The Sorrow of Odin the Goth

1934

I came out of the New York base into the cold and early darkness of December, and went uptown afoot. Lights and window displays threw Christmas at me, but shoppers were not many. On street corners in the wind, Salvation Army musicians blatted or Santa Clauses rang bells at their kettles for charity, while sad vendors offered this or that. They didn’t have a Depression among the Goths, I thought. But the Goths had less to lose. Materially, anyway. Spiritually—who could tell? Not I, no matter how much history I had seen or would ever see.

Laurie heard my tread on the landing and flung our apartment door wide. We had set the date beforehand for my latest return, after she’d be back from Chicago, where she had a show. She embraced me hard.

As we went on inside, her joy dimmed. We stopped in the middle of the living room. She took both my hands in hers, regarded me for a mute spell, and asked low, “What stabbed you… this trip?”

“Nothing I shouldn’t have foreseen,” I answered, hearing my voice as dull as my soul. “Uh, how’d the exhibition go?”

“Fine,” she replied efficiently. “In fact, two pictures have already sold for a nice sum.” Concern welled forth: “With that out of the way, sit down. Let me bring you a drink. God, you look blackjacked.”

“I’m all right. No need to wait on me.”

“Maybe I feel a need to. Ever think of that?” Laurie hustled me into my usual armchair. I slumped down in it and stared out the window. Lights afar made a hectic glimmer along the sill, at the feet of night. The radio was tuned to a program of carols. “O little town of Bethlehem—”

“Kick off your shoes,” Laurie advised from the kitchen. I did, and it was as if that were the real act of homecoming, like a Goth unbuckling his sword belt.

She brought in a pair of stiff Scotch-and-lemons, and brushed lips across my brow before settling herself in the chair opposite. “Welcome,” she said. “Welcome always.” We raised glasses and drank.

She waited quietly for me to be ready.

I got it out in a rush: “Hamther has been born.”

“Who?”

“Hamther. He and his brother Sorli died trying to avenge their sister.”

“I know,” she whispered. “Oh, Carl, darling.”

“First child of Tharasmund and Ulrica. The name is actually Hathawulf, but it’s easy to see how that got elided to Hamther as the story flowed north over centuries. And they want to call their next son Solbern. The timing is right, too. Those will be young men—will have been—when—” I couldn’t go on.

She leaned forward just long enough that a touch of her hand reached my awareness.

Afterward, her tone stark, she said: “You don’t have to go through with this. Do you, Carl?”

“What?” Astonishment made me stop hurting for an instant. “Of course I do. My job, my duty.”

“Your job is to trace out whatever people put into verses and stories. Not what they actually did. Skip forward, dear. Let… Hathawulf be safely dead when next you return there.”

“No!”

I realized I’d shouted, took a deep and warming draught, made myself confront her and state levelly: “I’ve thought about that. Believe me, I have. And I can’t. Can’t abandon them.”

“Can’t help them, either. It’s predestined, everything.”

“We don’t know just what will… did happen. Or how I might be able to—No, Laurie, please don’t say any more about that.”

She sighed. “Well, I can understand. You’ve been with generations of them, as they grew and lived and suffered and died; but to you it hasn’t been so long.” To you, she did not say, Jorith is a very near memory. “Yes, do what you must, Carl, while you must.”

I had no words, because I could feel her own pain.

She smiled shakily. “You’ve got a furlough now, though,” she said. “Put your work aside. I went out today and brought back a small Christmas tree. How’d you like if we trimmed it this evening, after I’ve fixed a gourmet dinner?”

“ ‘Peace on the earth, good will to men, From Heav’n’s all-gracious King—’ ”