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WASHING DAY

CHAPTER XII

Martell was awakened by the telephone. From the couch, it wasn't far to answer it. 

"Good morning, Mr. Martell," said a female voice that sounded familiar. "I'm calling from KARE-TV in Minneapolis. I wonder if you could make some kind of statement on that Runestone at the W.O.W. farm." 

"I really can't improve on what I said yesterday. I believe it to be an authentic pre-Columbian artifact, but my reasons are subjective ones, which is pretty embarrassing to me as a historian. You'd do better to talk to Sigfod Oski. He's the expert." 

"We've been trying, but we can't seem to locate him. You weren't answering the phone either last night. What's going on in Epsom, anyway? We've got reports of three car accidents, a rape, nine assaults, four major acts of vandalism and a couple indecent exposures from down there last night. I thought you were a quiet town." 

"We were, last I heard." 

"By the way, do you know anything about Ben Goss?" 

"Ben Goss? Oh yes, the reporter. He was from another station, I think." 

"Yes he was. But we all drink in the same holes, and the rumor is he's disappeared like last week's paycheck. Did you notice anything unusual when you saw him yesterday?" 

"No. I left before Oski did, and Goss was still there then." 

"Well look, if we get in touch with Oski, and we send a crew down, would you care to be a celebrity again for a few minutes?" 

"I'd really rather not. I haven't anything to tell you. I'd recommend you concentrate on Oski. He's more knowledgeable, and a whole lot more colorful." 

"Well you think about it. We'll call you back. Have a nice day." 

Martell hung up, looked at the phone a moment, then unplugged it. 

While he waited for Corson to wake up he washed his dishes and read. He thought it might be interesting to go through some of the classic histories in his library and see what parts weren't true. But his sense didn't seem to work on them. Perhaps time had dissipated whatever energy affected him. An original document, like the stone, would have been another matter. Novels gave him no impression whatever. He almost took out a Bible, but found he didn't really want to know. 

Corson appeared at the bedroom door at last, rumpled, bristly and sheepish. Martell gave him coffee. Neither felt like breakfast. 

"Thanks for the trouble, Carl," Corson said. "No need to see me home. I'll be good. Hey, I'm a man of my times. Now that I've made it through the crisis I laugh lightly and carry on with my personal lifestyle. God, my head hurts." 

"You want cream or sugar?" 

"It's all the same," said Corson, but he took both. Martell let him go afterwards. He had told the truth. 

Corson stopped at the door as he was leaving and turned back. "I suppose, if you want to be legalistic about it, if I had wanted fidelity I should have been faithful myself." 

Martell found he had no wish to be alone. He looked unhappily at the telephone, plugged it back in, and dialed Oski. 

No answer. He sighed and scratched his wounded hand. He'd said he might talk to Harry. He called him. 

"Come on over," Harry said. He sounded tired. "I've made my morning visits, and as usual I don't have to prepare a sermon, and to be frank I don't feel like working today." 

Martell walked up to his house, relishing the crisp air, his collar turned up. 

The town looked as if it had had a rough night. Traffic signs had been run down, there was broken glass at most of the intersections, and toilet paper streamed in the wind from what seemed like every tree in town. Passing the church, he saw that someone had spray-painted in green on its yellow stone wall, Christmas cancelled. Joseph confessed. Sorry. 

Harry's room was pleasantly warm and dim, the piles of books unobtrusive but present, like good friends. 

Harry sat by his rolltop desk. He wore a gray sweater, inside out, and his shoelaces were untied. His face was gray and his eyes sleepy. Martell sat in a deep, sprung armchair facing him, and told him Elaine's story. 

Harry frowned. "Is she lying?" 

"No. She might be mistaken, but she believes what she says." 

"Yes. And you say she's not a Christian." 

"She made that clear." 

"Would you describe her as emotionally well-balanced?" 

"Who is these days? I don't think she's crazy, but I don't have any sense for sanity more than you or anyone else. I think insanity would fool me. If someone said he was Napoleon and sincerely believed it, it wouldn't ring my bell. She has to be crazy. Or Oski is. Right?" 

Harry frowned and made a "hmm" noise. 

Martell opened his mouth, but found he had nothing true to say. 

"Something happened between the two of you," Harry said. It wasn't a question. 

Martell shifted in the chair. "I didn't touch her. But I've got some bad nights coming." 

"Maybe things'll be different this time." 

Martell shook his head. "We're further apart than ever. But all the feelings are still there. Stupid." 

"Maybe something will happen to surprise you." 

"What can we do for her, Harry?" 

Harry winced and arched his back. Martell looked away. He sometimes forgot his friend's constant pain. 

"If it were anyone but Oski," Harry said, "I wouldn't be concerned. But that one! Tell me, Carl — is he a liar?" 

"I've only caught him in one direct lie — but he is a liar. I feel it, in the background, even when he's telling the truth. But maybe that's just personal prejudice." 

Harry frowned. "It sounds about right. Truth is the material lies are made of. A truly great liar would lie with his very being, even when his words were true." 

"What do you mean, 'It sounds about right?'" 

Harry waved a hand. "An idea I have. Nothing I'd care to speak of now. One thing though — if you should meet with him —" 

"Oh, God." 

"Please Carl." 

"Sorry." 

"If you should meet with Oski, and he should offer you any food, don't eat it." 

"You think he'd poison me?" 

"Umm, perhaps." Harry's eyes slid away from Martell's, embarrassed at what they both knew to be an evasion. Martell didn't push the matter, but it troubled him. 

Harry patted his stomach. "A fast probably won't do me any harm." 

"A fast?" 

"Prayer and fasting. The best I have to offer. If I were a Catholic I could light candles and say a mass, but as a good Lutheran the weapons of my warfare are prayer and fasting." 

"You take it seriously? The magic?" 

"Let's say I'm not afraid to make a fool of myself. Especially between friends. You can tell your lady that I'll be praying for her, for whatever my prayers are worth — and more than that, for God's grace." 

"I didn't come here for this kind of talk, Harry. I came to be told there was a logical explanation, and that I have nothing to fear." 

"You have everything to fear, Carl, like any other soul. If there is magic here — and I'm saying if — you'll need to choose sides. No-man's land is no place to be when the shooting starts." 

"Well Harry, if there is a God I hope he's noticed that I'm entirely unsuited to combat." 

"I wouldn't say that too loudly. The Lord seems to enjoy singling out people who talk that way for especially hazardous duty." 

"And I should believe in Somebody with that kind of judgment?" 

"Absolutely. Last night our Bible Study at church got a bit out of hand, but I had intended to talk about a passage in 1 Corinthians where Paul says that most of his converts were neither bright nor successful, and then he says that God has used the weak things in the world to confound the strong, and so on. 

"The idea I meant to develop was that God seems to favor using swords for plowshares, and plowshares for swords, and shepherds' slings for artillery, and cowards for heroes. 

"After all, what does it prove if He wipes out an army with a bigger army? But if he uses the jawbone of an ass, as the man said, 'That's news.' 

"Have you ever noticed the advertising our church PR people put out? It usually pictures the average Lutheran as somebody out of a real estate ad — young, upwardly mobile, 2.3 kids and a dog, the wife is the chairman of the board for some major corporation. Well I don't run into that family very often on the job. Most of the saints I meet have money trouble, and weight trouble, and some kind of marriage trouble, and probably a nervous tic that drives you crazy to look at it, and now and then they're just plain bonkers. And I think those are the ones God can use, because they don't stand in His light... That is, as long as we let them live...." Harry's face hung like melting butter, and his eyes were tired. 

"Is something wrong?" Martell asked. 

"Nothing I can talk about. Pardon me. Go on with what you were saying." 

Martell said, "So the good news you have for me is that if I come to terms with God, He'll probably set me to whatever job I want least?" 

"No, not necessarily. But do you really think that, when you come face to face with Ultimate Truth, Ultimate Truth is going to shuffle through some paperwork and say, 'Well, you seem to be doing all right. Carry on.'? Don't you think He's likely to ask you to stretch yourself a bit?" 

"If I have to be brave to face God, then I'm afraid I'll probably just keep running." 

Harry rubbed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Carl. I get carried away. God doesn't work by my formulas, or anybody's but His own." 

Martell stood up. "Well thanks. I don't recall that anybody's ever given up a meal before just as a favor to me." 

"I have said too much." 

"You didn't lie." 

Martell walked home, setting aside thoughts of God. The mention of fasting reminded him that it was past lunchtime. He'd been living mostly on coffee for days. He made a resolution to try and get some orange juice down. 

He noticed a raven perched in one of the fir trees on his corner. Two ravens in as many days. Very odd. 

He found his apartment door open. The smoke alarm was screaming and white smoke billowed out. 

A fire extinguisher hung on the wall a few doors down. He ran and got it, then rushed inside. 

He collided with someone. He pulled the person out the door. 

It was Elaine, coughing. 

He sighed. "You tried to cook," he said. 

She coughed some more, and her eyes streamed tears. "You — you forgot to lock your door — you still do that, even in these times — and I thought it would be nice to make you something. I — I turned the oven off and opened the doors and windows. It'll air out. But the oven will need cleaning." 

Martell laughed. 

Elaine sobbed, "I wanted to surprise you! I found your address in the phonebook." 

"It was very sweet. Especially knowing how much you hate to cook." 

Mrs. Lindstrom from the next apartment poked her head out and asked, "Should I call the fire department?" 

"No thanks. Just a burned dinner." 

"It was a casserole," said Elaine with woe. 

"Then it's all for the best. I hate casseroles." 

When the air cleared they went back inside. Martell examined the oven and phoned for pizza. By the time it arrived they were able to close some of the windows. Martell ate a piece and kept it down without thinking to be surprised about it, and they drank beer from the refrigerator. 

Elaine refused to be consoled. "I mess up everything," she said, wolfing her third slice. "Everything I touch. No wonder you hate me." 

"Hate you? I like you better right now than I have in ten years, and for all that time I've been in love with you. You have no idea how the smell of burnt cheese brings back the old days." 

She dabbed her lips with a paper napkin. "What's it like?" 

"What's what like?" 

"Not being able to lie. Is it really hard?" 

"Not that bad, really. I remember I saw a movie once where the main character couldn't lie for some reason, and it was all about how impossible it is to live without your falsehoods. Like the characters in Ibsen's The Wild Duck. But I've found that it's a very rare situation where the truth won't serve just fine if you think about how you present it. Granted, there have been unpleasant moments, but I've only had a few of them. It's really not that terrible so far." 

"It makes me afraid to talk to you, knowing you can't be gallant and spare my feelings." 

"I'll be as gallant as I can." 

After a moment she said, "I hurt you, didn't I?" in a low voice. 

"Yes." 

"That's what I'm like, Carl. We might as well both tell the truth. I'm a taker. I'd like to be a nicer person, but it seems like so much work." 

"I always adored your honesty. To live with you I had to learn to be just as honest, because you always got the truth out of me whatever I did. But one thing you never spotted. You never saw how wonderful you were, how wonderful you could be. I wanted so badly to help you see yourself through my eyes." 

"I couldn't be what you wanted, Carl. That's why I left. It didn't have anything to do with Forsythe. Afterwards I realized how lousy my timing had been, but by then you'd gone away." 

Their hands brushed, and in a moment they were up, and she was in his arms, and it was like coming home. He held her tight and kissed her hard and wanted nothing else forever. 

She looked up at him and said, "Run away with me. Run with me now. Oski's been out of town since yesterday. I don't think I was followed. We could get away." 

He was ready to do it. 

At that moment there was a knock at the door. He pulled free, saying, "Keep my place," and went to check the peephole. 

He came back at a run. 

"It's Oski," he whispered. 

* * *

Harry was praying for Carl, and for his own peace, when Minna tapped on his door. "It's the Buchan boy," she said. "He says he needs to talk with you." 

"Send him in then." 

"Well don't forget you've got to finish your call reports. And are you going to let me cut your hair this afternoon?" 

"Not possible. I've got an appointment to see the bishop." 

"Will you be back for supper?" 

"I'll probably be back by then, but don't make me anything until further notice." 

"You're not fasting again?" 

"It's been months!" 

"It's been a few weeks. What's the problem now?" 

"I'll fill you in later. Let Rory in now." 

"You'd better. If you're going to fast, I might as well join you. Cooking for one's a waste of time." 

"What's on your mind?" Harry asked as Rory sat in the chair Martell had used earlier. 

"Do you have any books on witchcraft?" Rory's eyes were red and he hadn't shaved. 

"I think I might have a couple. But I don't recommend them." 

"I know. Witchcraft is a pretty ugly subject." 

This boy's in pain, Harry thought. "That's not exactly what I meant," he said. "There are popular books on witchcraft and scholarly ones. The popular ones are usually either friendly to witchcraft, which makes them spiritually dangerous, or if they're hostile they're often a kind of sanctimonious pornography. The scholarly ones are just depressing. The church doesn't come out in a very flattering light." 

Rory edged forward in the chair. "Yeah, that's what people say — but is it really true?" 

"The trials are well documented." 

"No, I mean — is it true that the trials were such a bad thing? OK — maybe they could have been more humane — but have you ever wondered whether the witches deserved to die?" 

"Rory, the witch courts of the late Middle Ages and after were industries, profiting from the confiscated property of their victims. The prisoner was assumed guilty even if proven innocent. There wasn't another reign of terror like it until the French Resolution. And putting Christ's name on it made it the foulest kind of blasphemy." 

"Yeah, yeah," said Rory, "but that's assuming witches aren't real. But suppose you knew there were people out there — evil people, worse than serial killers — people who kill and pervert and poison and seduce and —" 

"What's the matter, Rory? What's happened to you?" 

Rory looked at the carpet, elbows on knees. "I did something," he said. "Something I swore I'd never do again. I can't talk about it now. But — then — it got all mixed up with something that happened a long time ago, the wickedest thing I ever saw. There's a man who's evil. I met him in California. And now he's here." 

"Rory, if you know about something illegal going on, you should go to the police." 

"They couldn't help. Not everything evil is illegal." 

Harry frowned. "Does this have anything to do with the Way of the Old Wisdom?" 

"I can't talk about it." 

"Would you like to make a confession, Rory?" 

Rory started. "I'm not a Catholic." 

"Neither am I. But there are times —" 

"Look — I didn't come to talk about my problems. I came to find out what my Christian duty is. I read those books of yours about the Canaanites, and frankly they weren't much help. 

"You can sit there and say it's bad to burn witches, but you've got to admit that God disagrees with you. That's clear from the Bible." 

"It's a complicated matter —" 

"I don't think so. 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.' The Canaanites are practicing witchcraft and human sacrifice, so wipe them out. 'Your eye shall not spare them.' Are you telling me God didn't mean it?" 

"He meant it." 

"Then why not today?" 

"Will you hear me out? Promise to let me finish what I have to say?" 

Rory nodded and sank back in the chair. 

"Right is right," said Harry, "and it doesn't change. But our comprehension grows, like a tree. New branches, new rings in the trunk, but deep inside the sapling is still there." 

Rory opened his mouth and Harry said, "You promised." Rory settled again, frowning. 

"What bothers most people about the conquest of Canaan — what bothers me — is that God told His people to annihilate the population, men women and children. If He had sent fire and brimstone or an earthquake, it wouldn't bother me nearly as much. 

"But what I have to remember is that, in a real sense, the Hebrews were like an earthquake. They were a force of nature. They were very different from you and me in important ways. They were happier, for one thing. Righteousness was very simple for them — plain outward obedience. They didn't agonize over sins of the heart, as we do, because God hadn't taught them about those things. And He had not told them that it was murder to kill foreigners. That lesson came later. 

"So God, who has the ultimate right to take any life, used the Hebrews in their innocence to take a great number of lives. Listen to me — this is important — He would not ask you and me to do the same thing. Between us and those Hebrews stand the towering figures of the great prophets, and of Jesus Christ Himself. To act now as the Hebrews did then would be to devastate our consciences. We would have to set aside the testimony of our Lord, and that we may not do." 

Rory asked, "Are you a pacifist?" 

"No. I believe in just wars. But I don't believe in Holy Wars." 

"Well maybe God's told you something He never told me. Maybe He's set some people aside for... special work." 

"Like killing people for the good of their souls?" 

"I'm just saying what if." 

"If I knew about people who were thinking like that, I'd be scared to death of them. Do you know what the unforgiveable sin is, Rory?" 

"Blaspheming the Holy Spirit." 

"Right. But what kind of blasphemy is that? Read Matthew 12, where Christ talks about it. Read the whole chapter. It's all about willful blindness — blindness so dark that you can look at good and call it evil, and vice versa. The man who can't be forgiven is the man who no longer can tell the difference, who can do abominations in God's name and call it good. When Jesus warns the Pharisees about it, He's looking toward His own crucifixion. That's the sin against the Holy Spirit. Never lie for God, Rory. Lies are always from the enemy. The enemy is a lie; all his power is a lie; it only works when we fall for the lie. There's nothing there. Nothing to fear. Nothing to kill." 

"What if somebody's sacrificing people?" 

"Then it's a matter for the police. The real battle isn't between us and the human sacrificers. It is, and always has been, between those who believe that God has spoken, and must be obeyed, and those who think He hasn't spoken, and must be improvised. Human sacrifice is one improvisation. Witch-burning is another." 

Rory got up. "You believe there are mistakes in the Bible, don't you?" 

"I wouldn't call them mistakes. There are errors of fact, but they don't affect the spiritual truths." 

"Well how do you know there aren't any spiritual mistakes too?" 

"I believe the Bible is God's Word." 

"So you think it can be mistaken about things you can check, but you're sure it's always right about the things you can't check. You know what? That doesn't make any sense at all to me." 

Harry shook his head. "Think about what I've said, Rory. Think and pray. And read your Bible. There's a point where you have to leave Reason behind, but not before you come to the end of Reason." 

"Yeah, well. Thanks." 

"Let me know what you decide, Rory." 

"Yeah." Rory went out. 

I suppose I said all the wrong things, Harry thought. I always end up preaching. He said a prayer for Rory, but had trouble concentrating. The conversation, on top of last night's confrontation, had upset him. 

Ten minutes later Minna tapped on the door and poked her head in. "Have you seen the church key, Harry? I wanted to go over and check the altar flowers, but it's not on its hook." 

Harry patted his pockets. "I don't seem to have it. I suppose I could have put it down somewhere and forgot it, you know me. Here, use my master." 

"All right, but you give me the other one if you find it. I don't like having those things floating around. I'll be back in a few minutes." 

"I'll be gone by then, unless I lose my car keys too." 

* * *

Elaine hid in the bedroom and Martell answered the door. 

Oski was smiling, showing his long teeth. Martell had never seen such teeth. Oski's nostrils flared, and Martell was sure he smelled his fear. 

"Good afternoon," said Oski. "I hope you don't mind my knocking you up without telephoning first. I happened to be passing." 

Dry-mouthed, Martell invited him in. The room tightened. 

Oski gave him his overcoat, and Martell hung it in the closet. 

"What a charming place," Oski boomed. "Where in the world can you find true comfort — comfort unrestrained by the tyranny of fashion — but in the homes of bachelors?" 

"I apologize for the mess. I don't get much company. The smoke's from a cooking accident." 

"Please, no apologies. I used to live in much the same style, back before my books started selling. Those were good days. I miss them in a way." 

"Would you like some coffee?" Small talk, Martell. Keep it to small talk. 

"Yes, thank you. Instant is fine, as long as it's black." He picked his way through the books and newspapers to the bookshelves. 

"I love to spy out other men's libraries," Oski said as Martell put cups of water in the microwave and fumbled with saucers and spoons. "Everything worth knowing about a man can be divined from his books. And if he has no books, he's not worth knowing. 

"A good collection. Yes. Yes. Yes. Of course. Even old Gibbon. Your Tacitus is worn — it's actually been read. Oski, but that goes without saying. And my old friend Snorri. 

"It's all about stories, you know. Tales. Each man is a tale — a saga — made in part of the tales he's heard, with something extra that each adds for himself. Sometimes it drives me mad that, old as I am, I can never live long enough to learn all the tales worth knowing. 

"And what's this?" He turned to the Viking painting. "A true Norseman. No silly horns on the helmet. No unnecessary fur. But he has the sea in his eyes, and you can see that he fears nothing below the gods. Who painted this?" 

"A student of mine, a few years ago. She's a commercial artist in Minneapolis now. I suppose she had a crush on me. She got over it, but she painted me that Viking before she graduated." 

"You must give me her address. I'd like to be painted by this woman." 

Martell nearly dropped a spoonful of coffee crystals. His mouth went dry. 

"Will you do that, Martell? Give me her name and address so I can commission her? It could be salutary for her career." 

Martell watched the crystals dissolving in the cup, like blood in a bath. "I don't think I could do that," he whispered. 

Oski walked toward him. "What was that?" 

"I don't think I could do that." 

"No? Whyever not?" 

Martell couldn't look at him. He couldn't find words. 

Oski was very close now. Martell felt his skin contract. 

"I wonder what you could have against me, Martell? Have I ever shown you anything but friendship?" 

Martell forced the words out. "You were vicious to my friend Harry." 

"Herr Pastor? Come now, such men enjoy being baited by apostates. It feeds their martyrdom. It must be something more, surely, that makes you think me a danger to the young. Could it be something you've heard from Elaine?" 

Martell swung to face him, spilling the coffee over his trouser leg, and knew as quickly that his eyes had been read. Fear stoppered his throat. 

"I've known Elaine longer and more intimately than you did," said Oski. "Do you think she could have made a rendezvous without my knowledge? 

"Oh for God's sake, don't look at me like a gaffed halibut. Do you think I'm some kind of Victorian husband? You met in a church — I very much doubt you'd have the panache to do the deed in that setting. The secrecy was amusing though. Poor Elaine is quite terrified of me." 

Martell breathed again. Oski might not know Elaine was here. "Why don't you set her free then?" he asked. 

"Elaine may leave whenever she likes." 

Lie. But Martell didn't have the courage to throw it in his face. 

"Do you really believe," Oski asked, "that I'm holding her by force? Women as individuals are quite interchangeable to me. It's the principle of the Female that matters. Only Elaine has developed this extraordinary notion that people who cross me tend to have accidents. The woman should really get professional help. I've suggested it often." 

Martell stood speechless. He dared not call this man a liar. Especially while he was hiding his mistress in his bedroom. 

"Why am I here then, you ask?" said Oski. "To cultivate you, Martell. You intrigue me." 

"That doesn't make any sense." Martell was sopping coffee off his leg with a wet towel. 

"Why not? I liked your articles. You wouldn't have published them if you didn't think they had worth. I happen to agree with you on many points. I wish you'd publish more. You're one of the soundest men in the field. Unlike the children of this age, you have a feeling for the power — the magic — of words. Of truth and lies. All you need is to learn arrogance and bald assertion and you'll rise swiftly." 

It's difficult to keep up your defences with someone who calls you one of the soundest men in your field. Martell let himself relax a little and handed Oski the surviving coffee cup on a saucer. They sat, Oski in an easy chair, Martell on the sofa. 

"Since I've met you," Oski went on, "you interest me even more. I'm a judge of men, and I see in you great things. You don't lie, do you?" 

Martell looked at Oski quickly, but read nothing in the gray eye. "No," he said. 

Oski smiled, sipping his coffee. "I care about the truth," he said. "It's a virtue I don't possess, so I demand it in others. I visited Conan Doyle's grave once, at Minstead in the New Forest. Do you know his epitaph? Steel True, Blade Straight. Marvelous. I love that word, true. We spell it t-r-o in Norwegian, and we use it as a noun, but it means much the same. Etymologically it goes back to the image of a tree — straight as a tree trunk. And of course trees are central to everything. Even the Christ climbed a tree. 

"In old Norse cosmology the very universe is a tree, Yggdrasil. Do you know why that is, Martell? It's simple when you think of it. Each man's universe is his own mind. And the mind is a tree, with roots down deep in the evolutionary past where dragons gnaw. A straight, reasonable trunk, more or less reasonable according to the individual, then a jungle of forking and twining and twisting nerves carrying thought out in every direction, and out beyond thought to the tiny shoots and leaves which are the imagination. All kinds of creatures, the creatures of the imagination, run to and fro among its branches in ceaseless activity. And when the wind of the gods blows in those branches they cross one another and touch and — crack! — an idea is born like a spark. There is much to learn from myth, Martell, for those who have ears to hear." 

He sipped his coffee again. "Do you dream, Martell?" he asked, tipping an eyebrow. 

"Like anyone else, I suppose." 

"I'll tell you why I write of Vikings as I do. It's because of my dreams. The research, the study, the revision and dog-work, they all have their parts, but it began with dreams. To dream is to climb the tree. 

"When I was a boy I dreamed of Vikings. I saw the ships, the houses, the clothing, the weapons and tools. And would you believe, Martell, nothing I have learned since has essentially contradicted those dreams? When some 'fact' in a learned article seems to do so, I know the historian has gotten muddled. It's proven so often enough in the past to give me confidence for the rest. 

"I wonder — have you ever had such dreams, Martell? Your guesses are so often right." 

"No, my dreams aren't like that." 

"Perhaps you forget them. It would be interesting to hypnotize you. Might I?" 

Martell swallowed. "I'd rather not." 

"As you wish, but it's a pity. You are a Norwegian, aren't you? How did you get a name like Martell?" 

"My great-grandfather's name was Myrdal. He anglicized it, or thought he did. Martell's really Old French, of course, but I suppose the extra l is sort of English." 

"A good name, though. Strong. And honorable, if you care for heroes of Christendom. You have the true Viking look, Martell, if you'd only put on some muscle. What color is your beard?" 

"Red, when I let it grow." 

"I suspected so. Would you believe me if I told you that Erling Skjalgsson looked much so? It's a thing I know." 

"Erling was one of the great ones." 

"He fought St. Olaf. That counts in his favor, from my point of view." 

"He was a Christian. Olaf didn't want his death." 

"So Olaf claimed. Olaf had a wonderful capacity to lie with style — perhaps the most underrated property of sanctity." 

"It's strange to hear you talk about Olaf and Erling as if you'd known them," said Martell. 

Oski smiled. 

Martell's curiosity rose. "What do you know about the runestone?" 

Oski set his saucer down. "I know that Paul Knutsson sailed. He and his men found that the worshippers of the old gods had fled Greenland. The Greenlanders left behind told them the renegades had sailed to Leif's Vinland. They followed them, but sailed by error into Hudson's Bay, which is easily done. As it happened, the Greenlanders had also gone that way. Knutsson's party followed the shoreline some weeks, until they came upon one mad Greenlander, a misfit who had fled the rest. He led them south, by water and portage as far as they could, then by land. After losing some men to the Indians, they set up what you call the Kensington Stone. And very near here, they closed with their prey. They made camp, and one of them, a priest, began carving a second stone. In it he set a rune, for he was a man of lore, and by that rune he meant to bind the old gods forever. Only the mad Greenlander turned and crept to the other camp and warned them, and the Greenlanders attacked by night. The priest finished his stone, dying, and all the Christians were slain. The Greenlanders wandered on, finding no further help from their gods, and at last were made slaves by the Indians, and came to an end." 

"A bloody story, and sad," said Martell. He didn't know if he believed it or not, but he knew Oski was not making it up. 

He thought uneasily of Elaine in the bedroom, afraid to make a noise, listening to them, no doubt silently screaming to him to get rid of Oski. Or wondering why he wasn't keeping his promise to ask for her freedom. But what could he say? Oski had declared her free to go. He had lied, but it had rather closed the subject. 

Oski said, "Do you know what happens when you're tortured? Providing you don't let your fear break you? 

"You go mad. When the Nazis set to work on me, they wanted certain information I held about the Resistance. So I retreated into my dreams. I spent fine days among the Vikings. I watched, I listened. I was so fascinated that it was some time before I noticed whom I was. 

"I was an old man. A wanderer. I looked shabby and poor, and no one paid me mind. I wore a long black cloak, and I carried a heavy staff. My beard was long and gray, and I kept my wide hat pulled down low over one empty eye socket. Do you know what my name was?" 

Martell said nothing. He felt as if the answer would give Oski power. 

"You understand, I can tell," said Oski. "It was odd, though, that I was only the Wanderer. I should have had another aspect, but him I could not find. And my home I could not find, nor my wife, nor my friends, nor my children. Then I remembered that the time in which I walked was shortly after the death of St. Olaf Haraldsson, and it was about that time that I had been said to have died. So I knew my enemy. 

"And knowing that, my reason returned. I found myself transferred to Grini, where I survived until the liberation. 

"I found that I had lost my left eye in one of the beatings I'd taken. And I remembered everything. I remembered whom I was, and whom I had been, from the beginning. 

"I took the name Sigfod Oski — it was not the one I was christened with. I wrote my labor camp poems down. And I began to plan." 

"Plan?" 

"Do you know that Cerafsky's Comet appeared in the year 1362 A.D.? I lost something then. I was cheated, shackled. But the shackles are gone now, and I shall have my own back. 

"A new age approaches, Martell. Not the polystyrene New Age of the gurus, but an age for heroes. Civilization, as you surely realize, is a house of gelatine, built on sand. That is doubly true of that splendid oxymoron, the moral civilization. Let it strangle awhile on its dilemmas and someone's bound to say, 'Enough.' And the citizenry will sink gratefully back into comfortable barbarism. It's nearly time again. That will be a day for men like us, Martell, the ones who've never been at home in a world powered by engines." 

"What, are you planning to bring back tribalism?" 

"Do you know Martell, some time back, in Colonial times, they did a psychological survey of the Zulus in Africa. They discovered an amazing thing. There were no neurotic Zulus. Do you know why?" 

"Why?" 

"Because they lived in tribal groups. They barely had a sense of individual personality. They thought of themselves as part of the tribe, and of course the tribe was infinitely superior to all those ill-born, benighted subhuman other tribes." 

"And of course that made it OK to kill, rob or enslave members of other tribes," said Martell. "It was exactly like the Viking Age." 

"Precisely. Everyone wants happines, wholeness. There's only one way to get it. Go back to the way of life we evolved for. Abandon humanitarianism. Submerge into the tribe once again." 

"White against black. Yellow against white. Warfare without end." 

"More than that! White against white! Black against black! Yellow against yellow! Survival of the fittest! What heroism there will be, what glory!" 

"In a nuclear age? That means annihilation, if it weren't bad enough without it!" 

"Ah, but I will be in charge! I will say what weapons men have. I'll dismantle the modern world. Gone will be the engines. Gone will be the telephones, the computers, the microwave ovens. I will save the environment! I will fill Valhalla with a new generation of warriors! You'll love it, Martell! It will be everything your heart ever wanted!" 

"You're mad," said Martell, but his heart pounded in his chest. 

"I only require one thing. A weapon. It is nearby, I know, for hereabouts I had it last. 

"So I come to you today. Where is my weapon, Martell?" 

Martell looked to see if he was joking. He was not. 

"I — what are you talking about?" 

Oski's eye narrowed. "Do you say you don't have it?" 

"Have what?" 

Oski frowned. "You're not lying. You couldn't be. It's possible you don't understand...." 

He rose. "Very well then. The time is not yet. But you will have the weapon soon. All the lines converge here. When you do, remember — it belongs to me. It is mine. You wouldn't withhold a man's property, would you?" 

Martell could not speak. 

"Speak man, answer!" 

Martell found himself saying, "I might if I knew he meant to do harm with it." 

Oski stepped very close and bent over Martell. His breath was hot as he said, "Answer me three questions, Professor. First — who is the Gelding?" 

The eye compelled him. "You are the Gelding," said Martell. 

"Yes. Something the Nazis did, though fortunately they botched the job. Second question — are you a coward?" 

Martell found himself saying, "No." 

"That is my gift to you, Martell, for you must understand I wish you no ill. Third — is Elaine in this apartment now?

Martell choked. His chest tightened and pain swelled under his ribs. 

"Speak! You cannot lie! You are not the first, but you are the truest! Tell me!" 

"Yes!" Martell groaned. 

Oski cried, "You may come out now, Elaine!" The bedroom door slammed open and Elaine stomped into the room, her eyes furious on Martell. 

"I'm sorry," he moaned. 

"Damn you!" she said. "Damn you to Hell, Carl Martell." 

Oski walked to her and she said, "I'm not coming with you!" But when he seized her arm she went visibly limp, and he led her to the front door. Oski took his coat from the closet and drew something from one of the pockets. 

"I almost forgot," he said. "A little gift for you, Martell. Something exotic for an American. Tinned reindeer meat, from Norway." He set the flat can on the kitchen counter, then took Elaine out. 

Martell watched them go, trembling. 

He sat down and tried to get his control back. After a few minutes he got up and went to the bookshelf. He found The Prose Edda of Snorri Sturlusson. 

He turned to the chapter entitled, "Gylfaginning," the great Norse exposition on Creation and Apocalypse. He paged through it until he found the list he wanted: 

Sigföd, Hnikud,  

Allföd, Atriíd, Farmatýr,  

__Óski...  

Sigföd meant "Battle-father." Óski meant "Fulfiller of desire." 

He paged back in the text and found another name he was looking for. Jälg. It mean "gelding." 

They were all names for one character — a figure which had haunted Martell since he was a little boy wrestling with books too old for him. Mad, treacherous, murderous; a liar and a black magician and a breaker of sanity, yet somehow brave and noble and strangely sad. The high god of the North. 

Odin. 

"That is my gift to you," Oski had said, calling him no coward. But Martell felt himself a coward as he took the can of reindeer meat in a trembling hand and carried it outside to the trash dumpster. 

He knew the story, from the Heimskringla. The one-eyed wanderer with the hat and staff had come to Olaf Trygvesson one night at the farmstead of Avaldsness, and had kept the king up nearly all the night with one mad, glorious tale after another. 

But the wanderer had been gone when the king woke the next morning. Olaf had gone to the kitchen and asked the servants if the stranger had left any meat with them. They said he had. Olaf instructed them to throw the meat out. "For that," he said, "was Odin." 

Scholars still debated the precise significance of that meat. 

Martell did not want to know. 

* * *

MEMORANDUM 
FROM: A. Carnegie Hall, Station Mgr. 
TO: WEEP Announcers 

RE: It has come to our attension that some of our personnels have been rumored to have televesions in their homes. This will ceace immediately. Not only is telivision an incidious menice on our moral fiber of our nation, but is the COMPETTION, and a conflict of interests.

Also, in the future ahead, any personels found to have attended the theater, movies, or dance, or any similar unspiritual entertainments, will have given cause of the termination of those personnels. 

Also, the Lord has revaeled to us that so-called Daylight Savings Time is displesing in His Sight. This months change-over will be the last for WEEP. From now on all time checks all yer long will be given in good, Christian, Standard Time.

Don't bother me.

A.C.H./cak 

 

"You know what the trouble is, Rory? I'll tell you what the trouble is. It's heathenism. I got this book in the mail that explained it all to me. It's not the Commies, or the niggers, or the Jews — it's heathenism." 

"Heathenism? What kind of heathens you mean, Pontoon?" Rory spoke into the telephone receiver cradled between his cheek and his shoulder as he loaded a CD with one hand. 

"Not heathens, heathenism! It's as plain as the face on your head. This guy explained it in the book. We celebrate Christmas, but it's not Jesus' birthday, it's just a heathen celebration they've slapped Jesus' name on. We celebrate Easter, but that's just a heathen celebration too — the name comes from some old heathen goddess —" 

"But Easter is celebrated pretty much when the Resurrection happened, Pontoon — I mean, we know Christ was crucified during Passover —" 

"Yeah, but we use a heathen name! That shows that we're not really celebrating Jesus, we're celebrating the heathen holiday! Anything that's been used by the heathens is contaminated! Heathen idols, heathen holy places, heathen names, we got to get rid of 'em all, or else we come under their power!" 

"Wait a minute, Pontoon. What do you call the days of the week?" 

"What does that have to do with it?" 

"Well I read that Sunday and Monday were named after the Sun and Moon back when people worshiped them. Tuesday was named after some German god, and Wednesday after another one, and the same for Thursday and Friday. Saturday was named after Saturn, a Roman god. Then there are the months — I can't remember all of them, but I know March is named after a god, and June is named after a goddess. Are you gonna change all the names of the days and the months?" 

"By golly you're right, Rory! We've gotta change 'em all!" 

"That's not what I meant —" 

"And then there's all the products out there with heathen names — Mercury cars and Peter Pan peanut butter, and Red Devil paint! Thanks for reminding me, Rory! I gotta call some people. Talk to you later —" And he hung up. 

Another red light was on, and he hit its button. 

"Hello, Rory Buchan on the radio?" It was a woman's voice. "I gotta talk to somebody — I've got the Virgin Mary sitting in a maple tree in my back yard, and what I can't figure out — does that make me a Catholic?" 

The next caller said he'd seen a hunting party of red Indians running down Third Street. It was one of those nights. Rory made reassuring noises to him and hung the phone up, adjusted his earphones and outcued the music. "That was Becky O'Morgan with, 'It Ain't Cheatin' If It Ain't No Fun.' This next number's a request going out to my good friend Godfrey Hanson, and his lovely wife Christine, married ten years ago Sunday at Nidaros Church in Epsom. We sure hope they'll have many more years just as good, and we hope that they enjoy listening to Walley Windemere and 'Love Beats A Suckin' Chest Wound.'" He hit the PLAY button and slumped in the chair. 

It was done. Right on time. Everyone recruited by the Hands of God would know that the meeting would be 10:00 on Sunday, at Nidaros Church. 

He felt no assurance that he was doing the right thing. But good or bad, Thumb and his group couldn't be any worse than Rowan. Any enemy of Rowan's was a friend of Rory's. 

He thought sadly of Laura, who had once been Zippy, now Young Goat Star. He'd known her under every name but her real one. Maybe he could do something for her yet. 

But Rowan... 

It had to stop now. The evil had to end here. 

* * *

The bishop's assistant showed Harry into the inner office. Harry had a sudden impression such as the poet Wordsworth must have felt when he wrote: 

 

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils... 
 

The entire room was a symphony in yellow. The walls and ceiling were yellow, the carpet and drapes saffron, the furniture finished in a gold enamel, and all the books in the pine shelves that lined the walls had yellow jackets. The bishop himself wasn't there yet, so Harry, out of curiosity, checked some of the titles. The Joy of Actuarial Science. Fly Fishing In Argentina. Preparing for the Master Pipefitter's Examination. 

In the entire room he could not see a single Christian image. 

A door opened by the desk and the bishop came in. He wore a stylish buttonless suit, his head was shaved and he wore a diamond stud in his nose. He extended his right hand, palm down, and Harry almost shook it before he realized he was expected to kiss the episcopal ring. Another innovation. Harry had never kissed a ring before. 

They sat and the bishop said, "Well Harry, what's so important you have to see me on a Saturday?" 

Harry found it hard to begin. The speech he'd planned seemed overformal. 

"You know I've never gotten on with Judith Hardanger-Hansen," he said. "You need to be aware — that I'm aware — that anything I say is automatically discounted because of that... awkwardness. I say this because I want you to understand that I know that everything I say will be taken with a grain of salt. And that's — that's as it should be. I see that. So I just want to lay this before you, because I think you should be aware of it; then you can proceed as you think best —" 

"Cut to the chase, Harry," said the bishop. 

* * *

Deputy McAfee lurched through the steel door from the lockup corridor, his face white. He let the heavy door swing shut behind him and looked blankly at Esther. She looked blankly back. 

"Where's Stokke?" he asked. 

"Out on a call. Another fight." 

"Well get him on the horn and tell him to get his butt back here quick. And call an ambulance." 

"Somebody sick?" 

"That kid we brought in for beating up his girlfriend. Swanson. He's dead." 

"Dead?" 

"Killed himself." 

"My God, how? Didn't you take his belt and shoelaces?" 

"He used his hands. Pulled half his face off with his bare hands. I think I gotta puke." 

Esther put a call through to Deputy Stokke. "Must be the full moon," she thought. "Or that wind." 

* * *

"I know you," said Sigfod Oski to Solar Bull. "I know what you plan, and frankly you do not impress me." 

"I don't understand." Solar Bull sat across from Oski at the formica kitchen table in the farmhouse. 

"Tomorrow night a solemn rite will be enacted in Troll Valley. The sacrifice will be the true birth of the Way of the Old Wisdom, and the true birth of much, much more. You will not be a part of it." 

Solar Bull made noises of surprise. 

"Oh do shut up. As you Americans say, don't kid a kidder. I've told you what you want to know, now I want you to leave." 

"Leave? But — but this is my house. I built this organization. I'm the High Priest." 

"Enough. Be gone. 'What thou doest, do quickly.'" 

Solar Bull stared. "You can't tell me to go." 

Oski sneered at him. He lifted a hand to his eyepatch and raised it. 

Solar Bull screamed and ran out of the house, tripping and bumping into things as he fled. 

* * *

"Thank you for seeing me, Arnold," said Harry. 

"I was delighted when you called. What can I do for you?" 

Arnold Stern the poet led Harry into his parlor. He lived in an old Tudor house in St. Paul/Paul City's Highland Park area. It was a cozy place, not too large, with leaded glass in the windows and lots of patinaed dark wood. 

Harry refused an offer of coffee and said as they sat, "How does one go about converting to Judaism?" 

Stern raised his eyebrows as he lit his pipe. 

"What brings you to this crisis of faith?" he asked. 

"I just spoke to my bishop." 

"Ah well, that was your first mistake, of course." 

"I went to see him because I was concerned that my senior pastor — you met Pastor Hardanger-Hansen — was teaching Extinctionism. Last night she took it to the extent of encouraging — actually helping — a young girl to take her life. The bishop informed me, rather forcefully, that the Church has no quarrel with Extinctionism or the right to die, and that it was my job to get in step. I have put up with a great deal in my time, but I cannot stomach this." 

"Not interested in Final Solutions?" 

"That's exactly how I see it. I can't continue any longer in this church. Over the years I've been losing my faith, one bit at a time, and always I've told people that I just hold all the more firmly to what remains. Only a day comes when you discover there isn't any faith left to hold firmly onto. 

"I always believed in the Church. I believed that God watches over it, protecting it from gross error. But you know what? He doesn't. The Church is just an organization, like the Junior Chamber of Commerce or the Flat Earth Society." 

"Any Jew could have told you that." 

"I have to re-think my beliefs. If the Christian path has led to this, maybe it's the wrong path. Maybe your path is right." 

"I have bad news for you, Pastor. Lots of Jews are Extinctionists too." 

"How is that possible? With your history?" 

"Anything is possible, Pastor, in the world of modern religion. Hadn't you noticed?" 

"I suppose I didn't want to notice." 

"Your problem, if I may say so, is a very common one. You want the one thing that is not available in the world of faith." 

"And what's that?" 

"Security." 

"Security? Eternal security? Are you talking about Calvinism?" 

"No, I'm certainly not talking about Calvinism. I'm talking about the feeling of security. The illusion that there is a safe place in the world where you can stop thinking, stop being alert to the work of what some of us call the Devil. Institutions give you that illusion. You rely on the organization to be spiritually sensitive for you, to tell you what's what, to walk into the fearful presence of God for you, like Moses at Sinai, and bring back God's messages. 

"But it doesn't work like that. We could have told you if you'd asked — we got a splendid view of your institutions from our burned-out ghettoes." 

"I can't tell you how sorry I am." 

"I'm not blaming you. There's been enough corporate blame on both sides. 

"But you see, this is what we've learned about God — some of us, anyway. He is not in organizations. He is not in princes, sacred or secular. He is found in two places — in His Word, and in tradition, which is the community of His people." 

"But isn't the community just another name for the organization?" 

"No. Organizations are different from communities. Organizations have no faces. They're driven by routines and structures. They are the opposite of communities. They are built to minimize risk — the true fear of God. Communities force you to face others, to face yourself; to risk, and risk, and risk again; to lay down your life, as your Rabbi said. 

"You don't want to convert to Judaism, Harry. You want to discover again what it means to be a Christian." 

Harry wept then, and they sat a long time, with Stern's arm around his shoulders. 

As he went out into the dark, Harry said, "You know this places a wall between us, don't you? If Christ is the Messiah, that leaves you outside." 

"I know. Not for us the cheapjack unity that comes from declaring Truth a triviality. We shall salute one another from our respective sides of the wall, united in this — that we belong to the ancient fraternity of men who respect one another enough to disagree." 

Harry smiled and nodded; turned to go. 

"And when the boxcars come —" Harry turned back to see Stern still standing in the doorway. "When they come with the boxcars to take us all to the new camps, we'll be together there." 

* * *

The wolf was crossing a field, running for cover, when it met the dog pack. 

Dogs. The slaves of man. Dangerous, treacherous, unpredictable. Harbingers of death. 

The wolf bolted to avoid them, but there were dogs to the right, dogs to the left, and when it turned about there were dogs. 

Panting, the wolf stood still. Its strength was gone. 

But the dogs did not attack. They were a starved, ragged lot, scarred and filthy and high-smelling. Though the wolf could not know it, these were no men's dogs. 

They waited in their circle, moon-bright eyes on the wolf, the wind flicking their fur and rejoicing in their ears. 

Suddenly their leader, a big scarred German Shepherd cross, uncovered his teeth, rolled on his side, and whimpered. 

This was language the wolf understood. The sign of submission. 

One by one, the other dogs turned up defenseless throats and unguarded bellies, and whimpered. 

What happened next the wolf could not understand. But when it continued its journey, the dogs were nowhere to be seen, and the wolf was strong again. 

Fenris, sang the wind. 

* * *

Deputy Stokke got a message from the dispatcher to call his wife, so he used his cell phone. He was alone in the cruiser. 

"Kevin lost a tooth during soccer practice," she told him. 

"Ouch. He OK?" 

"Yeah, puffed up lip but he'll be all right; but Dr. Braun says he'll need an implant. Three thousand dollars." 

"Double ouch! Well good thing we've got money in the horse account. I can put off horse buying for a few more years." 

"Clare, we've got about two hundred in the horse account." 

"That can't be. What happened to it?" 

"You remember. The roof job last spring." 

"Oh jeez, yeah. Well, it'll have to go on the credit card." 

"I'm getting worried about the size of our balance...." 

"I know, I know. But what are we gonna do? The tooth's gotta be fixed. Maybe I can arrange some overtime." 

"You're working too much as it is. So am I." 

"Don't worry. We'll figure something out." 

Silence on the other end. 

"Love you," he said. 

* * *

Martell had an axe in his right hand and a round shield in his left. On his head was a helmet, on his back a coat of mail.  

Shouting, he leaped with the others over the rail of Erling Skjalgsson's vessel, roaring from the dragon-ship grapnelled to starboard. Martell struck with his axe, once, again; he killed a man. He shouted.  

Erling's men knew their doom. They sold their lives as dearly as they might.  

Martell saw King Olaf take up his station by the mast-fish; climbing up on a sea-chest to look over the heads of his bodyguard, for he was not the tallest of men, though broad-chested as a bull. The beard and hair under his gilded helmet were light brown, his eyes hot blue. He stared fiercely forward, bracing his weight with one hand on a man's shoulder.  

He was watching Erling Skjalgsson, that tall, gray old man with red in his beard, who stood in the forecastle under the arching prow, commander now of two true friends, and all the world his enemy.  

And then there was one friend.  

Then Erling stood alone.  

And still he fought, warding off arrows and spears with his ragged shield, striking like lightning when an opening came. The long fighting did not show on him, or slow the oiled efficiency of movement learned in a lifetime of battles.  

And Martell thought, "This is one of the old heroes. Never again will there be men like this one."  

Others thought the same it seemed, for at last they drew back and let the old man be. Those he struck at used their shields, but they did not strike back.  

And Erling stood at last motionless, raised above the wall of shield-men who crowded before his deck. His chest heaved but his head was high. He crossed himself, sword in hand. There was silence, except for the creakings and bumpings of the ship, and the slap of the waves, and the cries of gulls, and the groans of the wounded.  

The king strode forward at the head of his bodyguard. An axe was in his hand. The shield-wall parted, and the king and the farmer confronted one another.  

"Today you turned to face me, Erling!"  

"Eagles fight breast to breast," Erling replied, hefting his sword.  

Martell thought of seeing these two in single combat, and licked his lips.  

But the king said, "Will you be my man, Erling?"  

The two locked eyes for a long minute. At last Erling said, "I will." He tore his helmet off, threw it aside, and set down sword and shield. He walked to the king, towering above him.  

The king stretched out his fighting axe and drove its upper horn into the old man's cheek. "Thus I mark you a traitor to your lord," he said.  

Erling turned calmly to Martell, and Martell recognized his own face, as if in a mirror, but haggard and tired, a line of blood coursing down into the beard. "Kinsman," said Erling, "you are no coward. I place myself under your protection."  

Martell swung his axe and buried it in the old man's skull.  

He woke, full of horror. The king's cry still rang in his ears: "YOU HAVE STRUCK NORWAY FROM MY HAND!"  

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