Prolog
It was twelve thirty on a Sunday, and the most devout were singing as loud as their lungs allowed. More than seventy people were present, not including the choir or the figurehead in white vestments who was leading the throng of people in song by example, craning his neck back and puffing out his chest to project his voice into the rear of the building. The younger boys in the front imitated this gesture, while the older men who sat closer to the exit shouted their notes in retaliation. The voices echoed from the walls and ceiling; a proverbial war of youthful sopranos, experienced tenors and dominating basses. A young man who had been sleeping in the pews stirred at this loud interruption.
“You okay, Mac?” The elder man spoke, breaking himself from the song
The youth shook his head slightly and, blinking the sleep from his eyes, looked to the elder. The old man was wearing his Sunday best: dark brown pants, a lighter shade of brown for his short, and black dress shoes. His coat was draped over the back of the pew, also brown, and his leather hat rested between them on the pew. He combed over his graying in a poor attempt to hide the growing bald spot that threatened to shine with light at the first chance of an opening. His wrinkled face appeared to be slowly sinking toward the ground, but his smile was forcing it to stay, at least for the time being.
The former sleeper was not as well dressed. His face showed no sign of being near a razor for days, and his black stubble masked his imperfections. It also hid the displeasure that was attempting to advertise through his lips. His white shirt and cargo pants were wrinkled and stained with coffee, among other substances, leading the elder to believe that this young man was a vagabond looking for a warm place to sleep. His boots were well worn, but anything above the ankle was hidden by the once-khaki pants. Even while sitting, he wore his navy blue trench coat, either for its warmth or as a sign that he would leave at any time. The coat carried the scent of vegetable oil from his late night at the diner, bringing the bearer's mind to better times of comfort and acceptance. No one judges me in a diner, after all the youth thought, his mind slowly waking and registering the question.
“Yeah,” the younger muttered, his voice cracking and barely audible over the pious voices which carried a tone of resentment to his presence. “I'm fine.” He gave himself a brief moment to glance around the room, noting the well-lit interior, the immaculate windows depicting the figures of disciples and stories, and the unwelcoming image of a crucifix hanging on the far wall.
The elder nodded and continued to sing.
Great, the young man thought, half-closing his eyes, another one asking for my story.
But the questions never came. Even when the song ended, the elderly man sat without saying another word. When it came time for prayer, he didn't make any demands when the youth remained seated. The entire service continued on, almost as though there was not an outsider in their midst.
The younger was waiting for the questions that always came when he entered a church. “Where are you from? Why aren't you praying? Are you without a home? Have you tried praying to God?” At the last one, he always wanted to see the reaction on someone's face if he ever said “Yes, but none of them answer.” Of course, the timing was never good enough. I'll just save it for later. He smiled inwardly at the thought.
The service was coming to a close; it was almost one in the afternoon. The last song was beginning, something about mountains and rivers, and the final prayer would soon follow. Then I can get the hell out of here. It was growing warmer outside, but only to the freezing temperatures. Yet the white flakes and free moving winds seemed much more inviting than the oppressive feeling from decor indoors.
The final prayer was beginning, and the youth, for the first time that day, fell to one knee. He silently crossed himself and tilted his head.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” the commanding voice called from the head of the room.
“Amen,” he muttered in unison with the crowd as he crossed himself a second time. Can never be too sure he mentally added.
He stood slowly, buttoning his too-large coat. His muscles ached, calling out their resistance to the idea of moving. Sleeping on the pew no longer seemed a good idea. While his body regretted it, his mind appreciated the short reprieve.
The elder man seemed to wait until the younger was finished before extending his hand. The youth accepted it and returned the firm grip.
“I know it's not much,” the elder began as he loosened his grip, “but at least try to get something warm.”
The young man was able to see, from the edge of his vision, the folded image of a five dollar bill.
“Good luck to you, Mac. And God bless you.”
Which god? I can name eight right now. Better yet, ask yours to stop pissing on me. I shower enough on my own, thanks. The younger swallowed the bitter words of sarcasm and nodded, giving a faint smile. The older man turned and walked away with halting, cautious steps, carrying his coat in his left hand.
The old man left the youth to contemplate the now empty church. For the first time, Alrik felt comfortable in the building, as if the oppressive aura carried by the “true believers” was violently launched through the open doors.
“God,” he muttered, looking to the crucified image on the far wall, “lay off for a day. I could use a day off for once.”
He didn't hear an answer as he raised his collar and stepped out into the violently cold wind.
The priest, standing outside and hiding his discomfort of the cold, looked toward the youth, the last to leave the building. The two made eye contact, their motions ceasing. The youth's muscles tensed, as a predator preparing to assault its prey, while the priest locked his body in place, as a deer in headlights. The eyes of the priest opened wider, almost as if he suddenly realized that his god could not help him.
“Go with God, Alrik.” The priest said, finally finding his voice. It was shaking as much as his hand as he offered it to the young man.
Alrik looked to the priest's hand, and looked back to his face before placing his own hands into the large pockets of his coat. The wind picked up again, blowing the snow past Alrik's body and into the church. Already, the weather was trying to replace the oppression that he escaped from only mere moments before.
“He's not coming,” Alrik blatantly stated, turning his back on the extended hand. His mind was already thinking ahead to the warm diner and the idea of putting something warm into his stomach. He turned his head back for a moment, almost as a side note to speak again.
“Why else do you think I'm here?”
A Slice of Heavenly Reality
“You know that you could be dreaming, right?” The King of Dreams spoke from motionless lips as he sat upon his throne, forged from the dark miasma of living nightmare. It was almost as though he were no more than a perfectly carved statue with living hair.
The wall behind the Dream King shifted, replaced by swaying, hypnotic colors that removed all traces of the bleak darkness. Images juxtaposed the colors: people running, fornicating, killing; animals pouncing on prey, the mouse that finally got away, the dog that had its day.
“I know,” Alrik responded. He was never comfortable being in the presence of the Dream King. He shifted his weight, revealing his discomfort. The room smelled of sugarplums and gumdrops -- a child's dream.
“Yet you show no fear?” The colors shifted again and grew darker. Black and red flashed through. Images of pestilence, decay, and carnage rampaged through the colors to flood Alrik's mind, much like the crusaders raping the inhabitants of the promised land. The metallic scent and taste of blood assaulted his senses.
Alrik shook his head slowly, both from disbelief and using futile gesture to remove the thoughts that penetrated his mind. He wouldn't let a lesser deity such as this deter him with such thoughts.
“Impressive. . .for a mortal.” The king of dreams rose to his feet slowly. His movements were elegant and graceful, yet his figure showed no signs of either trait: a rigid form hidden beneath ever shifting robes of exaggerated colors. The throne vanished as he took his first few seemingly tentative steps. The images and colors abruptly stopped, allowing the return of the darkness, broken by ever-looking eyes. The smell of mold masked the scent of blood as the Dream King stepped closer.
“But you aren't. Not entirely,” he continued, leaning closer. The smell of rot, the sickeningly sweet smell of gangrene, filled the air before Alrik's face. “So why do you come to my home today?”
I must be dreaming Alrik thought. But maybe that is what he wants me to think.
“I need a favor, Nemo,” Alrik said, ignoring these thoughts. He knew that this minor deity hated the name, Latin for “nothing,” yet he still addressed him as such.
“Dear boy,” the King of Dreams said, his edges of his lips slowly rising to form a smile upon his face, “you need a miracle, if not much more.”
The lips of King of Dreams moved as he spoke again, but it was not his own voice that came out. Instead, it was the voice of a woman.
“Coffee?”
Alrik awoke to the voice of the waitress. The small diner was warm with dim, yellowed lights shining from the ceiling. The red booths, old and frayed, showed tears from years of misuse. The white walls, paint chipping at the meeting point with the ceiling, stood undecorated with the exception of a few yellowed newspaper clippings or soda advertisements, while the lower half was paneled with wood that would not stain as easily as the paint. The linoleum floor, wet with trailed-in snow, desperately needed cleaning due to the dirt and salt tracked in by the patrons coming in from the streets. Smells of bacon, eggs, and rye toast wafted into his nostrils. Reality.
Or was he dreaming again?
“Coffee?” The waitress spoke again, a small shadow of impatience passed over her face as she tried to hide it with a bright, innocent smile.
She was young, perhaps in her early years of college. She had pulled her obviously dyed blonde hair into a bun. The loose uniform – black shirt, knee-length black skirt and a brown name tag with “Sedna” written in bold, white text – made it impossible to discern her figure. Her arms and lower legs were peculiarly thin, almost frail. Her hand trembled from the weight of the full, steaming coffee pot held in her left hand.
Alrik nodded, “Please.”
She forced a wide smile when he nodded his thanks. She promptly walked away to serve the other guests, leaving him to contemplate the objects on his table: the now-full coffee cup, a small, pocket sized blue book, and a well worn pencil, resting upon the cover. The table had marks from numerous guests: stains from spilled drinks and carvings from random kids with slogans like “Leeroy was here!,” but it felt right.
Reality.
Real coffee. Real creamer, sugar, and a spoon changing hands as he filled his cup with each of these. There was no mistaking it this time; Alrik was not dreaming.
Alrik took a sip of the warm beverage as he watched the young woman. Her skirt swayed slightly, just mere fragments of time after her hips, almost in a hypnotic rhythm with her step. Her balance seemed based solely upon this swaying, hanging low in her body. If it were to stop, Alrik was certain she would fall.
She gave the same, fake smile to a man seated on a stool. He shook his head before she even spoke. She silently walked away, her eyes showing the fiery truth that her false smile could not bear.
Rejection Alrik thought, taking another sip. She's not used to it. Fears it.
“Sir?”
Alrik turned his head to another waitress standing beside his booth. She was wearing the same uniform, but it did not hide her portly figure as well as it hid the frail figure of the younger woman.
This waitress,“Medea,” dressed in the same fashion, appeared to be almost a shadow of the younger woman's physical beauty. Her hair, black with strands of gray, was cut short enough to be impossible to tie back, yet long enough to have a few stubborn bangs fall onto her forehead. With her thick, right arm she held a large tray while her left hand busily searched her apron pocket for a set of silverware.
“But I. . .” Alrik began.
“I know,” Medea sighed, showing more exhaustion than annoyance. “But the gentleman over there ordered and paid for you.” She made a gesture with her head to another booth not far from where Alrik sat. The man seemed comfortable in his suit and shining black shoes while he sat, turning the page of the paper. He didn't have a coat or a hat nearby, which struck Alrik as odd as he considered the man's dark olive-colored skin, which showed a Mediterranean heritage. His bald head, barely visible over the newspaper he was reading, shined even in the muted light of the diner.
Even with this plain appearance, there was something about this man that made him different. His posture, perfectly erect, demanded compliance. The elegant movement of his hands turning the pages signaled a certain degree of skill or innate dexterity. Air seemed to stop in his presence, resting by his silent command. What disturbed Alrik was the aura of this man, the very thing he exerted from his body that was completely ignored by the people around him. That is, people besides Alrik, who was already making assumptions as to the identity of this generous stranger.
“Could you ask him to come over?” Alrik's gaze shifted from the man to the waitress, his eyes meeting her plain brown eyes, then to the pancakes and bacon placed before him. He looked back to her as she nodded and walked to the other booth, her solid steps rocking her skirt in time with her legs. In a fashion, her movements were akin to music, each motion of the skirt a single note in an overall symphony. Alrik pushed the thought into the back of his mind while quickly jotting it down in his notebook. He wanted to contemplate the idea at a later time. He quickly pocketed the notebook and pencil, his eyes never leaving Medea's departing form.
The dark head looked up from the paper as Medea approached. He nodded to her as she spoke, almost as if he already knew what she would say. He took his paper and cup in one hand, his plate in the other, and cautiously stepped across the somewhat wet floor. His long strides covered the gap with little time, but it was all Alrik needed to officially identify him.
The man was tall, almost impossibly so. His shoulders were narrow, but his face was well formed. He gracefully seated himself across from Alrik, placing his belongings on the table while greeting him with a smile.
“Ba'al Haddad,” Alrik began, his hands casually resting on the table, “it's been too long.”
Haddad seemed to be taken aback for a moment, but chuckled as he picked up his fork. “To think that I didn't believe you would recognize me.” He stopped his speech as he brought a slice of his pancake to his mouth. The mingling smells of pancakes and bacon rose to Alrik's nose. His stomach growled quietly.
“Eat, eat,” Haddad said in between bites, his voice drowning out the clink of silverware meeting glass. “These are literally a taste of heaven.”
“Or as close as I will get,” Alrik muttered, hefting the butter knife to test its weight. Haddad laughed at the comment, causing crumbs to exit his mouth and return to his plate. Alrik's grip on the knife was firm and confident, and Haddad tried to avoid making visual contact with the blade.
“You are always welcomed, old friend.” Haddad brought his arms into a wide arc, a gesture of welcome that was reminiscent of a hug.
Alrik returned the knife to its resting place. The sounds of other conversations were becoming a dull, buzzing sound to his ears.
“Why won't you eat?” Haddad slightly tilted his head to his left, his eyes showing a certain degree of bewilderment. He raised his fork to his mouth again, bringing the thick slab of meat to his welcoming mouth.
“Why are you here?” Alrik countered. “Why would you leave your throne to come and speak to me?”
Haddad smiled and nodded toward Sedna.
“They. . .aren't,” Alrik cautiously said, testing the waters. “Are they?”
Haddad's smile grew wider as if trying to leave the boundaries of his face. “No, they aren't.”
Alrik sighed and took another sip of his coffee, ignoring how quickly it was growing cold. “But she's with child. Can't you tell?”
Alrik looked again, following Haddad's gaze. He noticed the walk at first, but didn't register it.
“Four months, today,” Haddad stated in a carefree manner as he brought another slice of bacon, this time dripping with maple syrup, to his mouth. “Another five months left, and she'll have a bouncing baby girl. That is, unless you want to change that.”
Alrik ignored the comment and fell silent for a moment before speaking again. “So a god of the sky and fertility came all the way here for that? You gods really need new hobbies.” Haddad's grin reminded Alrik of a cat preparing to pounce, and he returned it with a sarcastic smile of his own. All sins between them were forgiven.
“I'm still waiting for you to settle down,” Once again, he paused to take another bite of his pancakes. Haddad closed his eyes, savoring the flavor. His face showed a level of calm that Alrik had never seen cross the deity's face. “I hope that you understand that I would bless you with many children.”
“I'd much rather you curse me without them.”
“Come now, why wouldn't you want to settle down with a lovely lady like that?” He nodded to Sedna again, trying to have Alrik's gaze shift to this creature of mortal beauty.
Alrik shrugged in response and finished his coffee in a final gulp, cringing at the final bitter taste that was waiting for him at the bottom.
Haddad, the god of the sky and fertility of ancient Mesopotamia, raised his hand to beckon Sedna to their table again. Without a word, she poured another cup of coffee for each of them and walked away, the hypnotic swinging of her hips catching the attention of mortal and deity alike.
“Be serious,” Alrik stated. His patience was wearing thin, and this was a deity he did not wish to anger in a fleeting moment of annoyance. Yet he pressed on by saying: “Your kind comes here only for causing problems and giving half-solutions. Which are you here for?”
Haddad faked a look of shock. “Me, causing problems?” His voice rose an octave to a humorous pitch before dropping again as he said “Never!”
Both fell silent, holding the other's eye with a steady gaze. Alrik's left hand rested on the handle of the knife while Haddad held his own implements loosely in his hands. A tense moment passed as Haddad tightened his grip and Alrik's fingers moved to gently wrap around the smooth handle of the knife.
Both men blinked in unison. Haddad began to smile, his well-aligned teeth shining in the light of the diner, and Alrik returned smile with a grin of his own. They blinked again, and a bellowing laughter emanated from their mouths. The tension between them died as they began to quiet themselves.
Alrik took another breath, recovering from his outburst and finding his voice again to speak. “Honestly?”
“Honestly,” Haddad answered. “I only came to check on you, that's all.” Alrik's puzzled look must have asked for an explanation, and Haddad seemed all too willing to give it.
“You haven't eaten in. . .what? Three days? You haven't peacefully slept in forty hours, and you've caught the attention of most of the Overworld. We're worried, that's all.”
“Worried? I didn't think your kind did that.” Alrik was unable to hide the sarcastic tone in his voice. He didn't believe a word at this point. They don't care. Gods have their power for a reason. Don't forget, you know this from experience. . .
Alrik shook his head to banish the thoughts, and focused again on Haddad's voice.
“Seriously Alrik. You've done favors for many of us, even Yahweh.”
“I'd rather not remember that one.” Alrik sipped his coffee again, cringing when he realized that he didn't add anything to it beforehand. He reached for the creamer and accidentally knocked over the sugar.
“Let me get that,” Haddad said, reaching for the sugar.
“No.” Alrik's stern voice gave no room for argument. Haddad's hand returned to his fork to take the last bite of his meal: a single strip of a pancake, soaked through with syrup and heavy with the burden.
“You should consider. . .”
“I said no.” Alrik already knew the offer. He had his spot and could find a nice little niche in the Overworld, resting among the gods, if he so chose. But every offer, whether by Freyr, Zeus, Quetzalcoatl or Set, was refused. Each messenger was left with the same answer and lack of a reason. Only Alrik knew his reason, and he was not willing to tell.
“Don't you think you've done enough?” Haddad's hand quietly returned the fork to its proper place beside his plate.
“Do you ever think that you have?” Alrik countered, stirring his now lighter coffee.
Haddad fell silent and looked to his coffee cup.
“My place is here. Not Valhalla, Heaven, Nirvana, or wherever the hell else I could go.” Alrik's voice dropped to a whisper. “I have my job, and you have yours.” With that, he made a faint gesture with his hand toward Sedna again.
Haddad remained silent and averted his gaze to his empty plate.
“I'm still paying my dues.”
Haddad nodded, defeated. “You should eat before it gets cold.”
Before Alrik could speak, the god stood, casually dropping the money for the meal on the table before nonchalantly walking out.
Alrik waited, watching Haddad leave. The thought of him remaining nearby caused him to shudder. What are they thinking?
Once Haddad was out of sight, Alrik's gaze fell upon the meal placed before him. He cautiously used his fork to take a small slice of the pancake and brought it to his mouth.
A taste of heaven.
A Warm, Dry Place
With this cold weather, Alrik usually found his mind to be on warmer things: a roaring fire, spring blossoms, a drought, or even a warm, romantic dinner for two. Instead, his mind fell into the rut of cold business for his long walk home.
The snow was still falling when he left the diner, and the sidewalks, many yet to be shoveled, were covered with this white powder. In these areas, he trudged through the ankle deep innocence, violating its purity with each forceful, nearly violent step. He thought nothing of his actions or the cold; his mind was elsewhere.
Why, he thought, digging his hands into his pockets with the vain hope of keeping warm. Why did he come here?
He stopped at the corner, the red light shining at the other side of the road, warning him that it was not his time to cross. The air swelled with the roar of engines, struggling to move through the darkened muck that covered the ground beneath the tires of the sluggish cars. The vehicles swerved slightly at times, trying to grip the asphalt with the same desperation of a dreamer trying to hold that single moment of peace. People began to file around him, filling the cold, empty space with ambient warmth. It briefly reminded him of the shore of River Styx, the waiting place for lost souls as they waited for Charon, the ferryman, to return to bring them to their final destination in the Underworld. Then, the light changed from red to green, halting the flow of cars to grant safe passage to the poor souls traveling on foot.
As one entity, the group moved forward, cautiously trekking over the wet slush to avoid falling, each trying to reach the other side without embarrassing themselves with a plunge into this icy river.
Gods stay in the Overworld, Alrik's mind continued on the same path of thought as he safely planted his foot onto the sidewalk. Heaven, Paradise, whatever the hell they call it these days. Giants, Demons, whatever, stay lock away. Souls remain in the Underworld. Limbo. Hell. Alrik's feet locked firmly in place. Not like I care. . . His thoughts abruptly stopped as he looked at his surroundings.
The normally vibrant red brick buildings, resting alongside calming gray structures, all with pristine windows and blinding reflections, seemed drab, as if the snow and the once invisible dirt in the air had removed all sense of color. Perhaps this is how the world would end: by a sudden loss of all things vibrant and free. All becoming one and the same.
Alrik sighed and shook his head, chasing away his entire train of thought. He took the two steps to stand closer to the wall and looked around again, taking in the other details of his surroundings. He knew the street; he wasn't far from home now, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to return that place. Home meant idleness, and being idle meant the chance of sleep, and sleep meant dreams, “Nemo,” and those damned nightmares. He took a few more steps before noticing the news stand on the corner.
Alrik dropped the last of the change from his pocket onto the counter and pointed to the local paper. The worker, a middle-aged man with skin the color of warm cocoa, lowered his head from Alrik's gaze. The dark hand rose from under the counter and gently plucked the paper from the rack. Avoiding Alrik's hand and gaze, the man placed the paper on the wooden surface. Alrik gripped the paper with his already cold hand and walked away. The worker, finally free of the predator's gaze, collected the money and placed it in the register, hoping that he would never see the stranger again.
It didn't take much longer for Alrik to return home. The entrance to building opened at his touch, warm air rushing past him as he stepped onto the wooden floor of the interior. He heard the familiar sound of the door's latch catching, separating him from the frigid air outside.
The building creaked, a sound of indigestion on the structure's behalf, as unwelcome bodies locked with the confines of their rooms shifted in the vain attempt to find comfort. The floorboards creaked as another body, Alrik's body, moved from the entrance.
Disgusting Alrik thought after he took his first breath of warm air since leaving the diner. He raised his sleeve to his face and hoped to mask it from the smell. What crawled in here and died?
As Alrik began to walk up the stairs, he heard the cause of this stench: a vagabond who found a warm place to sleep off his bender. Alrik peered over the said of the railing, noting the man's slouched positioning, the location of the empty rum bottle which rested against the wall on its side, and the lingering smell of urine and alcohol, both masking the human odor. He should be removed, Alrik's mind began, following the path of logic, but he instead shook his head and continued to climb the stairs. He only wants a warm place to stay.
Alrik silently passed the room of his landlady, a kind woman when she was sober, passed the small bathroom the tenants of the floor shared, and reached his door. He quickly inserted the key into the lock, glancing up the staircase to his right while he turned the key, ignoring the sound of sliding metal as the single bolt, the only protection his room had from the outside world, fell into its crevice. With a forceful push, Alrik opened the door, glancing over his left shoulder to check the hall. It was still empty as he closed the door, his body supported by it's solid form as he leaned against it. He took his first breath of untainted air since walking into the building.
In its own way, the apartment was a growing wreck. The floor was covered with scattered napkins and bags from cheap, carry-out food from the local diners. The few patches of clear space, often just enough for a meager footpath, showed signs of a thick red carpet. The furniture was scarce: a bed in one corner with a small nightstand standing opposite of the desk and chair which were pressed against the wall only a few precious feet away. A small love seat dominated the center of the room, carrying a commanding presence while it stared at the wall with the well worn television set. The nightstand had only three legs, using a stack of magazines and old phone books as a haphazard support. The bed was not made and its wrinkled white sheets, the signs of a troubled sleeper, were a stark contrast to the bright yellow comforter which dangled from the edge and dangerously close to the floor.
The desk, bolted to the wall and properly sized for a small business, held a collection of balled papers, unread mail, a small lamp and a microwave. Alrik glanced at the open door of the microwave, wondering what was it he was heating last time, and closed it. He glanced at the hot plate that rested on the microwave, and after confirming that it was turned off, he looked forlornly at the empty coffee pot beside it. His eye drifted past the modern conveniences and through the wads of paper to the single empty space on the desk: the area around his typewriter. It was an old fashioned piece, possibly dating from the mid 1940's to the early 1960's, with its reflective black and pristine silver keys. The instrument of a true writer, its origins scarcely known to Alrik, radiated an aura of cleanliness around it. At least, that is what Alrik continued to tell himself.
The small refrigerator was neatly tucked beneath the desk on the left side of the chair, easily accessible to whomever was seated in the chair at the typewriter. Alrik's mind wandered into the possibilities of what was left inside of this white box, and even the possibility that whatever was inside had finally grown into a sentient being. Better to leave things as they are, he told himself, his eyes moving away from the innocuous appliance. To the right of the chair was a small plastic box, its lid latched on tightly to protect the meager amount of canned and powdered food that Alrik stored within. Beside the bin, leaving the safety of the cover of the desk, was the waste bin.
The bin was overflowing from the past week, but didn't carry a scent. Recent mail covered the top of the bin: letters from dying relatives, their edges burned and torn and utterly ignored by Alrik, empty envelopes with “Late Notice” stamped in red, and a collection of still sealed junk mail, one which states “You could win 1.6 million dollars!” Beneath this is the morning paper, mostly unread but with it's front page showing clean cuts from a pair of scissors. Further down and against the wire frame of the basket, a torn Bible vainly tried to draw attention to the mutilated pages of Leviticus. Scattered near the Bible were many slips of varying types of paper, some folded while others opened to show messages of meeting times, strange writings of the words “Ragnarök Approaches!” and phone numbers written on café receipts by hopeful waitresses who were quickly forgotten. Buried beneath all of this was a single letter, neatly folded and yellowed with age, defiant against all attempts of removal from its comfortable home. Within the folds of paper were words best left forgotten, photos that should never have existed, and a locket of memories that Alrik preferred buried with the refuse.
Each wall held some form of decoration to detract from the hopelessly color-devoid white paint. The space between the bed and the desk was home to the single window and its brown curtains. On either side of the window hung fliers that Alrik treasured as the only proof he needed to claim that he was cultured: on the side closest to the bed was an English flier of The Phantom of the Opera while beside his desk was the constant reminder of the role of death represented in the Hungarian flier of the production of Elizabeth. Above the desk, a three-tier set of shelves were bolted in place. The lowest layer held a collection of frequently used reference materials: an assortment of manuals, encyclopedias, language dictionaries, a collection of full and well-used notebooks, a green binder with the faded word “Photos” written in silver on the spine, and a folder of manuscripts that Alrik typed and called his “work.” The second shelf held only a few essential things: a transparent cup filled with unmatched silverware, a cracked coffee mug that Alrik bought while on “business” with “Wish you were here” written above a faded landscape photograph of Los Angeles, and a few plates and bowls next to a small pot and frying pan, neither bigger than the hot plate. The topmost shelf, the only shelf that did not house any empty space, was a cornucopia of religious texts ranging from old stories from Germanic tribes to guides of Zen and what can only be described as “Witchraft” in modern terms. But these were not the cheap, mass-produced books that could be found in the “New Age” section of every bookstore. Many of these books were old, ancient even, pages threatening to crumble at the sole thought of being opened to where the bookmark rested. Most of these were handwritten, quite possibly even being the original manuscripts scribed in the native language of the writer.
Above the bed hung two scrolls: one with the Chinese character of “Peace,” while the other being an old Scandinavian rune for “Safety.” Each was elegantly drawn in it's own way, from the complex number of individual brush strokes needed for the Asian character to the skillful portrayal of straight edges of the nearly-forgotten rune. Alrik never understood why he received them as gifts, but he hung them and considered it to be fate.
Even the door was unable to avoid Alrik's interior decorating. As his gaze fell upon it, he began to remember the work and emphasis placed upon the hardened wood. He remembered using a knife to carve the pentacle into the door, leaving the silver-ringed eyepiece in the center. Beneath it was a symbol of the trinity, a single line wrapping through itself to create what appeared to be three ovals; a very difficult task to perform with the old flathead screwdriver that Alrik “borrowed” from the previous tenant. Alrik also remembered the struggle to carve a rose cross above the deadbolt with an adze, and the annoyance of painting a yin-yang on the doorknob. Then he remembered etching opposing crescent moons on either side of the doorknob, the symbol of the triple goddess, using a butter knife he lifted from the now-closed diner across the street. Many other miscellaneous symbols eluded Alrik's memory; many carved, etched, or drawn with strange objects in fits of insomnia. While he forgot their meaning, he knew that he would enjoy the aesthetic beauty. Alrik quickly slid the bolt of his lock back into place, and placed the gold-painted chain into it's slide.
The only space that was not helplessly filled was directly above the television, where a decorative ax, given to him by the previous tenant who believed that this item was the only thing keeping the room safe, was hung. Alrik didn't argue and left it in its place. Any port in a storm, he sarcastically thought, bringing his eyes around the room once more before staring at his bed.
He hadn't slept well in days; a few short moments in a church or a diner was the best he could muster. Between his dreams, or nightmares as he thought of them, and the lack of free time on his hands, true rest was an impossibility. Maybe a few hours wouldn't be so bad. . .
Alrik sat on the bed, trying to reach his shoes to untie them. He could not shake the nagging feeling he felt in his stomach as he tugged the first lace. Just a lack of sleep, he thought, his mind slowly becoming sluggish while in the safety of his room.
He fell to his right, his head landing on the flat pillow and his shoes still on his feet, and allowed sleep to claim him.
Where Dreamers Lie
You're dreaming again. The Dream King's voice resounded in Alrik's head, carrying an almost foreboding tone. Open your eyes.
Alrik kept his eyes closed, ignoring the warning. “Nemo,” he muttered, “what do you want this time?”
“Wrong!” The voice of a child shouted from behind Alrik, startling him enough to open his eyes and make a half turn to his left.
Until he realized that he stood on the ledge of the roof. Alrik's feet began to slip as his hips began to sway with his whole upper body. His arms flailed in a vain attempt to catch his balance. He shifted all of his weight to his left again, his feet finally slipping across the ice. Even though his left hand lanced out to brace for the impact, the overall landing still left his lungs devoid of breath. All the while, a child laughed just a few feet away.
Alrik regained his balance and his sense of location. This was the roof of his building, still covered in the snow that was gently falling from the sky. He glanced around, noting the metal fire door with faded red paint that still swinging on broken hinges, passing his eyes over the triangular skylight that the owner installed for the residents of the third floor, and stopped at the child sitting on metal rectangle that could only be part of the ventilation system.
The child was still laughing and pointing at Alrik's sudden lapse of balance. Slowly, Alrik began to rise, straightening his knees first, his mind trying to identify this child.
This young boy left his blonde hair in a wild fashion, as if he let the wind decide how he would look each day. When the child opened his eyes between laughs, Alrik found himself looking into blue orbs that would make the sky jealous. Around the boy's shoulders and wrapped around most of the boy's figure, was a cloak made from the fur of what Alrik could only guess was a wolf. The child did not wear shoes, but did wear pants that were tattered and frayed at the base, as if they were too large until the boy wore them down. With every part of the boy Alrik noticed, the boy only laughed harder.
“Loki,” Alrik stated, gaining his balance on the snow covered roof. “I see Odin let you off your leash?”
Loki stopped laughing but continued to smile, his blue eyes pierced Alrik like a set of daggers. The boy's smile was nothing like Haddad's smile of mirth, nor was it like the formless grin of the Dream King. This smile was that of a predator, while Alrik's cold stare could only be matched with a wounded and cornered animal. Neither of them flinched.
“No,” Loki responded, the high pitched tone of a child's laughter now gone and replaced with the more serious tone of an adult. Loki's voice was reminiscent of the wind: still high pitched, but filled with both mirth and anger.
“Then why are you here?” The wind blew gently. If there was a warning in it, Alrik did not notice. Loki, the trickster, a giant and sworn blood brother of Odin, was not to be trusted, and held Alrik's entire attention. “And what makes you think I won't slay you where you stand and bring your head to Odin's hall?”
Loki chuckled at the hollow threat. “It's not your style to be bloodthirsty. At least not anymore.”
Alrik took a few threatening steps toward Loki. Times change, but some things don't. Alrik felt, rather than heard, the dormant voice within him. The child only raised a hand, and Alrik's movement stopped. “I don't trust you any more than you trust me,” Loki began, not lowering his hand. “Yet I will tell you this: it is in your best interest to not return me to Asgard.”
“And why wouldn't I?” Alrik knew this threat was also empty. He would not want to bring himself before Odin, even with Loki's head. There were just some memories that would keep him there longer than he needed to. And that was if he wouldn't be killed outright for the destruction of a god.
He shook the thought of Odin's hall from his mind. Loki only grinned as he realized that, for the first time in their history together, he had won.
“You and I both know the answer to that.” The adult voice coming from a child's body was almost eerie to Alrik. Almost.
“So why did you come to me? You know that I can't protect you.”
Loki laughed again. “Why would I, the master of deception, come to you, a mere errand boy, for protection?” Alrik's muscles tensed at the insult, but he found himself unable to move his legs any closer to the young avatar of the god. “No, I came to help you.”
This time, it was Alrik's turn to chuckle. “And what do I need your help with?”
Loki didn't speak. Instead, the wind carried the voice that only they could hear.
“No no no,” the voice sang, “no no, no no no no.” The voice was that of a woman, a soprano with some experience.
Alrik looked across the rooftops, seeing large portions of the city that were normally well lit suddenly go dark. The air was filled with screams, pleas for help. Last words suddenly drowned out by waves of echoing voices. Alrik stepped back and held his head, as if the positioning of his hands would keep the voices out.
“No no no, no no.” The soprano kept singing at a pace and to music that was entirely her own. Loki continued to smile.
“Daddy, stop!” Gunshots. “Don't let. . .” The sound of a splash as something fell into the water. “What happened to the lights?” The cruel sound of a blade against a grindstone. “I love you.” The silence of suicide. A flick of a switch. “Fire!” Torches being carried.
“No no,” the soprano continued.
Alrik blinked, and suddenly realized he was no longer on his roof, but instead in a field with knee high grasses that swayed in the summer wind. No trees stood here, no flowers bloomed, only the grass grew. The air smelled of iron. Of flames. Death.
“No no no no.” The soprano held the last note as Alrik moved his hands from his head. “No.” His hands, now clad in thick leather gloves, were coated with blood. His arms were layered in armor, and each movement created sounds of metal rubbing against metal.
“No!” He shouted across the wasteland of the battlefield.
“No!” The echo replied, softer than his own voice yet still carrying the same anguish.
The wind rose again, and the white petals and seeds of flowers that were not present a moment before flew through the air. Like a slow river. Like tears.
“Like snow.” A woman's voice. Soft. Elegant. Kind.
Alrik didn't think as he reached to his left and wrapped his hand around the shaft of the weapon that still rested within a recent victim. He couldn't think, only react. With a feat of strength considered impossible of a man his size, he lifted the scythe from the body and turned, swinging the awkward weapon in a high arc with only his left hand.
The blade of the weapon found the flesh it hungered for, the blood it thirsted for. The young woman who spoke behind Alrik opened her mouth. That was the only feature he could see through the red haze. Nothing of the woman's raven hair, milky white skin or perfectly angled face. Not even her green eyes or small nose. Only the shape of her mouth, releasing a silent plea. Or a curse.
“No no, no, no no,” the soprano continued. Loki continued to laugh to the point of hysteria. Recognition began to return to Alrik, as he realized the gravity of what he had just done.
“Stop!”
Loki laughed again as Alrik realized he was still on the roof, gripping his head in his hands. He slowly removed them, looking and praying that blood would not be present. He blinked once, and found his tears falling onto his clean, bare hands.
“Loki,” Alrik said, his voice taking a gravelly tone, “you're head will be found on a pike if I find you again.”
The trickster stopped laughing but still smiled. “Trust me,” he said, gracefully leaping from the metal box to the edge of the roof. “You won't, little messenger.”
Alrik reached out his hand, trying to prove something to the god, but was not fast enough to even have a feel of the fur of the cloak. Alrik caught himself on the ledge and looked down, his eyes following the cracked bricks and mortar of the boarding house, running between darkened windows of the rooms of sleeping tenants, down to the sidewalk which was illuminated by the last lights of the city. No trace of Loki remained.
Just as quickly as the trickster vanished, the wind picked up once more. No voices were carried in the wind, only the fury and anguish that Alrik felt. The final lights of the city, the lights surrounding his building, suddenly went dark as the sound of water finally proved to the louder than the wind.
