by P. W. Child
On her way to the wall of designer shoes where the delicate flats beckoned, Nina was still trying to compose herself from the surprise drenching she got outside.
With all her might, she controlled her welling temper tantrum and she had a good mind to just drop everything to the floor, tying up her hair and then, one by one, collecting her stuff at her leisure. Wiping her hair back profusely, clutching her bag under her arm, she resisted the urge to meet her reflection in the full length mirror she passed.
Finally, she composed herself well enough to walk with a bit more poise, swearing under her breath. As she took the shoe from the shelf to check the size, a peculiar looking woman to her right caught her eye. She was dressed in slightly worn leather pants and a similar jacket. A lot of ladies in the store were staring, but not for the same reason. They seemed taken aback by her resting Mohawk hairstyle, shaved at the sides and draping to a straight point in the vicinity of her tailbone. Nina smiled. Always enjoying the unorthodox, she reveled in the glares falling on the unsuspecting woman who was bent in half on the small stool, fitting the latest Orinocco sash boots the store offered. She looked up briefly to see how the boots looked in the mirror and noticed the whispering women behind her. Nina was amused and waited to see what she would do.
Instead of feeling self-conscious, the woman stared them each down in the mirror, prompting each in turn to quickly look away. Then she simply continued her fitting as if there was nobody else in the store. It made Nina nod to herself in satisfaction. She enjoyed people who dared to be themselves in this day and age of sheep and bleeding heart cowards. Something else even more particular caught Nina’s attention. The leather clad woman was wearing some distinguished jewelry. One of the rings on her left hand reminded the petite historian of a piece she once saw in a Helsinki museum, cast in an antique bronze method apparently used by early Icelandic and Finnish smiths. Around her neck, the stranger wore something equally astonishing. It resembled a Viking piece she had helped a colleague procure a few years back from a hoard discovered in Dumfries in the early 19th Century.
“The Lochar Moss Torc?” she whispered to herself, forgetting about the shopping bag she placed at her feet when she pulled the shoes from the rack. It was an exact replica, the composition of which was frighteningly precise in design and texture. Trying her best to look inconspicuous, Nina moved gradually around the front of the lady’s seat, pretending to look at other shoes. In the mirror’s reflection she tried to scrutinize the piece.
She held her breath at the uncanny appearance of the neck ring. The brass cast collar was crescent-shaped and engraved with La Tène patterns. The second part was a series of hollow beads upon it, which convinced Nina that it had to be a knock-off. A very good one at that, but a fake nonetheless. The original, which was on display at the British Museum, had one of the beads missing, unlike this one which was complete. Still, Nina could not shake the curiosity of such expert craftsmanship.
But she had a date with Professor Herman Lockhart, a local rare book dealer who had a way of finding the most untraceable collections for the right price. She was bound to meet him at Costa Coffee in WH Smith within the next 10 minutes, or she would lose her investment, and perhaps his trust. Since Nina’s last life-threatening ordeal in the company of Purdue and her best friend, Sam Cleave, she had made a conscious decision to change her career path to something a bit more discerning, a bit more deserving of her expertise without having to compromise her integrity. She was done with being a subordinate achiever under the insidious oppression of older male academics who wished her to fail. Now she was working as a consultant for Museums, international documentary television productions, and the odd collector of artifacts pertaining to recent history. She enjoyed the freedom that came with it, less stress, and the fact that she didn’t have to prove herself to those who disrespected her. Being by Purdue’s side did not mar her success either, but that was just an additional incentive. With his generosity, she had managed to establish herself as an independent professional with various study fields available to her. Things were running smoothly for a change, but she never tempted fate or took anything for granted, especially when she knew why she had agreed to become involved with Purdue in the first place.
Nina paid for her sandals and rushed to get to the coffee shop before Herman arrived. As she passed the shops on her way, ducking to stay out of the downpour, she noticed that someone was trailing her quite briskly. Nina dared not turn to look, but she noticed the figure move almost simultaneously with her in the reflections of the shop windows.
‘What the fuck is your problem?’ was her first response; as always, in a defensive mode. By now, given the hellish situations and terrain she had survived before, it was not surprising that her reactions were combative in nature. Then again, this was Dr. Nina Gould, PhD in Bitchery and Professor of Insults 101 with a MA in Fuck You. It worried her that someone would follow her even in the worsening weather, but she knew she would make it to Costa before her follower caught up with her. In there, among people and security personnel, she could safely determine what her pursuer wanted from her. There was no harm in being careful.
When she entered the coffee shop premises, the small firecracker turned immediately, ready for a fight. But she was faced with none other than the leather clad punk chick from Clarks and it snapped her words right back into her throat before she could utter anything.
“Jesus, but you can move, love!” the woman panted, her eccentric hair sticking to her face and neck from the drench she was dealt while following Nina. “Your bag. You left your bag in Clarks.”
“Oh my god, I’m such an idiot! I’m so sorry,” Nina gasped, half amused and fully embarrassed. Her hand shot up to her mouth and her wide brown eyes pinned the smiling stranger’s.
“Here,” the lady said finally and handed Nina the shopping bag. “I’ve had my workout for the day now.”
“I feel terrible. I thought you were a…I thought…” Nina stuttered with an awkward smirk.
“It’s alright, love,” the lady laughed, “I’m used to being confused with a delinquent. Or a rapist.”
Nina raised an eyebrow, and then realized that her new acquaintance had a sense of humor. She burst out laughing, her eye catching the fascinating neck ring again as she chuckled with the woman.
“Nina Gould. Pleased to meet you, dear bag rescuer.” Nina reached out her hand and was rewarded with a warm smile and a swift handshake from the leather clad vixen.
“Val Joutsen,” the woman replied with a courteous nod.
Nina liked her straight away. Val was clearly a humorous and charming individual. Her haunting blue eyes narrowed with laugh lines as she smiled. Nina guessed her at about 48 years of age and noticed that Val was quite beautiful. A flawless skin and luscious lips gave her the effect of some well-groomed rock star from a magazine. Apart from heavy black eyeliner and shadow on her eyes, she wore little more make-up and she was surprisingly void of piercings, as her image would normally require.
“Val, let me buy you a Cappuccino for your torments. I insist,” Nina said, hoping that Herman would run late or get discouraged by the weather.
“I don’t want to impose. You were clearly in a hell of a rush here,” the perceptive Mrs. Joutsen noted.
“Yes, I was, but now that we are here, why not? Come, have a seat. I simply have to know where you got that magnificent piece around your neck,” Nina said as they sat down at a booth in the corner. She did her best to sound as nonchalant and empty headed as possible about her observation. But at once, Val looked surprised that the petite brunette was taken by her jewelry. Her fingertips lingered over the brass crescent as she grew quiet.
“Did I say something wrong?” Nina played up her denseness a bit to make Val feel more at ease.
“No, love. It’s just that I did not think you even saw it under all these layers of shirt collar and jacket leather,” she smiled shyly. “It’s an old family heirloom.”
“It is remarkable.
Is it old?” Nina asked. Val gave her a look that teetered on disbelief, but fell back to amusement.
“Yes, Nina. It is old. Probably older than your great-great-grandparents, I’d say.”
“You have a slight accent. Scandinavian?” Nina kept trying to play dumb while she pried shamelessly.
“Oh, there is quite a culmination of cultures in these veins,” Val giggled. “Icelandic, Finnish and some German – suffered high school in Cardiff. But I have travelled extensively, so I just call myself a world citizen.”
“I like that,” Nina replied. ‘Or should that be ‘Germanic’?’ she thought in amused excitement. There was something enthralling about Val, but she could not place it. All she knew was that she had to know about the brass neck ring. “Are you in Scotland for the Highland Games, then?”
“Oh, yes, we went to have a look when we drove through. We were going to check out the Cowal Gathering like we did a few years ago, but we were too far this year. We caught the Inverness festivities and I tell you, it was…” she seemed to think on her words, “…amusing. Very interesting how such tough sports come to being, right?”
“I have always refrained from attempting any of that crazy crap,” Nina laughed, “I just go to see the dancing.”
“Of course! With that dainty figure you’d first be used as a tossing object than a participant!” Val chuckled heartily as their coffee arrived. “I thought most Scots preferred tea.”
“Normally, I suppose. Sometimes, I just like a strong cup of coffee to keep me on my toes,” Nina smiled, making sure Val would not notice her scrutiny of the brass piece. In truth, she was carefully investigating the detail of it so that she could later reference it in her book, ‘Viking Hoards and Discoveries from Scotland’.
“Is that man here for you, perhaps? Because if he is not, he is a creepier stalker than I was earlier,” Val remarked suddenly, gazing over Nina’s shoulder to where an old man was impatiently eyeing her. Nina turned.
“Oh shit, it’s Herman,” she said, and raised her hand to hail him. But the reclusive scholar and collector was not one for joining company and he nodded nervously, waiting for Nina to come to him instead.
“Am I in his seat?” Val asked, wiping her hair back.
“No, not at all. He is just a bit shy,” Nina smiled, but she was anxious not to lose him either. “Val, please excuse me for a second?”
“Of course, love.”
Nina gestured apologetically as she rushed over to him.
“Professor Lockhart! So good of you to meet me here,” she said. He looked downright disturbed by the situation, clutching his brown satchel anxiously.
“Who is that? A biker?” he asked without peeling his eyes from Val, who sipped her coffee self-consciously at the strange man’s glaring.
“Um, she is just a friend. Would you like to join us?” Nina coaxed.
“No, thank you,” he said hastily, his tone declaring a distinct distrust in the seated stranger. “I will just give you your book. You will notice it has no ISBN, for good reason. I received the funds alright and all, so I am just delivering it to you.”
Nina frowned at his behavior. Professor Lockhart was usually a bit eccentric and uncomfortable with other people, but he was acting especially restless, so she decided not to press him. Before he gave her the book, his eyes darted between the book and Nina’s eyes, then to Val and back to the book.
“Are you trying to tell me something, Professor?” Nina asked impatiently.
“Read the book, Dr. Gould,” he said firmly, and with a glance back at her as he started leaving, he added, “And mind the company you keep.”
Nina could not believe his erratic comment. Given his expertise and his own idiosyncratic ways, she would have thought him more tolerant of unusual looking people.
“He looked pissed off,” was Val’s first remark when Nina sat down with her antique book.
“Nah, he is like that, old grump. He asked if you are a biker,” Nina laughed and drank down her cold coffee.
“Did you tell him I am a Hell’s Angel?” Val snickered. “Because I am a biker, you know? I ride a Harley and I break beer bottles over the heads of innocent bar patrons in Swedish Black Metal clubs.”
The two women had a good laugh at that. Nina kept her eye on Val’s antique neck piece. However, she did not notice that Val checked out the title of her rare, banned book on ancient reliquaries in turn.
Chapter 5
From the thawing, light blue jaws of ice a group of bear skin clad men appeared, ascending up the slope of the white that smothered the mountain rocks. They were approximately 20 in number and moved in a military formation, it seemed; their chieftain and two of his generals forming a three point lead with their respective warriors in tail. The sleet and ice was merciless and the thick bound pelt of the men’s boots fell inches deep into half frozen terrain as sheets of blizzard wind battered their bodies. Above them, the sky was red and blue, separated by a path of molten clouds which churned and curled across the ethereal sky. Crows, as large as carrion birds from pre-history, circled the frozen air and looked down hungrily at the moving flesh that spoke.
At the head of the spear was a man larger than others, his voice like thunder and his hands like hammers. Without consulting any parchment or course indicator, he knew the way by looking up, standing still to listen and then leading his men onward by the points of the mountain range surrounding them. They showed no fear, these warriors, not because they were invincible, but because they feared not death or disease, onslaught or battle. One of them looked up with a hearty laugh, observing the great birds above and jested about having plenty of food following at will. The men roared in laughter in the wailing cry of the rushing white hell as they came to stand still upon the hill’s crest. Looking down, the leader pointed to a river and said: “Volkhov.”
In awe they stood, each running his eyes along the lines of the Volkhov River below to see if there were any settlements, any promising land. Should they claim the territory? They descended rapidly, considering the rate of difficulty they were met with embarking on the scouting of a new landscape they had never seen before. As they went lower along the steep ledges of snow and brown protruding rock face, they passed the animals that lived there. Mountain goats as white as the weather stood watching them with caution from the safety of their perches where no man, no matter how skilled, would reach without the reward of death.
With their massive blades and axes brandished from the shelter of their thick clothing, the mighty men, mature and with long hair, made their perilous way towards the river which found life in the waters of Ladoga. From there they wanted to sail northwards, to seek out further uncharted land for their sons, for their blood. Making trade was their main objective, but the great old leader suggested that he wanted to conquer yet farther up, more to the west of the waters they had sailed upon.
From the soft grey flow of the water emerged men, like men walking in a field, but they came from the depths of the Volkhov with no eyes and steel on their chests. Blind, they only felt the men were coming from the mountain and so they came for them. The great leader roared his war cry and, automatically, his men took their stances in a formation of warfare. They argued playfully on the selection of their victims and wagered upon the outcome of their swift battle.
The men with braids in their beards and hair bearing the tears of frozen water salivated at the thrill of war. From their mouths came foam, their eyes on fire, and their cries became the howl of monsters that sent the animals cowering in terror. The Blind River Cadavers were not like the Norsemen. Their limbs were not covered by bear skins and their feet walked on black cloven hoof. Their brows and crowns were covered not in horns and steel and chainmail, but carried black fabric with the symbol of Thor himself, corrupted from its power and its significance given to another, a lesser leader. This angered the great bearded men and they tore the Swastika’s from the heads of the walking dead, dismembering them, for defiling Thor for their own stolen
power.
Furious and unstoppable, the Norse warriors lunged on the enemy that did not drown and from their ranks, stepped a younger man. His semblance was not like theirs, but he held allegiance with the great leader. Black of hair and black of eye, he did not wear the skins and steel or the red and black corruption of Thor’s sigil upon him. He wore no shoes and his upper body was bare. With no beard and no tribe ring to identify him, he came from nowhere and spoke.
They all heard him, even when his voice was like the hiss of the wind through stalks of wheat. His tongue was unknown to them, but his words held power, for one by one the blind dead fell to the river from whence they had come, filling the icy current with blood as red as the bleeding sky where the black carrion birds still swooped. Crimson, the cascades of water ran north to Novaya Ladoga and filled the lake with screams. Through the surface of the lake broke a sea of hands, claws of the dying – women and children they were – and their weeping filled all of Creation, subduing the rage of the storm.
The stranger who spoke the wrong words stepped onto the bank of the scarlet river and turned to face the great leader. He called the chieftain ‘Wotan’ and Wotan showed him the portal in the rocks, upon which was drawn a diagram of three intertwined triangles that formed a triangle in itself.
Then the great men with hair braided lay down as if to sleep and with the ground they settled, pulling the luscious green grass over them like the blankets of their wives. They went to sleep, leaving the green banks of the Volkhov raised where their bodies slumbered.
Behind the rocks where the symbol was painted rose a modern city, a terrible creation of eons later, fuelled by other motivators than land, food and godliness. A mark in numbers was etched underneath, ‘871±2’ it read in bloody red strokes that fell into the crevices and porous texture of the stone.
