Anyway. At the edge of the cliff I was having one of those moments of disconnect one has when witnessing something one had only ever seen previously as a special effect: that quality of unreality in the midst of everything nearby and provably real.
The last time I recalled experiencing this sensation was at the base of a live volcano during an eruption—when I had no cinema to compare it to. Then I remembered the volcano from my dream and wondered if I’d experienced a prophetic event.
“ADAM!”
I turned at the sound of my name, which broke the spell. Mirella had put on clothing, and was slipping on a pair of track shoes.
“Get what you can, quickly!” she said.
“Right. Impending death, right.”
I ran back into the house. I was wearing shorts and a basic T-shirt and nothing else, and so I went to the dresser where I kept a more comprehensive set of clothing, at which point I froze because I had no idea what I was going to need.
I’m not enormously attached to a lot of material goods. I’ve been known to hang onto one or two uniquely irreplaceable objects—I once carried a sword made of Damascus steel around for four centuries—but I had nothing like that with me on the island. Off-island, I had caches of things I expected to want again someday, in places where they would last for a while without being disturbed, but again, none of that was on the island or in the bedroom.
So since I had no laptop containing a vital manuscript, or a locker holding a rare illuminated Bible, or a one-of-a-kind codex, or any of the other things someone in this circumstance might retrieve, I got hung up on what I might want to have in the near future.
Unfortunately, I didn’t own any scuba gear, or a surfboard.
“Too late, must go,” Mirella said, as she ran straight past the elevated bedroom platform and toward the front of the house.
I looked back. It appeared the ocean was now coming over the back deck and through our open floor plan. Any questions I might have had about the force of the wave were answered by witnessing it demolish the table on the deck, and rock the kitchen island. Crashing waves combined with groaning wood and stone and glass, and a new reminder that everything in this world is temporary.
I was right behind Mirella after that. I was also empty-handed, as I never bothered to retrieve anything from the bedroom or any other part of the house.
We didn’t stop to open the front door, which seemed like an even sillier contrivance in this context. Instead, we jumped out of the building over the short wall that stood on the side of the door, just as the water was going to be doing in a moment or two, since it sounded like it was directly behind us. It would have been nice if the ocean respected the door and the fake walls a tiny bit more, but that was nature for you.
I landed beside Mirella, who’d hesitated long enough to ensure I was with her. This was possibly a fatal error on her part, as I think she would have escaped what happened next otherwise.
Just as I turned to discuss a plan involving reaching the nearest tree and climbing above the oncoming water, our legs were cut out from beneath us and down we went.
What happened, I realized later, was that while the water going through the house was slowed by the furniture and various platforms and half-walls, there were no such obstacles beneath the house other than the occasional support beam.
It was knee-high and moving fast. We were both submerged almost before recognizing what was happening. I had enough time to get a gulp of air and grab Mirella by the hand, but that was all.
The current carried us from the house and straight for the hillside. I held onto the air, but not to Mirella. The force of the water tore us apart, and I didn’t have time to evaluate the consequences because I was too busy worrying about the fact that I was being propelled toward rocks at an unreasonable rate of speed.
There were trees, too, though. A tree trunk was just about as forgiving as a rock when it came to hitting one at ramming speed, but they were easier to grab, and offered some vertical promise. I was able to maneuver myself—or perhaps I was just lucky enough to already be heading that way—toward a particularly sturdy tree with an equally sturdy low bough.
I caught it with my left elbow, grabbed my left wrist with my right hand, and held tight against the sensation that I was dislocating my shoulder while riding out the force of the wave.
I’m not an exceptional swimmer, but I can hold my breath for a very long time. This comes from having been born into a world where long-distance running was how we obtained meat. They’re good lungs, I’m saying. I can’t explain why they’re still as good as they were sixty-thousand-odd years ago, but I can’t explain why I’m still alive either. I imagine the explanation for both is the same, whatever it might be.
Still, I was underwater for just long enough to worry that I might actually drown. But gradually, the pressure subsided enough to enable me to move from the tree limb to the trunk. From there I shimmied in what I hoped was the right way, until the combination of my moving upward and the water level moving downward worked together to get my head to some air. I took a deep breath, and kept climbing. Soon, I was completely out of the ocean, and the water was falling away from the hillside.
I’d been carried downhill a lot further than I realized. It took a minute to even locate the roof of the house. I had to climb more than halfway to the top to see it, which wasn’t at all fun because my left shoulder, while not dislocated, was extremely displeased with me, and no longer felt all that interested in behaving like a weight-bearing joint.
It was a miracle I hadn’t been crushed en route to the tree. It looked like I was swept along the road quite a distance, before the road turned and the water didn’t.
Only then did I start worrying about Mirella. I couldn’t see her anywhere. I kind of thought of her as bulletproof, but she needed to breathe just as much as I did, and was no less capable of being crushed against a rock face, rammed into a tree, or dropped over the side of the hill. No amount of skill would have helped her if she couldn’t control her direction or if she wasn’t conscious when the time came to act defensively.
A tsunami wasn’t going to care how good she was with a sword.
I shouted her name five or six times, but got only silence in return. I told myself that didn’t mean anything except that she wasn’t in earshot.
The silence was, in itself, unnerving, because not only was Mirella not responding, nothing else was making noise either. Ordinarily, the jungle was alive with some kind of sound.
I climbed a little higher.
From the top of the tree, I was able to see the whole lower island, or rather where it used to be located.
I could see the roof of the hotel, because it was the tallest and widest thing down there, but that was about all. The rest was ocean water in every direction. The roadway grid, the municipal buildings, the bungalows along the beach… all of it was just gone.
Then I heard a noise. Up the hill some ways—no telling how far—was a low trill. It was met by a second, from closer, and a third from further away.
It was the call of the banshees. They’d come to collect the dead.
Part II
There and Back Again
7
The events surrounding the first time I heard a banshee cry were frankly a good deal more interesting than the sound itself, because when I heard it I was on my way to an entirely different monster.
This was something I ended up doing from time-to-time, especially in situations where people around me had some idea of who I was and what I knew. For a lot of early human history, reality and mythology were pretty fluid concepts, so my being an immortal man was something a lot of people were cool with, and didn’t consider it all that big a deal.
A bigger deal was my vast experience, specifically when it came to important knowledge such as how to kill various large things.
At the time, I was eking out a living on a small spit of land near the rocky shore of the North Sea. I’d put this somewhere around 500 year
s after my time as a fisherman on Lake Genneseret. Not that I was counting the years; I’m piecing it together after the fact.
This was pretty far north for me. I had a personal preference for more temperate climes, which is what happens when you experience an ice age first-hand: you learn to really appreciate equatorial weather. But it wasn’t too far north, just around what’s now Sweden and Denmark. (I don’t know which one of them I was in. They’re next to each other and we didn’t have maps.) If I wanted to wear dead animal fur year-round and spend a lifetime rowing small boats or sailing larger ones I could have gone further north still, but I have only so much patience for snow, less for cold-weather-appropriate apparel, and almost none for ocean-going vessels.
But, gadding about the fertile crescent for thousands of years can get astoundingly dull over time. Heading to what would later be the top end of Europe was an attempt to find a little adventure, or at minimum something new.
Adventures I had, but most of those adventures involved mead and taverns, and having my well-being threatened by men who smelled terrible. Once I grew tired of it, I went back to one of the things I did well.
* * *
I belonged to a small community of farmers and fishers. By small, I mean there were only maybe ten families all told, and we only considered ourselves a community because we traded food. We had no governing structure, but we also owed fealty to nobody.
If anyone came along who wanted to take the land, I suspect I was the closest thing we had to muscle, which was too bad because I had no weapons worth mentioning. I did have a goat, but he wasn’t a large goat, and neither particularly fierce nor belligerent.
It wasn’t prized land, though, so nobody came along to take it from us.
Then one day, a warrior appeared on my land.
“That is quite a goat you have,” he said. I was prepared to lunge for a large stick nearby as a means of defense, until he spoke, and then I recognized him.
“He will tear off your leg if you glance sideways at him,” I said.
“I believe it. Fearsome, indeed.”
“How are you, Unfer?” I asked. “And how did you find me?”
“Why, I asked for directions to the richest man on the hill, Beuvulth,” he said, calling me by the name I’d used in his company. I was the richest man on the hill, because I was the only one with a goat. The bar was low.
“I don’t go by that name here.”
“Well if you don’t mind, I’d rather you did go by that name where we’re going, or we will only confuse everyone who has heard of you.”
“Where is it you’re expecting me to go?”
“Sköld. I’m here to relieve you of your debt.”
I sighed grandly. As it happened, on an evening not so long before this meeting, somewhat more north and in a considerably more violent environment, Unfer saved me from having to kill several men. In his estimation, he talked them out of killing me, and thus was I supposedly indebted to him. I didn’t see it that way.
“Will I need a sword? I don’t have one. And the goat doesn’t travel well.”
“Leave the goat. I’ll get you a sword.”
“Come inside. I have a fermented brew I keep for guests. We will have some, and then you can tell me what I am agreeing to and I will decide for myself if it satisfies the debt you feel certain I owe you.”
* * *
My home was a square stone hut. It was sturdy, and passably comfortable, only because I stuffed a few sacks with dried grass to sleep on. I had two chairs, a table, and a pile of animal furs for when it got cold, which was essentially every night. I also had jars of preserved food, and this fermented milk thing that was the best I could do.
“This is extremely awful,” Unfer said. “I mean that.”
“Thank you, I know. But it’s the only spirited drink fifty leagues in all directions, and I have certain needs.”
“I recall.”
Unfer was a large man with blond locks he kept in a braid. He wore light armor made of iron, and brown leather. Since I last saw him he’d gained a scar on his left cheek and lost a finger on his right hand. In those days, that just meant he was aging nicely.
He looked like a formidable opponent, whereas I was exactly as I am now, only with different clothing and smelling somewhat more like goat shit. (Unfer smelled like a horse, which was interesting given he arrived on foot.)
To just about anyone, the idea of him coming to me for assistance, warrior to warrior, hardly made sense. He looked like a warrior. I looked like the guy who needed to hire a warrior.
“What is the issue?” I asked. “Does it involve whoever gave you that scar?”
“No, no. A woman gave this to me, and I earned every part of it. No, I come on behalf of the great king Hroar. You have heard this name.”
“I have not, no.” I was being honest, actually hadn’t.
“But… the tales of his… never mind. You have been on this farm for too long.”
Unfer’s people and their constantly burnished sagas made for a community that was convinced they were a good deal more famous and legendary than they actually were.
“What does this king need of me and how does he even know who I am?”
“For his knowledge of you, I am to blame. For what he needs, I am also to blame. We need a man with a great understanding of the beasts of the world.”
“Is he starting his own farm?”
“Not that kind of beast. The kind that requires slaying.”
“This far exceeds the debt you’re owed.”
“Perhaps. But I would also appeal now to your sense of rightness.”
“I have no such sense.”
“I am prepared to convey you by force.”
“That is a more compelling argument. What kind of creature, and why does it need to be slain?”
“We’ve never seen the likes, but I can swear to you it is a challenge to the greatest swords in the king’s land, and now only brings shame to Hroar’s house.”
“Maybe you should explain.”
Unfer explained.
It seemed the great king had built a great hall for his great feasts, but the first time he held a feast there, he and his guests were attacked by an ill-described ‘monster’. That same monster had since taken up residence in the hall, and none had proven capable of dislodging him.
Two things were clear from the narrative. One, Unfer didn’t know what kind of beast this was and neither did anyone else, and two, Unfer hadn’t faced it, so he didn’t really know what it looked like. His description was therefore filtered down through the memories of the feast attendees who survived. This made for a description that didn’t at all correspond with anything I’d ever heard of before.
I decided to make the second observation aloud.
“I must conclude that since no man has faced the creature since and lived, you yourself have not done battle with this gigantic five-armed fire-breathing beast yourself,” I said. “As you sit at my table and do still clearly live.”
“I prefer to employ wisdom before strength, Beuvulth. Of all who stride the Earth, you are most like to appreciate this. Will you come?”
“I will, but not for our debt and not to slay any great beast. I go to find out what manner of thing it actually is. If my generosity intercedes, I may tell you how to slay it, and simply go home.”
* * *
The reason Unfer had no horse was that he and his men took a boat from across the sea to reach me, which indicated he knew more or less exactly where I was to be found.
The obvious conclusion was that he’d been keeping track of my movements in some way, perhaps for an occasion such as this. Or maybe he was just shrewd enough to appreciate that one did what one could to keep an eye on the only immortal one knew.
It was eight men in addition to Unfer; so, four oars a side for when the winds were unfavorable, or seven to man the riggings of the sails when the wind blew true, with one to steer.
I’d like to say the kind of peop
le I’m talking about were Vikings, but I’m going to be honest with you: nobody called them that. I sincerely don’t even know where the name came from. Seriously, I think someone just made up the word one day. Wagner, probably. He’s at least partly to blame for those ridiculous bull-horned helmets nobody wore. Also, if the word Viking were even in use at this time, it still wouldn’t apply, because these were land-bound men, not high seas piratical invaders.
Anyway, they were either Danes or Skjöldungs.
We had just reached the boat when I heard the noise.
“Hurry!” one of the men hissed as we approached.
“We would have reached you sooner had you not doused the torches,” Unfer groused. We had to walk the coastline for a little while.
“And we’d have left without you had you not arrived before now,” the man said. “Did you not hear?”
“That peculiar keening?” Unfer looked at me. “Some animal, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” I said, although in truth I’d never heard an animal make this noise.
“It’s the fylgjur, come to collect the dead,” another of the oarsmen declared. “It’s why we put out the fire, and why we should be gone from this land.”
“Well get us on the water, then,” Unfer said. “Even though we’ve no dead for collecting.”
“She would sooner make her own dead than leave unsatisfied,” the first man said, as the others lifted the boat to the water. “I know where your thoughts are on this, Unfer. You’re not a one to give in to superstition. Well neither am I, but I know enough to respect them, when being wrong can mean my death. We can be doubters in the daytime.”
The boat was at sea shortly after. I heard the odd howl twice more as the men rowed furiously. The last howl, strangely, sounded closer than the first, even as the shore was getting further away. We never did see what was causing the noise.
If it seems as if this is really something I ought to have remembered the minute I heard the sound again, you aren’t wrong, although let’s keep in mind how many years passed between encounters. Also, what happened after that was so much more memorable, I think I can be forgiven.
Immortal and the Island of Impossible Things (The Immortal Series Book 4) Page 12