In Valhalla's Shadows

by W. D. Valgardson

  They crossed the open harbour area to the beach.

  “I thought we might have gone on the path,” he said to the backs of their heads.

  They both looked back, and Samantha said with the superior tone of experience, “No wind. Lots of mosquitoes.”

  Ahead, he could see a plume of smoke rising like a white pillar into the sky.

  “What’s that?” he asked, pointing.

  “Smudge,” Samantha informed him. “Mosquitoes don’t like smoke.”

  Over the lake there were clouds like small islands.

  Samantha turned to him and said, “Frigg is spinning.”

  “Frigg?” he replied. “Who is Frigg?”

  Samantha looked at him like he had just declared himself illiterate. “Frigg is Odin’s wife. Don’t you know that? She spins clouds.”

  Reeds and driftwood were caught in the branches of the bushes along the high-water mark. The circles of stone and ashes from campfires were gone. The lake was the colour of unpolished silver, so flat and solid-looking that it seemed like it would be safe to walk on. They made their way along the edge of the water where the sand was soft, free of rocks, but gradually, even this sand gave way to broken slabs of limestone. Gabriel was looking over his shoulder at Tom when his sandal caught on the edge of a limestone block. He pitched forward on his knees and cried out in pain. He sat up and, holding his right knee, rocked back and forth. Tears ran down his cheeks.

  Tom knelt down, looked at Gabriel’s knee. The skin was scraped deep enough for there to be blood. A bruise was already forming.

  “The healer will fix that,” Samantha declared.

  Tom bent down so Gabriel could climb onto his back, wrapping his legs around Tom’s hips and his arms around Tom’s neck. Tom carried him the rest of the way while Samantha ran ahead. At the trail that led from the beach to the commune’s buildings, two women led by Samantha met them. Tom let Gabriel slide down. A young woman Tom assumed was Gabriel’s mother hugged Gabriel, then got him to hold up his knee while he leaned on her.

  “He wasn’t watching where he was going and he wouldn’t hold my hand,” Samantha said stiffly, and Tom thought, as charming as she appeared, she was prissy and quick to absolve herself of blame.

  “That’s fine,” said the woman who had examined Gabriel’s knee. “We’ll wash it and put a salve on it. It’ll stop hurting soon enough.”

  The slightly bitter smell of burning green leaves permeated the air. A veil of smoke hung among the trees.

  As they passed members of the commune, people nodded and smiled. When Tom saw the gardens, he stopped to admire them. They were Anna’s dream come true. The raised beds formed a series of concentric circles with passageways from one circle to the next. Vegetables and flowers were mixed. Samantha waited for him as he walked along a path between two beds. Kale and spinach he recognized. Lettuce. Tomato plants. Farther on, he saw rows of corn. There were chairs and benches woven from willow set out so people could rest.

  Samantha led him to a group of people standing together talking. Godi-4 left the group, thanked Samantha, shook Tom’s hand and said he appreciated Tom’s coming to join them for the evening.

  There were a number of smudges. At the top of the trees, the smoke spread out, joined and drifted back down. The sun was moving to the west, its intensity softened by the haze.

  “The gardens must be a lot of work,” Tom said.

  “What better way to spend your time than growing and harvesting the food you eat,” Godi-4 replied, picking a young radish and offering it to Tom. He picked another for himself, brushed off the dirt and bit it off the stem. “You’ll have to excuse the smoke. We don’t believe in using insecticides. Nothing has been invented that kills mosquitoes but doesn’t harm butterflies or bees.”

  The raised beds were made of old railway ties held together by iron rods fitted into holes at each corner. The ties were set six high so the gardens could be tended without anyone having to kneel.

  Tom realized that he was being watched with great curiosity.

  “We will walk over to the dining hall,” Godi-4 said. “We eat communally. It is a way of being one.”

  The Godi had made good use of the limestone slabs from the beach. The areas around each circular garden were paved with them. The sidewalk led past two sets of huts and around the longhouse with its stone base and sod roof.

  The Viking ship sat between the longhouse and the huts. Three men were busy using planes and a drawknife to make new pieces, but he couldn’t see what was being shaped. They had a small wooden ladder so they could climb in and out of the long ship.

  “It requires constant maintenance,” Godi-4 said. “They are replacing two of the oarlocks. We are discussing building a shed in which to house it.”

  “Will you launch it soon?”

  “As soon as the repairs are finished.” He indicated logs that were piled to one side. “We will roll it down to the water on those logs. It will be a day of celebration. You should come and help. A strong back is always appreciated. We need a day with no wind to put it into the water.”

  The paved walk split at the end of the longhouse, and Tom thought they would go to the front entrance, but Godi-4 led him around the back where there were two square projections that Tom remembered from his earlier visit that housed a traditional food preparation area and washrooms. On the other side of the walk was a long low-frame building with a multitude of windows made up of small panes and wooden steps that led to open double doors. The building seemed so out of place that Tom looked at Godi-4 quizzically.

  “We use this for our communal meals. It was a two-room school. We hauled it here. Simple prairie construction, but it’s not suitable once the weather turns cold.”

  Godi-4 was called away for a moment, and Tom stood back watching the men and women cooking in the kitchen area while others set out dishes and cutlery on long plank tables. There was the pleasant clank of dishes and pots and pans, and the smell of vegetables and fish and strawberries. Since his visit to the longhouse, people obviously no longer considered him a stranger, and as they passed, they smiled or said hello and nodded. One of the young men brought him a glass of cold water.

  When Godi-4 returned, Tom asked, “Why the invitation?”

  Godi-4 smiled and patted a toddler on the head. “Many reasons. You were a stranger, but now you live in Valhalla. Jessie Olason thought you should be the owner of her house. You are, or you used to be, in the police. On the whole, we try to avoid the police, not because we do anything to break the law, but the police think in stereotypes. They usually have a very narrow view of the world.”

  “And I don’t?”

  “We do not know. We will find out. We’ve learned from your first visit that you are curious about us. You must have heard stories from the people of Valhalla. Perhaps some of the things they told you are true, perhaps not. You’ve accepted our invitation. You are polite. When Gabriel fell, you picked him up and carried him. You are kind.”

  “Perhaps I want the hidden treasure.”

  Godi-4 laughed out loud. “You have heard of that. Of course. What is the most interesting thing about us? Our beliefs, the way we live, our goals? No, of course not. That in our past there was gold hidden that has never been found. The mysterious treasure of Valhalla.”

  “You don’t search for it?”

  “Of course we search for it. We are just as great a pack of fools as anyone else. Maybe greater, because we feel that since it is part of our history, we should be more successful at finding it than anyone else. I wish we would find it. We could make good use of the money, but more importantly, it would stop the searching. Many have heard of this gold, of this treasure stored in trunks and buried in the soil, in a cave, under the water. Do you know what has been bought with this gold so far? No, of course not. Tragedy, greed, violence, pain, dishonour. People have come here, torn our buildin
gs apart, ripped up floors and walls, dug holes everywhere. People have joined us because of greed, not because they want to be one with us. We’ve had people kidnapped, tortured, beaten. Our belief is that the treasure will be found when our true leader appears.”

  “And then?” Around them people were coming with their gardening tools and using two hoses to wash them. They dried the tools with what looked like bedsheet remnants and stacked the tools in two wheelbarrows. Then they dispersed to the huts.

  “He will know the way. We will follow.”

  “The one-eyed man?” Tom asked.

  Godi-4 paused, dipped his head in acknowledgement. Beside them a man threw an armload of green branches on a smudge and the smoke thickened. For a moment, a small flame rose up, but it quickly died away.

  “I have both eyes.” Self-consciously, Tom touched the scar that ran diagonally down his forehead to his eyebrow, then down his cheek.

  “The mark is upon you.”

  “Odin gave his eye to gain knowledge. I nearly lost mine chasing a druggie who hijacked a car.”

  “And why did you chase this car? There are many cars. Too many cars. Insurance companies replace cars all the time.”

  “There was a baby in the back seat.”

  “You have a kind heart.”

  “I killed the child. I didn’t stop the chase when I was told to. The car crashed and the carjacker and the child were decapitated.”

  Above them the sun struggled impotently to break through the smoke that clung to the tops of the trees. The top of the car had been sheared off. It looked like a grotesque convertible. His consolation was that it happened so quickly that the child’s death would have been instantaneous. There would have been no suffering. People died all the time. One of the worst was a car with a mother and three children that rolled and burst into flames. Passing motorists had stopped and tried to get them out, but it was impossible. They never got free of their seatbelts. He reached into his pocket for the plastic piece of taillight and realized he’d forgotten it at the house.

  “You feel guilt. You have a conscience. There are many who have no conscience. Do you think not having a conscience is necessary for success in this life?”

  It was a question he’d asked himself many times, and having found no answer, he did not want to discuss it. “What do you want from me?”

  “To share our supper. And then to watch our entertainment. Many others will come from the village to hear us. We have many fine performers.”

  With that, they came to the dining hall and went inside. Many of the places at the plank tables were already taken by older people. When the people in the kitchen saw Godi-4 and Tom, they started carrying out bowls of food. Tom and Godi-4 slid into their places.

  Godi-4 stood up, and Tom thought he might give a benediction, but he simply said that there was a guest tonight from Valhalla, that his name was Tom Parsons, and he was here in response to their invitation. Then he sat down.

  “Are you gypsies?” Tom asked.

  “We are a mixed lot. But no, I wouldn’t say we are gypsies. Some of us are transient, move from craft shows to fairs all year long. We have safe places here and there, sometimes just a house with a welcoming owner. Some places that can take in a dozen people. Like in pioneer days, we know of stopping places for travellers who need shelter. I’ve always thought it a strange failing of the churches that they don’t have places of refuge for weary, distressed travellers, especially given the story of Joseph and Mary. Why is it that Lutherans or Catholics in need cannot go to any local church for help?

  “Many of our people have their own resources. They are retired or have good jobs. A few are rich; they come here to renew themselves. However, in recent years we’ve attracted new people, younger people who have lost their way. Often they seek answers we cannot give. We are not a rescue operation any more than a monastery is. Others have tried to join us because of our reputation, because we are exotic. You just have to say ‘Vikings’ and people pay attention. Times change and people’s circumstances change. They make new decisions. There are those among us who choose to travel from place to place selling the goods we make. They often entertain. There are those who have a lot of material wealth to contribute, but we no longer expect that individuals will give everything. There was a scandal when Godi-1 disappeared with the community’s resources. We barely survived that. You have met Brokkr, who usually stays for the winter. He prepares this place for our return. It is hard to remain in the snow and cold while others travel to the sun. He lives a life of loneliness. If any of our people become ill, they return to rest and heal. They know they always have a place.

  “Since you are determined to live in Valhalla, you will get to observe our Viking week. The public is welcome. If you want, you could choose a Viking name and people here would help you with your costume. Brokkr is our most skilled blacksmith, and he has apprentices who make chainmail and shields and swords and spears.”

  “Would I have to become One to participate?”

  “No,” Godi-4 said. “There was much travel in Viking times, and visitors frequented the longhouses.”

  “Should I arrive by boat or on a horse?”

  “Either would be fine, but given the short distance, walking would probably do.”

  “I think,” Tom rejoined, “I’ll stick to being a guest the first time around.”

  “It always starts the first weekend in August. The Whites do not care for us, but they do not object to the business it creates for them. If the weather is good, many people come to be entertained and to learn. Their cabins are filled. The campground is filled. Their restaurant is busy.”

  “Karla complains that you compete unfairly.”

  “The diet in Valhalla is not good for many people. We sell what we can to get a return from our labour, but we also give healthy food to the local people at a price they can afford. We are not vegetarians, but we seldom eat meat because we cannot raise it ourselves. We eat a lot of fish.” He handed Tom a platter of baked whitefish. “It is hard to get meat that is not suffused with chemicals.”

  Tom took a portion of fish and placed it on his plate. The person sitting on his left side handed him a bowl of vegetables and potatoes.

  “You have five acres on the lake side of the road. Thirty-five on the other side, and that includes pasture,” Godi-4 continued. “That is one of the things we wanted to talk to you about. Jessie would not allow us to use her property, and it sat fallow. We cannot pay you meaningful rent, but we can supply you with vegetables, berries, plums, even crab apples, delivered fresh to your door. We make preserves. A bachelor might appreciate these things.”

  Tom pulled the skin back from the whitefish and took a piece of the flesh on his fork. “If people offer you a favour,” his father had always said, “it is because you have something they want. Do you want the favour? Do you want to pay the price? No favours are free.” His father was used to keeping ledgers, and every asset had to be offset by a liability.

  “There is no other pasture available close by. Besides, yours is already fenced. It is badly in need of repair, but you are one person. We are many. We can do that more easily than you can.”

  “Is there a great demand?” Tom asked. “Should I put it up for bids? Will there be competition?”

  “You have a sense of humour,” Godi-4 said. “Yes. Horst White covets the land. There may be others.”

  The fish had been stuffed with a bread dressing. Tom ate a piece of it as he thought about Horst White. “When I asked him if any place was for rent, he said no, there wasn’t. It turned out he was telling the truth. Jessie didn’t want to rent.”

  “If we had good pasture, we could promise you lamb and mutton, maybe beef and milk.” A young man filled their glasses with cold lemonade. Others nearby had been listening to the conversation. They, too, were waiting for Tom’s reply.

  “Think on it,”
Godi-4 said. “It is not good to make a hurried decision.”

  They finished their dinner, then Godi-4 said it was the time for those who had been fed to serve those who had not yet eaten. He suggested they take their strawberry cobbler outside.

  They sat in the shade of a green umbrella. There was a patch of snapdragons in a large ceramic pot on the step, and a hummingbird was hovering, feeding on the nectar. “This is what we seek,” said Godi-4, indicating the flowers and the bird. “It is not always what we get.”

  Godi-4 lowered his voice and said, “You have been in the police. You know how to ferret out things. Morning Dawn, one of Jason’s group, has disappeared. With the death of the village girl, we have reason to be concerned.”

  “Morning Dawn?” Tom repeated, giving himself time to think.

  There was a rattle of dishes being washed in the kitchen area and quiet chatter at the tables as the second group ate. There was the scrape of benches being moved for the evening performance.

  They sat in silence as they ate their dessert. Godi-4 put down his plate and fork. The sun was behind them now. A breeze had risen from the lake, driving the mosquitoes away, and Tom hoped that it would mean they no longer needed the smudges. Godi-4 said, “She had short blonde hair. Maybe more orange from a henna hair dye. Five foot one or two. Underweight, nearly anorexic. The last anyone saw her, she was wearing a brown-and-gold summer dress. I didn’t see her in it. She and Jason’s other companions have mostly stayed on the beach.”

  “She didn’t tell anyone she was leaving? She didn’t leave a note?”

  “Nothing. She simply vanished.”

  Tom wondered what Godi-4 knew—if he knew anything more than he was saying, if he was fishing because he thought Tom might be hiding information—and his heart lurched because his name was already linked with Angel’s death and could easily come to the forefront if another young girl was harmed. He put down his plate even though he hadn’t finished his dessert.

  “Did anyone else disappear at the same time? A young man?”