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Chapters 51 & 52
Above me was nothing but clouds, and beneath me was the corrugated metal roof of the restaurant, and for some moments I looked down at it, quite awed by the experience.
Then I saw Chayo. She'd just gotten out of a vehicle and was walking up to the door of this restaurant. But how did she know I was here? No doubt the same way she always knew such things. Chayo saw things. Perhaps she'd also seen that something might befall me here, and that was why she'd told me not to leave the hotel. Chayo saw those things. Chayo the seeress.
Now she was right below me, and I wanted to go down and speak to her. To tell her I loved her, to say goodbye, and to ask her to take care of Cuauhtémoc. But I couldn't. Instead, I began to drift away and soon found myself cruising along a street at tree-top height, looking down at people and cars.
Soon I was out of the city, sailing over the desert. I came to a river and followed it upstream to a valley. The valley narrowed to a canyon, and the canyon became a deep gorge. The rock walls towered so high above me they began to lean over and touch each other. Then they fused together, and I was passing through a dark tunnel.
At last I emerged, and found myself standing in a mountain meadow surrounded by forests of pine and spruce. Everything was a vivid deep green, and the fragrance of pine filled the air. In the distance were snowcapped peaks, glistening in the sunlight; around me the fresh mountain air was warm.
I looked for a path, a direction to pursue. Then I saw him, standing there, the Shining Cougar, waiting for me. He led me along a trail through forests and meadows. We passed through fields of flowers, red and yellow and purple. Their aroma mixed with that of the pines. Nestled among the trees up ahead stood a large building, surrounded by several smaller ones, all built of finely dressed timber, with steep ornamented roofs of imported British slate.
The cougar vanished, and on the path in front of me appeared a broad-shouldered man of about fifty, wearing a deer hunting cap and a red plaid shirt. It was my uncle Rolf.
"What did you do with my pistol?" He said.
I realized with dismay that he was asking for the one I'd thrown away in what seemed so many years ago. Then I looked down at the pistol that I still held in my hand from the shootout, the one I'd taken away from the pistolero and, a bit dubiously, passed it to my uncle. A look of satisfaction appeared on his face as he studied the wooden handle grip. To my surprise, there was my uncle's name, inscribed in ancient runic letters. "Welcome home, Olaf," he said, looking up, then giving me a warm hug.
"Is Grandma here too?" I asked.
"You'll see her shortly, she's expecting you. But first, you'll have to check in at the registration desk," my uncle told me, and led me up a forest trail to one of the smaller buildings. Inside, in one of the offices, a woman wearing blue jeans and tennis shoes sat at a computer terminal.
"This is my nephew Olaf," he said to the clerk, beaming proudly. After exchanging a few pleasantries with her he turned to me and said, "And I'll see you later."
"Olaf?" The woman typed something into the keyboard, pressed the return, and the screen filled up with runic letters. "You're from Minnesota? So am I."
"No kidding?" I said.
She told me her name was Signe. We exchanged a bit of small talk, then went on with the registration.
"Did you bring any documentation? Birth certificate? Photo I.D.?" she asked.
"No, I didn't."
"That's okay. It would simplify things if you had, but it's not that essential," she said. "You can't believe how organized we've become. It used to be that a person could just walk in, hang up his sword and shield, and take his place in the great hall. Not any more."
She pressed more keys. "Let's see. You were in the Anti-War Movement, opposed the war in Vietnam." Another click of the keys. "Is this right?" She peered more closely at the screen. "You burned your draft card?"
"Yes, I did."
Signe looked at me in shocked disbelief. "Do you know where you are?"
"What do you mean?"
"This is Asgarð, land of the Æsir. In plain English, this is the Norse Warrior heaven. What are you doing here? A draft-card burner!"
Half a dozen people had gathered in the room and were looking at me. Signe's initial friendliness was gone and she glared at me, then turned to a co-worker. "Helga, would you go get the supervisor?"
Helga left the building and returned a moment later with Hroðulf, nephew of Hrothgar and Wealhtheow. "What's the problem?" he asked.
"This guy's a pacifist!" Signe told him.
"Is that so?" he said, looking at her with obvious amusement.
Signe continued, "He obviously didn't die with a sword in his hand! I don't understand why he was allowed in here."
"He was invited."
"He--he was invited?" The woman repeated in disbelief.
"My dear Signe," said Hroðulf tolerantly. "You're on a work-study program. I believe this is your first day at this job?"
"My third day, actually."
"Very well. As you gain more experience, you'll learn that there's more to Norse tradition than swinging a sword."
"There is?"
Laughter arose from the small crowd of onlookers, now grown to a dozen or more. Signe began to blush.
"There certainly is," he affirmed. "Voyages of discovery, for example. I assume you know who discovered America."
"Of course. Everyone knows that. It was Christopher Columbus."
There was a huge, collective groan as the onlookers shook their heads and exchanged incredulous glances. Signe blushed an even deeper red.
Hroðulf was also shaking his head. "I suggest you take a class in remedial history and also read the Vinland sagas. But for now, let's finish with Olaf's registration."
The formalities proceeded without further ado, and just as they were completed the noonday meal was announced. Everyone--Signe, her co-workers, the onlookers, Hroðulf and I--strolled back through the forest towards the magnificent hall. Suddenly I heard a loud commotion. It sounded like the clashing of steel, accompanied by yelling, cheering, and cursing. Before I could see what it was, a spear flew past, narrowly missing us and lodging itself in the trunk of a nearby pine tree.
Everyone around me was shouting. "Hey!" "What do you guys think you're doing?!" "Assholes!" Finally I got a look at the source of their displeasure. Four or five Viking warriors, wearing chain mail and helmets, were battling it out with swords and shields.
"Not here! Not here!" Hroðulf ordered. The combatants obediently broke up their confrontation and trudged shamefacedly off, back to wherever they'd come from.
Signe watched them as they went. Her eyes sparkled with admiration and she sighed deeply.
"Who are they?" I asked the Hroðulf.
"From the Valhalla Program."
"Oh, you mean the ones who died in battle, sword in hand?"
"A few of them. Mostly they're guys who just never grew up. A lot of them lived to a ripe old age, spending their entire lives, 70 or even 80 years, perfecting the age of fifteen. But, we had to find a place for them, so we established the Valhalla Program. There they get to thrash around with their swords and battle axes without hassling the rest of us."
"Don't they ever get tired of it?" I asked.
"Well, that was the original hope. We thought that after a few centuries they'd grow up and acquire wisdom. Unfortunately, it hasn't generally worked out that way."
"No?"
"Life is where people grow and mature. That's what life is all about. Once they get here, they tend to stay pretty much the way they were."
"That's unfortunate," I said.
"It's the way things are. That's why it's so important for everyone to make the most of his life on earth."
"I see," I said. "But it's kind of late to find that out now."
Hroðulf chuckled.
"How can you laugh?" I said. "You or someone could have told us."
"That's also part of life. Each person has to figure out the really important things for himself. Many do."
"Many don't," I objected.
"That's right. Many don't." Hroðulf chuckled again. "You just saw a few of those, didn't you? That's why we have our Valhalla Program. We accommodate them. Whether they're immature or not, crazy or not, we still love them. They're our sons. Our daughters. Our people. We love them in spite of their faults. We also love them because of their faults."
Then I thought of MacClayne's companions and remembered my promise to Major Benson. I told Hroðulf about the tragic plight of the British sailors and marines who'd gone down with their ship that night and, apparently due to a bureaucratic snafu, wound up in that hellish land of cold mists. The bunker bar in Niflheim.
"Ah yes, I think I remember something about that. Somehow their status got left unresolved and we never got around to doing anything about it. I'll mention it to Oðin and the others this afternoon and we'll see what we can do for them."
Helga spoke up. "Olaf really got hassled by those men. They even blamed him for the destruction of their ship. Why is he bothering to speak on their behalf?"
"Somebody has to. It's part of doing the right thing," Hroðulf told her.
"So Olaf ought to get a reward for righteousness, shouldn't he? Returning good for evil," Helga pursued.
"He'll get the satisfaction of helping to rescue people from their suffering."
"Nothing more?" Helga asked. She sounded puzzled.
"Isn't that enough?" said Hroðulf.
"Not really. It doesn't seem right," she objected.
"Why should it have to be right?"
"But--"
"Did you expect to find a staff of heavenly bookkeepers tallying up people's good works in order to hand out rewards to the righteous?"
"Well, yes. Sort of."
"Not here in Asgarð," said Hroðulf. "Only when it suits the whim of the gods, or when they're trying to cover one of their screw-ups."
From the great banquet hall I could hear the drone of many voices.
The massive doors stood open to the summer day as we entered. The beams and rafters overhead were carved with the designs of old Scandinavia; torches lined the walls, illuminating the rows of oaken tables on which people were setting dishes and food for the noon meal. There were huge plates of beef and pork with beans and tortillas.
The hall was full of people, milling around, talking, eating, or lined up at the food tables. Others were still entering. People were helping themselves, so I took an empty plate and got in line.
"Olaf! Did you remember to wipe the mud off your shoes before you came in?"
It was Grandma, saying what she'd so often said, not even giving me the benefit of the doubt. Did she have to treat me like a little kid for all eternity? Nevertheless, I was tremendously glad to see her, and I had so much to tell her--about my fiancée Chayo, my companion the warrior chicken, and of course about getting my degree in geology which I was now at last going to be able to validate. I didn't know which to tell her first.
She hugged me and said, "You're a good boy, my favorite grandson. You know I loved you even when you tracked mud into the house."
"You did? Even then?" Naturally I knew that, but it was reassuring to hear her say it.
"Of course! Olaf. Didn't you know?" She gave me another hug and showed me to my seat. It was a large wooden chair, exquisitely carved with intricate designs which included my name in ancient runic letters. I seemed to be able to read them. Beside it was a uniquely designed but equally elegant chair which had no seat and consisted only of a backrest. Inscribed on it in Roman letters was the name "Cuauhtémoc," and on the table before it was a card saying "Reserved."
So Grandma and I once again had dinner together. And I must emphasize that this was dinner because back in Minnesota we called the noonday meal dinner and the evening meal supper. I ate carne de res while Grandma had carne de puerco.
For dessert we had lefse, and we were finishing it when Hroðulf, nephew of Wealhtheow and Hrothgar, returned with the news. He'd spoken with Oðin, who had resolved the situation of MacClayne's lost shipmates of LCF One; they would be invited to come and stay in Asgarð.
"I think Major Benson will be satisfied with that," I said.
"Ah yes, the unfortunate Major Benson." Hroðulf sighed. "Did you know that the major was found in an insane asylum near London?"
"Really?" I said in surprise. "How did that happen?"
"He's been there for 30 years now, since the end of the war, when he was diagnosed as suffering from incredible delusions. You see, when he discovered the crew of LCF One languishing in the cold Norse hell, he reported the sad news to his commanding officer, who decided the major needed a rest and put him on extended leave. But he then tried to petition Parliament, and even appealed to the King, asking them to intercede with the Norse gods on behalf of the lost crewmen. That's when he was placed in an asylum."
"'Delusions'?" I protested. "How can you say 'delusions'? Niflheim exists--I've seen the place myself. And Oðin himself has been there. So has Hermoð, and probably others as well."
"You're absolutely right, Olaf. It is as you say. Nevertheless, the major was indeed suffering from an astounding delusion. His delusion was to believe that either Parliament or the king would ever consider interceding with the Norse gods."
"Is there nothing we can do for him?"
"When the major sees that the crew members have been released from Niflheim and invited to Asgarð, he'll hopefully understand that he no longer needs to plead their case. If he stops talking about it, there's a good chance the shrinks will pronounce him cured and let him go."
"That sounds reasonable to me. I hope they see it that way," I said. Hroðulf then excused himself and went on his way.
I spent the rest of the afternoon with Grandma and she showed me around. We walked through fields of flowers and came to a small but noisy river which cut its way through a lava flow.
Following the river upstream, we passed through a series of magnificent stone gardens and finally came to a place where the water poured out from under the lava and formed a large pool amidst the pines. I knew at once that this had to be Urðarbrunni--the Spring of Urð--the place where Urð was known to sit and carve the lives of men on pieces of wood.
We walked along the edge till we came to a place where lotus lilies grew, the surface around them matted with rafts of floating leaves, the air alive with the fragrance of their flowers. On the shore stood a block of black basalt with an inscription in Japanese. Nearby sat a group of Buddhist monks in saffron robes, meditating.
I peered down between the lily pads. The water was crystal clear, and I kept looking deeper and deeper. It seemed bottomless. In the darkness below I could see the River Sanzu, flowing into a dark valley which was surrounded by tall, needle-peaked mountains.
Then I looked still further, and found myself gazing into the bunker bar at Niflheim. There were the lost sailors and marines.
They were involved in a bustle of activity, packing their sea-bags and laughing and shouting in such spirited voices that one might have thought their favorite soccer team had just won a tournament. I stood there watching them as they finished their packing and filed out, each with his sea bag on one shoulder and his rifle slung over the other.
But not all of them. There remained a single marine, sitting alone at the table, staring into an empty cup. It was MacClayne. A small cloud of vapor formed from his breath, and he shivered slightly from the cold. Finally he got up and began scrounging for another bottle.
Grandma and I circled our way back, through the stone gardens, and once again into the fields of red and yellow flowers. Not far away the snowcapped peaks glistened in the sunlight while white clouds floated across the deep blue sky above.
"Tell me about Chayo," Grandma said.
I spoke at great length of how we'd met and how I'd come to know her.
"She sounds like a good girl, a wise woman. I'm glad you found this Chayo," Grandma said. Then her face lit up even more brightly than before, and she said, "And now there'll be great grandchildren."
I smiled sadly and said nothing.
"Olaf!" she said. "I want you to go back. Marry Chayo, have children, finish your career in geology and live out your life."
I shook my head. "Grandma, I don't think people come to this place just for visits. My life is over with."
"Don't give up so easily," she admonished me. "You know it was often said, even before Viking times, that Urð may spare an undoomed man."
"But I must be doomed," I said. "Otherwise, why am I here?"
"That's what I was wondering. Why are you here?"
I looked around for an answer, as if the flowers of the meadow could offer up an explanation. Then I saw them, sitting silently in a large circle, the Chichimecas, the same ones who'd come out to meet me in doña Rosario's courtyard. In their midst was the warrior with the obsidian-edged warclub. He looked at me expectantly. What was it that I had agreed to do? I dug in my pocket and found the object I had removed from around Julio Pérez's neck. I walked up to the warrior and carefully laid it on the ground in front of him. He nodded gravely without saying anything.
I returned to where Grandma was waiting.
"What was all that about?" she asked. "I've never seen those folks here before."
"There was something they'd asked me to do for them," I said, "something of theirs that had to be returned." I told her of my encounter with the Chichimecas on the day I met Chayo.
"Do you think that could be the reason you came here?" she said. "Maybe you could go back to Chayo now."
Before anything more could be said, there was an announcement over the intercom of an event at the banquet hall -- an awards ceremony.
The great hall seemed regal and austere with the dinner dishes removed, the tables rearranged, the platform adorned with floral displays and the walls all around hung with tapestries. A large crowd was assembling and the air hummed with voices as people chatted while waiting for the ceremonies to begin. At the head of the hall on a crowded bench sat a distinguished panel composed of personages from the various Norse pantheons. There were the Æsir and Vanir, as well as legendary and mythical personalities from the age of heroes. I spotted Wealhtheow sitting next to her husband Hrothgar, and behind them stood Arminius, the chieftain who'd halted Roman imperialism at the Teutoburg Forest. Arminius had been the Hô Chi Minh of his day.
Also present were representatives from the Catholic period and notables of the Lutheran era. I was surprised to see Martin Luther among them. He had certainly expected to go to the Christian heaven, and must've been quite astounded to find himself in Asgarð. Next to him sat King Gustavus Adolphus of the Thirty Years War.
Grandma whispered to me, "Gustavus is the only Swede we Norwegians allow up there on the panel." She added that the Icelanders had banned King Harald the Fair-haired of Norway. "They've been cursing that man for a thousand years," she said, "still mad at him for kicking them out of Norway."
In fact, there weren't many warrior kings from historic times in this place, she explained, because one region's hero was another's oppressor, and many were as brutal to their own people as they were to their enemies. "You won't see Harald Hardradi around here," she said. "He was not welcomed by anyone, not even by his own countrymen." In what would've been Harald Hardradi's place sat Harold Godwinnson, the Anglo-Saxon king who'd given him "seven feet of good English soil."
"How did that come about? " I asked her. "I mean, I'm glad of it, but it does surprise me. You know Snorri Sturluson called Harald Hardradi the greatest of all Norse warrior kings."
"Ah, yes, but that was back in the Middle Ages," she reminded me. "Today we Scandinavians are the most democratic of all people. So we voted Hardradi off the panel and out of Asgarð."
"Really?" I said in surprise. "There do seem to be some major changes. But I see Oðin is still presiding, as in ancient times."
"What else would you expect? Oðin's our ancestral father. We're certainly not going to vote him out of office!" she said. "Naturally, we did impose a few limitations on his godly powers and status."
At a far end of the panel sat Thor. Red-faced and bleary-eyed, he was sipping coffee from a paper cup.
"Thor's in an alcohol rehabilitation program," Grandma whispered to me. "That was also part of the new arrangement."
Scandinavians from all eras and regions seemed to be represented. One panel member was a U.S. Civil War veteran, a corporal in the 15th Wisconsin Regiment. Near him sat Joe Hill, the IWW labor organizer.
Grandma glanced impatiently at her watch. The event wasn't to begin for another five minutes. I continued to explore the hall with my eyes. Behind the panel of pantheons, where I hadn't noticed it at first was a large wooden tub of steaming water. Then I saw that there were a large number of people in it--it seemed to be a Jacuzzi. From time to time panelists stepped over to the tub to speak to one or more of its members.
I was told that the people in the tub were consultants whose role was to lend the wisdom of past ages to the deities and dignitaries of the panel. Among them were medieval scholars, Jewish and Moslem as well as Christian. Averroës, Avicenna, Maimonides, and Ockham. At one side were several Asian scholars, authors and poets, some in saffron robes, others wearing swords. There were also many western enlightenment personalities including Newton and Voltaire. Kant and Hegel naturally had their place in this tub, as did socialist thinkers from Proudhon and San Simon to Karl Marx and Rosa Luxembourg. Presiding over this distinguished body was Miguel Cervantes de Saavedra, who seemed to be taking everything very seriously.
"Why are those scholars soaking in a Jacuzzi tub?" I asked grandma. "Wouldn't a table and chairs be more appropriate for them on this occasion?"
"Yes, perhaps so," Grandma told me. "What happened was that Loki was assigned the task of building something suitable for a think tank."
Before I could comment on that, the ceremony started.
Oðin entered and took his place at the center of the panel. Silence fell on the gathering. Freya of the Vanir arose, her long golden hair falling nearly to the floor. She adjusted the microphone, tapped it and said, "Can everyone hear me?"
"Yaah! Yaah! We can hear you!" responded voices from the back of the hall.
Freya began with the reading of an ancient ritual in Old Norse:
"Hljóð bið ek allar helgar kindir . . ." she read. Listen up, I ask you, holly kindred, daughters and sons of Heimdallr.
This was followed by the singing of ballads and the reciting of poems. Some were especially ancient, in language so archaic that I wondered if Oðin himself understood them. Others were contemporary. A good many lauded the deeds of heroes who'd slain fire-breathing dragons, while others extolled the power of wisdom over force of arms.
This part of the ceremony concluded with a Bob Dylan song, Blowing in the Wind.
Then the awards giving began. A good many were to be handed out this evening. Members of the panel took turns in presenting the awards, which included gold rings, sun dials, coffee mugs and embroidered T-shirts. Several virtues were being honored, including valor and independent-mindedness.
The independent-minded persons were called up first, since their virtue is the one which Norse people consider the greatest. The recipients of this highly coveted award included not only humans, but also birds and animals who had set good examples. Among the award receivers was a goose who'd flown north for the winter.
There was a standing ovation for the frostbitten goose, who was given an electric blanket along with a gold band, while Snorri recited some appropriate verses from the Edda:
Cattle die, kinsmen die.
one day you die yourself;
but the words of praise will not perish
when one wins fair fame.
Following that were the valor awards, presented by Queen Wealhtheow of Heorot, wife of Hrothgar of the Spear Danes. As she got up from the table and moved to the podium, she seemed almost to float rather than walk in her long, flowing dress.
"Olaf!" she called out.
At first I thought it must be some other Olaf, but she was looking right at me. "Olaf," Wealhtheow repeated. I wished I was wearing some nicer clothing for the event. My shirt was bloodied and had a bullet hole in it, but it seemed to be okay.
She was a stately woman, elderly but good-looking despite her years. She smiled kindly at me, then addressed the audience in a resonant voice that was sweet and gentle. She began by saying a few things about me, briefly summarizing my encounter with Julio Pérez and the other bad guys.
"Although it is not the principal reason for his award, we must mention that Olaf went down with a gun in his hand, firing," she said. "Truly in the best of Norse tradition, like Scandinavian warriors in the days of Hrothgar and myself. "Nor was the battle lost. Olaf fell, but so did two of the evildoers. And, as Olaf went down, his companion, Cuauhtémoc the valiant warrior chicken, continued the battle, putting the third member of the attacking party to flight. . ."
There was applause, then Wealhtheow continued. "Yes, I think we can say that Olaf did well. But much of the credit goes to the chicken. Truly a fine companion and a great warrior. And, as many of you may have noticed, we have reserved a place for the bird here in our hall. He will be presented with a gold band.
"None but heroes were honored by us in the days of Heorot. Honors were never given lightly. This evening we see fit to honor Olaf with an award for his refusal to join the army, his refusal to be part of an unjust war against an innocent enemy," the queen said. "For that, Olaf was often called a coward. It takes much courage to stand tall and be called a coward for doing the right thing."
She paused to take a sip of water from her glass, then continued, "Olaf spoke truth to the unwilling ears of power. It is for that act of courage and bravery that we are honoring Olaf this evening."
There was more applause. It filled the great hall, and Wealhtheow tried several times to interrupt. Finally it subsided enough for her to resume speaking.
"Let us proceed," said Wealhtheow. "But first, perhaps there are objections. If so, we shall hear them." She slowly cast her gaze around the now silent hall, then took another sip of water. "Okay, there being no objections, we shall ... Yes, you wish to say something?" She was looking towards the back of the room.
A thin old man had gotten up and was slowly making his way between the tables as he approached the front. He was at least eighty, a farmer dressed up in his Sunday best. His tattered gray suit was several decades out of fashion, and the sleeves and collar of his white shirt were frayed. His dark blue tie was knotted so tightly that I wondered how he could breath.
"Mr. Jensen!" I gasped, almost audibly. Old Mr. Jensen had been our neighbor when I was a little kid back in Minnesota. His wife had passed away, as had most of his friends, and he lived alone. If he had any children, they had never seemed to visit him.
For some reason I'd taken a dislike to him and did all sorts of nasty things to make his life miserable. Sometimes when he drove by in his ancient Model A Ford, I threw rotten apples at him. Once when he had his window open, I hit him right in the face with a really squishy one. At the time, I had thought that was really funny.
But now, as I realized how sad and lonely the old man must've been during his final years, I sensed the additional pain I must've inflicted upon him. Suddenly, I felt overwhelmingly remorseful.
"Mr. Jensen," I said in the best voice I could muster, "I realize I caused you a lot of grief when I was a little kid. So I don't blame you for being angry. But what can I do about it now? "
The old man stood there, looking at me, not saying anything for a long moment. Behind him stood Martin Luther, Erasmus of Rotterdam, and Søren Kirkegaard, all three with arms crossed and stern looks on their faces. Mr. Jensen glanced back at them and received a collective nod. Then he returned his gaze to me and spoke.
"There is one thing you can do right now," he said in his parched voice.
"Yes, what is it?"
"Get the damn hell out of here!"
*** CHAPTER 52 ***
As my eyes came into focus, I was looking at a crosshatched pattern of boards and beams which constituted the ceiling over my bed. I was in a room of an adobe house which I recognized as that of doña Rosario, Chayo's aunt. Uruapan! I was in Uruapan.
There was a loud clucking sound. It came from the backrest of a chair by my bed, and, on seeing me awake, the bird hopped down onto the bed and grasped my arm with his talon.
There was a gold band on his leg.
Chayo was entering the room.
*** THE END ***
Then I saw Chayo. She'd just gotten out of a vehicle and was walking up to the door of this restaurant. But how did she know I was here? No doubt the same way she always knew such things. Chayo saw things. Perhaps she'd also seen that something might befall me here, and that was why she'd told me not to leave the hotel. Chayo saw those things. Chayo the seeress.
Now she was right below me, and I wanted to go down and speak to her. To tell her I loved her, to say goodbye, and to ask her to take care of Cuauhtémoc. But I couldn't. Instead, I began to drift away and soon found myself cruising along a street at tree-top height, looking down at people and cars.
Soon I was out of the city, sailing over the desert. I came to a river and followed it upstream to a valley. The valley narrowed to a canyon, and the canyon became a deep gorge. The rock walls towered so high above me they began to lean over and touch each other. Then they fused together, and I was passing through a dark tunnel.
At last I emerged, and found myself standing in a mountain meadow surrounded by forests of pine and spruce. Everything was a vivid deep green, and the fragrance of pine filled the air. In the distance were snowcapped peaks, glistening in the sunlight; around me the fresh mountain air was warm.
I looked for a path, a direction to pursue. Then I saw him, standing there, the Shining Cougar, waiting for me. He led me along a trail through forests and meadows. We passed through fields of flowers, red and yellow and purple. Their aroma mixed with that of the pines. Nestled among the trees up ahead stood a large building, surrounded by several smaller ones, all built of finely dressed timber, with steep ornamented roofs of imported British slate.
The cougar vanished, and on the path in front of me appeared a broad-shouldered man of about fifty, wearing a deer hunting cap and a red plaid shirt. It was my uncle Rolf.
"What did you do with my pistol?" He said.
I realized with dismay that he was asking for the one I'd thrown away in what seemed so many years ago. Then I looked down at the pistol that I still held in my hand from the shootout, the one I'd taken away from the pistolero and, a bit dubiously, passed it to my uncle. A look of satisfaction appeared on his face as he studied the wooden handle grip. To my surprise, there was my uncle's name, inscribed in ancient runic letters. "Welcome home, Olaf," he said, looking up, then giving me a warm hug.
"Is Grandma here too?" I asked.
"You'll see her shortly, she's expecting you. But first, you'll have to check in at the registration desk," my uncle told me, and led me up a forest trail to one of the smaller buildings. Inside, in one of the offices, a woman wearing blue jeans and tennis shoes sat at a computer terminal.
"This is my nephew Olaf," he said to the clerk, beaming proudly. After exchanging a few pleasantries with her he turned to me and said, "And I'll see you later."
"Olaf?" The woman typed something into the keyboard, pressed the return, and the screen filled up with runic letters. "You're from Minnesota? So am I."
"No kidding?" I said.
She told me her name was Signe. We exchanged a bit of small talk, then went on with the registration.
"Did you bring any documentation? Birth certificate? Photo I.D.?" she asked.
"No, I didn't."
"That's okay. It would simplify things if you had, but it's not that essential," she said. "You can't believe how organized we've become. It used to be that a person could just walk in, hang up his sword and shield, and take his place in the great hall. Not any more."
She pressed more keys. "Let's see. You were in the Anti-War Movement, opposed the war in Vietnam." Another click of the keys. "Is this right?" She peered more closely at the screen. "You burned your draft card?"
"Yes, I did."
Signe looked at me in shocked disbelief. "Do you know where you are?"
"What do you mean?"
"This is Asgarð, land of the Æsir. In plain English, this is the Norse Warrior heaven. What are you doing here? A draft-card burner!"
Half a dozen people had gathered in the room and were looking at me. Signe's initial friendliness was gone and she glared at me, then turned to a co-worker. "Helga, would you go get the supervisor?"
Helga left the building and returned a moment later with Hroðulf, nephew of Hrothgar and Wealhtheow. "What's the problem?" he asked.
"This guy's a pacifist!" Signe told him.
"Is that so?" he said, looking at her with obvious amusement.
Signe continued, "He obviously didn't die with a sword in his hand! I don't understand why he was allowed in here."
"He was invited."
"He--he was invited?" The woman repeated in disbelief.
"My dear Signe," said Hroðulf tolerantly. "You're on a work-study program. I believe this is your first day at this job?"
"My third day, actually."
"Very well. As you gain more experience, you'll learn that there's more to Norse tradition than swinging a sword."
"There is?"
Laughter arose from the small crowd of onlookers, now grown to a dozen or more. Signe began to blush.
"There certainly is," he affirmed. "Voyages of discovery, for example. I assume you know who discovered America."
"Of course. Everyone knows that. It was Christopher Columbus."
There was a huge, collective groan as the onlookers shook their heads and exchanged incredulous glances. Signe blushed an even deeper red.
Hroðulf was also shaking his head. "I suggest you take a class in remedial history and also read the Vinland sagas. But for now, let's finish with Olaf's registration."
The formalities proceeded without further ado, and just as they were completed the noonday meal was announced. Everyone--Signe, her co-workers, the onlookers, Hroðulf and I--strolled back through the forest towards the magnificent hall. Suddenly I heard a loud commotion. It sounded like the clashing of steel, accompanied by yelling, cheering, and cursing. Before I could see what it was, a spear flew past, narrowly missing us and lodging itself in the trunk of a nearby pine tree.
Everyone around me was shouting. "Hey!" "What do you guys think you're doing?!" "Assholes!" Finally I got a look at the source of their displeasure. Four or five Viking warriors, wearing chain mail and helmets, were battling it out with swords and shields.
"Not here! Not here!" Hroðulf ordered. The combatants obediently broke up their confrontation and trudged shamefacedly off, back to wherever they'd come from.
Signe watched them as they went. Her eyes sparkled with admiration and she sighed deeply.
"Who are they?" I asked the Hroðulf.
"From the Valhalla Program."
"Oh, you mean the ones who died in battle, sword in hand?"
"A few of them. Mostly they're guys who just never grew up. A lot of them lived to a ripe old age, spending their entire lives, 70 or even 80 years, perfecting the age of fifteen. But, we had to find a place for them, so we established the Valhalla Program. There they get to thrash around with their swords and battle axes without hassling the rest of us."
"Don't they ever get tired of it?" I asked.
"Well, that was the original hope. We thought that after a few centuries they'd grow up and acquire wisdom. Unfortunately, it hasn't generally worked out that way."
"No?"
"Life is where people grow and mature. That's what life is all about. Once they get here, they tend to stay pretty much the way they were."
"That's unfortunate," I said.
"It's the way things are. That's why it's so important for everyone to make the most of his life on earth."
"I see," I said. "But it's kind of late to find that out now."
Hroðulf chuckled.
"How can you laugh?" I said. "You or someone could have told us."
"That's also part of life. Each person has to figure out the really important things for himself. Many do."
"Many don't," I objected.
"That's right. Many don't." Hroðulf chuckled again. "You just saw a few of those, didn't you? That's why we have our Valhalla Program. We accommodate them. Whether they're immature or not, crazy or not, we still love them. They're our sons. Our daughters. Our people. We love them in spite of their faults. We also love them because of their faults."
Then I thought of MacClayne's companions and remembered my promise to Major Benson. I told Hroðulf about the tragic plight of the British sailors and marines who'd gone down with their ship that night and, apparently due to a bureaucratic snafu, wound up in that hellish land of cold mists. The bunker bar in Niflheim.
"Ah yes, I think I remember something about that. Somehow their status got left unresolved and we never got around to doing anything about it. I'll mention it to Oðin and the others this afternoon and we'll see what we can do for them."
Helga spoke up. "Olaf really got hassled by those men. They even blamed him for the destruction of their ship. Why is he bothering to speak on their behalf?"
"Somebody has to. It's part of doing the right thing," Hroðulf told her.
"So Olaf ought to get a reward for righteousness, shouldn't he? Returning good for evil," Helga pursued.
"He'll get the satisfaction of helping to rescue people from their suffering."
"Nothing more?" Helga asked. She sounded puzzled.
"Isn't that enough?" said Hroðulf.
"Not really. It doesn't seem right," she objected.
"Why should it have to be right?"
"But--"
"Did you expect to find a staff of heavenly bookkeepers tallying up people's good works in order to hand out rewards to the righteous?"
"Well, yes. Sort of."
"Not here in Asgarð," said Hroðulf. "Only when it suits the whim of the gods, or when they're trying to cover one of their screw-ups."
From the great banquet hall I could hear the drone of many voices.
The massive doors stood open to the summer day as we entered. The beams and rafters overhead were carved with the designs of old Scandinavia; torches lined the walls, illuminating the rows of oaken tables on which people were setting dishes and food for the noon meal. There were huge plates of beef and pork with beans and tortillas.
The hall was full of people, milling around, talking, eating, or lined up at the food tables. Others were still entering. People were helping themselves, so I took an empty plate and got in line.
"Olaf! Did you remember to wipe the mud off your shoes before you came in?"
It was Grandma, saying what she'd so often said, not even giving me the benefit of the doubt. Did she have to treat me like a little kid for all eternity? Nevertheless, I was tremendously glad to see her, and I had so much to tell her--about my fiancée Chayo, my companion the warrior chicken, and of course about getting my degree in geology which I was now at last going to be able to validate. I didn't know which to tell her first.
She hugged me and said, "You're a good boy, my favorite grandson. You know I loved you even when you tracked mud into the house."
"You did? Even then?" Naturally I knew that, but it was reassuring to hear her say it.
"Of course! Olaf. Didn't you know?" She gave me another hug and showed me to my seat. It was a large wooden chair, exquisitely carved with intricate designs which included my name in ancient runic letters. I seemed to be able to read them. Beside it was a uniquely designed but equally elegant chair which had no seat and consisted only of a backrest. Inscribed on it in Roman letters was the name "Cuauhtémoc," and on the table before it was a card saying "Reserved."
So Grandma and I once again had dinner together. And I must emphasize that this was dinner because back in Minnesota we called the noonday meal dinner and the evening meal supper. I ate carne de res while Grandma had carne de puerco.
For dessert we had lefse, and we were finishing it when Hroðulf, nephew of Wealhtheow and Hrothgar, returned with the news. He'd spoken with Oðin, who had resolved the situation of MacClayne's lost shipmates of LCF One; they would be invited to come and stay in Asgarð.
"I think Major Benson will be satisfied with that," I said.
"Ah yes, the unfortunate Major Benson." Hroðulf sighed. "Did you know that the major was found in an insane asylum near London?"
"Really?" I said in surprise. "How did that happen?"
"He's been there for 30 years now, since the end of the war, when he was diagnosed as suffering from incredible delusions. You see, when he discovered the crew of LCF One languishing in the cold Norse hell, he reported the sad news to his commanding officer, who decided the major needed a rest and put him on extended leave. But he then tried to petition Parliament, and even appealed to the King, asking them to intercede with the Norse gods on behalf of the lost crewmen. That's when he was placed in an asylum."
"'Delusions'?" I protested. "How can you say 'delusions'? Niflheim exists--I've seen the place myself. And Oðin himself has been there. So has Hermoð, and probably others as well."
"You're absolutely right, Olaf. It is as you say. Nevertheless, the major was indeed suffering from an astounding delusion. His delusion was to believe that either Parliament or the king would ever consider interceding with the Norse gods."
"Is there nothing we can do for him?"
"When the major sees that the crew members have been released from Niflheim and invited to Asgarð, he'll hopefully understand that he no longer needs to plead their case. If he stops talking about it, there's a good chance the shrinks will pronounce him cured and let him go."
"That sounds reasonable to me. I hope they see it that way," I said. Hroðulf then excused himself and went on his way.
I spent the rest of the afternoon with Grandma and she showed me around. We walked through fields of flowers and came to a small but noisy river which cut its way through a lava flow.
Following the river upstream, we passed through a series of magnificent stone gardens and finally came to a place where the water poured out from under the lava and formed a large pool amidst the pines. I knew at once that this had to be Urðarbrunni--the Spring of Urð--the place where Urð was known to sit and carve the lives of men on pieces of wood.
We walked along the edge till we came to a place where lotus lilies grew, the surface around them matted with rafts of floating leaves, the air alive with the fragrance of their flowers. On the shore stood a block of black basalt with an inscription in Japanese. Nearby sat a group of Buddhist monks in saffron robes, meditating.
I peered down between the lily pads. The water was crystal clear, and I kept looking deeper and deeper. It seemed bottomless. In the darkness below I could see the River Sanzu, flowing into a dark valley which was surrounded by tall, needle-peaked mountains.
Then I looked still further, and found myself gazing into the bunker bar at Niflheim. There were the lost sailors and marines.
They were involved in a bustle of activity, packing their sea-bags and laughing and shouting in such spirited voices that one might have thought their favorite soccer team had just won a tournament. I stood there watching them as they finished their packing and filed out, each with his sea bag on one shoulder and his rifle slung over the other.
But not all of them. There remained a single marine, sitting alone at the table, staring into an empty cup. It was MacClayne. A small cloud of vapor formed from his breath, and he shivered slightly from the cold. Finally he got up and began scrounging for another bottle.
Grandma and I circled our way back, through the stone gardens, and once again into the fields of red and yellow flowers. Not far away the snowcapped peaks glistened in the sunlight while white clouds floated across the deep blue sky above.
"Tell me about Chayo," Grandma said.
I spoke at great length of how we'd met and how I'd come to know her.
"She sounds like a good girl, a wise woman. I'm glad you found this Chayo," Grandma said. Then her face lit up even more brightly than before, and she said, "And now there'll be great grandchildren."
I smiled sadly and said nothing.
"Olaf!" she said. "I want you to go back. Marry Chayo, have children, finish your career in geology and live out your life."
I shook my head. "Grandma, I don't think people come to this place just for visits. My life is over with."
"Don't give up so easily," she admonished me. "You know it was often said, even before Viking times, that Urð may spare an undoomed man."
"But I must be doomed," I said. "Otherwise, why am I here?"
"That's what I was wondering. Why are you here?"
I looked around for an answer, as if the flowers of the meadow could offer up an explanation. Then I saw them, sitting silently in a large circle, the Chichimecas, the same ones who'd come out to meet me in doña Rosario's courtyard. In their midst was the warrior with the obsidian-edged warclub. He looked at me expectantly. What was it that I had agreed to do? I dug in my pocket and found the object I had removed from around Julio Pérez's neck. I walked up to the warrior and carefully laid it on the ground in front of him. He nodded gravely without saying anything.
I returned to where Grandma was waiting.
"What was all that about?" she asked. "I've never seen those folks here before."
"There was something they'd asked me to do for them," I said, "something of theirs that had to be returned." I told her of my encounter with the Chichimecas on the day I met Chayo.
"Do you think that could be the reason you came here?" she said. "Maybe you could go back to Chayo now."
Before anything more could be said, there was an announcement over the intercom of an event at the banquet hall -- an awards ceremony.
The great hall seemed regal and austere with the dinner dishes removed, the tables rearranged, the platform adorned with floral displays and the walls all around hung with tapestries. A large crowd was assembling and the air hummed with voices as people chatted while waiting for the ceremonies to begin. At the head of the hall on a crowded bench sat a distinguished panel composed of personages from the various Norse pantheons. There were the Æsir and Vanir, as well as legendary and mythical personalities from the age of heroes. I spotted Wealhtheow sitting next to her husband Hrothgar, and behind them stood Arminius, the chieftain who'd halted Roman imperialism at the Teutoburg Forest. Arminius had been the Hô Chi Minh of his day.
Also present were representatives from the Catholic period and notables of the Lutheran era. I was surprised to see Martin Luther among them. He had certainly expected to go to the Christian heaven, and must've been quite astounded to find himself in Asgarð. Next to him sat King Gustavus Adolphus of the Thirty Years War.
Grandma whispered to me, "Gustavus is the only Swede we Norwegians allow up there on the panel." She added that the Icelanders had banned King Harald the Fair-haired of Norway. "They've been cursing that man for a thousand years," she said, "still mad at him for kicking them out of Norway."
In fact, there weren't many warrior kings from historic times in this place, she explained, because one region's hero was another's oppressor, and many were as brutal to their own people as they were to their enemies. "You won't see Harald Hardradi around here," she said. "He was not welcomed by anyone, not even by his own countrymen." In what would've been Harald Hardradi's place sat Harold Godwinnson, the Anglo-Saxon king who'd given him "seven feet of good English soil."
"How did that come about? " I asked her. "I mean, I'm glad of it, but it does surprise me. You know Snorri Sturluson called Harald Hardradi the greatest of all Norse warrior kings."
"Ah, yes, but that was back in the Middle Ages," she reminded me. "Today we Scandinavians are the most democratic of all people. So we voted Hardradi off the panel and out of Asgarð."
"Really?" I said in surprise. "There do seem to be some major changes. But I see Oðin is still presiding, as in ancient times."
"What else would you expect? Oðin's our ancestral father. We're certainly not going to vote him out of office!" she said. "Naturally, we did impose a few limitations on his godly powers and status."
At a far end of the panel sat Thor. Red-faced and bleary-eyed, he was sipping coffee from a paper cup.
"Thor's in an alcohol rehabilitation program," Grandma whispered to me. "That was also part of the new arrangement."
Scandinavians from all eras and regions seemed to be represented. One panel member was a U.S. Civil War veteran, a corporal in the 15th Wisconsin Regiment. Near him sat Joe Hill, the IWW labor organizer.
Grandma glanced impatiently at her watch. The event wasn't to begin for another five minutes. I continued to explore the hall with my eyes. Behind the panel of pantheons, where I hadn't noticed it at first was a large wooden tub of steaming water. Then I saw that there were a large number of people in it--it seemed to be a Jacuzzi. From time to time panelists stepped over to the tub to speak to one or more of its members.
I was told that the people in the tub were consultants whose role was to lend the wisdom of past ages to the deities and dignitaries of the panel. Among them were medieval scholars, Jewish and Moslem as well as Christian. Averroës, Avicenna, Maimonides, and Ockham. At one side were several Asian scholars, authors and poets, some in saffron robes, others wearing swords. There were also many western enlightenment personalities including Newton and Voltaire. Kant and Hegel naturally had their place in this tub, as did socialist thinkers from Proudhon and San Simon to Karl Marx and Rosa Luxembourg. Presiding over this distinguished body was Miguel Cervantes de Saavedra, who seemed to be taking everything very seriously.
"Why are those scholars soaking in a Jacuzzi tub?" I asked grandma. "Wouldn't a table and chairs be more appropriate for them on this occasion?"
"Yes, perhaps so," Grandma told me. "What happened was that Loki was assigned the task of building something suitable for a think tank."
Before I could comment on that, the ceremony started.
Oðin entered and took his place at the center of the panel. Silence fell on the gathering. Freya of the Vanir arose, her long golden hair falling nearly to the floor. She adjusted the microphone, tapped it and said, "Can everyone hear me?"
"Yaah! Yaah! We can hear you!" responded voices from the back of the hall.
Freya began with the reading of an ancient ritual in Old Norse:
"Hljóð bið ek allar helgar kindir . . ." she read. Listen up, I ask you, holly kindred, daughters and sons of Heimdallr.
This was followed by the singing of ballads and the reciting of poems. Some were especially ancient, in language so archaic that I wondered if Oðin himself understood them. Others were contemporary. A good many lauded the deeds of heroes who'd slain fire-breathing dragons, while others extolled the power of wisdom over force of arms.
This part of the ceremony concluded with a Bob Dylan song, Blowing in the Wind.
Then the awards giving began. A good many were to be handed out this evening. Members of the panel took turns in presenting the awards, which included gold rings, sun dials, coffee mugs and embroidered T-shirts. Several virtues were being honored, including valor and independent-mindedness.
The independent-minded persons were called up first, since their virtue is the one which Norse people consider the greatest. The recipients of this highly coveted award included not only humans, but also birds and animals who had set good examples. Among the award receivers was a goose who'd flown north for the winter.
There was a standing ovation for the frostbitten goose, who was given an electric blanket along with a gold band, while Snorri recited some appropriate verses from the Edda:
Cattle die, kinsmen die.
one day you die yourself;
but the words of praise will not perish
when one wins fair fame.
Following that were the valor awards, presented by Queen Wealhtheow of Heorot, wife of Hrothgar of the Spear Danes. As she got up from the table and moved to the podium, she seemed almost to float rather than walk in her long, flowing dress.
"Olaf!" she called out.
At first I thought it must be some other Olaf, but she was looking right at me. "Olaf," Wealhtheow repeated. I wished I was wearing some nicer clothing for the event. My shirt was bloodied and had a bullet hole in it, but it seemed to be okay.
She was a stately woman, elderly but good-looking despite her years. She smiled kindly at me, then addressed the audience in a resonant voice that was sweet and gentle. She began by saying a few things about me, briefly summarizing my encounter with Julio Pérez and the other bad guys.
"Although it is not the principal reason for his award, we must mention that Olaf went down with a gun in his hand, firing," she said. "Truly in the best of Norse tradition, like Scandinavian warriors in the days of Hrothgar and myself. "Nor was the battle lost. Olaf fell, but so did two of the evildoers. And, as Olaf went down, his companion, Cuauhtémoc the valiant warrior chicken, continued the battle, putting the third member of the attacking party to flight. . ."
There was applause, then Wealhtheow continued. "Yes, I think we can say that Olaf did well. But much of the credit goes to the chicken. Truly a fine companion and a great warrior. And, as many of you may have noticed, we have reserved a place for the bird here in our hall. He will be presented with a gold band.
"None but heroes were honored by us in the days of Heorot. Honors were never given lightly. This evening we see fit to honor Olaf with an award for his refusal to join the army, his refusal to be part of an unjust war against an innocent enemy," the queen said. "For that, Olaf was often called a coward. It takes much courage to stand tall and be called a coward for doing the right thing."
She paused to take a sip of water from her glass, then continued, "Olaf spoke truth to the unwilling ears of power. It is for that act of courage and bravery that we are honoring Olaf this evening."
There was more applause. It filled the great hall, and Wealhtheow tried several times to interrupt. Finally it subsided enough for her to resume speaking.
"Let us proceed," said Wealhtheow. "But first, perhaps there are objections. If so, we shall hear them." She slowly cast her gaze around the now silent hall, then took another sip of water. "Okay, there being no objections, we shall ... Yes, you wish to say something?" She was looking towards the back of the room.
A thin old man had gotten up and was slowly making his way between the tables as he approached the front. He was at least eighty, a farmer dressed up in his Sunday best. His tattered gray suit was several decades out of fashion, and the sleeves and collar of his white shirt were frayed. His dark blue tie was knotted so tightly that I wondered how he could breath.
"Mr. Jensen!" I gasped, almost audibly. Old Mr. Jensen had been our neighbor when I was a little kid back in Minnesota. His wife had passed away, as had most of his friends, and he lived alone. If he had any children, they had never seemed to visit him.
For some reason I'd taken a dislike to him and did all sorts of nasty things to make his life miserable. Sometimes when he drove by in his ancient Model A Ford, I threw rotten apples at him. Once when he had his window open, I hit him right in the face with a really squishy one. At the time, I had thought that was really funny.
But now, as I realized how sad and lonely the old man must've been during his final years, I sensed the additional pain I must've inflicted upon him. Suddenly, I felt overwhelmingly remorseful.
"Mr. Jensen," I said in the best voice I could muster, "I realize I caused you a lot of grief when I was a little kid. So I don't blame you for being angry. But what can I do about it now? "
The old man stood there, looking at me, not saying anything for a long moment. Behind him stood Martin Luther, Erasmus of Rotterdam, and Søren Kirkegaard, all three with arms crossed and stern looks on their faces. Mr. Jensen glanced back at them and received a collective nod. Then he returned his gaze to me and spoke.
"There is one thing you can do right now," he said in his parched voice.
"Yes, what is it?"
"Get the damn hell out of here!"
*** CHAPTER 52 ***
As my eyes came into focus, I was looking at a crosshatched pattern of boards and beams which constituted the ceiling over my bed. I was in a room of an adobe house which I recognized as that of doña Rosario, Chayo's aunt. Uruapan! I was in Uruapan.
There was a loud clucking sound. It came from the backrest of a chair by my bed, and, on seeing me awake, the bird hopped down onto the bed and grasped my arm with his talon.
There was a gold band on his leg.
Chayo was entering the room.
*** THE END ***
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