by P. W. Child
Chapter 7
Sam’s eyes were nailed to the television. International news channels reported on various cultural treasures having been stolen, but what was more disturbing was that the robbers killed and maimed at will to get what they wanted.
‘No arrests have yet been made and the suspects are still at large. The security footage seems to have suffered interference, as has been the recent robbery at the British Museum in London. Again, a number of undisclosed artifacts of religious and cultural significance had been stolen and two police officers were wounded in a subsequent shoot-out after the three suspects were cornered.’
As much as he tried to figure out the sudden interest in relics from the antique world, Sam found himself perplexed. He could understand the hunt for really significant items such as the Ark of the Covenant and the Spear of Destiny, but hoards and collections seemed to be carefully chosen all over Europe. It actually amused him how picky the robbers were. It was clear that they were not in it for mere profit on the black market. These deadly robberies were not for genies in old lamps, but little pieces of European cultures that had nothing in common, not even their countries. What could be so important about personal burial treasures?
It had him enthralled, curious, like he used to be when he was still alive. Now that he was a reserved, careful bore with a cushy career, he was not supposed to feel exhilarated by the dark side of world events or the peril hidden in mundane news reports. But he was.
For the first time since he started therapy, he had to admit it to himself: he hated his new life. He thought if he changed his look a bit, according to how he felt about his new found freedom, he would adjust better to the bleak normality of developments. All he felt, in truth, was frustration.
Out there was a limitless world with untold secrets, undiscovered places forgotten by time, and he was sitting in his flat most of the time, writing about sports and social events that came by annually. What more was there to life, he wondered, for people who did not seek out the hellish thrill of danger, discovery and knowledge? Books, the Internet and occasional lectures were the paths to more knowledge, but actually these were all written by people – people just like him. They did research as far as they could and wrote it down under a heading. Great. Did they ever experience the things they wrote of? Few did. Then they would give their take on what the research taught them, or what they disputed, and suddenly they were scholars, academics, experts.
Sam felt unbridled drive overwhelm him again, but he was so carefully programmed not to want it, that he literally plopped down on his couch after standing up. That is how he had been overcoming his innate need to know – just know. Gluttonous for that which the others did not know, that was Sam. Since he was a child, he refused to take things at face value. He quickly figured out that adults were only right because children did not know the difference and as soon as that inkling sank in, he began to question everything.
Now he sat on the couch, the television babbling in the background of his deafening thoughts, his inner fight overpowering everything external. His heart slammed from the livid anger he began to feel. All at once everything made him furious. He felt uncontrollable and strong. It was a conscious decision and he wanted to make it. Sam Cleave was not going to wonder about things anymore.
“My god, how did I become this dull?” he asked himself out loud. Most of the anger he felt was directed at himself for allowing, for believing what someone else told him he needed. Granted, he needed some rest and some time away from constant threat, but not like this! He had almost become comatose in his security. Through two cigarettes and the first three shots from a fresh bottle of vodka, he battled it out with his convictions. Was he going to shed the cloak of safety and live while he eluded death? Or was he going to continue to be asleep and be dead while he was alive?
On the opposite side of the room, his cat turned from the window, lay down on the carpet, shot him a sharp glance and yawned.
“Precisely my point, Bruich,” Sam said and snuffed his fag. “All I needed was your approval, oh Great Oracle.”
As if by fate, Sam’s ring tone chimed from underneath his Men’s Health magazine which was face down open on the carpet. Somehow it had landed on the phone, barely missing the over-full ashtray full of cigarette butts.
“Patrick is in the mountains for the week, so who the hell is calling me on my personal number? And now! I don’t want to talk to anybody until I see daylight,” he mumbled as he retrieved the whining phone from the floor, but at the sight of the screen his words stopped short.
Nina Gould calling…
Sam’s heart skipped. He did not know why though. Nina had been a close friend of his for several years now and he was used to her pretty face and gorgeous body about him. So he could hardly fathom the excitement with her name on his phone. Maybe he just missed her and it was a nice surprise. Inside Sam’s head he could hear laughter – his own, at his ridiculous charade with which he consoled himself about Nina. Nice surprise. Really?
“Nina, dear,” he played as he picked up the call.
“Sam, where are you?” her voice pierced his ear in a strange tone he judged as the excitement of discovery.
“Good evening to you too. And I have been well since we spoke a month ago, thank you. How have you been?” he smirked with a charming broadcaster’s voice.
“Sam, stop fucking around and listen,” she barked.
“O-kay?” he said light-heartedly, delighted that the old Nina was still under her skin, even if Purdue’s fingers were on it. ‘Why did I think that? Good God!’ Then he cleared his throat and said, “I’m home. Why?”
“So have you seen the news tonight?” she asked quickly.
“Umm, yes,” he started.
“Did you see that report on the robbery of the British Museum? And the other one? Did you see that shit?” she asked from the other end of the line, chewing on something that filled her mouth enough to distort her words so that Sam had to concentrate to understand her.
“I did, why?” he asked with a skew smile and a raised eyebrow. It was so good just to hear Nina’s voice again and her trademark over-zealous pressing. She lowered her voice covertly, as if anyone on the deserted second floor would hear her.
“I think I know who did it.”
Pause.
“Sam.”
“I’m here.”
“So?”
“Give me a second to mull this over…”
Pause.
“…okay, I’m ready. Why do you think you know who did it?” he asked, now rid of his stupid grin and feeling his blood rushing through his veins as it did before when he decided that he missed danger and recklessness. This was just too much of a coincidence. Just after he decided to get snoopy, just when he misses Nina, both matters come to him at the same time? It was a sign, he was convinced. With eager anticipation he awaited her explanation.
“I met this chick in Clarks. She wore an exact replica of one of the stolen pieces that was taken from the Viking exhibit where that guard was shot in the head, Sam. Only, at closer inspection, I don’t think it was a fake!” she rambled wildly. Sam could hear her pant and before he rated the sexiness of the sound it occurred to him that she was perhaps nervous about it, perhaps scared.
“Nina, what did you do?” Sam asked. He knew her well enough to know that she would not have just observed something at a distance and made such a deduction of authenticity.
“I…sort of…” she stuttered.
“You what, Nina?” he sighed, immediately concerned for her recklessness.
“…invited her over here, to Wrichtishousis,” she said softly, her tone deeply uncertain of her impulsive action.
“Jesus! Are you insane?” Sam exclaimed, heading for his bedroom to get dressed.
“Look, she doesn’t know what I do for a living. She doesn’t know that I know. So, I thought if I invited her over for dinner and a drink, you know, get her sloshed, I could find out a bit more. Maybe I could have ano
ther look at her neck ring, Sam. Imagine if we could get to the bottom of this?” she said as calmly as she could, as not to alarm him even more. Her sober voice did the opposite. Nina, composed, spelled trouble.
“I’m coming to join you. If this is real, if this woman is involved, you are dealing with a downright deadly group of people, Nina. With me there, they’ll hopefully think twice. And if I look stupid enough, they’ll let us live because we are just there to get pissed and talk crap all night, right? Play dumb,” he said as he slipped into his jeans with immense effort, grasping at his pants with one hand only.
“What the hell are you doing over there?” she asked.
“I’m hopping around my flat like an idiot, so that I can get to you sooner, you freak,” he groaned.
Nina chuckled. “Oh, it sounded like….something else.”
“Doctor Gould!” he gasped. “Don’t mock the less fortunate. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
After she spoke to Sam, Nina felt a bit better about her hasty decision. She hoped Val would get lost on her way to the mansion, but that was unlikely. By the sound of what Val told her in conversation the other day, she knew Edinburgh well enough. Getting here though, from Glasgow would be so much quicker on a bike than by car, so Nina hoped Sam would get there well before Val arrived so that they could settle in and get their story together.
Nina closed her antique books, Heimskringla and Kalevala, among others. Seeing the Viking symbols in the book Herman gave her, she was immediately thrown back into her lucid and frightening dream. She had drawn the symbols she saw as well as the number that was etched in the rock. What baffled her most, though, was Sam’s presence at the river and his impact on the Nazis as well as his influence on the chieftain.
She knew if she told him about his involvement in her dream, he would probably childishly make some damn remark about subliminal suggestion and how she secretly wants him roaming her dreams. In other words, that had to stay top-secret until if or when he needed to know about it. After she had cleared up the study, she went downstairs to one of the living areas, where she would entertain Val and Sam. The lavish room had high, bare windows and a giant hearth in the corner of the adjoining walls, where a fire had already been lit by the house staff before they left for the evening.
Nina put out some red wine, since she had no idea what Val liked to drink. Sam would undoubtedly bitch about his whisky, so she served a bottle of single malt on a tray on the coffee table. Anxiously, she paced the room. She hated being ready too early for company. It was almost as bad as having guests arrive an hour before time, but with added boredom.
Chapter 8
“You are not listening to me. I distinctly told you that it is an ornate marcasite vial. It should be in a similar looking container, either a pewter box or a brass pot with a lid. Now, because we do not know yet what casing it was trapped in, we will just have to steal all the relevant artifacts, wouldn’t we?” Lita’s hoarse voice bit into the ears of her men. They found it difficult to execute her orders, on account of her mystifying explanations and description of the object she was looking for. The problem was that she reserved the details for her own knowledge alone, leaving most of her reasons unclear. With unclear descriptions, her men had much trouble deciphering what they were supposed to locate. If only Lita could tell them why and what, it would be easier for them to ascertain the type of hiding place her prize would be in.
Terrified of the sadistic noble woman, the men only exchanged nervous glances. They dared not question her, not even to clarify her order. Lita was brutally high strung and her intelligence had made her extremely intolerant of regular thinkers, making of her a tyrant with a general disdain for the so-called morons around her in everyday life. A fiery temper was her worst trait and although she was well aware of this, she constantly realized that she could not control it, no matter how she kept track of the developing annoyances in her when faced with situations where she was misunderstood.
“Madam?” one man dared. Lita turned on her heel and her blazing eyes addressed him, sending a small twinge of fear through him, but he maintained his composure.
“Yes?”
“Madam, could you perhaps tell us what approximate size your vial is? That would narrow things down considerably,” he said, trying to sound helpful in his uncertain voice. Another man in the assembly of employees followed up, not only to aid his colleague, but to win favor with the mistress as a man who uses his own discretion, “Yes, Madam. If we narrowed the search that way, I’m sure we could locate your vial much quicker.” The two men gave one another a surreptitious nod in agreement, shuffling their feet as their other colleagues cast glances to them.
Lita stood staring at the second man who spoke and folded her arms. It was a legitimate request, but unfortunately she really did not know from the notes of the scroll, how big the vial was. For a moment, the frustration of it all threatened to erupt in her, but this time she decided to curb the urge. Calmly, she replied, “I’m afraid I don’t really know, but from what it holds I can venture to guess that it would be no bigger than your palm, gentlemen.”
The room’s atmosphere changed instantly to an unfamiliar comfort, for once. Even Lita found it pleasant. Had she not have to enforce her will with efficiency, she may have been a nicer individual, she reckoned, but sadly discipline did not function on kindness.
“If you can find any of the relics, specifically designed to contain an object, and it happens to be the estimated size of your palm, gentlemen, then you bring it back to me,” she concluded in her usual regal tone, reminding the men at once that the cold ambience never stayed away for too long. At least now they had an idea of what to look for.
Dismissing them until the next weekly meeting, she retired to her bedroom. From the sheath of an antique broadsword, she retrieved the scroll. It was a single sheet of fabric, finer than silk and stronger than spider’s web. Upon it the instructions were written in an obscure script, only very few people could read. Lita was one of those scholars who had studied the ancient Icelandic dialect on it and she could follow the words without much mutation in etymology.
She read there, again, about the vial.
Inside it, it reputedly held a substance which could invoke ancient abilities, sought by Shamans and Wise men, Kings and Prophets throughout the ages. Not one living soul could attest to its existence, but in various scriptures and grimoire, the vial and its unearthly contents have been repeatedly pressed upon. In some languages, Lita found the words depicting a goblet with magical water, in others a tubular crystal with dragon’s blood, the latter of which she deduced could have been some sort of alchemic combination of potions. If the assumed size was correct, she knew of but a few relics which could harbor the liquid.
For years, she had tracked the whereabouts of the scroll she now held and now that it was in her possession, she could finally continue on her journey to find the legendary Hall of the Slain, Valhalla itself.
Tales woven through history have often pointed toward Germany, Bavaria specifically. Some indicated a host of places in Scandinavia and even Russia, along the Volkhov River, perhaps also the Volga River. Lita had a world of ground to explore and limited time to do so. Since the death of Walter Eickhart, she would be the one to succeed him in the Order of the Black Sun. Her heritage was not pure German, but the Order considered her wealth and blood to be superior even to the sovereigns of Nazism, for Lita Røderic was a direct descendant of the Chieftain Wotan who, by some arcana became wizard god and ruled as the Viking god, Odin.
Her pursuit of knowledge had established her as an expert on, among other subjects, Anthropology and Theology, from where she had rooted her search into ancient history to locate the historical site.
Inside Valhalla lurked a great evil, so her scroll told her, upon the release of which the wielder of the Power would subdue all enemies of the Aryan Kingdoms.
Ragnarök would come to fruition at Lita Røderic’s hand and as Supreme leader she would eradicate
most of mankind, save for her Chosen. Like the Ark of the Christian Bible, she would keep safe those of her choosing – decorated warriors, scientists, mathematicians, occultists, medical professionals, and those of superior intelligence quotient.
According to her, and many others involved in her acquisition of wonder weapons and the knowledge of kings, the state of the human race had reached an alarming status of infestation and nothing more. The media was the mother of fools, politics had become obsolete in the act of rule, and with the abolishment of executions, discipline, and proper education the world had become a smear on the face of Creation. Under her rule, the world would become a New Asgard, fraught with wisdom and order.
Of this objective, The Order of the Black Sun was not informed, but she could enjoy their protection and support until she could show them the way to supremacy. Lita sounded like a lunatic when she explained this to her father 20 years before, when she was a young, restless overachiever. Now she was a genuine threat, cunningly using Norse Mythology, from which the Nazis and the Black Sun took their ideologies to attain items lost to history. With these teachings and their relevant representative relics, she could find the renowned Hall of Odin. To her it was not mere legend, nor fairy tales with incoherent events and absurd characters, but tales rooted in historical account where important men became gods in the eyes of the frail subjects they governed. Lita knew that there was solid reality lodged in these ancient writings, if one knew how to decipher the trials and tribulations of antique perceptions in relation to what was now considered normal.
As in the Apocrypha and Theological texts she had studied, it was quite obvious that swords of fire, angels consisting of eyes and winged men were merely descriptions of the ancient perception of their true nature. Such was Norse Mythology and its runes, symbols, and gods. The power was very real, but viewed as tall tales of gods and monsters, while events and prophecies were lost in translation, for lack of a better term.
