I wanted to be.
Except...
A shimmer in the pale light. An opal glimmer of hope there on my arm.
I stroked the tattered band of cloth and it seemed to sparkle, to shed tiny dust motes of magic like stars falling at twilight. Magic. Absolute truth. Belief. I rubbed the cloth between my thumb and forefinger, concentrated on that quiet warren behind the falls, and whispered her name. Someone once told me that there’s power in a name. Power and truth. Magic even.
Anastasia.
• • •
Her hands were suddenly on my shoulders. “What happened?”
I opened my eyes and met the magic blue of hers. “I don’t have time to explain,” I told her, “but Rosendal’s not dead. Give me the horn.”
“What?”
“The horn! Quickly!”
Taking it, I turned and ran for the sheet of falling water, launching myself through it and out into the open air beyond, over the pool and down. I caught one brief glimpse of Polmak sitting in the grass, bent over the sword in concentration. I’m not even sure if he saw me. Perhaps he even failed to hear the splash as I struck the surface of the pool.
I dove deep, letting the horn sink ahead of me so that I could use both arms as well as my feet to propel myself toward the bottom. If Polmak had spotted me, I wouldn’t have much time. Even if he hadn’t, the pool was deep and I’d be lucky to make the bottom before I blacked out.
The pressure hit me about twenty fathoms down. Ice picks thrust deep into my ears, a pain so intense it seemed there were electric wires strung through my brain. As the oxygen in my lungs failed, my muscles began to cramp in agony as they struggled to propel me ever deeper. The cold of the water stung my brain, my throat, my testicles. Darkness gathered at the edges of my vision. My brain screamed at me to gasp for air, to take that one breath that would fill my lungs and end the agony.
When I reached the bottom, my vision was all but gone. My mind was numb, consumed by a darkening fog. The once clear water was murky and dark and seemed to have thickened to the consistency of Jello. It was a struggle to move. My body wanted to settle on the bottom beside Rosendal. Desperately, I cast about for the horn, finally found it about a meter to one side. Somehow I managed to pick it up. I tried to move back toward him, but my strength was gone. Fortunately the tusk was long enough to reach. I extended it and the tip struck him.
Having done all I could, I settled back to die. It was up to him now.
When Rosendal turned over, the motion sent something silver tumbling toward me. I
managed to catch it just before everything faded to black...
• • •
Pain. Choking. Fluid in my lungs.
A voice from a distance.
Sunlight. Heat too intense to be from that same source.
I opened my eyes and found myself cradled in Anastasia’s arms. Her face was lit by fire, its glow spawning a miniature aurora borealis about her hair. I struggled to sit up and found that every muscle and joint in my body ached. Anastasia helped me. “We’ve got to move,” she said, “the fire’s getting close.”
A view from over her shoulder: the forest was burning.
“Can you get to your feet?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try!”
With her help, I got up. Together we stumbled along the bank, heading downstream, away from the fire. Behind us there was more than just the fire. There were explosions and shouts. The ground shook. The sky wept tears of flame. I looked back once and caught a glimpse of Polmak through the fire. He was swinging Rosendal’s sword and where it passed the world was torn apart. The edges of these rents in the fabric of space sparked and burned. Through the gaps there were alternating glimpses of absolute darkness and other worlds.
“Rosendal?”
“He and Polmak are fighting. Polmak, because he has the sword, is winning. But not by much. With me out of the line of fire, my husband’s not holding back this time.”
“How did I—”
“Rosendal brought you up from the bottom of the pool with him. Here.” She passed me my grandfather’s flask. “He said you were clutching this.”
“Thank you.”
She let me sink to my knees. “This should be far enough.”
I wasn’t so sure. I could still feel the heat from the flames. Dropping beside the stream, I buried my face in the cold water. A moment later, my head was clearer. Some of it was coming back to me. The horn. The dive for Rosendal. My blacking out. “I’ve got to go back and try to help him,” I told her.
She shook her head. “There’s nothing you can do now. We must trust in my husband.”
Salt Water Tears Page 6