“The Vietnam War.”
“Right.”
“What about Freyr?”
Larson continued, still holding his voice to a monotone.
“Freyr stayed sort of aloof. Vidarr....” He clarified, “That was the sword. See, he was a god, too.” He considered. “Still is. Anyway, Vidarr used to argue with me a lot, though he always meant well. He thought I was too sarcastic.“
The speed of the pen increased, lashing between the stubby fingers like the tail of a riled cat. Millson sighed into a long silence. “Al, tell me. Who’s the president of the United States?”
“Lyndon Baines Johnson. At least until September.”
“And before him?”
“Kennedy.”
“And before him?”
“Eisenhower. Dwight.”
Millson frowned, apparently not receiving the responses he expected. “Classic,” he muttered.
Larson said nothing, not daring to believe other men might have told Dr. Millson stories about dying, Old Norway, and gods. A strange thought struck him. Perhaps my return has changed history as well as the future. Maybe I got those presidents wrong. Suddenly, he needed to know. “Did I make a mistake?”
“Huh?”
“The presidents. Did I miss one?”
“Oh.” Millson seemed startled by the question. “No. No. Your memory works just fine. No evidence of an organic brain lesion.”
Larson blinked, uncertain what to make of the statement. By declaring one aspect of Larson’s mental functioning normal, he seemed to imply others were faulty. Not surprising after the story I just told. “Is that good?”
“Well, yes. Of course.” Millson set aside the pen. “Al, have you ever been hospitalized for mental illness?”
“No.” The psychiatrist’s intention came through clearly. “Are you suggesting I should be?”
Millson dodged the question. He gathered the papers on his desk, shoving them into the manila envelope. “You stay here. I’ll be back shortly.” He scurried out of the office with little decorum, as if he needed to put distance between himself and Larson.
Al Larson folded his hands in his lap. And waited.
Silme met Al Larson at the outer door, looking stunningly beautiful in curve-hugging blue jeans and a T-shirt that left little to the imagination. The comparison to the conservative, loose-fitting garments she had worn in Old Norway staggered Larson. He stared, studying the golden waves of hair, his eyes tracking down breasts and thighs with a pleasure that almost allowed him to forget a day of needles, doctors’ cold hands, and corridors full of young men in their underwear.
“Gosh,” Larson said at last. He tried to say more, but was overcome by incoherent stammering.
Silme laughed. She caught his hand, leading him onto the sidewalk. “So how did it go?” She used English, colored with her melodious accent.
“They didn’t take me.” Larson placed an arm around Silme’s narrow waist. “They did recommend a good psychiatrist, though.” He waited. Although Silme could no longer cast spells, she had retained her ability to explore superficial thoughts, a process that had never cost her life energy in the past. Now she was using the procedure to help her learn English, slang and connotation as well as denotation.
“They think you’re crazy?” Silme tested her newly gained knowledge.
“Right.”
“You’re not going to see the doctor. Are you?”
Larson retrieved the psychiatrist’s card from his pocket. “Actually, I was thinking I might.” He corrected quickly, “Not because I’m insane for talking to sorceresses and gods, though. I’m just thinking he might be able to help with the war memories.”
“I hope so,” Silme said. “You know, I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Larson gave Silme a vigorous hug. “And you know why?”
Silme embraced him with nearly as much force. “No, why?”
“No reason at all. Does that bother you?”
Silme hesitated, her grip loosening. Then she laughed. “Not this time. Not in the least.”
Larson released Silme, taking her hand and continuing the walk along the roadway. Now, fully drawn into his joy, the induction process faded, allowing other thoughts to intrude. “Shadow didn’t feel up to coming along?” Astryd’s death had taken its toll on the little Climber. And, though understandable, it hurt Larson to see the friend who had kept his spirits through so much pain now fade into a quagmire of despair no one could broach. Over the last two months, Taziar had made obvious and conscious efforts not to inflict his grief on anyone else, even those who had known Astryd and shared his sorrow. He had even learned some new English phrases.
Silme stopped at a four-way intersection, waiting for the walk sign to light, watching the cars trickle past. “Shadow came along. He’s just down the road here, helping a woman who locked her keys in the....” Silme trailed off, apparently trying to remember the correct English word.
“Car?” Larson supplied.
People joined Larson and Silme in clusters of two and three, gathering to wait for the light.
“Correct.” Silme pointed to a row of cars parked along the curb ahead. “He’s right there.”
Larson craned his neck around the crowd. Taziar crouched on the hood of a red Mustang, concentrating on some unrecognizable object in his hand. He wore a black dress shirt tucked into pants equally dark, looking like a tiny but dashing villain. A woman leaned against the bumper, watching him intently. She was small. Larson guessed she would stand only a few inches taller than Taziar. Copper highlights wound through sandy curls, defying the current long, straight style. Her body went against the trend as well, stocky and muscled like an athlete’s, squarish in an era of tall, willowy women.
The walk sign lit, and Larson and Silme crossed with the group. Apprehension struck Larson. Shadow doesn’t know a damned thing about modern locks. What if he breaks something?
As if to enhance Larson’s concern, a policeman wandered over to the car just as Larson and Silme arrived. The remainder of the crowd passed with no more than a disinterested glimpse.
Taziar looked up. “How’d it go?” he asked in barony tongue.
Closer, Larson identified the object in Taziar’s hand as a piece of wood carved to the shape of a key. The Climber clutched tiny tools, using them to scrape shavings from the wood.
“Fine,” Larson said. “They didn’t take me.”
“Great!” Taziar said with genuine enthusiasm, before returning to his work. “Perfect.”
The officer peered over Larson’s shoulder. “What’s he doing?”
The woman poked a finger at the Mustang’s driver’s window, a fingernail clicking against the glass. “I locked my keys inside. There.”
Larson looked in the indicated direction. A ring with three keys lay on the seat, frustratingly beyond the locked doors and closed windows.
The woman’s freckled face turned from the policeman to Taziar and back. “He’s making a temporary key, I think.”
The policeman snorted. “That’s stupid. It’s not going to work.”
Larson nodded, echoing the sentiment.
Taziar sprang from the hood to the ground. “Excuse me,” he said in English, pushing past Larson and the officer. “May I, Claire?” He turned his attention to the woman, awaiting permission.
Claire nodded. “Can’t hurt. Give it a try.”
Taziar placed the makeshift key in the lock. To Larson’s surprise, it fit, though when Taziar twisted, nothing happened.
The policeman rolled his eyes.
Larson sighed, sympathizing with his friend’s failure.
Taziar put a bit more pressure on the key, then whipped it free. Seizing the handle, he opened the door, ushering Claire inside.
An expression of delight crossed Claire’s features in direct contrast to the policeman’s shocked stare. Claire snatched up her keys. “Thanks, Taz. Thank you so much.”
The policeman took the wooden key from Taziar, examined th
e complex series of serrations from all sides, then returned it to Claire. “I wouldn’t have believed it,” he muttered. Shaking his head, he continued on his way.
Larson squeezed Silme’s hand.
“Taz, hold on just a minute, would you?” Without awaiting a response, she turned her back, rummaging through her purse. Shortly, she spun around to face Taziar again. She handed him a folded ten dollar bill, then climbed into the car and settled into the driver’s seat. She started the engine, then rolled down her window. “Bye! And thanks again.” With a final wave, she pulled onto the road and roared away.
Taziar watched the car glide into city traffic, smoothing the bill between his fingers.
Noticing something unusual, Larson reached for the ten. “Can I see that?”
Taziar relinquished it without looking.
Larson studied the bill, discovering numbers hastily scrawled across Alexander Hamilton. “I think she liked you.”
Taziar turned. “What do you mean?”
“She left you her telephone number.” Larson indicated the handwritten numbers. “Apparently, she wants to see you again.”
Taziar made a noncommittal noise. At length, he smiled.
Larson handed back the bill. “At least, you seem to have found your calling. Carving out a working key. I’m impressed.” It occurred to Larson just how versatile his companion’s skills were. Even without an education, he could become almost anything. A circus acrobat, a locksmith, a stunt man. He smiled. Even a jockey.
“Just one thing,” Taziar said.
Larson nodded, prepared for a discussion on telephones and twentieth-century dating practices and, thus, wholly unprepared for Taziar’s question.
“What’s this for?” Taziar balanced the policeman’s badge on his palm.
Startled speechless, Larson stared, his smile wilting. “I don’t believe you did that.”
Silme lowered her head, apparently trying to glean the implications from Larson’s most shallow thoughts.
“You know I’ll give it back.”
“I don’t believe you did that.” Larson found himself unable to find other words, though his mind did conjure the perfect want ad: For sale: Small, agile lunatic. Slightly used. Guaranteed never a dull moment.
Taziar met Larson’s consternation with laughter. He whirled with a dancer’s grace, taking in the skyscrapers, lights, and human and vehicular traffic. “I think I love New York.”
Silme chuckled.
Larson knew the year would bring its trials: teaching two other-world companions English, turning them into American citizens, convincing his family he should marry a woman he seemed to have known only a few days. Yet, in the wake of all that had happened, those issues seemed trivial. He joined the laughter, wholeheartedly, though he knew it was aimed at him.
Taziar’s mirth died away. Larson followed his gaze to a familiar, rocket-shaped building, the tallest in the world, its spire visible through the smog. The expression of determination on the Shadow Climber’s face looked frighteningly unconstrained.
Taziar will get along in this endless, concrete playground. Let’s just hope New York City can survive Taziar Medakan. “Come on.” Larson grabbed Taziar’s arm, offering his other hand to Silme. “Let’s go home.”
* * *
According to Norse Mythology, the end of their religious pantheon would come in the form of a great war, the Ragnarok. The gods’ enemies would gain access to Asgard via a rainbow bridge called the Bifrost. One god, Heimdallr, was charged with preventing the giants and Hel’s hordes from crossing the Bifrost Bridge. Therefore, Heimdallr’s responsibility was to guard the Bifrost in order to prevent Ragnarok and assure that the Norse gods survived and reigned for eternity.
Any organization dedicated to recreating the Old Norse age and beliefs, perhaps a subgroup of the Society for Creative Anachronism, could thus be said to have taken over Heimdallr’s job as “Guardian of the Bifrost.”
—Astryd Larson, newsletter August 1991
* * *
TK scanned and proofed. Sept 2012 (v1.0) (html).
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1 - Chaos Madness
Chapter 2 - Chaos Dreams
Chapter 3 - Chaos War
Chapter 4 - Chaos Link
Chapter 5 - Chaos Destruction
Chapter 6 - Chaos’ Massacre
Chapter 7 - Chaos of Thought and Passion
Chapter 8 - Chaos-Controlled
Chapter 9 - Chaos Transport
Chapter 10 - Chaos Coupled
Chapter 11 - Chaos at the Tower
Chapter 12 - Chaos Hunted
Chapter 13 - Chaos Justice
Chapter 14 - Chaos Stand
Epilogue
Unnamed
Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed Page 31