by Angel Lawson
“The comics and the movies are based on the Old Norse poetic sagas,” I say. Faye nods.
“What Fourth Edda?” Julian steers us back on topic. “I’ve never heard of that—”
“Shhh! It’s not very well known. Now listen: ‘The All-Father had a fierce battle with his son Yvengvr, who, desiring a portion of his father’s power, seduced the witch Mimir, a paramour of Odin’s, in order to bargain for a higher throne in the Aesir.’”
“What’s the ayzeer?” Ethan asks. He looks rough, his eyes dark and tired over the soda can he sips from.
“The Norse pantheon,” whispers Faye to him, “in Asgard. Kind of like Olympus. Where the gods all live.”
“‘Enraged, Odin shamed his son,” I continue, “stripping him of his powers but leaving him immortal, forced to walk among mortals for eternity, denied a warrior’s glorious death. Now wary of others who sought to rebel, the god Odin disguised his powers—Thought, Memory, Magic, Wisdom and War—as scavenging birds, and sent them through the portals of the earth, to spy on the doings of men, for he only had one eye, and could not see all things at once.
“The birds travelled far and wide, and returned at night to Odin’s shoulders, tattling what they had seen— ’”
“Okay, we’ve seen things similar to that,” Julian says, and I catch his eye and nod.
“Yeah, the ravens. But listen, Jules, this is new: ‘But of clever Yvengvr they saw nothing, for he hid underground at the witch’s well, waiting to capture his father’s powers and regain his rightful place in Asgard.
‘Huginn was the first to be caught, for Muninn was dearer to Odin, and he kept his memory closer than his thoughts, but they were a pair, and were never parted long. Wisdom was sent to find them, and was fast captured. War and Magic were soon ensnared as well, for Odin sent them in haste to look for their winged brethren, following behind on a storm of eight-legged steeds.’”
“That reminds me of something I translated,” Faye murmurs.
My brother lunges for the book again. “That goes against everything I’ve ever read before. Does the author credit his sources? Or the translator?”
“Shhh.” I glance up. Ethan’s face is carved of stone, mouth harder than the rest of him. He ignores me. I swallow and continue. “‘When Odin reached the edge of the portal where the earth met the well of knowledge, he found himself face to face with his banished son, all his crows captured, cawing their distress from a wicker cage.
“Yvengvr then entreated Mimir to use her powers to release the ravens from Odin’s command and bind their powers to him, but the birds fought in their cage, and it toppled to the ground, freeing them into the underground cavern. Instead of helping to catch the birds, the witch betrayed Yvengvr, forcing them into the shape of mortal men as they escaped, scattering into the forests, never to be seen again.’” I turn the brittle page.
“Then what?” Ethan asks.
“‘Yvengvr bound the witch to him, to shield himself from his father’s wrath, and powerless, half-blind Odin fled to Asgard, without his crows, while his son still waits on Earth, plotting his righteous return.’”
I close the book and sit down.
“Where did you get that?” Julian asks. This time I let him have the book.
“Professor Anders gave it to me. The author is Johann Vangarde. A professor of ancient mythology here, at the school.”
“Okay, wait.” Ethan’s eyes are focused somewhere to the left of my face, refusing to make contact. This is fine by me. My head still hurts from his demon kiss. “So what you are saying is that Odin and his son fought some kind of battle and the dad turned his power into crows?”
I nod. “Right—to keep them safe, in case his son attempted to overthrow him again.”
“And his son is powerless, too, left wandering around the Earth forever.” He rubs his temples with his fists. “So what does this have to do with our project?”
Faye draws a spiral on the tabletop that ends in stick letters. “The symbolism is similar, isn’t it?” she says, glancing at both boys. “To our Native American folktales. The birds using a sacred place as a crossing point between worlds?”
“I really don’t want to use anything that can’t be backed by more sources than a comic book,” Julian argues. “For all we know this guy made it up. What else is in there?”
“I haven’t gotten much further,” I tell him and then nod to Faye. “I thought maybe we could use this Norse story and then some local myths about the well to show the parallels in the crow theme.”
“Is there anything more about the son? I’ve never heard of him.” Julian flips through the book, eyes scanning down the page at his lightning speed.
“Odin had quite a few. He got around a bit. A lot like Zeus,” Faye says.
“The rest of the chapter seems to be divided into folk tales about each crow once it escaped.” I swipe the book back from my brother, and push it toward Ethan and Faye. “There are some drawings in here, too.”
Faye takes the book, taps an illustration of a line of jagged letters carved into a stone, and follows the line with her finger. “‘Somebody,’—it’s broken off there, I can’t read the name— ‘Tyrsdotter raised this stone in memory of Kenaz’—that means the wise one—‘her father’s sister, who died without children to honor her.’”
“You can read that?” Ethan asks.
She nods. “My dad worked a lot of Viking ship burials. Stones like this are everywhere in Scandinavia. This is a very primitive futhark, but the wording is standard, easy to recognize.”
“Footh—?”
“Futhark. Alphabet.”
“So that’s a gravestone?”
“Yes. The daughter of the Warrior erected this stone for her father’s sister, the Wisewoman, who died without children of her own. Kind of odd that they use titles like this, not actual names.” Faye turns to me. “Is the author postulating that this stone was erected to the original human that escaped her crow form? I’ve never seen this particular stone before. Is this a work of fiction?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. What do you guys think?” I ask. “Is this a viable direction for the project?”
Julian looks up from his laptop. “The author seems legitimate. He was on faculty here from 1880-1910. His information is limited but he’s well referenced by others in the same field. And if Dr. Anders gave you his book to use, I guess it’s reputable.”
“Plus, it sounds pretty cool,” Ethan says, flipping through the book. He stops at an etching of a bare breasted tribal witch holding a raven on her arm. His eyes widen, and he blinks twice at the drawing.
“Pervert.” I snatch the book from his fingers. “Jules and I will read up on these extra chapters. I’ll make notes and bring them in tomorrow. The sections aren’t long.”
“I’ll dig up anything that seems similar to this in the more established Norse myths,” Faye says. “It reminds me of one, in particular.”
“So we really want to use this?” my brother asks.
“Why not?” I ask. “We use this ancient myth as a basis for comparison to local folktales? It can be a statement of our project thesis.”
The heads around the table nod in agreement.
*
“Did you put that there?” I ask Faye as we enter our room after dinner.
“Did I put what where?”
I point to Sonja’s untouched bed. “That package.” Propped against the headboard is a lumpy yellow envelope.
“Yes, it was here this morning, when I came back after class.” She hands it to me. “Someone must have slid it under the door.”
“There’s no return address. I wonder what we should do with it.”
“Didn’t you tell me she lives really close by?” Faye asks.
I nod. “Her house is just off campus. Last year she’d walk home to have Sunday dinner with her mother. Only girl allowed past security.”
“Do you think any of her roommates from last summer would know where it is?” Faye asks. �
�Danielle was in her group, wasn’t she?”
“They weren’t as good friends as she’d have you believe,” I say, snarky.
“We could look it up—” Faye eyes my laptop, screen saver flickering with a silhouette of a flying raven.
“Ha! JFGI! Some kind of Exceptionals we are!” I giggle and tap at the keys.
“JFGI?”
“Just Fucking Google It.”
Faye chuckles, the sound muffled by yet another sweater pulled over her head. I pound the laptop for fifteen seconds.
“There’s an M. Williams on 680 Briar Hollow Road. It’s like, half a block away from the gate by the president’s house. I wonder—” I rummage through my desk drawer, find the map they gave us at orientation. Faye peers over my shoulder. “It’s right off the north drive.”
She leans out the window. “I bet if we lived on the third floor we could see it from here.”
“I really want to know why she decided not to come this year. I hope she’s not sick.”
“I’d love to meet her. Everyone says the most wonderful things about her.” Faye takes the little pamphlet, looks at the computer screen. The package has a little weight to it, and something inside rattles. I look up, to see my roommate staring back, eyes wide.
“Put your boots on, Faye. We’re going for a walk.”
*
We pass Julian and Ethan on the way through the quad. The taller of the two has his camera out, snapping a shot of something in the trees while my brother stands by, fidgeting. Ethan’s got a little smirk on his face, and I wonder how many times Jules has made him wait while he finishes ‘one more page’.
“Where are you two going?” my twin asks, hands on his hips.
“On a walk,” I reply, tone casual. I don’t look at Faye, but I do see her shift the package behind her back. The girl is cleverer than her wardrobe implies.
I hear a snort and look over my shoulder. Ethan, from behind the lens, says, “A walk. In those shoes. Come up with something better, Cherry.”
It’s the first time he’s spoken to me outside of a classroom since our epic shock of a kiss. I’m relieved I’d grabbed my sunglasses as we left and don’t have to look him in the eye.
During our study sessions I have the project to focus on, but out here there is nothing between us but my skinny brother and my fairy-sprite-in-mothballs roommate, and neither of them can compete with the evil energy that runs between Ethan and me like the river Styx.
“Shouldn’t you be off lurking somewhere with your girlfriend?” I ask, with a sweet smile that isn’t.
“I’d think you were on the prowl for Joe College, too, dressed like that, except you have Faye with you.” He gives her a warm smile, something I’ve never been graced with. “So where are you going, on your ‘walk’?”
I stare at the two boys. “Come on, Faye.”
“Mems?” Julian’s tone is parental.
“We’re just going for a walk. And talking. About girl stuff. Like boys. And how rude, nosey ones are jerks.” I grab my roommate by her sweater and walk away.
Once we’re out of earshot she says, “I can see why Julian worries about you. We’re about to break the number one rule Zoe gave us.”
“We’re just going to ask if the guard has seen her. And it’s hardly off campus,” I scoff. “It’s six houses down the lane. For all we know it may actually be on the school property. That’s the rumor anyway.”
“What are we going to do when we get there? Just give her mom the package?”
“Yeah, and find out why she decided not to come this year.”
“Maybe there was a family emergency?” Faye asks. “Or maybe she already got sent home pregnant from her own handsome college boy. They could be eloping to Vegas!”
“Ugh!” I feign a shiver. “Don’t say things like that!”
“What, you don’t want to get married?”
“I haven’t met a boy I’ve wanted to be with more than a month, much less the rest of my life.” I sigh. “Eidetic memory has its drawbacks.” I glance behind us. We cross a small side street that splits the campus and walk down the thinner stone path to the older section of campus. On the way we pass the chapel. “Is this where you and Ethan took all the pictures?”
She nods. “See the front door? I looked it up. Unlike the Shakers, who separated men and women during services, the Moravians encouraged a family environment.”
“Maybe the Shakers were smarter than we thought. Nothing causes more trouble than the opposite sex.”
“What do you mean?” Faye asks. “Personally, I enjoy associating with boys. They’re often good at conversation, not to mention quite pleasant to look at. Julian has lovely eyes. They’re a lot like yours, but in the sun, the brown turns rust, like the color of dark beer. And when he talks about books sometimes it’s hard to pay attention, because his eyes light up and get so pretty.”
“Julian. My brother?”
“Don’t tell him I said that. He takes his books very seriously.” She looks up at me, face scrunched, until I shake my head in promise.
“His hands are nice, too. Slim, but large. Long fingers. I imagine he is quite skilled in various tasks with them.” She turns to me again, for confirmation.
“Um... sure. Like, he plays the guitar if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I guessed. I saw the calluses on his fingers. Is he any good?”
“Not really.” I feel guilty when her face falls. “He writes some neat lyrics, though.”
We continue down the path, beyond the tiny church tucked into the trees. I glance at the historical sign, without reading it; I’ll save it for later.
“Ethan and I discussed breaking into the basement of the chapel to see if we can find evidence of the well.” Faye points to some stairs leading down to a recessed doorway. “He seemed hesitant. Maybe you can convince him.”
“I doubt I can convince him of much right now.” I glance down at my roommate. The part in her hair is crooked, like she’s got one of her runes etched on the top of her head. I scan back, searching for my last glance in my little purse, but there’s no comb. We walk in the shade. No one pays any attention to us. “Have you ever kissed a boy?” I ask, despite my determination to stop thinking about it.
“Several. Why?”
“Have you ever had a bad kiss?”
“My first was a friend of our family. He was Egyptian and very skilled, although not as pleasurable as Mario. He was Italian. But this spring our neighbor John Chin invited me to a dance at his school. He attempted to kiss me on my front stoop. Very 1950’s. Sadly, it was like kissing a dead fish. One with tentacles.” She shivers in her sweater. “Needless to say that was our last interaction other than my father paying him to mow our lawn.”
“Ugh, I’ve had that one too, where it’s just bland and …wet. But no, I’m talking about a bad one. Like the kind that melts your brain.”
She smiles. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“It was bad, trust me.” The sound and the spark of light loop in my memory on repeat, and my lips sting in sympathy. “Do you think it means something?”
“I have no idea. I guess it means you shouldn’t kiss that person again.” She points up at the campus gate. “Look!”
The guard in the shack has his feet up on his desk and a newspaper over his face. The snores reach us from thirty yards away. I roll on my toes, to keep my shoes from slapping the sidewalk as we slide by. Faye finally exhales as we round a bend, out of view of the gatehouse. We pick up speed, as much as my shoes allow. My roommate looks up at me from the corner of her eye. “Was Jeremy your bad kiss?”
“No. Jeremy is fine. Really good. Okay, maybe a little too passive. But this happened with, with someone else. Not him. Before. Well, not really.” I feel like I’m trying to lie to my parents. “I was just wondering.”
“So how was it bad?” She is still giving me the side-eye, and I know she can see straight through me.
“It was like a chemical reaction
or something. I saw a bright flash of light and heard this popping sound. You know those old-timey cameras with flash bulbs? Like a crackling in my ears.”
“That’s strange. Did he feel the same thing?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
She stops, looking down at the envelope. “Is this the house?”
We stand in front of a small bungalow, behind a picket fence, nestled deep in overgrown bushes. The paint is a drab green, faded and peeling with age, but droopy potted plants line the porch, making the house seem comical and sad, like a neglected puppy.
“It’s the right number on the mailbox,” I say. Two newspapers lie in the driveway.
“There’s a man watching us.” She’s staring over my left shoulder. A big man with longish hair, graying at the temples with a matching beard, strolls along the opposite sidewalk, the way we’ve come. He wears a blue Carolina Panthers t-shirt, and an old faded baseball hat shades half his face. He’s eating an apple. “Do you think he’s like the neighborhood watch, or something?” she whispers, hopping from one foot to the other. “He looks important. Like he’s the neighborhood mafia Don. Or maybe an undercover policeman?”
“I don’t think he’s going to have us whacked or bust us for trespassing while he’s carrying a bag of groceries.” I wave to him. He nods, a quick lowering of the hat brim. “We’re looking for Sonja William’s house,” I call.
He gestures to the house in front of us with the half eaten apple, nods again, and keeps walking.
Faye breathes an exaggerated sigh. “Should we just walk up?”
“Why not?” I say. “Sonja and I were friends. We emailed and texted some. I think it’s reasonable for me to find out what happened to her this summer. See if she got a better deal somewhere, modeling in France or something fantastic. And if something bad happened, like a death in the family, we should offer condolences, or something, right?” I push the gate open and let Faye pass me. “Besides, we need to give her her mail.”
Together, we walk toward the house.
11.
Excursion
“Where are you going?” Julian asks as I turn to follow the girls. They disappear behind the stone wall surrounding the quad.