Wednesday, August 20, 2014

A Flash in the Night (Part 4)

“It’s nothing but scrawlings,” I protested. I pleaded with your father for hours, but he said nothing, only silently packed with a focused look about him. “It will get us killed. You can’t just up and leave.”

He looked at me. His eyes were hollow, staring through my heart.

“We have nothing left here. Go, leave me if you must, but I’m going through with this.”

“Scrawlings!” I shouted, waving my arms like a fool, as if that could sway his mind. “For god’s sake David, your son, he needs you. He needs the money that we promised. We’ve been gallivanting  across the hills of this godless land for two bloody years now, with nothing to show for it. We should never have left England!”

Your father, he dropped his things swiftly. His temper was fire and sulfur, a mad froth of magma that burned everything it touched. Mind you, I once saw him impale a man. I… could never do that.

“This is our ticket home,” he said. He approached me swiftly, grabbed my shirt within his iron grip, and threw me up against a cabinet. “No, I haven’t forgotten Solomon.” He let me go at once and backed away, bowing in supplication.

“Power speaks here friend. Our barbaric cousins thankfully never evolved past that. I’m going to find it, with or without you,”

We didn’t speak for the rest of the night; not till morning. He just resumed his packing. He wasn’t afraid even to leave at daylight, when the Bishop’s thugs would freely roam. But there was no going against your father once he had his mind set.

And if you were wondering what exactly we left Sog that day to take, what would drive a man to kill, well I’m sorry to disappoint you. I forgot. There had always been treasure, something to bring us home to you and your mother. And after years of searching I had lost interest. Every piece of tech or gold had merged together into unnamable infatuation. Your father, he likely remembered.

But as we walked in between the alleys to the bay, I knew we were being followed. And I remembered the boy, the poor child that bled out at our own door. I remembered prying his hallowed secrets from his white, frozen knuckles—brittle as glass, awful things. That was my fate, but it became your fathers.

It was on a glacier to the Northeast, on Nigardsbreen, on the foot of the Jotun.


But your father, he tossed his orders around me. He believed in this there was freedom. My heart hung low that day a little further, as did my eyes. For there were shadows forming on the shoreline, moving shadows, sinister things that I did not see, otherwise I would have jumped into the icy rime, and left him to die all on his own.

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