The Sin Eaters

by Aaron Summers

  They finally stopped at a platform inside the mountain. The doors opened without signal. Eliza and Tim stepped out and waited as Charlie unfurled like a flag in the wind. He was immense. His rounded shoulders caught and rocked the railcar as he escaped its confines. Tim had passed through that same door with ease. They followed him up to a steel door that Eliza thought belonged in a bomb testing facility.

  “Good nap?” she asked.

  He opened a panel and pressed his palm to a screen. It beeped. The door receded into the wall. Brisk air rushed out, bringing with it the aroma of a greenhouse. He climbed into the room. They waited. He stuck his head out.

  “Are you ready to begin work, Doctor Eliza Reyes?”

  The room inside was large but still human scale. Charlie’s head brushed the ceiling, itself and the walls carved from living stone as though the mountain might reclaim the room at any time. The floors were polished stone the same color as the walls. Aluminum bookshelves lined the wall through which they had entered. Another wall held yard-deep casement windows framed by shining aluminum with four-foot spans of raw stone between them. She walked to one.

  The valley sprawled below. A railcar vanished into a distant speck she thought must be their return tunnel. The buildings she had seen were all dollhouses and their lights just specks in the night. The room was built high into the valley’s far granite face. He would have access to the worlds beyond this valley if only there was… she found the door. It was opposite her near the fireplace where Charlie now lingered. It probably gave him immediate access outside. That was the source of the soil and plants. He could be free in a moment.

  The fireplace crackled. Charlie rose from its hearth. A few dim orange bulbs lit the room while the fire grew. The man hated useful light, didn’t he? Maybe he didn’t need it. It didn’t matter. She could see him now. He had to be seven and a half feet tall, if only because eight feet was ridiculous. Tim, a tall kid himself and a collegiate athlete, looked like a child’s toy beside their host. She guessed the room’s height at ten feet and then tried to measure him again. No way had his head brushed the ceiling in here, she thought, despite knowing she had seen it happen.

  His posture and proportion made estimation difficult. If only he would stand up straight. Instead, he seemed ever ready to pounce, legs bent, bare feet raised onto their toes, with a slight curve in his shoulders. Only his arms were loose. They hung at his sides like dead weights. Darkness lingered near the ceiling. She still couldn’t see his true features.

  He dragged a paw across the couch’s back and then collapsed into a pile of furs beside the fire. She waited. He yawned. Tim hobbled to the couch. He eased himself onto it and used both hands to lift each leg up. Only after he made himself comfortable did he look for Eliza.

  “Sorry, it’s just, my knees. I have to stretch them out.”

  “It’s okay, Tim.”

  She chose the chair closest to Charlie, made a spectacle of dragging its aluminum feet across the stone floor as she turned it to face her host, and plopped down.

  “So how are we working on this by hanging out in your Batcave?”

  Charlie raised an eyebrow. She could see him by firelight. It was a stoic task. His face, like Michael’s and the walls of this room, looked carved from stone by someone who cared little for the human form. But his lacked the notable symmetry of Michael’s. His cheekbones conspired with his eyebrows to play the role of rampart in defense of his black eyes. Hairs thick enough to be seen and counted from where she sat rose into the forest of a beard. Had she not noticed the beard before? The moonlight had been scant. What else did she misunderstand about his appearance? The beard blanketed his oversized jaw. If Michael’s gothic features were eerie marble crafted by a talented but twisted sculptor, Charlie’s were hewn by the inexorable violence of glaciers across the surface of the earth itself.

  His hair, which she had thought back on top of the mountain must be braided, hung in natural clumps as thick as her thumb. It was pulled back behind his leonine ears and bound with a length of wire as thick as her smallest finger. His eyes dragged from focus to focus, never darting but always moving. She moved her finger in the air. The eyes followed. Eliza stopped. Was her finger following his eyes?

  The clothing, she decided, was a costume for the party. He looked like a pirate. No, not exactly like a pirate but close. The billowing shirt looked like a pirate’s. It was stitched flaxen sailcloth cut with flowing sleeves that he kept rolled to his jagged elbow and an open neck with no true collar. It tucked into dark pants of fabric unknown that ended just below his knees. Dense hair covered his exposed forearms and calves. She would’ve laughed at someone she met dressed like this, if it weren’t him. But he wore the clothing as if it was all the same. She supposed it was.

  She looked again. Were those tattoos on his forearm? Squinting didn’t help. She would have to ask.

  “Doctor Reyes? Ma’am?”

  “Wh… yeah?”

  “You were staring. For a really long time.”

  “No I wasn’t.”

  “Yeah you were. You asked him about the Batcave and then you…”

  She turned on Tim.

  “Do not. Do that thing. To me right now. Fine, I was staring. Wait… is that a thing? Like Lorelai’s thing or Michael’s thing? Tim, look at him. Really look at him. Tell me what your reaction is.”

  “I’m, uh… uncomfortable. But not like Michael. That was creepy. This is… I dunno.”

  “Predatory?”

  He nodded. She saw his mouth fall open. So it was a thing, then. His eyes followed her finger because her finger followed his eyes.

  ThatIsNotGoodIsItDontEvenKnowWhatToThinkIsHeEvenAwareItsHappening

  “I think so, maybe. But not the same. I feel… I feel… I don’t know. But it’s fine. It’s okay.”

  She turned back to Charlie.

  “We have a lot to ask. Like those tattoos on your forearms. They looked ruined, like an old sailor’s tattoos. I’m guessing they’re very old.”

  He reached towards the roaring fire, warming his crevassed palms near the flames while inspecting his forearms as if he hadn’t noticed them in years. The flames wrapped around his hands. She started to stop him but remembered the rooftop pyre. This little fire couldn’t harm him, apparently.

  “I will tell you my story,” he said as his gaze shifted from the ink to the fire. “Then you will understand.”

  CHAPTER 9 – AUYUITTUQ

  Ice groaned as the beast galloped across the frozen river. A sheet of snow dropped somewhere along the banks. The beast’s keen nose, perched atop an abrupt face amid a blanket of matted hair the color of wet straw, flared and caught the scent of hidden men. They had returned. How did it know this smell? It could find them if it wanted... a luminous ribbon filled the sky. The men would wait. It was too cold for their kind. The gods were awake and this time, the creature would catch them.

  The ice crunched beneath its paws. It loved to run. Hot blood raced through surging muscles. It had been running for miles and years in pursuit of the celestial lights. Chunks of ice fell from its outer fur, revealing hibernating forests of lichen and fungi in the warmer fur beneath. Only the oldest ice remained. This was the first ice that formed when it had curled down in the snow to sleep through the lonely winter.

  Which winter had that been? The creature loved the sun. Better to sleep through the endless winter than lay awake and wonder. It had started to think about things again. This would not do. It stopped running, stopped hunting, stopped living when it let itself think.

  It swerved around a jagged spire of solitary stone in the middle of the frozen river. The new moon hid its silver light, rendering the world too dark even for the creature’s apple-sized icy eyes to see through. It heard the distant, hidden men gasp as it flung a foreleg out and thrust off its hind leg to dash around the outcropping. A wave of teal and gold crashed against the peak that the monster chased.

  There was its mountain. The creature had not yet climbed
it. Many mountains lined the river valley. Some were taller than this one. One peak, a little farther away, had a flat top it liked to lie on when the sun was shining. But this mountain was special because its cliff was unlike any other. The creature knew it could stand on the cliff and stare straight down to the waiting frozen river far below. The crescent shape was beautiful. All the mountains here were precious gifts because none burned. The beast could rely on them to stand sentry over the world for all time.

  The creature leapt from the river, crushing and scattering ice as it launched. The stench of men was whipped away by biting wind and the more primal scent of stone. It collided with the mountain and began to slide back to earth until it remembered to punch its claws into the stone. The backslide stopped. It dug a paw into the stone, then another, then another, until it was sure of its grip. The creature craned its neck in case the gods of light and space had begun their dance in earnest. Faint gold shimmered in the black sky. There was time. The creature climbed.

  It almost fell. The creature dug deeper and continued. It almost fell again. The mountain’s beautiful crescent became a gradual torment. The vertical cliff began to curve back above its head. The height did not matter. What foolish thing would stare a mile down when such a spectacle waited above? It dug its claws into the sheer stone and climbed faster.

  It scrambled, gripping the edge with its forelegs and launching out into the void before swinging in a full arc onto the waiting summit. The creature collapsed on its back. Its barrel chest heaved as it sucked in frigid air. Plumes of steam burst from its mouth. Its legs collapsed, quivering, as its dazzled eyes tried to focus.

  This time it caught the lights. How many winters had it chased them? It did not matter. Pale pink lanced the sky amid a scatter of aquamarine bursts that hid the distant stars. The lance grew into another golden ribbon descending straight from the stars to earth. The creature was enthralled. It didn’t notice the rivulets of blood running from so many slices in its paws. The mountain exacted a toll. Those wounds soon froze.

  The creature rolled into a crouch and forced itself to sit, crossing its hind legs and straightening its back until it looked almost human. Arms longer than its legs hung against its knees. Its dangling knuckles scraped the summit. The creature stared into the night as its pounding breaths slowed.

  True light awaited. These were the lights it had seen so many nights from arctic fields, while curled among the bows of sticky pines, while wading at dusk through a weeping river, while standing alone anywhere, everywhere.

  Emboldened by the depth of a virgin night, the aurora washed the black theater with all its flowing power. The multitudinous stars that sparkled from so many faraway places vanished. A glowing verdant band snaked from east to west. It usurped the black moon, carrying light from the sun to spread across the waiting sky. Walls of turquoise flowed at strange angles amid the green serpent. They rolled under, curled around, succumbed to themselves like an electric ouroboros, and sprang to life miles away. The band shredded beneath aureate daggers that melted into pure violet.

  These colors and more that the creature could not name faded into that rolling tide of violet. All lights coiled together in an immiscible splendor that filled and abandoned entire patches of the waiting night. A milky band of starless galaxy draped behind it all.

  The dull glow of steady day invaded the horizon. A howling wind rolled the enraptured beast backwards. It scrambled from its seat and away from the cliff. The morning wind teased more new snow. It would cover everything soon, even this stony giant’s fang that penetrated the frozen river, even the waiting men. They would still be there. Such soft things could not move through the night’s awesome cold.

  The creature drew breath through its nose until all it could smell was snow and man. They were where it wanted to go. For the first time in more years than a creature like this could ever count, it wanted to sit with men again.

  ◆◆◆

  The trio shivered beneath their shared bear skin. Layers of snow atop the fur should have insulated them. Gods, the bears grew large here. It didn’t seem to help at all. A noontime wind in this frozen hell cut deeper than their darkest winter gale at home.

  Home. That was far from here. None among them could return until Ongul Grimar brought the ships in the spring. If he returned from his folly. They did not know how long the winter lasted here in Ymir’s Hearth. Grettir Thorhallson had started to wonder if spring was only a child’s tale.

  He hated the cold most of all his people. Even back home near Kattegat, he hated it. His mother lashed him with a willow branch for trying to melt the snow on their hut’s roof. He had burned the thatch and now the melted snow would freeze inside the straw, ruining it.

  He picked at the leather strap the Grimarsson forced him to wear around his head to stop his teeth from chattering. His jaw was sore and his body ached. All this for the mead-laden ravings of his childhood friend turned would-be chieftain.

  It would be a simple thing to run him through with an arrow, call it a hunting accident, and take Isi and the corpse back to camp. He was nearly twice the size of his temporary chieftain. It would be easy. But it was Ongul Grimar and not his son that Grettir feared. Ongul campaigned for years for his chance to strike camp here in the frost god’s heart. He longed to usurp his ancestor Thorfinn’s successes at Straumfjord so many generations before in this strange new world. It was madness.

  The Bifrost itself burned the sky every night. They were atop the world. Yet Ongul had taken the ships, his personal guard, and sailed even farther north in search of a way around the world. As though such a thing could be done.

  The sky flickered. The gods could keep their brilliant bridge. He abandoned his love for it like they abandoned this place. Only ice and monsters lived here.

  The Grimarsson stirred. Grettir looked up and found Isi staring back. His friend’s dark eyes said no. His golden beard was frozen. Grettir fumbled at the shawl protecting his own shaved face. The shawl had frozen to his skin. More ice. Always ice. Maybe tonight was the night…

  The Grimarsson elbowed them both. The twinkling sky and faint moon illuminated a bear loping across the frozen river. The trio leaned forward and the furs shifted, dropping a slab of snow that fell with a deafening whump. Isi gasped as the bear narrowly avoided colliding with a rocky outcropping without breaking stride. They watched it race towards a distant mountain.

  Grettir loosed the leather strap around his jaw. His lips bled as he pulled them apart. Maybe Isi had the iron to sit and wait until the world began again, but he did not. The Grimarsson owed them answers for this fool’s quest.

  “That?” Grettir asked.

  “Yes, that. It is the creature I saw before.”

  “Congratulations, oh Son of Grimar. You’ve sighted a wild bear in the wilderness.”

  Grettir hoped he was gripping his bow. He could not feel his hands. They would have to do their trusty work without his guidance.

  “Foolish Grettir. You never could enjoy the cold. Isi Goldenhair, did you see a bear?”

  The Grimarsson still had not turned to face them. Grettir scowled at his companion. Isi squinted in the darkness towards the distant mountain.

  “I know not what that was, but it was not a bear.”

  Was not Isi the best tracker among them? His eyes were blessed with the distant sight of Heimdall himself. He had even tracked and slain the über-bear whose blonde and copper coat they now hid beneath. Grettir relaxed his grip.

  “There is nothing like it in this land or any other,” the Grimarsson said. “It is how I will take my name. Isbjorn.”

  Few men renounced their given names as the Grimarsson had. His father raged for a night and a day when he heard the news. To reject one of the many names of Odin only because you did not choose it was a sin. Ongul’s wives, handmaidens, and many slaves rejoiced after his son told him of his plan to earn a new name to honor the family and Ongul’s rage relented. Grettir Thorhallson pondered his own name, given him by his fa
ther the elder Thorhall. Who would cast aside the gift of a good name?

  But the Grimarsson was still not thinking about his companions. He prayed to the sparkling sky above.

  “Thank you, Allfather, for this gift.” He finally turned to face his cousins. “Sleep now. Tomorrow, we hunt."

  ◆◆◆

  The beast settled onto the peak. From here it could see the tiny fort in the valley below. Smoke rose from the ever-burning watch fires at the hall’s four corners. A child tended each fire. A ring of trees still clad in their own bark had been sharpened and erected as a wall around the hall.

  The creature’s large eyes flicked with each child’s movement. A girl struggled to drag another log onto her fire. The fire hissed and the log popped as its frozen core began to melt. They spent so much time felling the frozen trees to keep these pointless fires burning. Why would they not let their fur grow long? Men were strange animals.

  They had hunted it for weeks. It hardly noticed for the first week until it stepped into a shallow pit covered with leaves and filled with sharpened spikes. The spikes had snapped beneath its hard fist. The viscous, almost physical stench of the men washed over it and it understood. They had made this sad thing to catch it. It pummeled the remaining spikes, took time to rub its haunches on the nearby trees to cover them with its sweet musk, and then found the tallest tree and climbed it.

  It waited until dusk. The trio appeared. A man with hair the color of morning sunlight began to yell at his stockier companion while a third, smooth-faced unlike the others, inspected the shattered spikes and then scanned the horizon. They would not think to look this high and so what if they did? With its shaggy ochre fur heavy laden with moss, mushrooms, and pine needles, it would look to the men like a bundles of limbs in a distant pine. Men were simple things.