Forgiven

by Gina Detwiler

  “See you soon.” Then she’s gone, the dead silence of an empty line filling my ear.

  Silas is painting a mural on the tile backsplash in the kitchen, a surrealistic windswept tree that reminds me of the graffiti he used to paint at the silo.

  “That was Shannon on the phone,” I say.

  He stops painting and looks at me, waiting.

  “She’s coming to Buffalo in a couple of hours. She wants me to meet her.”

  “Oh?” Hopeful rather than anxious. “What for?”

  “She didn’t say. But she sounded…different.”

  “Different?”

  “From the usual Shannon. Nervous.”

  “Well, it’s been a long time since you’ve seen each other.”

  “But for her to suddenly fly to Buffalo—”

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  I shake my head. “I can handle it.”

  He gives me a half-smile. “Okay then.” He returns to his painting. I can tell he’s disappointed.

  I drive the Mini to the restaurant and tell the hostess I’m meeting someone. She takes me to a table at the large windows looking out on the runway. A dad with two sons is at another table. The boys are plastered to the window, watching a taxiing plane while the dad explains how planes fly.

  I flip through the menu and read the history of the Flying Tigers Fighter Squadron on the back cover. They were a volunteer squadron of American fighter pilots from WWII. A photo shows them with one of their planes, the nose painted to look like an angry shark. I wonder why they didn’t call themselves the Flying Sharks.

  “Grace.”

  I look up. Shannon is wearing jeans and a sweatshirt with a baseball cap covering her red hair. What’s more, she’s alone. No bodyguards or attendants. She certainly doesn’t look like a movie star or a first lady. But she does look healthier than the last time I saw her.

  “Hi,” I say as she sits across from me.

  “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

  “No” I say.

  “I’m sorry for the short notice. My schedule is so packed these days. It’s hard to get away.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” So far so good. She seems flustered but not manic. Practically…normal.

  “What’s good here? I’m starving.”

  That’s a new one for Shannon. The waitress comes and she orders a chicken Caesar salad. I nearly fall off my chair. I order chicken tenders and fries.

  “You eat meat now?” I ask.

  “On occasion.” She smiles. “You gave me a taste for burgers, remember?”

  How could I forget that night? I feel a blush coming on.

  “Tell me, how is Charles? You mentioned he had lung cancer.”

  “He’s doing okay.” I’m surprised she remembers this. “It’s in remission.”

  “Oh. Good.” She sounds distracted.

  “I’m sure he wrote you a letter.”

  “Did he? I never got it. But the mail—it’s out of control. I’ll ask Melanie.”

  “Melanie is still with you?”

  “Yes. She’s a saint, that girl.”

  This is definitely not the Shannon Snow I used to know.

  “I know it’s been a while since we talked,” she says. “After what happened at the house…well, I needed time.”

  “I know. It’s fine.”

  “But something’s happened recently. I thought you should know.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s about your friend Jared.”

  “Oh?” My heart does a flip.

  “Yes. I saw him recently.”

  “What?”

  The waitress appears with plates. Perfect timing. I hold my tongue until she’s set them down and asked us if we need anything. Once she’s gone, I lean over the table, my nuggets forgotten.

  “You saw Jared?”

  She nods. “On Darwin Speer’s yacht.”

  I almost choke. “You were on Speer’s yacht?”

  Shannon picks her fork up and rummages in her salad as if looking for something. “Darwin and Harry have been friends for years. Darwin had told Harry that he had a wonderful investment opportunity for him, something that would really help with his work, both at the church and as governor. Naturally, Harry was intrigued. Darwin invited us for an excursion so he could tell us about it. Then Jared came aboard.” She puts a small piece of lettuce in her mouth. “I had no idea Darwin and Jared knew each other. Then Darwin told us that Jared was donating his own DNA to some new genetic therapy Speer was working on. A miracle cure. He said that Jared’s DNA had actually saved his life—”

  “Wait—what? Speer was sick?” Confusion fills me.

  “Not any more. That’s what I’m telling you. Darwin used Jared’s DNA to cure himself. Isn’t that incredible?”

  “Are you telling me that Jared was there of his own free will?”

  “I couldn’t believe it myself. But Jared was quite excited about the whole project. He signed a contract and everything.”

  My eyes blur and I can’t swallow. I lean back heavily. “Contract?”

  “He didn’t tell you, did he?”

  I shake my head. No, no, no.

  Shannon reaches over the table and takes my hand. “I’m so sorry, Grace. But Jared is not who you think he is.”

  I pull my hand away. “You’re lying. Just like you’ve always lied.”

  “Not this time. I came to tell you the truth. All the two of them talked about was how much money they would make. Millions of dollars. I was as shocked as you are.”

  I stare at her, searching for the deception in her eyes, but I don’t see it.

  “I’m so sorry. But I thought you should know.”

  A weight of tears builds behind my eyes. I put a hand to my throat to force down the rising bile.

  Shannon comes around to my side of the table. She puts her arms around me and rocks me softly as a mother does an inconsolable child, telling me it will be all right.

  But it won’t. Never again.

  27: Smoke and Mirrors

  Jared

  The horrific headache brings me out of the dream. My tongue is thick and fuzzy, my throat so dry I can barely swallow.

  I get up and gulp water from the bathroom faucet. My head pounds as every capillary pulses with blood.

  And I’m naked. What did I do? Sleepwalk?

  I go back into the room, steadying myself along the wall. I never get sick and never have headaches. What’s happening to me?

  The dream…the dancing. Images flash through my brain like memories, except I have no real memory of them. A knife cutting my arms and my blood flowing… I look at my arms but see no wounds.

  Another image comes to mind—a golden chalice, like the kind used in Communion Mass. I remember it tilting over me, pouring out—what was in it? Did I drink from it?

  I shake the dream off and search for my clothes. When they are nowhere to be found, I drag a sheet from the bed and throw it over my shoulders, then search the other bedrooms. They are empty. My clothes are not in any of them. Not even Lucille’s—that’s a relief.

  I take the stairs up to the main floor. It’s morning. Morning? A thick mist lies over the outside world.

  Disoriented, I shuffle through the house, searching, but find no one. The place is empty. A note lies on the dining table. I pick it up and read it.

  Jared: Hey, sleepyhead! Lucille and I are flying into the city for supplies. I’ll pick up your passport. Be back soon. Help yourself to whatever you need. Also, the maid took your clothes to wash. There’s a robe in the bathroom.

  A robe. I hadn’t seen one, but I hadn’t been looking. I hadn’t seen a maid either. I head to the stairs but turn when I hear something—a voice? Someone calling.

  I go out to the balcony that juts out over the sea. The air is cold, the wind bitter. My breath comes out in clouds. The sound seems to be carried on the wind like the echo of a voice from far away. I move to the railing, searching for the source. The voice grows a
s I move. It’s like strands of color jumbled together, a prism of sound, clear and strong.

  —Jared, my son.

  The voice washes over me like a bracing rain.

  —Come to me. Come. Now.

  I throw the sheet off and climb onto the railing.

  —Yes, yes! My boy, my love. Come to me! Come!

  I raise my arms out straight to the sides. The wind rises under me and the sea calls me home.

  I jump.

  Part Four

  The Second Law

  28: Human

  Angel

  An old fisherman winds his ropes on a rusty trawler that bobs against a weathered dock. Cod season is over, and he has failed to catch anything. He considers trying again tomorrow, but the coming storm might be a bad one. Late September means snow is not far off. He can smell it—that bleak, frosted scent. All the more reason to get his boat tied down before the wind kicks up.

  I hover close, wrapped around his thoughts, twined into his vision.

  A disturbance ripples the water, much like a large fish swimming just below the surface. The fisherman peers at it, hopeful. Could it be that the gods have delivered him a great cod, the prize he was seeking? Would it come right to the dock and offer itself as a sacrifice?

  The fish breaks the surface. To his astonishment, the fisherman sees not a fish at all, but a human, although unlike any human he has seen in his life. He hoists himself up onto the dock, streaming water, his tall, naked body glowing as if lit from within, his hair snow-white.

  The old man drops his ropes and stares in wonder. He knows what this creature is. One of the Ljosalfar, the Light Elves, that come from the beautiful, mysterious land of Alfheim. He has heard tales of the Ljosalfar as well as their counterparts, the Dark Elves or Dokkalfar, who were so ugly they lived underground in a place called Niflheim. No human would ever want to encounter a Dokkalfar, for to do so would mean certain death. But to see a true Ljosalfar, a being of light and magic and perfect beauty—he thinks he must be dreaming or has died and entered Valhalla.

  He pulls his phone from his jacket—a gift from his daughter. He’d insisted he didn’t need the contraption, especially living in such a remote place, but in this moment, he is glad he has it. His hand trembles as he touches the video button as his daughter had shown him to do. He records for several seconds until the creature turns and begins to walk toward him.

  The fisherman remains still as the Light Elf comes near. His heart races, his mind entangled in myths and legends. What was one to do when encountering a Ljosalfar? Bow? Ask for a wish to be granted? Beg for mercy? His thoughts race—I struggle to keep up.

  “Ertu týndur?”

  Are you lost?

  The creature looks at him, not understanding. Does it not speak Icelandic?

  “Ertu að fara í Aflheim?”

  Are you going to Aflheim?

  The creature nods but seems uncertain.

  The fisherman glances at his boat and at the looming darkness. He shouldn’t attempt it as a storm is coming. But he finds he cannot resist.

  “Ég mun taka þig.”

  I will take you there.”

  29: Starlight

  Jared

  The fisherman drops me off at a port on the eastern coast of Iceland. He gave me clothes, canvas trousers and a heavy jacket he had in his trawler, as well as a knitted cap and boots. He did not speak to me on the journey and actually seemed afraid of me. I decided it was better that way.

  Several container ships are loading when we dock. I thank the fisherman, wishing I knew some Icelandic. He nods and points, directing me to where I should go. I’m sorry I have nothing to give him for his trouble, but at least the storm held off.

  I walk along the dock from ship to ship until I find one headed to Norway. A small container vessel named Baldr. A group of rough-looking seamen lounge on the dock, eating fried cod from paper bags. I ask them in English if I can get a berth in exchange for work. They look at me as though they don’t understand. But then one of them answers.

  “You in the union?” A woman. She has a feisty, weather-beaten face and a fleshy body with a number of piercings and tattoos, including a large dragon on one shoulder. A finger is missing on her right hand. She speaks good English.

  “No,” I say.

  “No union, no job.” But she smiles and looks at me the way women tend to. “You got any skills?”

  “I’m…pretty strong.”

  “Oh yeah?” She smirks at her companions and says something in Norwegian. They laugh. “You’re so strong, can you lift that?” She points to a crate sitting beside her on the deck. “These weaklings can’t do it. We’re waiting for a crane to take it on board.”

  I pick up the crate, hoist it on my shoulders, and carry it onto the ship. The sailors watch me, their mouths dropping open. When I return, the woman regards me with new interest. “How did you do that?”

  “It wasn’t heavy.”

  She translates for the others. Their laughter is not so mocking now.

  “You might be useful,” the woman says. “Maybe I will talk to the captain. See if we can do something for you. I’m Jonna.” She holds out a four-fingered hand for me to shake.

  I take it. “I’m…Danny.”

  “You have papers?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  I wait while she goes to speak with the captain. The other sailors skirt away from me with suspicious looks. Jonna returns wearing a broad smile—in addition to a finger, she’s missing a front tooth.

  “Okay, you are good to go,” she says. “I said you were a long-lost cousin. We look alike, don’t we?” She chuckles. “We have an extra berth, lucky for you. Stick with me and you’ll be fine.”

  The journey to Norway takes four days. All I do is pick up heavy stuff and move it around for Jonna, who treats me like her personal slave. I eat with the crew in the galley and sleep in the hold belowdecks, which is cramped but clean. The crew ignores me. Few can speak English anyway.

  Jonna talks nonstop. She tells me how she lost her finger to a codfish twenty years before while working on a fishing trawler in the Norwegian Sea. The other sailors treat her like one of the boys, and she can drink and swear with the best of them. I assume it is because of her tattoo that they have nicknamed her “Amma Dragon,” which means “Granny Dragon.”

  “Nope,” she says. “I got the tattoo to match the name.”

  Jonna is respected on the ship. No one messes with her. She’s older than most of the men—mean and motherly at the same time.

  “Where you from, Danny? America?” she asks one night. I’m on deck, leaning against the bulwark and staring at the stars reflected into the black sea. I do this most nights. A boat is confining, and anyway, I am sick of boats. Jonna joins me often, usually to smoke her pipe. It’s freezing cold, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She never wears a jacket, only her ubiquitous tank top.

  “France, originally,” I say.

  “You don’t sound French.”

  “My parents emigrated to Canada when I was young.”

  “Ah. So why do you want to go to Norway?”

  “A sick uncle.”

  “Oh, right. Everyone has a sick uncle in Norway.” She laughs, a throaty, slightly emphysemic sound.

  “Where does the ship dock?” I ask.

  “Bergen.” That’s all the way in the south. “Where’s this sick uncle of yours?”

  “In the Nordland.”

  “Then you have a long way to go. How will you get there?”

  “Walk.”

  “Walk? Nonsense. Take a boat. Rent a car. You got any money?”

  “No.”

  “What happened to your money? Your papers?”

  “Stolen.”

  “Stolen! Why don’t you go to the police? Or the embassy?”

  “I was going to if you didn’t give me a ride.”

  “Then how will you go back?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not goin
g back.”

  “Not going back? You really like this uncle of yours?”

  “Not especially. But…I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  She falls silent for a moment, puffing on her pipe.

  “Here,” she says finally. She pulls a roll of bills from her pocket and shoves them at me. “Take it.”

  “I can’t take your money.”

  “Then I’ll make you.” She looks momentarily ferocious before she breaks out into a wide grin. “You need money to get where you are going. And not everyone is as nice as me.”

  “Thank you,” I accept her gift.

  “You, boy.” She reaches up to cup my chin in one hand. “There’s something strange about you. But I like you. You’re a good worker. Pretty too. If you change your mind, come back and find me. I’ll get you a job. You will always have a place on my boat.”

  I smile, moved by her words. She pats my cheek a few times.

  The next morning, the ship docks in Bergen. I help unload and then say goodbye to Jonna. She swats my cheek and reminds me there will always be a place on her boat for me. Her eyes look a little glassy.

  “Go on now,” she says gruffly. “I got work to do.”

  I head down the gangway, past border agents who don’t give me a second look. I keep walking, though I’m not sure which way to go. Jonna had given me one of the maps that was tacked to the wall in the galley. I guess it will take me a few weeks to walk to Northern Norway and then sail to Seiland. I consider Jonna’s idea of booking passage on a boat, assuming there is one. But I prefer walking. I need to move, to slough off the events of the past weeks, clear my head.

  I decide to head up to the mountains. Norway is covered in good trails, and there will be few hikers this time of year. Jonna gave me nine hundred Krona, around a hundred dollars. At a supply shop, I buy a cheap backpack, a t-shirt that reads “Berserker Training,” a plastic water bottle, protein bars, a map of the trail system, a lighter and an LED flashlight. That leaves me about sixty-five dollars, which I hope will be enough to rent a small boat to Seiland once I get to the north coast.

  I put the shirt and hat on and start walking through the streets of Bergen. Brightly colored buildings line the waterway, dulled by the heavy mist of autumn. I could have taken the funicular railway up to the mountain but it’s safer to walk—less chance of being recognized. Forlorn and Blood Moon had been popular in Norway, especially after our performance at the Northern Lights Festival in Tromsø. I can’t take a chance.