by Kody Boye
Why do you have to live so far out? he thought, trembling, forcing himself not to look at the hill to his left as he continued along the road. Why couldn’t you have lived closer, maybe next to my father?
So far as he remembered, no one lived in the house to the direct south of his father’s homestead—unless people had moved in over the years he’d been gone, or the home itself had been retooled for other uses. Why couldn’t Karma have moved into one of them and saved herself the risk of getting trapped in her home during the winter?
Whatever the reason, Odin couldn’t allow it to bother him, as tonight would be the last he spent in Felnon for a while.
Shaking his head, he freed scattered flakes of snow that had developed on the lengthened parts of his bangs and pushed his hair out of his eyes when he saw the house rising in the distance. Small, well-kempt and apparently freshly-redone, it appeared like nothing he had seen in his childhood—when, as a boy, he’d once gone running up the road in search of the very woman he’d considered to be his mother after a long, lonely day in order to recant to her a series of thoughts that had occurred after he read from a book of chivalry.
“There you are,” he whispered.
Careful to adjust the brimming pot of food within his hands, Odin took a deep breath and, as carefully as he could, began to cross the expanse of land before him, not willing to succumb to the ice beneath his feet. Moments like these were to be cherished, not spoiled by overzealous heroism or ignorance.
Closing his eyes, Odin took a deep breath.
Were he not careful, memories would begin to flood back.
When he opened his eyes and saw before him an obviously-visible swell in the path, he took extra care to maneuver around what was no doubt Mother Karma’s garden and made his way to the door—where, slowly, he raised his hand to knock, then returned it to the pot, which still remained hot to the touch despite the cold weather.
To his side, a curtain shifted.
Odin turned his attention to the window.
A short moment later, the click of a deadbolt being freed from its lock echoed out from its prison and the door opened to reveal Mother Karma. “Odin,” she said.
“I’ve brought you dinner,” he replied, drumming his fingers along the pot.
“Why thank you. Come in, come in—I wasn’t expecting company.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but my father wanted to bring you something.”
“He’s the only one that cares nowadays,” Karma mumbled, securing the door behind them before gesturing him into the kitchen.
In looking around the house he had seldom spent time in as a child, he could make out distinct details that caught his attention almost instantaneously—mainly the stuffed boar’s head over the fireplace and the collection of animal skulls on the mantle, those of which had always fascinated him as a child and prompted much discussion about each individual piece. His attention now captured, his eyes fixated on the mantle, he barely had time to distinguish that Karma had stopped to consider his action before he turned and made his way into the kitchen.
“I’m sorry,” he said, setting the pot on the table. “It’s just… it’s been so long.”
“What? Four, nearly five years?”
“It’s just…” Odin paused, casting his attention around the area. “You’ve had it redone, haven’t you?”
“It’s the oldest house in the village. It had to be done at some point.”
“I’m glad they didn’t destroy it,” Odin said, running his hand along the banister that separated the dining room from the living quarters. “It would’ve been a shame.”
“That it would, my son.”
Karma seated herself at the table, freed the pot of its lid, then craned her head to look into its depths, where shortly thereafter she reached in and plucked a piece of meat out. “Your father always was a good cook.”
“He is,” Odin agreed.
“Sit, boy. I know you’ve already eaten, but it makes me nervous when company stands about like they’ve nothing to do.”
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
“You’re not bothering me. You’re the only company I could possibly want other than your father, and that’s saying something, considering I hardly ever leave my house.”
While she ate, carefully deliberating over each piece of venison as if she were some small bird, Odin allowed his eyes to wander her home, but not without giving the woman his complete attention. He couldn’t help but wonder if she preferred alienation when she ate or if she cared whether or not she was watched. That idea thrust a conundrum upon him, one he couldn’t help but feel uneasy at despite the lack of tension in the air.
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” the woman sighed, removing her hands from the inside of the pot and padding them off with a kerchief. “I didn’t want to mention it in front of your father. You know how he gets, especially when we talk about death.”
“I know.”
“I can tell you’re upset by what’s happened to you. You’ve always been a simple soul, Odin, one that’s always been willing to help others even if they’re never willing to give you something in return. That’s why I’ve been afraid for you all these years, especially when you left for the capital to train to become a knight. I feared that, one day, something terrible would happen, something so terrible that you would lose your sanity and flee from everything you know to try and recover it.”
Odin grimaced.
“That time has come,” Karma continued, placing both hands on the table and spreading her fingers as if she were a frog preparing to take one final leap, “and it’s come with a horrible revelation—that the man who raised you throughout your whole life, the man you thought was your father, was nothing more than a stranger who was offered a baby.”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” Odin said, trying his best to keep from squirming in his seat.
You know her! his conscience taunted. What reason do you have to be afraid?
Never had he felt so intimidated other than in front of Herald as a child, or before Ramya when his nerves had been so ablaze that he’d sought drugs to cure his unease. Even Ournul, his king, had never made him feel so small, so pathetic, so vulnerable. To think Karma could see so much and decipher it so easily…
While waiting for further response, Karma had begun to drum her fingers along the table, as if playing a string, harp or chord.
“What I’m saying,” Karma said, “is that I fear for your sanity, my friend, and your heart.”
Do you know? he thought. Do you really, truly know?
Odin bit his lower lip to keep from speaking. Karma, in response, offered a slight, bitter laugh, one that raised the hairs on Odin’s neck. “Maybe I’m just being too harsh,” she said, leaning back in her seat and craning her head forward. “I’ve always been told I’m a real witch of a woman.”
“You’re no such thing,” Odin said. “At least you’re being honest.”
“Some would prefer a load of bullshit than hear the truth. You probably already know that though, given you’re involved with the court and all.”
“Yes.”
Karma smiled, then stood, circling the table until she stood directly behind him.
When her hands fell upon his shoulders, Odin immediately tensed up.
“I grieve your loss,” the woman said, kneading his shoulders and digging her fingers into the hollows of his collarbone. “I know what it’s like to lose someone, because the Gods and you know in my old age that I’ve lost more than a handful of people and friends, including my poor bastard of a husband. But let me tell you something, Odin, something that I think you should hear now even if you’ve already heard it a dozen or more times before—grief blinds us. It makes us stupid, insecure, makes us wish for things to be real that can and never should be even if we wish for them harder than we’ve ever wished before. Death… death is a weapon life uses against us to make us fear for the end. There is no promise of immortality,
of a pen that will forever write, an inkwell that will always be full—to think so would be madness, because for us to live forever would be to cast aside our humanity and raise ourselves as Gods. Any good man knows that everything has to come to an end, even if we don’t want it to.”
“What’re you saying?” Odin asked.
“That even if there is a way,” the woman whispered, leaning so close that Odin could feel her breath on his ear, “it should never be sought.”
The hairs on his neck rose.
She knows something, his conscience whispered, drumming his shoulders as if it were no longer Karma’s hands on them but instead the gilded thing’s claws. She is wiser than you care to admit.
Odin stood.
In response, the midwife took a few steps back. “Odin,” Karma said.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Don’t let your grief blind you. Find happiness in what you have. There is so much you can lose if you don’t.”
Not knowing or willing to say anything, he turned and made his way toward the door, but stopped before his hand could fall on the knob.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Mother Karma said nothing.
Odin left without saying goodbye.
He strayed from the conversation taking place between Ectris and Virgin and complained of a stomachache as an excuse to go to bed. After kissing his father on the cheek and saying he would be up early the next morning to help with the household chores, he walked down the hall, entered his childhood bedroom, then collapsed into bed after pulling his boots off and tossing them across the room.
In laying there, looking at the rafters above, he couldn’t help but wonder if Mother Karma knew more than she’d let on.
Of course she does, Odin thought. She wouldn’t have said anything otherwise.
Did she, like his friend Nova, have the Sight, or at least some form of clairvoyance that allowed her to see things the naked eye could not, or was she just perceptual and could make out the inner most guarded thoughts? It wasn’t unlikely, considering that many people possessed an innate ability to perceive those they considered themselves closest to, so to think Karma could see through him wasn’t out of the realms of reality. What, however, might that mean, if she so openly knew what he was going to do? Would she tell Ectris?
“No,” he whispered. “She can’t.”
Were she to know the truth and recant that to his adoptive father, then what would Ectris say, if not disown him?
He won’t know, Odin thought, rolling onto his side to stare at the wall. He can’t know.
Even if Karma were to tell him something, what possibility was there that he would believe it? It was not a fact set in stone, or something that could be proven with a few simple words.
Unless…
Odin swallowed a lump in his throat.
Unless he saw the book.
Wouldn’t Ectris have said something?
Unable to know and no longer willing to thrust upon himself such fears, he rolled onto his back, closed his eyes, then cast both arms over his head, where he cradled his skull and tried, fruitlessly, to fall asleep.
The door opened.
Odin didn’t bother to open his eyes.
A short moment later, he felt a presence settle down on the side of the bed next to him.
When he opened his eyes, he expected his adoptive father, so to find Virgin hovering above him both mystified and startled him.
“Everything all right?” the Halfling asked.
Odin nodded, then rolled over so he wouldn’t have to face his companion.
“Stomach still bothering you?”
“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Virgin paused, then set a hand on Odin’s shoulder. “How was your visit with the midwife?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Just… fine. Not a whole lot happened.”
You’re lying through your teeth.
Did it matter? His lie hurt no one other than himself, so what harm was there in using it?
When Virgin’s hand trailed down his shoulder and along his side, his fingers fluttering along his ribcage like butterflies suspended in animation, Odin opened his eyes and cast a glance over his shoulder, allowing himself but a slight nod to signify that the touch, though unwarranted, was acceptable.
You don’t know how much you mean to me, he thought, returning his attention to the wall and the window on the far side of the room.
To think that he’d gone so long without someone in his life was almost unimaginable, especially when Virgin spread out alongside him and pressed up against his back.
“Mind if I lay here for a moment?” the older Halfling asked.
“No,” Odin said. “Go ahead.”
Almost instantly, Virgin’s hand fell across Odin’s side and settled on his abdomen.
It was at that moment that Odin was sure he could sleep.
He rose early the following morning to the sound of birds chirping and the cold northern wind skirting around the house. The old dead tree near the window ever so close and tapping the panes of glass with one twisted gnarled hand, the world outside silent without activity, Odin opened his eyes to find the room completely lit in white and thought for a moment that he had, in his sleep, cast magic. However, when he looked around and found that he hadn’t, he took it as a sign of the world illuminating the snow and threw his legs over the side of the bed, taking extra care not to shift the mattress to keep from waking Virgin.
We were out like the dead, he thought, unable to contain the nervous chuckle that ensued.
After straightening his hair away from his face, he pushed himself off the bed, then turned to make it, but stopped when he caught Virgin’s eyes open and watching him intently.
“Virgin?” he asked, unsure whether or not his companion was actually awake.
“Hmm?” the older Halfling asked.
“I thought…”
“You thought… what?” Virgin pushed himself upright and ran a hand over his face. “Oh. That I was sleeping with my eyes open.”
“Yeah.”
“Did your father used to do that?”
“Sometimes,” Odin sighed, turning his attention to the window. “Did we sleep in?”
“I don’t think so. It’s just bright.”
It usually isn’t, he thought.
Preferring to keep his mouth shut, Odin went about cleaning the room as best as he could—first by taking his and Virgin’s boots and placing them near the door, then by making his half of the bed. When Virgin made no move to rise, Odin shrugged, straightened the blanket out over his companion’s shoulders, then turned and made his way toward the door, stopping in midstride when the older Halfling cleared his throat as if to say something.
“Something wrong?” Odin asked.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Virgin replied. “I think I’m going to stay in bed a little while longer.”
“That’s fine.”
After making sure Virgin had nothing more to say, Odin let himself out of the room, closed the door behind him, then cleared the distance the hall offered and made his way toward the kitchen table—where, poised and reading a book, his father sat, a pair of eyeglasses on the end of his nose and a cup of steaming tea set before him.
“Good morning,” Ectris said.
“Morning.”
“Are you feeling any better?”
“A lot better,” he said, only to grimace shortly thereafter. When his father offered him an unsure look, Odin shook his head and settled down in the chair opposite him. “Sorry I’m up so late.”
“I only just got up myself, son.”
“Oh.” Odin paused. “Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. You want a cup of tea?”
“I guess.”
Ectris stood and made his way into the kitchen, where he lifted the steaming pot of tea and filled a cup with it before he returned to the table. Still diluted by sleep, Odin
took it in both hands and sipped it carefully before looking about the room to try and decide what it was he would help his father do first.
“Is there anything in particular you want help with?” he asked, taking another sip of his tea.
“Not particularly. Why?”
“I was planning on helping you with the chores—at least, if you still wanted it, anyway.”
“To be honest, Odin, there isn’t much to do.” Ectris pondered over his book for one final moment before he set it down atop the table. “Oh. I almost forgot.”
“What?”
“Would you like to see Gainea?”
“I can’t believe I didn’t remember,” Odin sighed, pressing a hand to his brow.
“You’re welcome to take her with you if you like. She may be old, but she’s still as stubborn as she used to be. You were the only one who could ever handle her without getting smacked or kicked around.”
“She hasn’t hurt you, has she?”
“Oh no. She just doesn’t let me anywhere near her, which is why I have to resort to bribery to tend to her.”
“I’d love to see her when you have a moment,” Odin smiled, turning his attention to the distant kitchen window—where, just beyond the yard, the stable could be seen, completely covered in snow but otherwise visible. “I’m not sure if I should take her though, if you want to know the truth.”
“She’s just as good a horse as she was when you were a boy.”
“I know, but—“
“She misses you, Odin.”
She missed you.
The thought alone was enough to make him shiver.
“How could I have abandoned her for all these years,” Odin sighed.