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CHAPTER VII 

Carl Martell met Rory coming out of the Gunderson house. They nodded but did not speak; they were not acquainted. 

Martell found Harry once more in front of the mirror. 

"This simple tab collar ought to be the easiest thing in the world," Harry said through clenched teeth. "I'm grateful I haven't had to tie a necktie since my ordination, but somehow I've managed to turn this thing into a kind of Gordian knot." 

"It's part of your charm, Harry," said Martell, sitting in the armchair. 

"Well it's lost on the senior pastor, and she'll be with us tonight." 

"And what is the gospel according to the Reverend Ms. Hardanger-Hansen this week?" 

"Shamanism, I think. Or sha-personism. She says the worship of the Mother Goddess is the true voice of God's femininity in history, cruelly suppressed by the patriarchal conspiracy. She hasn't announced plans to sacrifice goats in the sanctuary yet, but I'm expecting it." 

Martell frowned. "I can understand the bishop thinking you couldn't carry on as senior pastor after the accident. But where did they get the bright idea of yoking you with somebody like Judith?" 

"It was for the good of my soul, of course. She was sent here to expand my horizons and lead me out of the ghetto of orthodoxy. But I often think of that awful joke about Heaven where the punch-line is, 'She's not my reward — I'm her punishment.' 

"What really troubles me is the Extinctionism, though. That's no fad with her. She sincerely buys the argument that we need to work for the end of the human race. Regulated family size, maximum birth control, maximum abortion; easy access to painless death for all who want out. The steady attrition of humanity. The world returns to a state of nature, the balance returns. That's her idea of Paradise. No more human dreams. No more art or poetry. No faith, hope or love, just an environmental laboratory without scientists. If I'd known at twenty what kind of world I'd be living in today, I think I might have looked for a Happy Ending myself." 

"And you wonder why I refuse to join up. In my place, Harry — would you be tempted to convert to Judith Hardanger-Hansen's church?" 

His collar subdued at last, Harry sank heavily on the bed. His black shirttail had worked its way out of his trousers, but Martell hadn't the heart to mention it. 

"It's my church too, Carl; and lest we forget, it's Jesus Christ's. It may be merged with every other attenuated mainline church and reduced to synod status in the NAPC, but I'll stay with it till they force me out bodily. That's a commitment I made a long time ago." 

"I respect that. But thank heaven I don't have any such commitment." 

"You ought to try a commitment some time, Carl. Any commitment — just for the experience." 

Martell stood up and checked his tie in the mirror. His reflection seemed to him plague-pale. "I haven't enough blood in me, Harry. I'm a snowman." 

Harry's eyes met him in reflection. "Nobody really knows what they look like, Carl. Our emotions are too wrapped up in our self-images. To me, you look rather like a king. Not Saint Olaf, of course. Wrong hair color and shape. But Olaf Trygvesson, perhaps. Put on a little muscle and you'd be the perfect Viking." 

"A truly incongruous idea. But speaking of Vikings, I had an interesting phone call this evening." He explained about the request from W.O.W. 

"A runestone?" asked Harry. "As in Kensington?" 

"That's the story." 

"Incredible. They must think you're an idiot." 

"They may be right. I said I'd take a look at it." 

"Oh my friend! Are you sure you want to do that?" 

"Absolutely not. But they promised I wouldn't have to make any judgments, and they wouldn't quote me. What can I say? 'These look like runes — these don't look like runes.' Then I say I have serious reservations and I go home." 

"I suppose... but it bothers me. Are they that stupid, or are they playing some kind of game?" 

"There you go. Classic Christian bigotry. Just because they worship in secret, and won't discuss their beliefs, and put guards on their gates, and come up with a copy of a noted 19th Century hoax, you just jump to the conclusion that something funny's going on. Want to tag along?" 

"I thought you'd never ask. Of course it seems more in the senior pastor's department...." 

* * *

The drive to the campus center was easy, the climb up the stairs to the banquet hall more difficult. Martell had to help Harry, and it took time. There was a service elevator, but it was out of order. Harry's face was red and his hair and clothing all sideways by the time they reached the top. They paused to let him rest for a moment beneath a public health poster that said: 

Syphillis? Gonorrhea? Chlamydia?  

BE PROUD OF YOUR  

Sexually Transmitted Disease!  

"Oh dear, she sees me," he whispered a few minutes after they had entered the long, low hall. It was crowded and noisy, and blue with cigarette smoke like all public places nowadays. 

"Who?" 

"The senior pastor. She has that 'weighed and found wanting' look in her eye. I do try, Carl. Joanna used to keep me generally landscaped, but since she's been gone... Don't look — she's coming this way." 

"Make your case on the Rights of the Physically Challenged. Complain about lack of elevator access. She can't argue with that." 

"You miss the point, Carl. I'm superannuated. I belong in a condominium in Boca Raton. Purely for my own good, of course." 

"Dear God — Sorry, Harry." 

Pastor Hardanger-Hansen closed in. "Good evening, Harry," she said. "How nice to see you, Carl. Harry, you look tired. It's wonderful the way you keep your activity up in spite of everything." 

Beyond the slight nausea induced by her cattiness, Martell had to admit the woman was attractive. She was blonde, slim and clear-eyed. But as an Extinctionist she tried to neuter herself through baggy clothes, cropped hair and cosmetic STD lesions. 

"I've been talking to Arnold Stern," she said, her eyes cold on Harry. "He's a fascinating man. Would you two like to meet him?" 

"He's a poet, isn't he?" Martell asked. 

"One of the best in the country. He teaches at the University. He's come down specially to meet Oski." 

"Sure, let's meet him," said Martell. Any change was welcome — poor Harry was writhing. 

"Button your coat, Harry, your shirt is out." She led the way through the crowd. 

"I'd think she'd want to keep you away from people," Carl whispered as they walked. 

"She wants everyone to see how hopeless I am." 

As they moved along the banquet tables and among small clusters of people, many of them wearing the portable breathing systems that had become popular since the passage of the Smokers' Re-enfranchisement Act, tags of conversation on the hot issues of the day floated by. 

"... And then she had the nerve to say to me, 'Well, my child is more valuable than your houseplant!' And I said I didn't have to stand there and listen to that kind of speciesism...." 

"Sure it's in the Constitution, but so what? We've already abolished the right to bear arms — the idea that rights are inalienable is one of the fallacies that's brought us to the mess we're in...." 

"What's really exciting is that the younger scientists have liberated themselves from the myth of objectivity. You'll be amazed at what they'll accomplish in the next...." 

"Let's face it, our society is still riddled with oppression. Intelligence is the oppression of mentally challenged. Virtue is the oppression of the morally creative. Health is the oppression of the differently well. Sanity is the oppression of diversely rational...." 

Arnold Stern, a stoutish man with a high, freckled forehead and a gentle voice, was the center of a small ring of faculty members. They included a man from the Drama department who trimmed his beard in open homage to George Bernard Shaw, and the Director of Development, a lean, graying man endowed with the easy geniality that comes of making one's living by lying to people. 

"Happy to meet you, Pastor. And you, Carl," said Stern with a smile. "I'm glad we've got you clergymen — sorry, clergypeople — here. We were just getting into your bailiwick. I'm interested in ethnicity, and Scandinavian Lutheran culture intrigues me. But these people tell me you're not a religious school at all." 

"No, that's not what we said," said Development. 

Stern turned to Pastor Hardanger-Hansen. "Would you call Christiania a Christian institution?" he asked. 

"I would say profoundly Christian." 

Drama said, "Absolutely." 

"And you are church-affiliated?" 

"Oh yes," said Pastor Hardanger-Hansen. "I'm not really part of the school myself, of course. I'm pastor of Nidaros Lutheran, but people from the church started the school, and they used to hold Chapel there, so it gives me a sort of unofficial status." 

"But they're telling me Christiania no longer holds any kind of religious observances at all. And there are no religious studies —" 

"We examine religion in our anthropology and sociology courses," said Development. 

"I see. And your policy is to hire non-Christians only as instructors?" 

Drama said, "This is a Lutheran institution. You've got to expect paradox." 

Pastor Hardanger-Hansen said, "It's part of New Horizons, a sort of affirmative action policy enacted by the North American Protestant Church. We feel we can't speak out against discrimination against racial, sexual, moral and species minorities if we practice religious discrimination in our own institutions." 

"But surely you can't have a religious school without a few people who still believe the religion." 

"Oh, there are a few fossils left from the old days," said Drama. 

"But I'd think you must have some kind of charter or constitution that requires you to propagate the faith?" 

"I suppose so," said Development. "But that's like the creeds, you know — nobody expects you to take it seriously." 

"Don't the students' parents expect some kind of religious environment for their children?" 

Development smiled. "You'd be surprised how little the families notice, if you move it in gradually. They're often old alumni who can't imagine things being any different from their day. Or if they aren't, they probably don't care." 

"Well it goes deeper than that," said Pastor Hardanger-Hansen. "We'd be doing the students a disservice if we created some kind of religious ghetto. We have to prepare them for the real world. 

"But even more, I think we're on the cutting edge of a new spiritual understanding. The age of salvationism is past forever, thank God. We're beginning to understand that we're all climbing the same mountain, and we'll come together at the top. Once we've gotten free of the miracle stories — the Virgin Birth and Resurrection, that sort of thing — traditional folklore — we touch the true heart of spirituality which all enlightened people share." 

"Pardon me," said Stern with a smile, "but I couldn't disagree more. I'm a religious Jew, and my faith is centered on the mighty acts of God. You may be approaching some religious believers when you reject the miraculous, but you're moving away from me." 

Pastor Hardanger-Hansen went bright red (which was rather becoming), stammered a few words and excused herself. 

"Oh my," said Stern. "I didn't mean to embarrass her." 

"She's a woman of great good will," said Harry, "but like most of our young clergy she finds it almost impossible to believe that anyone with an IQ above 40 could believe in the God of Scripture. She knows you have a celebrated brain, so the cognitive dissonance must have been considerable." 

"Great legs though," said Development. 

"Can I assume you don't share her views on religious schools then, ah — Pastor Gunderson wasn't it?" asked Stern. 

"Oh, I'm afraid I'm one of those fossils you hear about." 

"A conservative? How would you describe the differences between the liberal and conservative wings in your church?" 

Drama said, "That's simple. A liberal believes Jesus was a woman. A conservative only thinks he was a hermaphrodite." 

While they laughed a murmur began to rise about them, like the wind of Pentecost. Cameras flashed, every head turned, and Sigfod Oski blew in through a side door, followed by the college president and other notables. Nobody noticed the notables. 

Sigfod Oski was easily the tallest person in the room. His iron-gray hair was combed straight back. His jaw was long but squared, his skin tanned and creased like prehistoric leather from a Danish bog. He wore a black eyepatch over his left eye and a miraculously cut suit. 

"He looks... he looks like Sigfod Oski," Harry whispered to Carl. 

Oski came on like a pillar of cloud, his courtiers whirling in his wake, heading for a table set perpendicular to the rest at one end of the room. 

"You want someone who looks like a king, Harry, there's one for you," said Martell. 

"At least that." 

"I'd love to meet him. I don't suppose I will." 

"Why not? He'll be here some time, won't he?" 

"Will he? I haven't been able to get any clear word on that. Some say he'll be here a couple days, others say half a year. Administration won't say a thing." 

"Maybe we'll find out tonight." 

Everyone was moving to the tables. Hampered by the leg in the narrow aisles between tables, Harry and Martell ended up near the corner furthest from the head table. 

Harry sighed. "I am sorry, Carl. Of course the Lord said to seek out this kind of spot, so the host can exalt you. At least we won't have to worry about craning our necks to see. It wouldn't help." 

Martell said it was all right. It wasn't precisely how he felt, but his stomach didn't object. 

A figure moved up behind them. They twisted around to see Dr. Saemund Lygre, President of Christiania. 

People always had trouble describing Dr. Lygre beyond saying he was middle-aged and roundish. He usually left a vague but pleasant impression with new acquaintances; the impression he left on colleagues and underlings was just as vague but less pleasant. 

"What are you doing down here?" he whispered to Martell. 

"I was invited," said Martell, alarmed. He was sure he'd gotten an invitation. Hadn't he? 

"You're supposed to be at the head table with us." 

"The head table? I don't understand —" 

"Didn't you get my note?" 

"I don't think so." 

"Carl, you're impossible! The invitation was for you and a guest to sit at the Table of Honor. Oski asked for you especially. Now come along. You're holding us up." 

"Oski — Oski asked for me?" 

"Yes! Come on!" 

Martell tried to push his chair back, but Dr. Lygre was in the way. "Wait," he said. "If it's for me and a guest, can Pastor Gunderson come?" 

Dr. Lygre glanced at Harry, who had just spilled water in his lap while a paper napkin had attached itself to his left coatsleeve. "Yes, all right. Just hurry." 

"See, I told you what the Lord said," Harry whispered as they stumbled their way forward. 

"Sometimes you scare me, Harry. I'm sure I never got a note. Why would Oski ask for me? Are people staring at us?" 

"Only in envy. You for your honor and me for my beauty." Then he tripped over a microphone cable. 

At the Table of Honor, Dr. Lygre said, "Mr. Oski, this is Professor Carl Martell, of our History Department." 

"Delighted to meet you," said Oski, shaking Martell's hand firmly and fixing him with one bright gray eye. Like most educated Norwegians, he spoke with something like an English accent. "I read your paper on Erling Skjalgsson. Excellent." 

Martell said, "This is a very great honor, Mr. — you read my paper?" 

"I try to read all the serious work in the field." 

"You flatter me." 

"Not at all. Your approach was extremely sound, especially when you compare it with most of the twaddle they're writing about the Vikings these days. You have a good instinct for when to ignore the experts. One can never go far wrong by ignoring the experts." 

Martell stood dumbfounded. Harry poked him in the ribs. 

"Oh yes — may I present my good friend Pastor Harald Gunderson? He's also a great fan of yours." 

Harry moved in closer. His hair was a bird's nest, his collar was working loose again, and there was now an adhesion of what looked like cotton candy on his chin. "Det gleder meg å treffe dem," he said. 

"I like måte," said Oski stiffly. "Well, shall we seat ourselves and begin?" 

Oski sat facing the room. The Lygres were on his right and Martell and Harry on his left, with Arnold Stern on Harry's left. Across from them were Mayor Sorenson and his wife, who was looking shy, a State Representative and her husband, and the chairman of the Board of Regents and his wife. 

A small bottle of akevitt sat in front of each place, and Dr. Lygre stood and proposed a toast. Then he gave a general greeting and they all addressed their salads, except for Oski, who showed no interest in his. 

"We seem to have an empty place at the table," observed Ruth Lygre. She was a tallish woman with curling gray hair and very blue eyes. 

"Yes," said Oski. "I chose not to bring my mistress. I thought she might be out of place at a religious institution." 

The British call it "dropping a brick." Everyone got very quiet for a moment. 

Oski seemed to enjoy the reaction. "Perhaps I should have referred to her as my secretary. My apologies, Herr Pastor." 

"Don't mind me," said Harry. His shirt was coming unbuttoned around the breastbone, exposing a ribbed undergarment. 

"Well of course we are a little provinical here," said Ruth Lygre. "This is a small town. Lake Woebegon, and Main Street, and all that." 

"There's nothing wrong with a small town," said Oski, "as long as you remember that there is a wider world." 

"My wife grew up in Japan," said Dr. Lygre. 

"Indeed." 

She explained, "My parents were missionaries." 

"Well, we'll pass that over," said Oski, smiling. 

"Are you a Lutheran?" Dr. Lygre asked. 

"To the extent that a Norwegian can avoid the state church, I endeavor to do so. What offends me most about the church in Norway today is its broadmindedness. They even throw an official sop to pagans like me, but the kind of paganism they encourage is so sentimental it makes me want to convert to Islam." 

"What do you mean by that?" asked the representative. "I'd like to hear more — if you don't mind, Pastor." She turned to Harry. 

"You're very kind to worry about my feelings," Harry answered, "but I've met unbelievers before and survived the experience." 

"Perhaps you could tell us about your home in Norway," said Ruth Lygre. "It's such a beautiful country." 

"Beautiful indeed," said Oski. "So beautiful as to be nearly uninhabitable. It was made for looking at, not living on. 

"But returning to Christianity — I hold it to be, simply, an unacceptably weak religion for a man with any dignity." 

"That's funny," said the representative. "Speaking from experience with lobbyists and PAC groups, I'd say it's sometimes unacceptably strong." 

"I do not speak of politics. Of course the hierarchy has always had the sense to keep Christ's idiotic ethics out of their real business." 

"Very true," said the representative's husband. "Look at the Crusades. Look at the Inquisition. Look at the conversion of Norway, for God's sake — those two Olafs sailing around killing anybody who wouldn't be baptized." 

"You miss my point sir," said Oski. "I think the Olafs were wise in their generation. If they had tried to do the job by turning the other cheek and walking the extra mile, then I would fault them. They were hypocrites of course, but that is another matter." 

Oski stroked his chin as he spoke. He looked, Martell thought, like a man remembering a newly shaved beard, only there was no tan line on his rust-colored cheek. 

"Jesus Christ," said Oski, "made a haven of the soul for cowards. There may be such a thing as a strong man turning the other cheek to an enemy he could crush, but I can't recall ever seeing such a thing. "But a man —" 

"Or woman," said the representative. 

"A man," said Oski, turning his eye on her. "I do not play games of moralistic one-upsmanship, madam. If you dislike masculine imagery you'd best stay away from tonight's reading. 

"A man who is weak, and fears the responsibilities of manhood, can run like a puppy and tell himself he is being charitable. The apostle was right — love does cover a multitude of sins. Sins of cowardice, of sloth, of irresponsibility and worse." 

Harry said, "There have been those who died forgiving their killers. Are you saying they did nothing remarkable?" 

"Anything unnatural is remarkable. A three-legged calf is remarkable. But it is not therefore desirable." 

Arnold Stern asked, "Do you prefer the sort of thing we're seeing in the Middle East? Vengeance, vendetta — the ever-widening circle of violence?" 

"I say that such problems will never be solved by the meek. In a sense the meek have already inherited the earth, and we can thank them for most of its troubles. Christ called them sheep — that was appropriate. 

"Professor Martell —" he turned — "You strike me as a circumspect man. Tell me what you have observed at this Christian institution. Would you call its administration courageous?" 

Martell felt the tip of Oski's gaze in his soul. I can't lie, and my boss is listening. 

"I — I'd say they're as courageous as any," he managed to say, forming the words with difficulty. It was misleading enough to twist his stomach. 

"Ah," said Oski, not taking his eye away. "I did not ask for comparisons. Do the administrators of this Christian institution not scramble to embrace each new fashion of thought on the one hand, while on the other piously assuring their financial supporters that all the old values are carved in stone? Do they not dance about, promising everything to everyone, struggling to offend no one, kissing most especially the feet and other parts of anyone with money to donate?" 

Martell felt Dr. Lygre watching him, along with everybody at the table. Why is he doing this? he wondered, tasting acid in his throat. Is it a game? Can he read the sickness inside me? 

Harry said, "There are some who suggest that the administration of Lutheran colleges has very little to do with Christianity." 

A few people laughed, Oski included. Martell silently blessed the pastor. Dr. Lygre did not look amused. Martell had a feeling he'd pay for his hesitation. 

Oski turned to Harry. "In the car park I noticed that you reserve the choicest spots for the weak and disabled. I call that symptomatic. Encourage weakness, and it will rule in the end like a dog in a manger." 

Harry said nothing, but his face went red. Dissheveled as he was, he looked like a man who'd been in an accident. Which, of course, he was. 

"That," said Stern mildly, "sounds dangerously close to the Nazi line." 

Oski turned quickly on him. He pointed to his eyepatch with a finger like an autumn twig. "I gave this eye fighting the Nazis," he said. "I can say what I like, and no one has the right to make that accusation." 

"I made no accusation," said Stern. "I was talking about ideas. And since I make no claim to be a Christian, I have no intention of letting you bully me as you have these people." 

Oski burst into laughter and hit the table with a fist, making the silverware ring and causing the room to go silent for a moment. 

Martell did a little math in his head, trying to estimate how old Oski must be. Not impossibly old of course, but very, very old. Much older even than he appeared. 

A waiter arrived with the entreé. While he served them Ruth Lygre said, "That's a beautiful suit you're wearing, Mr. Oski. Wherever did you get it?" 

"This? I have a London tailor, just off Saville Row. Actually I found him through T.S. Eliot — many years ago, of course. There's an amusing story behind that..." 

That story led to others, all of them excellent, and everybody relaxed. They made it to dessert, but Martell wasn't able to eat much. Oski touched nothing at all, though he asked the waiter for more akevitt. Martell wondered if the man was an alcoholic. 

After they had consumed their portions of lime or orange sherbet, Dr. Lygre spoke up. He had been quiet since the discussion of courage. 

"I think you misunderstood the religious nature of our school, Mr. Oski," he said. "We are not a 'Christian' school in the old, salvationist sense. We see Christianity in a broad, embracing posture, listening with open mind to all religious wisdom. I think you'll find us eager to listen to your wisdom as well." 

Oski replied without looking at him. "I am not myself a broad-minded man," he said. "It is a prejudice to assume that all apostates are gentle, genial souls. I am nothing of the sort. 

"Some years back I watched with interest as the Danes carried out an experiment in what is called 'Living History'. 

"The young volunteers moved into a reconstructed Bronze Age farmstead. They spent an extended period there, wearing the clothes, eating the food, doing the work of their ancestors. 

"These were highly educated people; young scholars and their families, raised with books and television and cradle-to-grave socialism. 

"But after a time a change came over them. They became what you would probably call superstitious. When the weather went foul, or disease attacked the stock, they began to blame the spirits. They took to saying little prayers to the elves and trolls — 'If you let me graze my cows in your meadow you can have some of the milk.' They left out bowls of porridge for the house spirits. They knew, of course, in their civilized brains, that all this was absurd, but they could not help it. Because, for the first time in their lives, they were living a real life in a real world. 

"Confronted with real life — with soil and wind and water and fire — they reverted to their true religion. The one true religion of mankind." 

Harry said, "That's assuming that people will naturally find their true religion. Christianity assumes no such thing." 

"There are but two choices," said Oski. "The western world has only two faiths. Both have their roots in the Middle East. 

"One is the religion that founded this school. It began when a Sumerian named Abram climbed a mountain with his son, intending to cut the boy's throat and give him to his peculiar god. Instead he brought the boy back down with him, along with a story that his god had only been testing his faith. This was a watershed in history — the first heresy if you like. 

"Abram and his descendants insisted ever after that the true God was only one, and that He is a great prig, and that He does not wish the blood of our children, except when He sheds it Himself. 

"The other, older religion, my religion, recognizes in the chaos around us a chaos of powers. These powers are neither infinite nor moral, and they are incredibly dangerous. They may bless us in return for gifts, or at their whim, but it is risky to let them see us too blessed." 

"The Greeks spoke of hubris," said Martell. 

"The Greeks were of my creed. The names changed but the powers remained, shifting, battling among themselves, growing or diminishing in strength as Abram's God drove them northward. But always they echoed the great denial — the heroic cry that the world is cruel, and that all must die and rot; yet a man can laugh in death's face and, falling in flame, bring down his enemy with him. We know that life is a tragedy, calling for the most terrible sacrifices; that by placating the gods we not only turn away their wrath but share in the agony of the great mysteries. Better to slay what you love yourself than wail while it is torn from you." 

"They also knew a tale about a god who dies and comes to life again," Harry said quietly. 

"A nature myth. A great mystery," said Oski with a frown. 

"I'm sure... I'm sure there's much we can learn from your faith," said Dr. Lygre. 

"Ah, but you have! I've read the meditations of your newer theologians, and I am much moved. You have grasped that truth has nothing to do with ideas —" he glanced at Stern — "with moral taboos, or promises, or prohibitions or doctrines — but with the inner, unspeakable truth of the spirit." 

"Yes," said Dr. Lygre. "The essential subjectivity of truth. That's very important. Kierkegaard's leap of faith —" 

"The leap of faith!" Oski's eye flashed. He smiled, showing unusually long teeth. "Yes, I have felt it — the utter freedom that soars far above judgments and categories and petty rationality! I experienced it first during the war, and what it did for me!" 

"What did it do for you?" asked Dr. Lygre. 

"It enabled me to kill six men one night on a glacier!" 

Dr. Lygre dropped his spoon. The representative's husband coughed. 

Oski beamed around him. "The splendid thing about a leap of faith is you never know what you're leaping into." 

No one spoke for a minute. 

"Well," said Dr. Lygre. "I guess it's time for the formalities." He rose and tapped his glass with his knife. 

Conversations trailed off, and Dr. Lygre said, "I'm very happy to see such a fine turnout tonight, to share in what is unquestionably a high-water mark in the history of Christiania." Cameramen from five Twin Cities television stations crouched forward along the aisles, their lenses focused on the head table. 

"When Sigfod Oski announced that he proposed to spend two years in the United States, a number of academic institutions clamored to offer him their hospitality. Invitations came from some of the most prestigious schools in the country. To be frank, Christiania did not make such an offer. We felt we had little to offer a man of Oski's stature — a man who has become something of a legend both in his native land and internationally. 

"Think of our astonishment then, when Sigfod Oski informed us that it was here he wished to come. We hastened to extend an invitation, of course. We found it difficult to believe our good fortune, and frankly we weren't quite sure what to do with it. For that reason there has been some confusion as to Mr. Oski's business here and the length of his visit. 

"I am happy to announce, therefore, that Sigfod Oski has come to Christiania in the capacity of Poet in Residence, and that he intends to make us his research base for the entire two years of his stay." 

There was loud applause, then a standing ovation. The cameras panned the crowd. 

When the room was quiet again Dr. Lygre continued. "Before he shares a few words and we all retire to the auditorium for tonight's reading, I think it appropriate to say a few words of a biographical nature. 

"Sigfod Oski was born in 1927, in Avaldsnes, an island village in western Norway. He was only a boy when the Nazis sailed in, but he soon became an active and valued member of the Resistance, serving at first mainly as a courier. By the age of sixteen he was part of a demolitions unit, doing dark and dangerous work, often in killing weather. 

"In the last year of the war he and his comrades were betrayed by a quisling and arrested. They were all tortured. Mr. Oski lost an eye. Of the six men in his unit, only he survived to the end of the war, a prisoner in Grini Concentration Camp. 

"It was in the camp that he began to compose poetry. He had no paper or pencil — he composed in his head, committing his poems to memory and reciting them to the other prisoners like the Viking skalds of old. We have the testimony of many of them that it was those poems that gave them the courage to endure. 

"After the liberation Oski's reputation grew steadily. He took his degree from the University of Oslo, where he became a lecturer and later a professor. And of course his reputation as a poet grew, culminating in the award of a Nobel Prize for Literature eight years ago. 

"If you read Oski in English translation, and I guess most of us do, you aren't missing anything. Mr. Oski does his own translations, new compositions in effect, equal to the originals in every respect. 

"And now, just so you can find out for yourselves how well he uses English, if I might prevail on Mr. Oski to say a few words..." 

He turned to Oski's place. Oski was not in it. 

Carl Martell stood, looking uncomfortable. "I'm sorry," he said. "Mr. Oski said for me to tell you that he... he said he disliked after-dinner speeches, and that he'll be happy to see all of you in the auditorium in forty-five minutes." 

Dr. Lygre glared at Martell. Martell whispered, "It's not my fault." 

* * *

Minna Gunderson was praying in her bedroom. 

Every night at 7:30, except when it had to be postponed for other people's convenience, she lowered herself by her bed, knees on a cushion (she was not an ascetic). 

She opened her Bible, the one she'd been given at her confirmation. Its leather was crumbling, the binding loose, the typeface too small, but she was accustomed to it. 

It opened naturally to the single passage she'd fed on in these sessions from the beginning, Isaiah 40:28-31. 

 

Hast thou not known? hast thou not heard, that the everlasting God, the LORD, the Creator of the ends of the earth, fainteth not, neither is weary? there is no searching of his understanding.  

He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength.  

Even youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall:  

But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.  

 

There were people who knew more about the Bible than Minna Gunderson. There were probably people who led more spiritual lives. But she was the world's foremost authority on that passage. She had gone through her brother's commentaries and Hebrew lexicons to analyze each word, in isolation and in context. She had read volumes on running, and everything she could find on eagles. She had studied the historical setting and the various theories on authorship (about which she had definite opinions). 

Shortly after her fiance had died, so many years ago now, she had gone on an obligatory visit to her grandfather. The old man lay in his last bed, nursed by two unmarried daughters, inexorable women who disapproved of everything in order to save time and effort. 

Her grandfather had been a fiery preacher of the gospel. Minna could remember squirming long hours in the pew beside her parents while he consigned thieves, liars, card-players and ballroom dancers to the eternal pit, all in a thick Norwegian brogue. Now he was shrunken and fragile as bone china among the linen, staring out at her with bruised, nineteenth-century eyes. 

With a word he dismissed the Terrible Sisters. They left with bad grace, outraged at Minna's youth, perhaps afraid she'd infect their father with it. 

"Don't let them scare you," the old man said, his voice barely above a whisper. "They're yust frightened old vomen. Try not to be like them. They'll go to Heaven, but vhat vill they do there?" 

Minna said nothing. She feared her grandfather. 

"They tell me you have lost your young man. He vas in the Air Force?" 

Minna nodded. "His plane crashed," she breathed. 

The old man closed his eyes, the lids so thin one wondered if they kept any light out. "So sad. He vas so young. And he vas a good fellow, even if he vas a Methodist. Vhat vill you do now, Minna?" 

She had prepared her speech. She knew the words a good Christian girl should say. 

"I'll get over it, Bestefar. And someday I'll find a good man to marry." 

He shocked her when he said, "No, I don't think so, Minna." 

She stared at him. His head was shaking, slowly. He must have gone childish, she thought. 

"You're not a good liar, Minna," he said. "None of the Gundersons ever vere. I hope it's true, Girlie. I hope you find a good man, and the Lord blesses you vith many good years and happy children. But you don't believe it, do you? In your eyes I see no hope. You loved your fellow vith all your heart, and you're not the kind to go from vun love to another like changing hats. You're true and faithful, Minna. I've alvays seen that in you." 

She cried then, great racking sobs that brought up all the clotted misery she'd clenched under her heart. The old man reached out and took her hand and held it with a baby's strength. 

When she was cried out, he said, "Minna, it's not true that there's somevun for everyvun. Ve Lutherans like marriage because Martin Luther got married and sang its praises, and he vas right. I thank the Lord for the years I had vith your bestemor. But the Bible says that some people aren't meant for it. You should know that life can be blessed and good even vithout marriage." 

"I don't know, Bestefar. I just don't know." 

"Of course you don't, Minna. How could you? You're young, you're not supposed to know. The trick is to learn to be happy even vhen you can't get vhat you vant. I forgot to teach that to those two out in the hall, and God forgive me. Maybe I can help you. 

"I can't show you how to understand. Everyvun has to start at the beginning for themselves. But if I had things to do over again, I vould have started earlier to meditate on vun Bible passage. Do you know Isaiah 40:28-31?" 

She shook her head. 

"If I could start again, I'd take a few minutes a day and think about that vun. It's taught me a lot in these months since I been sick. Maybe it can help you too. Telling you this and praying for you are all I can do to help, Minna. But you are in God's hands. It's enough." 

She had looked up the passage and marked it when she got home. But it wasn't until the old man's death three months later that she had started meditating. She'd been doing it ever since. 

They tell of jars of flour and oil that once kept people alive beyond all hope. A few bread and fish fed thousands one day. 

The Isaiah passage had fed Minna most of her adult life. 

It had changed her spirit, drawing out the bitterness. It had changed her soul, which moderns call personality, so that acquaintances often took her for a widow. Finally, just recently, it had begun to change her body. She felt her strength renewed. She rose up on wings as of eagles. 

It was not a metaphorical rising. 

Somewhere between twenty and twenty-five minutes into her meditation, she would often find herself lifted into the air, suspended about four inches above her kneeling cushion. 

The levitation did not frighten her. She was curious, though, about God's purpose in it. 

As with most miracles in this world, the rule was, "Tell no man." "I'd look pretty silly," she told herself, "doing this on television. I wonder what it's good for?" 

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