The Chart of Tomorrows

by Chris Willrich

  “Why do you smash things?”

  “Sometimes I get really, really mad. I mean really mad. Some people . . . well, instead of smashing them, I go up in the hills. There I find rocks that resemble faces. This one looks like Bjorn Janson.” She paused, took a breath, and savagely kicked the mannequin. Stone head, rubble body, wooden arms, all fell in a heap.

  “Ow,” said Inga.

  “Why . . . why do you smash things?”

  “Why do you ask the same thing over and over?”

  With others I was not able to frame answers, but somehow I found it easier to talk to Inga. “Why do you whistle the same tune over and over? I like how the words sound.”

  “But why does it have to be a question? Why not a rhyme, a kenning, a salme?”

  “I like questions. Sometimes I forget the answers, too.”

  “Well, I don’t like questions. I like to smash things.”

  “Why do you smash things?”

  “Argh!” Snap went another mannequin’s arm. Inga looked at the stick, chagrined. “Don’t you ever want to smash things?”

  “No, not really. Things change so much already. I don’t want to break them. Or hurt anyone.”

  “I don’t really want to hurt anyone, Malin. I just get mad. And even when I’m not mad, my body needs to fight. I don’t know why.”

  “Do you feel mad now?”

  “No. I feel okay. Ordinary.” I couldn’t tell. She looked the same to me now as when she’d punched the tree. She asked, “You sure you don’t want to fight one of these guys? I’d let you.”

  “I don’t really want to. I like looking at them, though. May I do that?”

  “Sure. I’m going to fight for a while, okay?”

  So I looked at Inga’s opponents, while she demolished a few. Sometimes I watched what she was doing, sometimes I watched clouds, mostly I looked at the stony faces. Inga did have a knack for picking stones that looked like they had eye holes, nose, mouth, ears.

  “Whew!” she said after she’d crushed a third foe. “Want anything to drink?”

  “Yes.”

  It was about fika-time, when people often stop what they’re doing to have a bite. Inga’s mother and mine were talking, endless grown-woman talk about names, births, deaths, arguments, reconciliations, food. Mentor Peer had retreated to a corner of the cottage that held many books. That corner tugged at me, as though the great Godbok there had thrown a lasso around me. When we’d had milk, I could not help approaching.

  “Hello, Malin,” said Mentor Peer, looking up.

  I nodded, my eyes moving from him to book after book.

  “May I help you?”

  I shook my head and kept looking at the books.

  “I am preparing tomorrow’s homily,” Mentor Peer said.

  I nodded, continuing my appraisal of his library.

  Mentor Peer cleared his throat. “Inga? I am taking my coffee and notes outside. The air is nice. Perhaps you can show Malin the library.”

  Inga’s family had many, many books. There were mostly Swan-church books of course, theology, hagiography, homilies, salmeboks, and of course the big Godbok, with its family trees written down at the front. These mostly weren’t much fun for us except some of the more bloodcurdling hagiographies.

  “And then,” Inga read with relish, “Saint Fiametta’s pagan betrothed, furious with her for distributing her rich dowry to the poor, had her denounced as a Swanling. When she refused to recant, they tried to burn her alive!”

  “That’s horrible,” I said. “Then what?”

  “The flames loved her so much, they wouldn’t burn her!”

  “Is that is why a girl wears candles on her head on Saint Fiametta’s night?”

  “Yah. So they gouged her eyes out and chopped her to pieces!”

  “Yuck!” I said.

  “Gross!” Inga agreed.

  “It’s a good thing,” I said, “they only make the girl wear candles.”

  “Sure.” Inga sighed. “Shame they’d never let me be Saint Fiametta. I’d be great. I wouldn’t even wear a crown. I’d tie candles onto my hair like some berserker.”

  I laughed. I actually loved Saint Fiametta’s night, though I doubted I’d ever get to play the part either. The very idea evoked giddiness and fear. But I marveled at the candlelit church in the hushed heart of a snowy night, the candlelit girl in its midst. Often, though, I wouldn’t look at the girl but straight up at the shadows shifting on the little wooden church’s ceiling. I told Inga, “You would make a very warlike saint.”

  “That’s true. The stories I really like are about battle.” She hunted through a dustier shelf of Mentor Peer’s library. “Here’s one from Oxiland that talks about the end of the world.”

  “When the Swan returns?”

  “Nah, this is wicked heathen stuff. The best. Fimbulwinter. Ragnarok. Look.” She opened a lamb-leather vellum codex with handwritten words in a florid hand. The words were in the Oxiland dialect, fascinating in their kinship to our Ostoland speech, and I couldn’t completely follow them. Beside it was a blocky illustration of two dragons with castles and mountains on their backs, fighting. Inga said, “Listen. ‘The sleeping dragons that are Spydbanen and Svardmark shall at last shatter their ancient chain and battle each other anew for the treasures of the dragon-corpse that is Oxiland. Whichever dragon wins and gorges upon the organ-jewels of Oxiland will be master of the Earthe. In that final battle the Vindheim gods will return and battle on the side of Svardmark, as will the virtuous warriors of humankind. But on the side of Spydbanen will be evil men and troll-kind, whose powers will swell so that they will be again as they were of old—frost giants vast as hills. Some uldra will be aloof, as ever, but some will take sides.’”

  “So much destruction,” I said.

  “Yes! The two sides will be nearly evenly matched. In the end, goes the prophecy of the Winterjarl, all will be up to the Runethane. ‘As in the days when Runethane Thorlak defeated the fire giants of Oxiland, or Runethane Arnwulf fought the Twin Dragons of Madrattle, or Runethane Umar fought the Draug Fleet, or Runethane Valdar wrestled the sea serpent in the Meadow of Whales, so now a Runethane unknown will again decide matters. But it is not known if he will side with the good or the evil, and it may be that he will bring about the end of all things. But even if he does not, the convulsions of the battle will slay both dragons, and smoke will rise and blot out the sun, and a great cold will come upon the world, a Fimbulwinter that will threaten all life in the world, not just in Kantenjord. And there will be only a handful of people left to populate the new world. In this way the Runemarked King will bring The End, or only by the thinnest margin prevent it.’”

  That’s one of two reasons this story is called “The End.”

  Over the next weeks I visited Inga many times, was her second in many mock battles, discussed many stories, and borrowed many books. It was a kind of Vindheim for me, as if instead of Choosers of the Slain, there were Choosers of Readers, and I had been taken out of my old life and brought to a golden library where there were things to read and discuss every day.

  Eventually, however, we ran out of books. Our families were blessed with the biggest libraries in Kattsroven, but that did not amount to more than thirty books, and we’d long since exhausted our favorites.

  One day I was so absorbed by rereading a translated book from the Eldshore, The Sisters Darke Collected Eerie Folk Tales, that I refused to play with Inga even when she came to visit. I had one of my bad moments, when the grip of the thing that fixated me was so strong, it was agony to be pulled away. I fought Inga, forgetting how powerful she was.

  She raised her fist, even as Mother and Father were screaming for us to stop.

  And Inga stopped, as if I’d suddenly punched her, the way she once punched the tree. There were trickles of water coming from her eyes. I heard Mother say, “Inga, she has trouble knowing what people are feeling. She is still learning.” I didn’t hear what else they said. I was not allowed to keep the
book. I threw many things.

  Inga didn’t visit for a week.

  When she did return, she carried not a book but a huge bag.

  “What is in the bag?” I asked.

  “Heads.”

  “Oh.”

  “Not real heads, silly. Come outside.”

  I followed her outside, and she began removing big rocks and setting them down around her haphazardly.

  “Here, Malin. Look at these boulders. I gathered them from up in the mountains. I picked them because they all look kind of like heads. Now this one, I call Happy. And this one, I call Sad. And this one, he’s Berserk.”

  “Why do you call them those names?”

  “To me, they look kind of like those feelings.”

  “I like Berserk.”

  “Me too. See how big his eyes are, here and here? And his mouth, here, it’s kind of like he’s grinning, but really not. He’s furious. Crazy mad. If you see someone like that you’d better be ready to fight or run.”

  “I’d rather run.”

  “Well, we are all different. Now, meet the other guys. Here’s Mad. She’s Berserk’s little sister. Here’s Tired, he shows up toward the end of the day, usually. And Calm, though she and I don’t hang out together much. And this is Eager. He’s kind of a little boy, I think, because I couldn’t find a big rock for him. And this is Swan Only Knows, because sometimes I can’t read people either.”

  I saw what she was doing. “I see what you’re doing. Mother draws faces for me.”

  “Right. She told me. But I saw how much you liked my rocks.”

  I linked up her rocks with Calm on one side and Berserk on the other. (I leave the ordering of the rest as an exercise for the audience.) “Do you want to read about Ragnarok?”

  “Actually, I have a suggestion,” Inga said. “Since we are out of new books, and we’re just village kids who can’t buy more, there’s only one solution.”

  I thought about it. “Steal books?”

  “No!”

  “Completely forget the books and start over?”

  “No. We’re going to make more.”

  “What do we put in them?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we can make something up.”

  “Let’s think about it,” I said.

  Trouble was, we couldn’t come up with anything. Then Inga said, “I’ve got it! We’ll be like the Sisters Darke. We go find people, especially old people, especially from small villages, and we ask them for their best stories.”

  That sounded a bit scary, and I said as much. But it also sounded like it might work, and I said that too.

  “I’ll do the asking,” Inga said, “if you’ll do the writing. You have the best handwriting in fifty miles, my father says. Please, Malin.” In a more quiet voice she said, “I’m hoping I’ll find out just who and what I really am, if we go asking the right questions.”

  I thought about that for a long time, before I said, “Okay.”

  And that’s just what we did. Every chance we could for the next few years, we traveled our island of Ostoland, chasing down tales. We met with enough success, we wanted to head over to Svardmark to get more.

  Our parents were torn, to be sure. On the one hand, we proposed wandering far from home for another year! Of course that worried them. On the other hand, both families had been worried about our futures, and our initial pamphlet had actually generated a little coin. Worse things could have happened than our becoming folklorists! As for our safety, well, Inga at sixteen was a match for most foes.

  We received permission, grudgingly, to spend a year collecting tales, so long as we were wary of strange men and did not stray from the great roads.

  I was indeed wary of strange men. Inga was sometimes a different story.

  We also strayed from the great roads, but that too is another story. I will tell it all someday, because I’ve written it down in notes.

  You see, I remember letters and written words in a way I don’t remember spoken words. I wrote this story out so I could tell it well. When Inga and I gather tales, she’s the one who gets the villagers to talk, and I’m the one who writes it all down. She can remember the stories in her head—but they change for her each time she tells them. When I write something down I remember it almost exactly. When we’ve gotten enough examples of the same story we talk over a combined version. Then I write it down, and I give it a number. “Katie Woodencloak” is Nineteen. “The Master Thief” is Thirty-Four. “The Charcoal Burner” is Eighty-Two.

  The numbers, which are also the stories, add up. So far they add up to One Hundred and Eleven. They are always with me. They are my friends. Even the sad ones.

  But this story, the one I’m telling you now, doesn’t have a number. After all the stories are collected for the book, this one will go at the end. And if the book ever changes, with new stories added, this story will still move to the end.

  That’s the other reason this story is called “The End.”

  When Malin had finished, the blue bonfires outside had dimmed and turned an almost sunlike yellow.

  “It’s late,” Inga said. “Or early, really. Troll sleep time is our daytime, but you’ll have to adjust. I’ll tell you that other story sometime. You’d better get your rest, because we’re heading into the deep tunnels tomorrow.”

  “Deep tunnels?”

  “We’re walking from here, Brokewing Island, to Spydbanen,” Malin said, “underwater.”

  The journey from Brokewing Island to Spydbanen took a full day, or so A-Girl-Is-A-Joy was assured. It was hard to estimate how far they traveled. The trolls made them walk for a time but eventually grew impatient with Joy and Malin’s exhaustion, and carried them through the dark. (Inga seemed tireless.) The ancient uldra passage had long since lost whatever illumination its makers had given it, except in a few places where dim crystals revealed intricate bas-reliefs telling of krakens and whales and castles made of shells, in such fascinating detail that Joy wondered if the uldra had somehow perceived these features through the rock and were thus sculpting from life.

  Yet for most of the journey, the only illumination came from troll-eyes. At times the silence was cut by unnerving sounds—weird keening cries echoing through layers of stone, rumbles of distant realignments of the seafloor and, once, terrifyingly, the trickle of leaking water.

  “Fear not,” said Wormeye, laughing at the human, the changeling, and the supposed changeling. “Lower-ranked trolls are prepared to plug up any leaks with their thumbs and then leave the thumbs behind. Isn’t that right, Claymore?”

  “Shut up, dread lord,” came Claymore’s voice. “I only just regrew this arm.”

  “Just in time, sounds like,” Wormeye said with a chuckle.

  “Even if the tunnel fills up with water,” Rubblewrack said, “it will only slow us down, for we need breathe no air. If these two are really changelings, they may be able to survive. The third of course . . . well, let her try her tricks on the ocean.”

  Joy did not let herself be goaded. Whatever the truth of the leaking sound, they left it behind, and it bothered them no more. An hour later, however, came a thunderous noise as a section of tunnel behind them collapsed.

  Please don’t have been following us, Mother, Joy thought.

  At last they emerged onto the surface in the crimson interval just after sunset. A cold wind blew across a region of broken hills, looking as if it might have been painted by an artist who regarded horizontal surfaces as unworthy subjects. Joy, Inga, and Malin helped each other avoid sliding their way down the rubbly ground into icy streambeds. The sea, such a looming invisible presence when they’d traversed the tunnel, was remote. Overhead reared mountains that made Joy’s beloved Peculiar Peaks seem like gentle havens. Gray-black stone seemed to bleed as its snowcaps reflected the setting sun. The trolls had no difficulty in this terrain, and they whooped with delight to see the great mountains that were their kind’s stronghold.

  During a particularly chilling peal of laughter, Joy wh
ispered to her companions, “Are you certain you don’t want to try to run?”

  “Can we outrun them?” Inga said.

  “I see what you mean,” Joy said, looking doubtfully at the broken gray terrain, pocked with prickly little trees. “But soon we may want to escape even more trolls, from inside a mountain. . . .”

  “Sphere,” said Malin.

  “What?” said Joy and Inga.

  “There is a sphere,” Malin said, “in the sky. Coming this way. No, not exactly a sphere. Very close in shape, however. Do you have any idea what it is?”

  “An Orb Dragon?” Inga said doubtfully.

  Joy’s eyes widened. “I know exactly what that is. Friends Peersdatter and Jorgensdatter, I am about to give you a new adventure story.”

  CHAPTER 15

  A JOURNEY TO KANTENJORD, CONTINUED

  (as penned by Katta, called the Mad)

  While I hesitate to append anything to the fine calligraphy of my companion Haytham ibn Zakwan, his current preoccupation compels me to act in his stead. Indeed, I feel a duty to write for him, as he made it possible for me to write with any clarity at all.

  Among Haytham’s inventions is a thing he calls, I think, a lail-qalam or, more in the manner of northwesterly scholars, a noctograph. It is a box with a constrained writing window, within which are held two sheets of paper, one of the ordinary sort, the other suffused with a special ink concoction. By writing in the window with a stylus, the special paper transfers its ink neatly to the ordinary one. Haytham claims he invented the thing to enable journal entries on night journeys. I mostly believe him; it would be unlike him to invent anything solely for a friend. However, it is quite useful to me, as it allows me to make more legible notes than ever before. With its help I commence the longest account I’ve ever written.

  In the literature of the Plateau of Geam, where I long studied, such a work would have three aspects: the “outer version,” concerned with external action; the “inner version,” describing the author’s meditative state and other spiritual pursuits; and the “secret version,” wherein the author confides one’s deepest visions and miraculous experiences. Given that this account will likely never reach Geam, and may not even escape this balloon, I shall forgo the inner and secret versions, though I will comment on my mental state, and certain events may strike the reader as miraculous.