Mythworld: Invisible Moon

by James A. Owen

  Michael was tall and swarthy, curly-headed, leaner than her father, and had a distinguished air to him that Vasily would have been uncomfortable with—her grandfather certainly was. Michael had recently become a visiting Professor of Ancient Literature and Historical Studies at the University of Vienna, but most of the year, he taught philosophy at local high schools. He also was the reason, through the proper channels, of course, that Meredith eventually got a scholarship to Oxford—though by that time, she and Michael were no longer speaking, and her grandparents shouldered any financial burdens that arose.

  Elena seemed to miss Vasily terribly, but she would never speak to her daughter of why he chose to leave. For his part, he wrote diligently, sending letters to his mother to be passed on to Meredith. She pleaded many, many times for him to visit, or allow her to visit him, but he always declined—lovingly, if not forcefully. The only hint Meredith was given, however inadvertent, came just before she started school in England, but it was enough to significantly change much in her life.

  One evening, as she continued her preparations to leave Vienna, her grandmother asked Meredith to come to her room to talk. Her grandfather, having settled comfortably with his pipe in front of the fire, did not notice them go, as Meredith thought had been intended. In their room, the old woman pushed aside a dresser and removed a small metal box from the space underneath. Unlocking it with a small key from her apron, she opened it to reveal a sheaf of letters—dozens and dozens of letters, sent over many years by Vasily to Elena.

  “B-but,” Meredith stammered, not understanding, “I thought father never wrote to mother at all, ever. What are these?”

  “He wrote,” said her grandmother. “Every month, sometimes more. He wrote to her, but I never delivered them. You are old enough, now, to know—and I think if your mother will ever read these letters, it should be you who chooses to allow it.”

  “Why?”

  She just shook her head and pressed the bundle into her granddaughter’s trembling hands. “Read. Read and know your family—then decide.” She then stood and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  Meredith read the letters, then took them into the next room and threw them into the fire. Her grandmother sat silently, praying, and her grandfather, saying nothing, squeezed her hand as together they watched the papers burn. The next day, Meredith went away to college. She never spoke to Michael again.

  O O O

  “How was he killed?” asked June.

  Hjerald related to them the story he had told Meredith, then again for the Beecrofts, who had rushed to Fuji’s room immediately when they heard what had happened the day before. Thus concerned, Glen even forgot to insult anyone (for a little while, anyway), and Delna was convinced Meredith needed a full and proper breakfast immediately, as well as a pan of lasagna to take home later, and proceeded off to the kitchen to prepare everything.

  By that point they had moved the group to one of the Kawaminami’s elaborate sitting rooms, decorated in brown velvet and hung with originals by William Morris Hunt and Frank Millet; Meredith was sitting up in a chair, and everyone had become far less fawning. June still looked concerned, and Shingo looked merely uncomfortable—he seemed to have some serious issues with death and killing, and hated even the thought of devouring flesh (he was a devout vegetarian, as were his parents, and he used the criteria that he wouldn’t eat anything that had a face. It’s probably for the best that he didn’t drop by the previous morning for breakfast, although if one wants to be technical about it, by the time Meredith was finished Kevin didn’t really have a face). Fuji had gone back into the kitchen to assist Delna, and Hjerald was fidgeting. Now that the apparent crisis had passed, he was anxious to see if June’s offer of access to the closed stacks was still on the table.

  “Weird Harold,” said June, a stern note in his voice, “stop tapping. I understand your eagerness to gain access to the library, but Meredith must be our first concern.”

  “Yeah,” said Shingo. “Hold your horses.”

  “June, I’m fine,” Meredith admonished gently, “really.”

  “That’s okay,” said Hjerald. “I have to go anyway—I promised my editor that I’d come in around noon and run an outline past him.”

  “I’m going, too,” Meredith said.

  “Now, Meredith,” June admonished, “don’t you think it might be wiser to get some rest, then pursue this matter tomorrow?”

  “Honestly, I feel much better now,” Meredith replied. “It’ll do me good to get some air.”

  Turning to her, Shingo put a comforting hand on her knee. “Do you want to talk about Michael, Meredith? It seems to be important to you.”

  “I’d like to, actually,” she said. “And maybe it’s a little off-tangent to consider, but I have a strong feeling that it may have a lot to do with this wild goose chase …”

  “Hey, now,” said Hjerald, sounding hurt.

  “Sorry—this story of Hjerald’s about this Hagen guy, and the Nibelung treasure.”

  “Why do you think that?” asked Fuji, coming back into the room with a fresh pot of tea. “Do you think it was more than just being in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  “Maybe,” said Meredith. “This is more Hjerald’s turf than mine, and as far as that goes I’m inclined to trust his instincts; but I’d like to think on it a bit more before I talk about it. Going over to Ottawa with Hjerald will let me collect my thoughts before I lay everything out.”

  “Actually, I’d appreciate the moral support,” said Hjerald, “especially after the incident in Cleveland.”

  “That works for me, too,” said Shingo. “I’ve got to finish up some drawings and get them to Fed Ex by three—then my afternoon and evening is clear, and I’m really interested in hearing about this.”

  “It’s settled then,” said June. “Let’s meet back here after the Beecrofts have closed, and we’ll have dinner, and talk.”

  “And go to the library,” said Hjerald.

  “Yes, Weird Harold. And go to the library.”

  “Hot dog,” said Hjerald.

  O O O

  “What in the Sam hill is this garbage?”

  Nestor Janes was the Editor-in-Chief of the Ontario Daily Sun, and the perfect picture of a 1950’s we’ve-gotten-past-the-big-one-now-there’s-this-cursed-cold-war-magilla-going-on style editor. Rumor had it that an intern once jokingly referred to him as Perry White, the editor of The Daily Planet from Superman comic books; according to legend, Mr. Janes was supposed to have gripped the poor guy by the throat then dropped him down an elevator shaft. Meredith was pretty sure that bit was a fabrication. Mostly. At any rate, since then no one has ever called him anything but Mr. Janes or sir—not if they were smart, anyway.

  “C’mon, Chief—I’ve got a line on a great one this time, I swear!”

  “Doggone it, Van Hassel,” fumed Mr. Janes, “that’s what you said about the Giant Squid in Lake Ontario …”

  “No one’s disproven it.”

  “… And the flying gopher epidemic in Cairo …”

  “They were rabbits, actually.”

  “Whatever. And then there was that business with that poor woman in Cleveland …”

  “Hey—if she didn’t want to be mistaken for a Yeti, she shouldn’t have been rummaging around in the woods.”

  “VanHasselyouidiot––she was in her own backyard!”

  “Yeah, but still …”

  Hjerald had a lot of strange ideas, which is not necessarily a trait valued by editors who are interested in credible stories with foundations of fact; and in Hjerald’s case, Mr. Janes would’ve settled for evidence, period. Most of the time, stories of the Hjerald variety were mere tabloid fodder, and often required no more research than he could do by daydreaming after a twelve-pack. The reason Meredith worked with him (apart from the fact that she liked him personally), and one of the reasons Mr. Janes put up with him at all is that earlier in the year he had assembled a crackpot story about a coup bei
ng organized by the opposition of the administration then in power in Mexico. It got printed by accident––that sort of mistake is usually an editorial error, but Mr. Janes would never cop to it––and ended up being completely accurate. The coup was put down before it ever had a chance to start, and Hjerald more than likely saved the lives of the Mexican President and his entire cabinet.

  After that, no matter how nuts he seemed to be, or how outlandish the proposal, Mr. Janes always took a meeting with Hjerald Van Hassel.

  In truth, Hjerald was the reason that Meredith worked for the Sun. He had written a series of articles not too long ago about an expedition he had initiated to discover the famed Himalayan Yeti—in other words, the Abominable Snowman—and after months of derision from the journalistic community and a harrowing ordeal in Tibet—which included his being lost in the mountains for several months—he returned to civilization with a fact-based story which proved the legendary beasts to be rare members of the polar bear family. He sold the story to the Sun, because Ottawa was the first Western destination to which he could catch a flight from New Delhi.

  Researching stories for the London papers she was working for, Meredith ran across the Yeti articles and was not so much impressed by the content of the pieces as she was by the tenacity of the writer. To have gone alone into the Himalayas on a politically-incorrect mission, then succeed, only to survive a plane crash and spend several months hiking out of the most inhospitable terrain on Earth spoke volumes about the kind of man he was, and she wanted to work with that kind of person. She began submitting general-use photographs to the Ontario Daily Sun, and not long after began working for Nestor Janes on a regular basis as a European correspondent. She returned to Vienna, then requested a full-time assignment and a permanent position after reading a crime report written for the paper by Hjerald—it was the follow-up on the murder of Vasily Strugatski.

  After they got to the offices of The Daily Sun, Hjerald, in his animated way, pitched the proposition. All the while he was talking, Mr. Janes just sat chewing the end of a cigar. When Hjerald had finished, Mr. Janes lit the cigar and turned to Meredith.

  “What’s your take on this idiot’s idea, Strugatski? After all, you’re the only top photographer on the payroll who’ll actually work with him anymore.” This wasn’t really true, but Mr. Janes had to show some modicum of control.

  “Actually, I think he’s got something—maybe something even bigger than he thinks it is.”

  “Really?” the two men said in shocked unison. Mr. Janes’ cigar hung for a moment on the edge of his lip, then fell on his desk. He blinked for a moment then stubbed it out, cursing.

  “All right, all right—may God forgive me, I’ll sign the vouchers. Van Hassel tells me you can do it all with wire reports, stock photos, and research. If that’s true, then we’re set. If not …”

  “Travel vouchers?” Hjerald offered meekly.

  “If not, then I’ll consider, consider, Van Hassel,” he emphasized, poking Hjerald’s nose, “authorizing travel vouchers. But only, only, Van Hassel, if there proves to be something meriting the trip that you can’t get locally or on the wire. I’m not paying for plane tickets and two hotel rooms just for another Area 51 rehash.”

  “We could share a room,” Hjerald said hopefully.

  “No, we can’t.”

  “Worth a shot,” said Hjerald.

  “Get out!” said Mr. Janes.

  O O O

  Back across the river at Soame’s, Hjerald and Meredith enjoyed a wonderful dinner Fuji and Delna had prepared. They even had veal for their guests, an unusual concession of the house custom, but judging by the ravenous way in which Hjerald wolfed his portion, an excellent one. Meredith guessed she’d never really thought about it before, but it seemed meat really was best when it’s young—the younger the better.

  After dinner, the group settled with some coffee into the sitting room they’d been in earlier, and after saying goodnight to Glen and Delna, who were popping out for a movie, resumed the earlier discussion.

  “Now, Meredith,” June began, “you had said that you felt that your stepfather’s death was more than just a simple murder—that it possibly had ties to the circumstances themselves, and to this ‘story’ that you and Weird Harold are pursuing, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because of what Michael did for a living. Like I said, he was a professor of comparative literature, and what he specialized in was ancient and medieval studies.”

  “You mean, like as in Shakespeare?” asked Hjerald.

  “Hardly,” said Meredith. “The clique Michael ran with considered modern literature worthless—and to them ‘modern’ began with Chaucer.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. Unless you could speak at least three languages invented by cultures who had died before men invented chimneys, you probably couldn’t pass muster. Anyway, Michael’s interests lay mainly with a set of writings called the Edda, which is basically the ancient literature of Iceland compiled into two 13th-century books: the ‘Prose—or younger—Edda’, and the ‘Poetic—or elder—Edda.’ The Prose Edda was a work without precedent, written by a precocious Icelander by the name of Snorri Sturluson. He won great fame and respect, both at home and in Norway for his storytelling skills—even being invited to Norway to write the lives of the kings—but the work that surpassed them all in terms of influence were the Eddas.

  “The Prose Edda—edda translates roughly to ‘the poetic art’—was almost a textbook to begin with. It was designed as a reference book of sorts, as a baseline for poets who wished to compose in the manner and style of the skalds of the Viking eras.”

  “Skalds?” said Shingo.

  “You have heard of the bards of England, those like Taliesin?” June asked. Shingo nodded. “Well, add a big-ass helmet with horns and about ten feet of snow, and you’ve got a Viking skald.”

  “Big-ass?” Meredith asked, grinning.

  “Just trying to make Weird Harold feel at ease,” said June.

  “Gee, thanks,” said Hjerald. “I think.”

  “Gotcha,” said Shingo. “Sorry to interrupt, Meredith.”

  “That’s all right. Good answer, June.”

  He bowed, blushing, and she continued. “Sturluson apparently feared a loss of the traditional techniques of storytelling, as well as the decline of mythological references and allusions in the stories themselves. He blamed the growing popularity of new forms of poetry and prose which had arisen in Western Europe and then had begun a relentless march across the continent.”

  “That idiot Bacon,” said Hjerald. “It’s his fault, all those plays, ‘out, out damned spot,’ and the like.”

  “Shakespeare wrote that,” put in Shingo.

  “Yeah, that’s what they want us to think,” said Hjerald.

  “It was earlier than Shakespeare or Bacon,” Meredith said, continuing. “What Sturluson was worried about was the basics—the very forms of story, and the substance of those archetypal beliefs that inspired them to begin with. Thus, the Prose Edda was arranged into three parts, each an exposition of the rules of poetic diction which incorporated applications of those rules through the retelling of the myths and legends he so loved.

  “The first book was called the Gylfaginning, or ‘The deluding of Gylfi’, and it’s essentially a big storybook. It’s more or less a guide to the earliest mythologies—sort of a Bible where the Gods spend just as much time smiting each other as messing around with men on earth. During the Middle Ages, it was a very popular and much-copied collection of tales.

  “The second part, called the Skaldskaparmal, or ‘Poetic Diction’, involves more examples of technical expressions— kennings and the like.”

  “Kennings?” said Shingo.

  Again, his father stepped in. “It’s a form of metaphor,” explained June, “that was generally composed of a compound expression, and used as a name.”

  “Like referring to Thor as
‘The God of Thunder?’”

  “Close enough,” said Meredith. “Anyway, the last part of The Prose Edda was called the Hattatal, and was a long poem about two nobles, King Hakon and Duke Skuli, and in it Sturluson used many of the forms and themes he’d developed in the first two parts.”

  Fuji raised her hand, politely interrupting. “But, you said there were two, ah, Eddas—what was the other one about?”

  “The Elder Edda—that’s actually the one that makes me suspect there may be more to this story of Hjerald’s than just a madman and a murder. Where the Prose Edda is part textbook and partly a telling of the Norse Gods and their fate, The Elder Edda, which was compiled some fifty years later, contained even older material from pre-Christian Iceland; myths and archetypes, heroic legends, all written some three hundred years before Sturluson was born. Most importantly, the Poetic Edda contained the oldest poetic rendition of the great Germanic legends of the Nibelung, and was the basis for Wagner’s opera, and the entire festival in Bayreuth—and one of the pivotal stories in the cycle involved the death of the hero Siegfried at the hands of the villain, Hagen.”

  “Holy cow,” said Shingo.

  Suddenly, the lights went out—not just at Soame’s but all across Silvertown.

  “Wow,” said Hjerald, “do that again, Reedy.”

  O O O

  After Glen and Delna (who had found their way back to Soame’s in the dark, it being the most prominent landmark in town) had brought out candles and lamps (which, given the nature and decor of the museum, were abundant), and the group had an opportunity to assess the nature of the power failure. They’d been talking long enough that they were deep into evening, and the darkness was absolute. Glen, Hjerald, and Shingo went out into the street where it was discovered that pretty much all of Silvertown was without power; not long after that, they made an even more disturbing discovery—nothing worked. The phones were out, not even a dial tone; electrical appliances were off—the radio, dead. The television, dead. Even the appliances in the kitchen were inoperable, which ruled out a catastrophe like nuclear attack—even an Electromagnetic Pulse wouldn’t shut down everything so completely.