Sigurd
Jorgensson Icelandic
Bard, 1045 AD:
*Translated from the original Old Norse by
Dr. Jack A. Lukens of Harvard University, April 1975"
Excerpt #2:
For the past
several months, Norah has been having strange dreams. She initially believes they are part of the
hallucinations that have been plaguing her since neighbor’s death. However, as time goes on, Norah begins to
wonder if her peculiar visions aren’t something more prophetic.
Standing
before me was a woman with tangled, waist-length hair—hair the color of blood.
Her eyes shone like amethysts. She reminded me of a painting Uncle Jack gave me
when I asked him yet again for a mother—a painting of the prophetess known as
the Opalian Eye in the Cobbogothian legends. As her eyes shone down upon me, I
remembered her name—Totherma. She watched me carefully. Then, lifting her arm,
she pointed to my right. I looked and saw a woman covering her face and crying.
Turning
back to Totherma, I watched her enter a doorway, walk down a corridor, and stop
in front of another doorway. I went to follow, but something made me look down.
My hands were covered in blood, and the floor sparkled with shards of glass. I
smelled something pungent and musty, something burning.
Looking
up, I saw Totherma pointing into the doorway where she stood. I hurried to meet
her, but my path was suddenly blocked by people dressed in white.
Angels? I wondered.
They
were huddled around something , and I knew that whatever it was had caused that
salty, burning smell.
I
struggled to get by them, trying to see what Totherma wanted me to see. I stood
as tall as I could, but it wasn’t enough. I looked for Totherma until our eyes
met. Understanding, she lifted her arm, and with the motion of her hand, I rose
up off the ground. I could see over the group of people into the center of the
circle.
What I
saw made me scream . . .
Excerpt 3:
“Norah Lukens,” said a voice close
behind me.
I froze, closing my eyes. It had
been nine months, but I’d have recognized his voice anywhere. I slowly turned
around. “James? “My voice came out in a strangled sort of whisper.
He grinned shyly at me from the
pavilion door.
All I could do was stare. It was
like I was seeing him for the first time. I noticed the delicate crow’s-feet
that still creased when he smiled, his slightly crooked bottom teeth, the way
his chocolate-brown curls peeked out of his backward baseball cap, fringing his
tanned forehead. Those kind, deep-blue eyes. He was virtually unchanged, except
for the scruff from a couple of days dusting his dimpled chin and upper
lip—just the way I’d seen him so many times during my runs over the last nine
months. Only this was less disturbing because he was actually here. He was
real.
In and out, Nor. In and out. I struggled to get my bearings as
my heart hammered against my rib cage. The strange pull I hadn’t felt since
last summer was already taking hold of me.
James offered me his hand.
“Welcome home, Nor.” He had the subtlest hint of a Bostonian accent; he always
sounded so laid back—cool—even when he was angry. And he was the only person
who’d ever called me “Nor.”
“Right. Thanks,” I mumbled. Our
hands met, and I was shocked by the heat. He was uncharacteristically warm.
Then that familiar sense of home spread through my fingers, heading straight to
my heart. The flush I always got in his presence crept to my cheeks.
When our eyes locked, James smiled
easily. “Geez, what’d they do? Starve you over there?” He held my arm up and
out in order to look at me. “You’re skin and bones.”
I lowered my eyes. I was kidding
myself if I really thought he wouldn’t notice. I’d dropped twenty pounds at
Dunstan before the hallucinations stopped. Why did Uncle Jack ever think
this was a good idea?
James cleared his throat and
shocked me by squeezing my hand.
I looked up at him—his eyes were
intent on my face.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Um . . . yeah, sure.” It wasn’t
until he cleared his throat again, then shifted slightly, that I realized I was
still gripping his hand. “Oh! Sorry.” I quickly dropped it.
James chuckled.
Get a grip, Nor! Cool and
distant—that was the plan. I dropped my eyes and passed him to gather my things.
James got there first. “These all
your bags?”
“Yeah, but I can—”
He snatched up the suitcase and
backpack in one hand, the duffle in the other, leaving me nothing to carry.
“Thanks,” I mumbled and followed
him back to the car.
James went straight to work
packing up the trunk while I slid into the passenger seat. Once I’d buckled
myself in, I scanned my brain for any “safe” topics of conversation—topics that
didn’t include anything even mildly hinting at last summer. By the time James
was sitting beside me, I decided my best chance at not tearing open old wounds
was to close my eyes and pretend to be tired from my trip. That way neither of
us would feel obligated to speak.
It seemed that this was exactly
what James was hoping for. I felt him glance over and let out the faintest
sigh. Then, without a word, we pulled away from the curb.
Thank goodness this was going to
be a short ride. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop the first of many memories
from rushing in, shattering the fragile barrier I’d been building up to protect
myself all year.
“You ready?” James asked.
We stood side by side in the
driveway of his house. There was a car parked there. It belonged to the hospice
nurse who came last summer, Tuesday through Thursday, to help Gram. James
wanted to care for his grandmother by himself, but Gram insisted on hiring help
to give him a few nights off each week.
James motioned for me to go ahead
of him up the winding drive to my own house. I was wearing my hair long and
straight that night—something I’d started doing since James mentioned he liked
it that way. Subconsciously—or perhaps consciously—I hoped he’d find a chance
to run his fingers through it like he had once before.
James stayed behind me for the
first leg of the path. I was still in the beginning stages of discovering my
feelings for him and consequently felt shy.
From the side, I saw a pensive
smile hitch up the corners of his mouth, exposing my favorite dimple.
We were by the hydrangeas, on the
way up to my porch when I felt something tug at my head. I turned. James was
there, holding up a strand of my hair. He shrugged. “You got snagged on some
flowers.”
My face felt hot, and I fumbled
for something to say. “Y-you know, you didn’t need to walk me home,” I said.
“I’m sure there’re a million things you’d like to do tonight.” We were just
reaching the top of the stairs leading to the porch.
“A million things? Like what?”
“I don’t know. Hang out with your
friends, go see a Sox game, go play a game . . . ,” I offered.
James just shrugged, fiddling with
his baseball cap; we were at my door now. “I could do all of those things,
sure, but I’d rather be with you.”
“Y-you would?” I was facing the
door, my hands trembling to get the key in the lock. But I could see the
reflection of his face above mine in the window. He was still smiling. Why
hadn’t I noticed the effect he had on me until recently?
James reached up and placed his
hand on my shoulder, turning me to face him. I was so terrified, yet excited at
the same time. None of it made sense to me.
“Didn’t you know that, Nor?”
I shook my head. His hand was still
on my shoulder, and he took a step closer to me.
“How could I not, when you’re the
only person who’s ever made me feel this way?”
I gripped the doorknob. “Um,
what—what way’s that?”
James chuckled, completely
bewildered. “You’re the only girl I’ve ever liked and not known what to do
about it.”
I leaned back against the door.
“Don’t know what to do? What do you mean?”
He took another step closer,
letting his hand slide down my arm till it gripped my hand. “I know what I want
to do, but I’m not sure if I should.”
I swallowed. “Oh?”
“And yet . . .” James leaned
forward.
But then the door gave way.
I stumbled back, my only anchor
being James, who tightened his grip on my hand. Then I spun around.
Uncle Jack stood in the doorway, a
smile that didn’t reach his eyes plastered on his face.
“Nilla. James.” He let his gaze
slide from one of us to the other until it lingered on our joined hands.
Mortified, I quickly dropped
James’s hand and moved past Uncle Jack into the house. “I’ll see you later,
James,” I called just before darting up the stairs.
That night was the first of
several sleepless and confused nights concerning James Riley.
I shook the memory away. It was
one of many I’d tortured myself with the last nine months, trying to understand
how I could have misinterpreted his actions. I truly believed he cared about me
. . . as a friend, at least. No matter how many times I replayed the events of
last summer, I couldn’t convince myself that he didn’t.
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