Hildr stopped, now hovering half-way up the length of Aegir's body. “Your one death may be pithy,” she intoned, “but how verbose was your killing? Raven. How long? For how long this day did you slay? Until the feathers were stripped from your wings? Until you relished the blood on your claws? Until your gory beak was filled with the carrion-stench?”

“Yes. Yes! YES!” Aegir shouted.

Waves slapped the ship‘s hull, and the vessel rose on a haughty crest. Under the hand of a contemptuous god the ship plunged low again, and the sea was made humble once more, but not before both Hildr and Aegir sat drenched by black water.

Hildr crawled a few more paces and stopped again, her face suspended over Aegir's chest, the water dripping from her body onto his. “And why? Tell me, raven— why?”

Aegir frothed, and the madness of the remembered bloodlust stained his eyes red. “Valkyrie!” he declared, looking at the face hovering before him. “Because I was fated for glory!”

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Samantha flung herself inside the cabin. Audrey clutched at the much taller girl. They tumbled through the door. Audrey landed on her hip. Samantha landed on her back.

A Slemmig stepped out of the forest and into the clearing. Its violet eyes pricked like pins sticking out of the fabric of the thick tree-line. The Slemmig took aim with its rifle.

Audrey turned and fired her last arrow into the night—

Samantha kicked the door shut—

An explosion rippled through the forest. Its sparking light crashed through the clearing and splashed into the cabin. Splinters rained down. Silence trailed the clamor.

Samantha and Audrey cowered.

They listened. They waited.

After a time, the pair slowly lifted their heads off the frosty floor.

“Did it get you?” Samantha whispered.

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CASTELLA (Gasp): Did he show you the knife?

JOHN: Yes, for by golly he was cutting his meat with it!

CASTELLA: A weapon of horror— now serving nourishment?

JOHN: So he claimed. So I trembled. The Captain met my look— and laughed. He cut the meat again and ate it off the blade. A cursed wound? And his blood too? Fiddle-faddle. But still I shook.

CASTELLA: Seeing his toothless grin and sunken eyes, I do believe him. He may seem to jest, but there is some dweomerlak upon that man. Did he recount the nature of the curse?

JOHN: No. All the more reason to call him liar.

CASTELLA: Perhaps the evil prevents its own description.

JOHN: Another convenience, if so. Well, where intercourse between the next world and ours is concerned, I prefer the orthodox. But such beliefs, they also frighten me. Especially what visits in the still hours of the night.

CASTELLA: What? What visits you?

JOHN: I have been tortured by the same dream since childhood.

CASTELLA: You have never told me of this dream.

JOHN: I am prompted now by your mood. And perhaps this place.

CASTELLA: What is this dream?

JOHN: Me, transported— to the very Cross. I stand with those who watch His piercing. We gaze in utter silence upon the crucified Christ. Then, in my dream, He looks down and discerns the crowd. Our eyes join— and He recognizes me— as interloper.

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“And what is this— sacred cause?” Wedit asked.

The Magnate sat up straighter. The diadem upon his brow sparkled teal and orange. He scoffed. “Wealth, of course! Naught else lastsss beyond death! Only coin! Gold! Plunder! Ssspoils! They will bury me in a hole and then cover me with jewelsss and sssilver and! Nayyy, a tomb, yesss a tomb of sssplendor, and the very wallsss of that monument will ssshadow me for all eternity in richesss— oh oh ohhh—!“ He shuddered. “What blisss! Mmmmm.”

“Gahh,” chortled Yof, glancing about them for weapons.

“You doubt the agelesss embrace of fortune?” asked the Magnate. “The ever-loving affection of opulence? Have you never bathed in the sssubstance of your own richesss?” The Magnate shook both hands before him, and the brothers caught the glitter of his loose, ornamental chainmail. “There isss nothing finer.”

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They approached the mighty stair styled like an oyster and walked slowly up its steps. But instead of flapping wings lifting them to great heights, they spoke in a flutter of non-sequiturs.

“August.”

“Pineapple.”

“String.”

“Bicycle.”

“Shoe.”

“Dolphin.”

When the words stopped, Jordan found herself surrounded.

The patter and clink of their abundant pendants fell silent. Their necks proudly displayed the spoils of some charm war— gem, candy, and nautical. They were all smiling. All dressed impeccably. All crowned the royalty of imaginary kingdoms.

“Of course,” said Clarissa, drawing Jordan's attention back to her. “We're all your very best friends now.” She started to introduce all the girls with a toss of her gloved hand, but Jordan cut her off.

“I know all your names,” Jordan said in a rush— and it was true. “Cynthia. Meghan. Sara. Patricia.“ Her head bobbed up and down as she looked at each in turn.

The girls beamed and canted their heads back, the sonic reverberation of their names as warm as any spotlight.

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EINARR: You smell good, but you are smug. I don’t want your help.

HILDR: Talk to Kára. Listen to her.

EINARR: No. What I want is to see Odin. My time is done, my years are spent. No more choices to be made. I want to die, Hildr. I want to die in the dark. And I want to die alone. Now.

(Pause)

I bet Odin has wine for me. Plenty of good wine. If they didn’t drink it all.

HILDR: They?

EINARR: The warriors. Isn’t the hall crowded? With good ones. The worthy.

HILDR: Worthy? Hmmm, it’s true the dead have no number. And there are always more to come. Crowded? Yes. But worthy? Most die never saying what they meant to. Never hearing what they should. Made mute by fear— and deaf by pride. That’s the reality of it. I would hardly call them worthy.

EINARR: Aren’t you a ray of sunshine.

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He snapped out of his phantasm. He saw his children standing over him. He was instantly enraged.

“What are you two doing here? Get out!” He rose swiftly, slamming the bottle on the workbench. He charged both son and daughter— but neither one moved— they were too perplexed.

Their father lifted Harry, the nearest, and pressed his son’s head into the ceiling.

“Let him go!” shouted Cindy. She grabbed their father’s arm but he would not budge.

Cindy looked up at Harry. He held his father’s wrists around his neck. He could not pry them free. Harry looked down at Cindy, flaring his nostrils. His eyes strained.

Cindy snatched the bottle off the workbench.

Their father dropped Harry. “Give me that!” he demanded, turning on his daughter.

Harry recoiled near the garden tools, massaging his neck.

“No!” Cindy jerked the bottle behind her back.

Her father promised, “It will do you no good.”

Cindy shouted, “I want to see her too! I want to see her!” She started to cry. “I— want— to see— my Mom—”

Cindy brought the bottle up to her lips, but her father caught her arm before she could take a drink. They struggled, and the bottle flew free from Cindy’s grasp. It broke against the wall.

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Careful not to wake his mother, he went to the storage closet and rummaged to the back. He found the box he wanted, but it was empty. He heard his mother’s voice.

“I’ve been cleaning them all day.”

He found her in the dining room, polishing his father’s armor.

His mother frowned. “I don’t like that girl. Do you love her?”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I’m not sure I can trust her.”

“Well, if you love her, you kinda have to.”

“Even if she asks me to do something stupid?”

“Especially then.” His mother tossed him the cleaning cloth. “Here. You can finish.” She got up to leave, but paused under the arc of her bedroom doorway. She stood in shadow.

She said to her son, “Tomorrow has nothing for you. Love now. Love today.”

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The mist fumed. A dark red tendril uncurled to reveal its stolen prize. “Take your trinket,” said the thing. “It has no meaning here.”

Jack snatched the ring. He angrily thrust it back into place on his finger.

The thief backed away, and its undulating appendages retreated. The creature assured Jack, “The fixed world will forever beckon.”

Jack shook his head, making his own promise. “I'll never turn back,” he said.

His tormentor was not convinced.

The sickly laugh returned as the towering form lifted another snaking tendril. The thing pointed at Jack's right hand. “The signs have already begun!” The deep bass of its voice echoed through the other world.

Jack felt a slight itch. He fought hard to ignore it. But the skin of his palm burned and he could not stop from dropping the spade. It tumbled into the low fog. He never heard the distant splash. Jack lifted his hand. A red-black eczema spread in fits, like spilled ink crawling over and into the pores of his skin.

Jack cried out, but the misty valley smothered his plea.

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Lely came home through the front door. She tromped through the foyer and slumped into her chair at the dinner table. She folded her arms and lay down her head.

A terrible, boundless, frenzied shout formed in the girl’s chest. “But don’t scream, Lely,” she chided. “Mother wouldn’t allow it.” She clamped her eyes shut. Lely sighed, hoping to siphon the shriek away.

“When I come to breakfast tomorrow,” she said into her hair. “He will hand me a bowl. Tomorrow he will be here at this table, and he will hand me my bowl. Tomorrow will be the same as today. He will hand me my bowl.”

Someone touched Lely’s neck and she realized she was talking out loud. She looked up at her mother. Resa stood too close. The young girl pulled away, threatened by her mother’s blank stare.

“Tomorrow will be the same?” But it wasn’t really a question. Lely wiped her tears away, desperate to deny them.

Resa handed her daughter an unfilled soup bowl. She sat at the opposite end of the dinner table, pulling from her apron a wristlet, its dark red strands faded. She untied the last knot and undid the braid.

Lely pushed the empty bowl away.

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