Asgard

Medieval 6: K and Y 18 Aesgard to Avalon, part 1 of 2

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Kirstie

Wilam opened the simple latch door and peeked. Kirstie pushed up to look over his shoulder. A hearth across the room held a roaring fire. Everyone suddenly felt the cold on their backs as the fire helped them feel toasty and warm in front. One old man sat in a comfortable chair facing the fire, a bowl of soup held up to his chin with one hand, and he sipped the soup with a big spoon. He spoke.

“Come in my daughter, and friends. Come in.” He even sounded old.

Wilam and Kirstie pushed in so the others could follow. Wilam and Brant looked around. The room was much bigger than they imagined from the outside. Inga and Kirstie looked at the fire, the several chairs that faced it, and the old man. There did not appear to be anything else in the room. Erik said “Wow,” softly, but did not otherwise know what to think.

“Come. Sit. Warm yourselves,” the old man said.

Kirstie pushed forward, so the others followed, and she was the first to speak to the man. “I expected this whole place to be deserted,” she said.

“Eh?” The man responded like he did not hear, but he followed up with a word. “It would have been. It should have been, but I stayed at the last minute. Someone needed to keep the fires burning for a while longer.” He set the soup down on a side table beside his chair and turned his head to take a good look at his visitors. He named them after a fashion.

The husband with the impossible legacy. The skipper who needs to captain his own ship. The brilliant and understanding heart who is a witch without magic. The rebellious, runaway boy whose parents could use his help. And my son who at present happens to be my daughter.” He looked at Kirstie and squinted a bit like maybe his old eyes were not very good. “That is what your mother used to call you.”

Kirstie looked again and saw the missing hand. It was possible he made an illusion of being two handed until she figured it out, though he practically told her who he was. “But Father,” she said, taking the seat next to his. “How is it that you have gotten old?”

“Idon has gone. The apples of youth are not tended.” he smiled and shook his head. “That is not entirely true, but it is what people have been told. To be clear, it is one thing I never experienced before.” he paused long enough to turn to the fire. “I see getting old is not fun.”

Kirstie sneezed again and shivered, which contrasted with the others who were well warmed in the face of the great fire. Wilam asked again if she was all right, and Inga seconded that question, but Kirstie answered in a straightforward way. “No. I’m sick. I’m cold. I feel as if someone is walking on my grave, which is odd because I have a hundred graves, but I am not dead yet.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Erik said. No one else interrupted, and as was her way, Kirstie did not explain.

The old man sat for a minute and stared at the fire. “Your Abraxas came here as I knew he must.”

Kirstie looked at the floor. “Three times I let him live, and three times he failed to do the right thing.”

“The right thing?” he asked. “I suppose,” he answered himself and turned to look at her again. “It took him years to discern your mother’s secret way between her home and your home in Avalon. Sometimes, she would disappear and go to visit all the little ones who loved her so dearly, and Lady Alice who keeps Avalon from crumbling to dust. She always came home refreshed and ready once again to take on her burden of humanity.” He got lost for a moment in some memories and she had to nudge him.

“He found the way?”

“Yes. A portal between one world and another. Yes. Then he attacked your son Soren with a debilitating disease, and while I was preoccupied with concern for the boy, he snuck past me and into your realm. He had in mind to attack you with the disease, but I chased him and drove him back out of your place. I have watched the way ever since, but in my old age, the time came when I slept. Such dreams I had. But he escaped my hand and went again to Avalon. That was several months ago, but now you are here, and you can stop him if you will.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Kirstie admitted her fears.

The old man finally smiled. “Just do your best. That is what you always say to others. The gods do not make promises, but we may pledge to do our best and leave the outcome in hands greater than our own.” he reached over to take her hand but ended up putting his good hand on her head. “Let me do this for you,” he said, and he gave her a gift, part of which was courage.”

“Father… Where is this way?” Kirstie felt the tears coming up into her eyes to see the man in such a condition, old and with trembling hands. She had to say something to distract herself.

“Right here,” he said. “You must walk through the fire.” he pointed at the fireplace. “But since you are not of the gods, since you are flesh and blood, you must first put out the fire. Just be warned. If you put out the fire, this realm will crumble away, and I will be no more. You will not be able to come back this way.”

Kirstie protested. “That is not fair.”

“That is the way it is,” he responded. “My life has been over for a long time. You will merely send me to your mother. Did she not ask this of you?”

Kirstie nodded, before she threw her arms around the old man. She hugged him gently because he was old, and she cried all over him until he pushed her away and she wiped her teary eyes. “I’m ready,” she said, and added, “Hold hands,” because she was not sure exactly what might happen.

“Thank God,” he responded and closed his eyes.

Kirstie took Wilam’s hand without looking back, turned to the fire, and searched for the gift of Njord inside of her. She opened her mouth, and a river of water came and put out the fire. As the fire went out, the room became utterly dark, as dark as a cave where no light ever penetrated. Kirstie stepped forward, and on the third step she seemed to see a light in the distance, or her eyes started paying tricks on her. After a few more steps it became a definite light ahead. She tried not to hurry but let them get there in good order. She saw then that the light appeared to be at the end of something like a cave or tunnel.

When they reached the light, she had a bad feeling and asked the others to stop and wait. She thought she recognized the place, and it did not look right to her. She could see mountains and fire, like volcanic maybe in the distance. She stuck her head out into the sunlight and immediately pulled it back. Tremendous flames came from somewhere above and covered the whole outside of the cave opening. They heard a roar.

“Dragon Island,” Kirstie said. “That is not right.” She lifted her hand, and something appeared on the cave wall. “Mother Freyja did not set her portal to come out on Dragon Island.” She pushed her hand up again and again as lines of some writing appeared to shimmer against the wall.

“There is something behind us,” Erik said. They all heard the chittering sound and Kirstie had to quickly choose.

“He has the whole program messed up,” Kirstie complained. “He doesn’t know how to use it. Moron.” The chittering grew louder. “Damn. Not the best choice. Hold hands again,” she yelled the last and grabbed Wilam’s hand as she touched a line of writing on the wall. Everything around them changed in less than a second.

Medieval 6: K and Y 17 The Rainbow, part 2 of 2

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Kirstie

Thoren gave Kirstie a hard look before he began.

“In those same days, when the Vanlil of Jamtaland invaded our peaceful village, some of us who were younger in that day were set beside the woods and hills to watch for the enemy. You all know this is so. And on that day, Kare and I were well hidden, our eyes open, and we saw Kirstie come to the very edge of the trees. She must have escaped from her watcher.” Thoren paused to look at Inga and Inga responded.

“She escaped several times,” she admitted and lowered her eyes.

“Kare and I argued about which one of us would marry that girl, but not for long as the whole edge of the forest suddenly lit up, bright as the sun. It looked like a piece of the sun itself fell to that spot. I looked away, but Kare stared too long. You all remember that Kare could not see for three days after. Thanks to the good work of Mother Vrya, his eyes were repaired, but Kare never told how his eyes came to be damaged, and I never told.” Thoren paused to nod at Mother Vrya before he continued.

“Soon, the light grew less strong, and I dared to look again. A man stood there, facing Kirstie who did not appear to have even blinked in the face of that light. And there was heat also, like the sun. I wondered how the girl could not have been burned to ash. Then I heard them speaking.

“My daughter,” the man said. “A different daughter, but all the same I have a gift for you.” He took her hands and Kirstie appeared to catch fire. She became covered in flames, and I almost shouted and showed myself, but the flames quickly became less as the man spoke. “I am sorry I was not a very good father to you.”

“Oh, no,” Kirstie said. “You were a wonderful father. You watched over me and kept me safe when no one else could, and I love you very much.” Kirstie changed then into a different person, another woman, one with red hair and… and…” Thoren smiled, a very unusual sight. “And I did not think I could ever become interested in another woman after seeing her. She was beautiful beyond words.”

The confession was embarrassing. Thoren married Kirstie’s best friend, Hilda, when Erik’s father failed to come home from the sea. In fact, Thoren was the father of Hodur, her son Soren’s best friend. But Kirstie could not think of that just then. She felt she had to say something to Mother Vrya. “Faya,” Kirstie whispered, and added, “Five thousand years ago.” Mother Vrya made no answer.

“Anyway,” Thoren continued after a moment. “It could only have been one of the gods. You know Kirstie is a fire starter. She can take soaking wet wood, frozen solid, and cause it to burn. You all know this is so. Now you know how she came by this skill.”

Before Thoren could sit down, Kerga cut through the noise. “Who do you figure it was?”

Thoren paused to think out loud. “He had two hands… He did not have an eye patch…”

“Freyr,” Kirstie interrupted. “God of the sun.” She paused and admitted to the crowd. “I think this rainbow is here for me.” She refused to look at anyone.

“But look,” Harrold said. “This is daft. The bow is an illusion as Jarl has said. It is not something to climb. It is no ladder to the realm of the gods.”

“Perhaps not to you.” Chef Kerga spoke at last. Mother Vrya tugged on Kirstie’s arm. Kirstie got up, but still did not look at anyone. If it was the rainbow bridge that led to Aesgard, or not, she felt she had to know. Yet as she sneezed, she thought she should be going to Avalon, not Aesgard.

She stepped up on the rainbow. It felt as solid to her as—she did not know the word. Her Storyteller life suggested an escalator. “Yes,” Kirstie whispered out loud. “But not a moving one. I’ll have to climb with my own legs.” While a few people screamed, the Storyteller amended his suggestion. “A Stairway to Heaven.” Some people ran from the room. Wilam said something that got everyone’s attention.

“I’m coming with you.” He had to shout above the noise.

“I can’t wait for you.” Captain Olaf spoke with a trembling voice.

“Pick me up at summers end, or not at all,” Wilam said, and he jumped. He stood beside Kirstie on the bridge. Neither knew if he might simply slide through the light and land on the floor, but apparently once Kirstie mounted the rainbow, it became solid enough.

“Inga?” Kirstie called. She hardly had to ask. Inga grabbed her bag with all of her potions and such, and grabbed Brant by the hand, so together they joined the rainbow crew. Oddly, the rainbow seemed well able to accommodate them all.

Young seventeen-year-old Erik ran up. “No way! I’m in on this! You’re not leaving me behind now.”

“Go home Erik,” Brant scolded the boy.

“To Hodur and Soren? I don’t think so. Father, tell Astrid I’ll be back.” The boy jumped as Wilam had and landed firmly on the bridge.

“Then I had better come, too.” Thoren spoke and surprised everyone.

“No more!” Kerga started yelling.

“To watch the boy,” Thoren explained himself,, but when he tried to step on the bow, his feet slid right through.

“I will watch him,” Inga said, and Thoren nodded, trusting, as Kirstie began to walk up the rainbow. The others followed her.

Mother Vrya caught Kirstie’s eye at the last moment. Kirstie knew the old woman and Yrsa would care for the children and Hilda would care for Soren until she got back, if she did get back. The old woman’s eyes told her that much.

“No more!” Kerga still yelled until Kirstie got to the ceiling and without a pause, walked right through the wood as if it was not there. The others came with her. The big house with the meeting hall vanished. They found clouds around them. They had no way of telling how high they were. They felt like they climbed for hours, or a few seconds, or minutes, or perhaps for days.

Finally, they passed out of the world altogether, from the first heavens to the second heavens.

~~~*~~~

Kirstie knew the feeling well. This was the second time Kirstie actually experienced it. She remembered that she and Inga, with the fairy Buttercup sitting on Inga’s shoulder, just caught Erik on the road. He was having second thoughts about marrying Astrid, and Kirstie did not entirely blame him. They were just sixteen, and that felt terribly young.

Erik and Astrid would have Hilda’s old house, the house he grew up in. It was all arranged, but Erik was getting what they called cold feet and Buttercup said maybe he needed a present to encourage him.

“I don’t see how that would encourage him,” Inga said, frankly, but Kirstie had a thought. It was something she never did before, but something inside her said no time like the present, so she asked the fairy a question.

“How many miles to Avalon?”

“Three score miles and ten,” Buttercup answered and excitedly clapped her hands.

“Can I get there by candlelight?”

“Yes, and back again.” Buttercup squealed in delight as an archway appeared in the road just ahead of them. It was a door to Avalon, and Kirstie had never been there before. She wondered why she felt such a strong desire to go there at that time, of all times, but did not imagine it would be a bad thing. Inga and Erik came with her and Buttercup, and they spent the next three days in the castle around all the little ones, and all the kings and queens of the elves, fairies, dwarfs, and so many others it would take all day to explain. They feasted, danced, sang, and played as only the little ones knew how to do so well. But when three days were up, they had to come home, and they arrived back on the road only three hours after they left.

Kirstie wondered if her first trip to Avalon coincided with trouble in the Second Heavens. They had a wonderful time over those three days, and no one let on that there was any problem, but she wondered if it was just beginning. Two days after Erik’s wedding, she set sail with the men of Trondelag to got to King Harald’s war. Hardly two months later, she got word that she was needed at home. She wondered if the trouble had something to do with Abraxas.

She understood the feeling everyone was feeling as a feeling of sudden contrasts, where everything took on an eerie, queasy sense of unreality. She felt it when she went to Avalon, and supposed Inga and Erik remembered it as well. The first time the Kairos climbed the Rainbow bridge, or the first time she presently remembered, she went as the Nameless god, a god among the gods. Even he thought he passed from life to death. The group all felt it. Wilam and Brant actually became sick to their stomachs. Erik became disoriented and only Inga’s quick hand kept him from stepping off the bridge altogether. A little further on, and the feeling lessened before it went away, or perhaps the group began to get used to the new sense of proportions in their surroundings.

“Where are we?” Wilam asked Kirstie, and even as he asked, they came to the place.

“The top of the bridge,” Kirstie said. “Do you see right here?” She pointed at a particular spot by her feet.

“I see only a cloud.”

“An ankle-deep mist or fog,” Brant suggested.

“What about it?” Inga asked.

 “This was Heimdallr’s favorite spot,” Kirstie answered. “From here, he could see everything happening on the whole earth and listen to all the conversations of the people.”

“I don’t see…” Erik started to speak but stopped when he noticed a small echo in his words.

“He is gone now,” Kirstie continued. “They are all gone. We have been cast adrift, left to hear the good news, or to reject the same. It is up to us to make the future a good one or self-destruct.”

No one answered her. As she began to walk, a path appeared to open up in the mist and she cautioned people to stick to the path. “Once, this was a broad road paved in gold and solid as you may imagine. The walls of Aesgard are behind us and all around. We have come in the rainbow gate. Folkvangr is to our left. Valhalla is to our right. In the old days, men and women of worth and valor went to one or the other, to the Vanir or the Aesir. Now, the halls are all empty.

“Where did they all go?” Brant asked.

“God alone knows,” Kirstie answered. “But when the gods gave up their bit of flesh and blood and went over to the other side, the people, those who died were taken. All we are told is everyone will be raised up in the last day and enter into Heaven or be cast down to Hell.”

“This isn’t heaven?” Wilam asked.

“The Second Heavens. You might call it the dividing line between the throne of God in the third heavens and the earth under the first heavens.”

“Kirstie. There is a light.” Inga pointed to their left. It looked like a small building and a firelight shining from a window.

“The path seems to lead there,” Brant agreed.

“So, we go see and say hello,” Wilam said, and Kirstie nodded before she sneezed.

************************

MONDAY

Kirstie and her crew find their way to the golden streets of Asgard, but the place is deserted and getting to the source of the trouble proves difficult. Until Monday, Happy Reading

*

M3 Festuscato: Mother

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Most knew something was up, but Festuscato had to stare down Mousden to keep his tongue quiet.  The Geats did not delay their departure, and as soon as they were gone, Gregor spoke first.

“What?” he asked.

Mirowen yanked her hand free and gave Festuscato a hard look.  She did not know why she could not have gone with the Geats.  She was virtually pledged to be their future queen.

“Not just yet,” Festuscato said, but he got interrupted by Mousden.

“Yea, what, what?”  Mousden squeaked.

“A werewolf cannot be killed by a simple stab through the heart.”  He reminded the ones who knew better and informed the others.  “I expect she will be along when the moon rises.”

“Oh.”  Mirowen lowered her eyes and accepted her place.  She would not desert her Lord when he might need her.  Mousden, however, was anything but happy with the news.

“Wait up!”  He shouted to the Geats, but Festuscato compelled him to stay.  “Not fair.”  He protested, and went high in the nearest tree to hide.  He wanted no part of monsters.

They waited, but not as long as before.  Soon enough, the moon came up, full enough for another night.  With that, the waters of the lake began to boil and Festuscato got out his bow.  Nameless, the old god of the north knocked on his consciousness from the time stream.  Festuscato shook his head.  As Gerraint had said in his own time, this was Festuscato’s life and Festuscato needed to live or die on his own.  He took one of the precious silver-tipped arrows from his quiver.  They were the gift of the goddess, long ago.  He set Bran to one side and Gregor to the other once it became clear where the beast would emerge.  Then they waited.

The hag came up out of the lake and stopped before them, just out of the water.  “You have a death wish.”  The hag’s grating voice sounded deep, and just barely under control.  “I will grant it, to the last drop of my son’s life,” it said.  Immediately, a serpent sprang from the water so Bran became forced to step back and defend himself.  Luckless ran to help.  At the same time, the hag slashed out at Gregor with remarkable speed.  Gregor’s spear shattered, and Gregor himself crashed against a tree to slump down, the wind utterly gone from him.

The hag paused to best consider how to tear the man apart, but the moment was all Mousden needed.  He landed on the back of the hag and both fore claws and hind claws dug deep into the fur and flesh.  The hag howled and flung its arms back, but it could not grab the pixie.

“Leave my friend alone,” Mousden screeched in the hag’s ear.  The hag arched its back. And by then it again faced the others and had stumbled a few steps from Gregor.

“Now, Mousden,” Festuscato shouted over the roar of the beast.  “Let go.”

“Clear.”  Mousden shouted back and Mirowen struck the beast with every ounce of fire she had.  The hag became instantly aflame, head to foot, and then Vingevourt put it out.

The hag paused, and then howled.  They could see it melt right before their eyes, but then something happened they only half expected.  The hag transformed to the wolf.

The werewolf snarled.  They heard the ravenous hunger and the bestial aspect, but they did not hear the mindless, madness that usually went with it.  In fact, the wolf understood something in that moment, and it spoke.  “You killed my son,” it said.

Festuscato decided the better part of valor was to live to fight again.  He surrendered, left that time and place altogether, and the Nameless god came to draw the bow.  Festuscato was good.  Mirowen was inhumanly good, but Nameless was mostly a god of war, and never known to miss.  He fired as the wolf leapt at his throat.  The wolf crashed into an invisible barrier the god had erected and collapsed to the dirt.  It changed back at last to the woman, and she looked curious.  How could this be?

“Silver tipped.”  Nameless told her, and she died at his feet.

As he did with the werewolf in the days when Greta trudged the forests of Dacia, Nameless caused a twenty-foot-deep hole to appear in the earth.  He made sure the woman and every drop of her infected blood went into that hole, and then he placed a boulder on top, effectively encasing her in stone so she could not be unsuspectingly dug up.  Last, he set dirt on top and caused two branches to hold together in a cross.

“I don’t know her name,” he admitted.

“Greta,” Mirowen said.

“How ironic.”  Nameless responded, and he caused Greta to be burned on the cross piece and set it up as a grave marker.

“And may God have mercy on her soul,” Bran said, as he joined them.  The serpents had gone again, but one had sunk into the deep with Luckless’ ax in its skull.

“Just my luck,” Luckless complained, and several smiled.

“And now, stay here.”   Nameless commanded, and no one argued as Nameless stepped about half-way up a small rise in the land.  He opened his mouth.

“Abraxas!”  It did not sound too loud at first, but the sound began to grow as it went out from that place, ever louder and in ever larger circles, like a pebble in a clear, calm pool.  The hall of Heorot shook, and men wondered.  The Jutes heard and reconsidered their planned invasion of Danish lands.  In Bavaria, the witches covered the ears of their children.  In the Crimea, the sound echoed off the waves of the Black Sea, and it reverberated through the Ural Mountains.  Among the Lapps, where men looked to the sky to see if the sky was falling.  And then Abraxas appeared, twenty feet further up at the top of the rise.

Dark haired, dark eyed Abraxas looked like a young man almost too lean for words.  He stared at the one who called him and would have spit and left if he could.  All he could do was spit; but it not only did not touch Nameless, some of it got caught in Abraxas’ goatee.

“Who are you?”  The words had an eerie echo to them, and the others were glad they got left behind.

“Who are you to trifle in the halls of Aesgard and Vanheim after the dissolution?”  Nameless asked in return.

“I have every right to be here,” Abraxas insisted.  “All of Europe is mine for the taking.”

Nameless took a few steps closer and Abraxas stepped back.  “I am the god now.”  Abraxas puffed out his slender chest.  “I rule over good and evil, over light and dark, over fire and water, and soon enough I will rule over the earth.”

“Your father?”  Nameless asked and guessed.

“Janus,” Abraxas said.

“The two-faced fool.”  Nameless insulted the God.  “So that gives you good and evil?”

“Yes.”  Abraxas yelled.

“When does the good start?”  Nameless wondered out loud.

“You will see,” he said.  “When I rule in the place of the old gods, the people will see how beneficent I can be.”

“But meanwhile, you need to break a few eggs to make that omelet,” Nameless said.  Abraxas nodded slowly.  “I killed your son.”  Nameless took a couple of steps closer.  Abraxas did take one step back, but that put him near the edge.  By taking the higher ground he gave himself nowhere to run.

“I am better rid of that dim-witted boy.”  Abraxas spat again, but the spittle stayed on his chin.  He got hemmed in, and he knew it.

“I killed your bitch.”  Nameless said, referring to the wolf.

“I am grateful.”  Abraxas smiled and tried to change tactics.  “She had become very tiresome.”

“Your son said you could have cured her.”  Nameless took another step.

Abraxas tried to brush it off with a laugh.  “Why would I cure her?  I infected her to force her to bring the boy to the city.  I had high hopes on creating chaos there.”

“All you created was death,” Nameless said.  He was only a few steps away.  “What right have you to trifle with the halls of Aesgard and Vanheim?”  He repeated his question.

“Every right.”  Abraxas said too loudly.  “My mother Morrigu was of the North and the Danna.  Who are you?”  He repeated his question.  “The gods are all gone.  You should not be here.”

“Morrigu.”  Nameless understood.  She was the daughter of his own father, Tyr of the One Hand and her mother was the greater spirit of battle.  Morrigu gave birth to the daughters of fury among the Tuatha de Danna, but when Danna’s own son, Nuadan died, she must have had a last fling before the dissolution.  That made Abraxas only a seven-eighths God and one eighth greater spirit.  It also made Abraxas his nephew.

“Who are you?”  Abraxas screamed at him as Nameless took one more step.

“Nameless,” he said.  “But you can call me Uncle.”

Abraxas’ eyes got big.  “But you should not be here.  The gods have all gone over to the other side.”

Nameless shook his head.  “But as the last of both Aesgard and Vanheim, I have decided you cannot make hags in every place you touch.  This world does not need to be torn apart by fear, blood and death.  You need to consider the goodness that did exist in your father Janus, and the nobility that was your grandfather, Tyr, who was also my father.  Therefore, I will let you continue for a time.  But I exile you.  You may no longer enter the land that was of Aesgard.  To do so will be instant dissolution, which is death.”

“You cannot do this,” Abraxas protested.

“I can, and it is done,” Nameless said, and Abraxas faded from sight, protest still echoing from his lips.

Nameless turned to walk back to the others, and as he did, he went home and let Festuscato return to his rightful time and place.  “Everyone deserves a chance at redemption,” he explained when he reached the others.

“I see slim hope for that one,” Gregor said and put his hand to his head.

“You have got to stop blocking monster blows with your head,” Mousden scolded him.

Bran, Mirowen, Luckless and Vingevourt all laughed, briefly, but Festuscato spoke softly, other things on his mind.  “Let us go to Heorot,” he said, and turned to Mirowen.  He added, “I am going to miss you.”  Mirowen began to cry, because she was happy, and because she would miss him, too.