In Valhalla's Shadows

by W. D. Valgardson

  He lay there, trying to decide what to do, trying not to think about the thin-stemmed wild rosebushes that were covered in hair-like thorns. He regretted wearing shorts. Even when he was in the chimney, his sandals had stayed on. His hat had floated away, but he’d managed to retrieve it. He wiggled forward now. A branch caught his hat, and it stayed behind. He reached up, felt that it was gone, rolled onto his side and snatched it back. When he’d plunged into the hole, his sunglasses had pulled up but managed to stay, slightly askew, on his head. He took them off now, folded them and went to put them in his shirt pocket, saw that the useless bullets were there, took the bullets out and put them into his shorts pocket. He slipped his sunglasses into the pocket and pulled a twig out of his hatband. He lay there for a moment, wondered if he just stayed there long enough, would Freyja come find him and drag him home.

  “Things don’t always work out,” Anna often told him, “but you just keep going. No matter how bad it feels, nothing lasts forever.” He’d been disheartened after he’d left Anna’s apartment block; his sense of aloneness had increased, nearly overwhelming him, and when she’d called him to come and help her clean apartments and do maintenance work, he’d quickly agreed. “One foot,” she would say and show him by putting one foot in front of the other, “then the other foot. You don’t feel like walking, it doesn’t matter. Don’t think too much. You can think later.”

  He rolled over onto his knees and searched for a way through the underbrush. There could be no rushing, no straight path. Dead wood littered the ground, and he tried not to break any of it. It was so quiet that sound would draw attention. Branches slapped against his face; broken bits stuck in his shirt. A piece of dead branch got stuck between his shirt and his neck. He stopped and fished it out. The woodpecker startled him again with its staccato rapping against a tree. The noise, sharp, precise, stopped as suddenly as it had started and was replaced by the sound of his own breathing, the slight movement of his hands and knees in the forest debris.

  He was at the edge of the forest when he saw the roof of the greenhouse—three greenhouses side by side, mounds of soil, plastic bales of peat moss, piles of wooden pallets, a small front-end loader. As he watched, one of Siggi’s companions appeared carrying a sack of fertilizer, but instead of going into the greenhouse, he put the fertilizer down, started the front-end loader, moved it forward ten feet, then lifted a door that was disguised to look like turf. He picked up the sack of fertilizer and descended, pulling the door shut after him.

  Tom crawled back into the bush, then sideways to where he thought the embassy might be.

  He didn’t have a plan, couldn’t make a plan until he saw the embassy and the layout and whether or not Freyja’s Jeep was there. If it wasn’t there, he’d slip away unseen. No one would ever know he’d been there.

  He finally came to a partially built structure that he recognized as the house of bottles Freyja had told him about. The bottles were stacked sideways, layered in concrete, forming walls of green, blue, brown, transparent glass. So far the highest wall was about six feet. There were stacks of empty bottles inside the walls, along with a wheelbarrow and a couple of shovels, a stack of cement bags with a tarp thrown over the top. Judging from the leaves and twigs on the tarp, it hadn’t been moved for a long time. Enthusiasm for the project had obviously waned.

  He eased past the bottle house and was so focused on what was ahead that he didn’t notice the movement around him. Then he heard a stick snap, looked back and froze. There was a black bear not six feet behind him, watching him as intently as he was now watching it. He backed away and hadn’t gone more than a few feet when he saw a flash of movement, and when he looked, there was another bear. Neither bear charged. He backed farther away and realized he was on the path from the lake, stopped and stood still. As he watched, he realized that there were other bears. One stood up on its hind legs, then got down. What the hell, what the hell? What the hell? And he backed out into an area where a circle of underbrush had been cleared away.

  Siggi was lying in a blue canvas chair with an aluminum frame, scooping dog food out of a fifty-pound bag. There were empty bags on the ground, two bears sitting and lying down, and two more gobbling up dog food.

  Siggi looked startled, stopped scooping and said, “What the hell do you want?”

  “You said I could drop by anytime to talk to you.”

  “So talk,” Siggi said.

  The forest surrounded them on three sides and the embassy sat behind a screen of small planted spruce at the other side of the yard. The building was long and made of stone, then wood siding, with windows up high to let in light but to keep anyone on the ground from seeing inside. There were skylights in the roof. Most of the building was below ground. Johnny Armstrong’s work, Tom thought.

  “Freyja?” Tom said it tentatively, as a question. There were ten feet separating them, and Siggi might have been a pagan king in the midst of his personal zoo. The ground was littered with empty dog food bags.

  “She’s not here. I thought she’d be with you, lover boy.”

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Feeding my security guards. Do you object?”

  “No,” Tom said. “Whatever.”

  “A full bear is a happy bear,” Siggi said. “Most people aren’t stupid enough to come here when there’s an army of bears protecting the place.” A slight breeze lifted the leaves of the moose maples and, for a moment, the trees lost their limp, defeated look.

  “Nobody told me.” There were bears here, there and everywhere. He wondered if they were trained to attack, like Rottweilers.

  “You should leave other men’s wives alone.”

  Tom felt his exasperation rise. People who weren’t logical had always distressed him, but since his accident, people’s refusal to acknowledge reality infuriated him, at times drove him to shouting.

  “You need to read up on the law. Nowadays, wives can testify against their husbands. Trying to make her stay married to you so she can’t testify is nuts.”

  “If I say m-e-a-t,” Siggi spelled out the word, “these guys will see you as a meal. They’ll eat everything except your shoes.” His face had turned dark red and Tom wondered if he had high blood pressure.

  “I didn’t just come to ask about Freyja.”

  “What?” Siggi asked sharply and started scooping dog food for a bear that was staring at the bag.

  “Angel. She was seen in your truck the night she died.”

  “The night before,” Siggi said. “So what? Her death was an accident.”

  “Maybe not,” Tom said stubbornly. One of the bears had come up to sniff him. It pushed its nose against his leg. He hoped he didn’t smell good.

  “Do you like bears?” Siggi asked.

  “I grew up in the city.”

  Siggi laughed. “That’s Bruno who’s seeing if you’ve got anything delicious in your pockets. I often have treats for him in my pockets. He loves peanut butter sandwiches.”

  “I’m allergic,” Tom said.

  The sun, which had been hiding behind a cloud, appeared and the relief from the momentary breeze was replaced by a suffocating heat.

  “You’re a prick,” Siggi said. “A city prick. The kind that comes on a fancy boat and lords it over everyone.” The unfairness of the accusation offended Tom. Living in the city hadn’t bestowed any benefits on him.

  “I’ve never owned a boat. I can’t afford it. I’m mortgaged to the hilt.”

  “You’re a cop. A prick cop. You suck up our taxes to persecute us.”

  “Angel,” Tom persisted. “She was in your truck the night before she died. Do you like fifteen-year-olds?”

  “You should mind your own business,” Siggi said. “She might have been my daughter.”

  “Might?”

  “Wanda says she was, but she wouldn’t do a DNA. If she was, I’d have given su
pport. Has Freyja been telling you how I never pay her the money I owe her? I’m supporting two other kids. When the bears aren’t hibernating, it costs me around five thousand a month to feed them. I’ve got big debts to pay.”

  “Illegitimate kids?”

  “They are not illegitimate. You’re a prick. They’re just as legitimate as you or anybody else.”

  “Did Angel know?”

  “I don’t think so. I hardly ever got to see her. I’m always away working. Wanda’s always moving. When I was here and Angel was here, I tried to be good to her. I took her for rides on my snowmobile. I bought her treats at the store. I help Ben out when I can. What the hell do people like you want?”

  “Did she say anything about being pregnant?” The woodpecker started tapping on a tree again. Sunlight reflected from the discarded bags, and Tom shuffled to the side to get the glare out of his eyes.

  “No. She was crying. I thought maybe boyfriend problems.”

  “Any idea who it was?”

  “I don’t know anything about her life in the city.” Siggi said it in a loud voice, offended, unfairly accused.

  “You’re a survivalist.”

  “So are you. Why did you come to Valhalla if you aren’t? You’re just not as prepared.”

  “Is Freyja here?”

  “She’s not here. What do you want me to do, go inside and drag her out by her hair? You think she’s such hot stuff? Maybe in a while you might change your mind.”

  “What about Wanda?”

  “Wanda is a party girl. She doesn’t know how to do anything else. Lots of guys would have married her. She was beautiful. Hot in bed. But she can’t lay off the booze, and when she boozes, she forgets what she’s been doing and wanders away. She’s living with you and you think everything is hunky-dory and you’re going to be together for life, and then she goes to the bar and has a few drinks and it’s like there’s nothing there. No brains. She goes off with a guy, might remember you in a week or a month. ‘Oh, hi, how have you been? I haven’t seen you for a while.’ She needs a dog collar and a chain.”

  By the time he was finished, he was shouting. His words were bitter. He opened and closed his mouth a few times after he spoke, and Tom thought he saw the young man who had started out to be a rock star, a hockey hero, certain of his success. Siggi sat there looking surprised at what he’d said.

  Tom thought it best not to get into a discussion of a subject he knew nothing about.

  “What happened to Angel?”

  “You’re the cop. You go figure out what happened. Fuck off before I sick Bruno on you.” His voice had lost its force and sounded like a riff of sadness.

  Another bear had come up and was staring intently at Tom. Tom stepped back, but there were bears in front of him, to the right of him, to the left of him, behind him.

  “Don’t run,” Siggi said. “They’ll chase you.” Bruno went up to Siggi, who rubbed the heels of his hands between the bear’s eyes.

  “Why don’t you just pay Freyja the money you owe her and she’ll give you your house back?”

  “I pay my employees first. I have creditors.” He pushed over the bag of dog food, grabbed the bottom corners and emptied it onto the ground.

  “Just speaking hypothetically, but what if a person knew that you had an underground grow op and said he wouldn’t report it so you could cash in and pay your debts—at least he wouldn’t if you started paying Freyja back, say five thousand a month, and you quit harassing her?”

  “Fuck you, you son of a bitch!” Siggi yelled. “Don’t tell me what to do!”

  “You guys can kill each other off and no one gives a shit. As a matter of fact, most people figure, ‘Good, another dealer gone.’ You kill me and there’s going to be a fuss. Even those of us who have left the Force getting killed bring lots of heat. They’ll come and search, and they’ll find your underground grow op just as easily as I found it. And if your name isn’t on the property, it won’t matter. It’s you who owes the money, and your bankers aren’t known for giving easy credit. If they realize you can’t pay, they’ll make an example of you.”

  “Shut your mouth,” Siggi said, and his face twisted with anger and fear, because he knew what Tom was saying was true. It was not the law that he needed to fear but those others with real rules and penalties. There would be no meeting to discuss his childhood, to hear the pleas of his friends as they extolled his many virtues. No one to listen to his excuses.

  “You don’t dare leave here. You go to jail and you know how that works. You’d be a dead man walking. All it takes is a mug filled with wet paper towels in a plastic bag. You know the Iranian from the West Coast? He tried to muscle into Winnipeg. He was up on murder charges. His bankers didn’t want to wait for the courts. Three guys beat the crap out of him. He’s got so much brain damage that he’s an imbecile. You wouldn’t last six months in Stony Mountain.”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Siggi shouted. “Shut up!”

  “You’re trapped,” Tom said. “You can’t leave. Do you know how many guys like you I helped put into body bags?”

  “I’ve got a deal,” Siggi said stubbornly. “I’ll pay my bills.”

  “One road in and out. You’ve got people watching it. Do you think your creditors don’t have people watching it? You and your friends aren’t going to turn up for a few days and one of the locals is going to come to see why. They’re going to find you with your head blown off.”

  “Not a chance,” Siggi replied.

  “How about a couple of kayaks coming in at night? Not a sound. Or three or four snowmobiles over the ice in winter? Or four or five guys on snowshoes? They want you, they’ll get you.”

  “My friends will look out for me.”

  “Friends,” Tom said. “You’re short of money. You think people love you because you were a high school hockey hero? You haven’t got money, they’ll work for whoever will pay them.”

  “Shut up!” Siggi screamed. “Shut the fuck up!”

  The bears were not used to Siggi yelling, and they all began to look at him uncertainly.

  “You’re in the wrong business,” Tom said. “Everybody says so.”

  “Meat, meat!” Siggi yelled. “Meat!” He twisted in his seat to reach behind and when his hand came up, it held a bang stick.

  Tom spun around and began to run. The canvas of the chair Siggi was in hung down so low that he had to struggle to get out of it. Then he had to get past Bruno, who was still hoping for a peanut butter sandwich. Tom ran, swinging his gimpy leg slightly to the side. It threw him off balance, and as he raced past startled bears, past the glass house, around a sharp curve, he slipped on the grass, skidded, tumbled, rolled onto his feet and kept running. Siggi skidded in the same place, held the bang stick up so it didn’t touch anything and crashed into a tree. He rebounded and ran full tilt.

  The bang stick had to be pressed against its target to work—a shark, a bear, a man. Tom had seen what happened when they were pressed against a watermelon at a party. The watermelon disintegrated, sweet pulp instead of blood and brains over everyone. He knew if Siggi managed to get close enough to jam the end against his back, it would blow a hole so large that Siggi could put an arm through his chest. The bears would gobble up the evidence. Siggi was right. There wouldn’t be much left except his shoes.

  He hoped the metal pins holding his leg together wouldn’t snap, that they’d keep his leg in one piece. He skidded around a tight corner, and there was the lake, shining pale blue ahead. Tom ran now in a shaded tunnel created by thick bush and overhanging branches.

  He ran along the float, felt himself start to trip, threw his weight forward and dove. He pulled himself down as deep as he could and swam along the bottom.

  Siggi had been gaining, close to driving the bang stick into Tom’s back. He leapt after Tom over the steps onto the beach, onto the float, staggered, stopped
at the water’s edge and screamed. Behind him, curious bears that had followed them stood in the bush, watching.

  Tom surfaced, rolled over to look back at the shore. Siggi was standing on the float, holding the bang stick in the air. When he saw Tom’s head appear he flung the bang stick at him. As Tom tread water, he watched the weapon make lazy circles as it arced up then began to descend, passed over him and splashed into the water.

  Siggi looked back at the bears, yelled, “Meat, meat, meat!” and pointed frantically at Tom. “Meat, you stupid bastards, meat.”

  Siggi raised his arms in the air, yelled one more time, then turned around and ran to where the jet boat and Sea-Doos were docked. He grabbed first one chain, then another and screamed in frustration. He raced back toward the embassy.

  Tom could see his hat floating on the water close to the dock. There was no time to retrieve it. Remembering what Freyja had told him about the cache of weapons, he swam as hard as he could toward the first point of land that blocked a clear shot. He reached it, waded ashore and picked his way over the rock, worked his way past the next point, then heard a motor start, so he turned into the forest and swamp. Bloodsuckers or not, he was going to have to cross stinking brown streams. He lay in the bush and watched. Siggi was riding on a Sea-Doo with an AK-47 in one hand. As he rode parallel to the shore, he fired bursts into the bush. After he’d passed, Tom began to pick his way over rocks and through the bush. He could hear Siggi firing in the distance.