A gentle breeze cooled my burning skin and ruffled my hair. I opened my eyes onto one of the most beautiful sunsets I’d ever seen. The horizon in front of me was lit with a multitude of shades: golds, pinks, oranges, blues, and purples.
“Ah, good, you’ve returned,” said Owsakrimmr. “I feared you harmed.”
“What the hell is going on here? Who the hell are you?”
“You hang from Iktrasitl, Aylootr, the Tree of Life. I’m your adjutor. Don’t take fright, enjoy the coming of the night.”
I couldn’t suppress a sigh.
“Yes, it is a beautiful sunset. Then again, it always is, Iktrasitl’s epaulette.”
“Why do I keep having this dream?”
“Aylootr, this is no troymskrok. Not all dreams are meaningless rot. Your ancestors knew this, but like so much knowledge, it has sunk into the abyss.”
“Please stop calling me that.”
“What? It is a grand name, Aylootr, one filled with honor, glory, and the sounds of the sharpshooter.”
“My name is Hank.”
“Four little letters between us. I cannot call you thus.”
“Why in the hell not?”
From below, a ragged roar rived the calm air. The tree shook with it, the vibrations magnified by the springy wood, bounced me up and down like a Pogo stick.
“That damn squirrel,” muttered Owsakrimmr. “Filled with the scurrile.”
“Why do I keep bouncing around?”
“It’s because of that damn animal, riling up the dragon below, enraging him, poking him, making him intractable. These branches are spry, and when the dragon shouts, we fall, we fly.”
“No, that’s not what I meant—”
“Listen, Aylootr, and cease this prattle. Time is short; all this talk is naught but attle. Attend me before we are rived from this ash tree.” Owsakrimmr cleared his throat, and when he next spoke, his voice was clear and resonating.
“Two gods errant
Didst thou inherit
Your life in flames
Without fear you came
To the home of gods,
Across bridges, beyond stars.
Thee and she,
bound by the Three
at the foot of the Tree
Thee and she
Further entwined by fate,
As lover, as mate
Blood, bone, and eyes
When does one, so the other dies.”
“Very nice,” I said. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“Does it not?” Owsakrimmr sounded amused. “Not one tittle, not one jot?”
“No.”
“Let me try again, while I am still fain.” He cleared his throat a second time.
“She and thee
Lovers and mates
Entwined thy fates
With a runed thing
A fine Tverkr ring
When Frikka plied her trade
A fine mess was made
Not one changed strand
Nor three changed plans
But the whole thing ruined
All those lives, preordained
The whole skein of fate
Broken to save Frikka’s mate
Now, yarns are tangled
The Tapestry is mangled
We hang in this Tree
thee and me, me and thee
While the Maids’ elegy
Decries our destiny.”
“I really hate poetry—did you know that?”
“That is confusing…I find it soothing.”
“It gives me a headache.”
Owsakrimmr barked a laugh. “That’s not the poetry, Sherlock, that’s blood loss and shock. There’s the defect if my memory is correct.”
I shook my head. Riddles and poetry, when all I want is one straight answer.
“Que cette chose avancer,” said Owsakrimmr with a chuckle. “My kingdom for one straight answer.”