THE LAY OF WALMART
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE (CONTD.): Part 2, written in ballpoint pen on printer paper, was found in the ruins of a Walmart in suburban Boston, Massachusetts, following a bloody siege by persons described in media reports as a gang of methamphetamine addicts connected with the Russian mafia.
PART 2
Ingibjörg and those of her ilk
Sent me and Magnus to more ditapps
Than memory can contain. Twenty and two
Were the reckless recruits, all renowned warriors.
On Sverðvík’s shore they stood, steaming,
Ready for the recital. Tales from Tóki,
Told many times, from Magnus’s memories.
Mead he served to the men, full horns.
Looming from a longship’s proud prow, he spoke.
“The ship we sail today, fighting the Fatlanders
Is but a box, oarless, ordinary. ATTO they name it.
To it Ingibjörg Sends me. It’s on a great cart.
“Vikings love to shove ships
Up onto the shores of realms ready for ruin.
Just so, I’ll attack with the ATTO
The glass gates of the Walmart
“Like a dagger, driving deep, not stopping
Till the blue-vested guard, the till-keepers,
Towers of trifles, the cart crushes,
Ramming, reaming out of its way.
“Furious Ingibjörg, future-fearing,
By then will have Sent Storolf.” Magnus’s sword
Swung round toward he of that name,
Grizzled but great-framed, giant-killer.
Storolf recited: “Inside of the ATTO are
Oddments, weird wares, dangerous distractions.
I ignore them. Brace my body on the bulkhead.
Ride through the ruin of the glass gates.
“Silence is my signal to dart to the door.
From it I face east down a wide way.
Vexing my vision, many marvels. Ignore them.
Magnus my guide. I go where he shows me.
“Eastward, thence, lies victory for vikings.
Counting the cairns, the merchandise-mounds.
Standing in the center of the wide east-west way,
Stop at the sixth. Atop it’s an image:
“A fair lass, tresses flowing,
Like the lush Linndalsfallet,
Where it rushes over rocks,
Teeth shining like Snæfellsjökull.
“Cradled in the lass’s hands, a bottle.
Bewitching brew, beautifying the hair.
Below it, many more such, stacked like soldiers.
That is the landmark that leads me to the left.
“A long lane, laden with loot.
Its Rune is like Berkano: the Beginning.
Its number, one score and five.
Let it lead me north. Little more to say,
“For in fewer than five paces
Is what my hand has hungered for
Since I found myself in Fatland,
Alone and naked: Numberless knives, new and needy.”
“Furious Ingibjörg, future-fearing,
By then will have brought Brand.” Magnus’s sword
Swung round toward he of that name,
Berserker of Zealand, brutal and bearlike.
Brand recited: “Vexing my vision, many marvels.
Storolf shows my way. Stop not where he does.
Brand goes beyond. Count cairns thrice more.
Number nine is a doll-dump: toddlers’ toys
“Painted purple and pink, smiling like simpletons,
Box-bound. Brand there turns right.
A long lane, laden with loot.
Shopkeepers screaming. Pay no mind.
“Clashing carts may cause trouble. Don’t be deterred.
Vikings can vault them, berserkers bash them aside.
All the way to the wall goes Brand.
Heaped there are hammers. Axes also.
“Spades, saws on long shafts, all manner
Of death-dealers, racked and ready
Or stacked like firewood on the floor.
Commandeer a cart, kill its keeper if need be,
“Fill it full of those death-dealers, leave nothing
That might be handy for hewing heads
And severing sinews in the struggle to come.”
Thus the berserker, bright-eyed, blood-lusting.
“Furious Ingibjörg, future-fearing,
By then has Halfdan Sent.” Magnus’s sword
Swung round toward he of that name,
White-bearded king-slayer, lord of legend.
Halfdan recited: “Vexing my vision, many marvels.
Ignoring them, I wait. Ingibjörg sends more.
In the meantime, knives from Storolf,
Axes and hammers from Brand, harden my hand.
“All told, my band is four. My companions three
Are Thorolf, Bild, and Glama. Travel to the tenth cairn.
Turn to the left. Toys stacked to the ceiling.
Do not let them beguile the eye.
“Long lanes, laden with loot.
Wide ways, well made for waging war,
Like the roads of the red-crested Romans
Ordered just so, as warp and weft.
“Too many for merchants to memorize,
Marked, therefore, with runes they can read.
Romans wrote them first. The fat ones stole them,
As well as Arabs’ numerals, arranged below.
“For each district of the treasure-town,
A Roman rune written, raised high.
For each lane lying below it,
An Arabic number to know it.
“Their runes resemble ours often.
Others are different. One’s like a fish-hook.
That’s in the northeast of the store,
Norsemen’s native land, all the good gear.
“Forests of fishing-poles you can see from afar.
Ropes for rigging. Machetes for making way
Or bringing battle. Don’t be delayed though.
Go till glass gleams on all sides. Behind those wide windows,
“Boxes, brick-sized, written with runes, stacked to the ceiling.
Glass is nothing to Glama. Hammer in hand, he has at it
Shears shelves, loots little boxes, carrying them in carts
Down long lanes to the wall of the wonder windows.
“Halfdan hastens down the glass-lined lane
Till the way to the wall’s barred by a counter.
Behind it, bang-sticks of the Fatlanders
Counter-keepers looking askance.
“They’re the only true foes we must fight at first.
Don’t be deceived that there’s no swords at their sides.
Bang-sticks instead, shooting sling-stones
Faster and more fearsome than arrows.
“At a distance they’re deadly. Get close quick.
For of fighting at arm’s length, axe to axe
They know nothing. Rush at them right away
If their hands are empty. Lie low otherwise.
“Hunker down, holding my tongue,
Till I hear Heid, who’s the only one
Who can get close to the guards.
When the shield-maid has their attention,
“That’s the time to burst in bravely.”
Thus Halfdan, gray-hamed, picked out for his patience.
Magnus’s sword-tip, swinging this way and that
Picked out each warrior, each shield-maid.
In turn, each told the tale, written by Tóki,
Foretelling the future of what was to come,
The doom to descend on the Fatlanders’ storehouse,
What deeds each warrior would do, and when.
Under the awning of the longship, idle till now,
Ingibjörg waited, sipping stew of spotted mushrooms,
Eyes lazy, but hal
f in this world,
Fingers fondling her broom-twigs.
Magnus met her there, sharing the shade,
Smelling the scent of eldritch herbs,
Gathered round the gunwales, we felt the glamour.
Ingibjörg had Sent him, sticks thrown, die cast.
Storolf she Sent next, blade-bringer.
Brand the berserker, Halfdan the wise,
Heid the shield-maiden, Glama, Bild, Thorolf.
Tóki was taken. Ship sank from my sight.
I beheld a big box, shiny steel.
It must be the ATTO. I darted to the door.
Vexing my vision, many marvels. I ignored them.
Magnus my guide. I went where he showed me.
North of the nose of the great cart, the ATTO-bearer,
Where it had crashed to a halt after driving deep,
A forest of fabric, as had been foretold:
Clothing of all colors, made for men and women,
Bigger than any bazaar. Beyond that, the marvel
Magnus had mentioned, too strange to speak of:
Wonder-windows, a wall of them. The great gift
Of the Fatlanders is these: panes of perfect glass
Showing not what lies beyond them,
But images, effigies, prophecies, wonders.
Painted in piercing light, melding many hues.
Bright as berries, flickering like fire.
Like the windows of Christian cathedrals
When lanced by the light of the sun.
But not frozen forever, as those are;
Images in movement, flashing and flitting.
Tóki was here to take treasure,
Reading the runes in those windows.
North went I, wandering in the wake
Of the shield-maiden Heid. Her hair
Was braided in back, hanging below
Brushing bare buttocks. Walking behind,
My gaze was beguiled. Gladly I’d go
To battle behind one such as Heid.
She raised her arms, baring herself
To a shocked shopper, a fat woman
Fondling fabrics. Heid, heedless,
Elbows bent, hands swung down behind head.
A knife she held there, stolen by Storolf,
Sheathed safely. She stuck it into her braid
Where the tresses came together at the nape of her neck.
Tucked in, held by her hair, until needed.
Remembering Magnus, Tóki took trousers,
Sacking a shelf-load, but went onward
North to the wonder-wall. East turned Heid.
Tóki’s eyes tracked her. She broke into a run.
Screams escaped from her mouth. Not war-whoops
But cries of terror. Not a word of the Angle-speech
Heid spoke. No matter. The men it was meant for
Heard it, and heeded. Heid was now bound
For the bang-sticks. Kept in that corner
Were the weapons of Walmart. Three guards
Gathered there, wondering what had happened.
Cart’s crash, shoppers’ screams, fleeing Fatlanders
Alarm had raised. And now a lass, not a stitch on,
Screaming for succour, coming on at a run.
What harm could she do them? Into the arms
Of the first Heid threw herself.
Out from the braid came that blade,
And into the back of his neck. As he dropped,
She closed on the next, arm whirring.
The third aimed his bang-stick, ready to shoot
Till an axe struck home in his head,
Hurled by Thorolf, part of Halfdan’s band,
Running round from the long lanes
Marked by the rune of the fish-hook.
The first part of the fight was now finished.
From the ATTO, attackers kept coming.
Asmund, Icelandic berserker, far-famed.
Hrani, the shipwright from Sweden.
Arngrim, Hjorvard, Yngvar, Snorri,
Mighty Thord. Magnus gave each man a task.
Sending them this way and that.
Hostages were herded and held.
Strange sheets of wood, wide and flat,
Formed the flanks of a new fortress
Wrapped and roofed in bright blue tarpaulins
Lashed down with lines.
The West-march of the Walmart
Held all the food in the world,
Bottled beer by the boatload,
Frost-kept food, milk and meat.
Setting up for a siege behind barricades
The Norsemen fetched food, collected clothing,
Turkish trousers with flies in the front
Kept closed with clever contraptions,
Tiny teeth, meshing like millipedes’ legs,
Gnashing, knitting, concealing the naked.
Zipper the Fatlanders called it.
Cock-catcher it was to Hunfast, the hapless.
Chains, padlocks, ropes of wrought steel
Fetched forth from the long lanes
Curved round the captives’ necks.
But all turned to the source of a sound,
A big bang, like the trunk of a tree
Snapping in a storm, making all deaf.
A Fatlander, about to be fettered
And fastened to the fortress’s side,
Had pulled out a small bang-stick,
Concealed in his clothes, shot a stone,
Struck Saemundr, Yngvar’s son,
Beloved brother, oar-puller, sword-swinger.
He had taken on a troll once, outside of Eiðar,
Bested him in battle, hand to hand.
But the bang-stick’s stone had struck a lung,
Saemundr’s life-blood gushed out of his mouth.
He fell like a tall tree. Magnus took a machete,
Held it in the hero’s hand, sent him to Valhalla.
Another bang bloodied our ears. Thord cursed.
A stone had struck him in the arm.
A third bang as Thord threw down, thrashed
The man who’d murdered Saemundr,
The coward who killed from afar.
The stone struck no one, hewing a hole
In the wooden wall, tearing the tarpaulin.
Face down on the floor, the Fatlander
Rose not again. Murder-loving Magnus,
Riven by rage, grabbed an axe,
Swung it into the spine of the shooter,
Severing two ribs, just by the backbone,
The Rise and Fall of D.O.D.O.: A Novel Page 60
