AllFreeNovel
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As I watch, frozen, they cover Dulcie in bubble wrap, pack her away in a box of other snow globes, and load it into their truck. I memorize the license plate number: USGW 3111. They drive it across the street and park in the lot of the Ancient Mariner hotel. They secure the door with two different combination locks, and my heart sinks.
“Dude,” Gonzo says quietly. “Balder.” And I know there’s nothing else I can do right now.
We run out to rescue our valiant Viking, who is buried up to his neck, the driftwood still sticking out on the sides.
I offer the kid ten bucks. “For the yard gnome.”
We carry Balder to a more secluded spot. “I saw it. I saw … Ringhorn.” We help him to his feet. He winces. “Cameron? Are you … all right?” he asks.
“They got Dulcie. They turned her into a snow globe.” I’m trying not to cry. My eyes sting.
“I am … sorry,” Balder says. He pulls on the driftwood spear but can’t dislodge it.
It’s really wedged in there. “Could you?”
Together, we manage to yank it free. The end is slippery and it stains my hands red.
“Oh. My,” Balder says. He stands there, arms wide, gazing at his chest in total wonder. And that’s when I see it: a small trickle of blood burbling up and spilling down the front of his shirt. Balder is bleeding.
Gonzo’s eyes are wide.
“Oh my,” Balder repeats. He puts a hand to his chest and the blood seeps between his closed fingers, a thin red waterfall. “That stick …” He examines the end. A small cluster of white berries sprouts from a tiny knob. Balder rubs the berries between his fingers, inhales their scent. “Mistletoe.”
“Balder!” I shout as his legs give out. I grab hold and we drop to the sand, Balder cradled in my arms, as his warm, sticky blood pools in my hands. “Balder.”
Our Viking’s breath comes fast and shallow. “All pledged no harm to Balder … save for the mistletoe, who was too young. But Loki, Loki the trickster … he must have known. …”
“Shhh, don’t talk. We’ll get you in the car.”
“No,” he says, and coughs. “No. Leave me here on the beach. For Ringhorn.”
It’s gotten dark. The fishing boats are heading in. Their lights cast lonely pools of white on the water. There’s no Ringhorn.
“We’ll come back for your ship,” I lie. “You need a doctor.”
“No. Ringhorn will come. Wait. Wait with me,” Balder urges.
When I look over, Gonzo’s got his arms crossed. He’s kicking at the ground and crying without making a noise except for a little strangled sob deep in his throat.
“Wait with me,” Balder asks again.
We keep our vigil through the night, checking on the truck when we can. Sometimes, Balder mumble-sings a few words in Norse. He grabs at the air for something we can’t see, something just out of reach. “The dark does not weep,” he whispers. Toward dawn, he gets so quiet I’m afraid. Early-morning surfers take to the waves. Seagulls circle us.
“I like … that sound,” Balder says, his words pushing out on shallow gasps.
At first I think he means Gonzo’s sniffling. “What sound, Balder?”
“The gulls. Cry. And the waves. Answer. They wash … over the shore. Say, it is all …” His eyes move back and forth in his head like he’s searching for the word, the thought. He looks at me as if he’s said it. “Right?”
I listen, but the only thing I can hear are those damn birds wailing. One starts and the rest follow. They’re all crying at once. It’s a terrible sound.
“Balder …,” I say.
His mouth is still open in that weird little smile. His eyes are fixed and staring. The gulls fly off, leaving nothing but the soothing whoosh of the tide rushing up, washing back out, again and again. All. Right. All. Right. All. Right.
It takes us a while to get everything we need. Scavenging along the beach, we find a surfboard, a cardboard Taco Shack tray, an abandoned T-shirt, seashells, and handfuls of seaweed and small sticks. We duct-tape the cardboard tray to the surfboard and rig the Caddy’s bull horns to the front. We load the tray with his Sammy the Surfer outfit and all my Great Tremolo CDs. When it’s ready, we place Balder’s lifeless body gently on top of the tray, in his chain mail and helmet, just like a Viking warrior on his way to Valhalla. Last, we add a hand-lettered sign: RINGHORN.
“What do you think?” I ask Gonzo.
