Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed (42 page)

Larson caught the knob, uncertain what to expect. His mind conjured a thousand impossible explanations, from a horror film version of hell to a Twilight Zonish image of other worlds.
This is insane. Vidarr said he wouldn’t interfere, and I believe that. They singled me out for a logical, routine reason.
Larson twisted and pushed.

The door swung open to reveal a squat office painted olive drab. A paunchy, balding man sat behind a government-issue desk. Wire-rimmed glasses perched on an amicable face. A handful of manila folders and a pen covered the desk’s surface. One file lay open.
Mine.
Larson guessed. A lone, wooden chair faced the desk.

The door closed behind Larson. The man behind the desk picked up the pen and twirled it between his fingers. “Al Larson?”

“Yes, sir.” Larson listened to his escort’s footsteps retreating down the corridor.

“I’m Dr. Millson. I’m a psychiatrist.” He paused, studying Larson for a reaction.

Larson narrowed his eyes in confusion. He set his shoes on the floor by his chair.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“Yes, sir,” Larson said. “I’m being inducted into the United States Army.”

“How does that make you feel?”

Larson shrugged, too uncomfortable and puzzled to give an emotional response. “I had already enlisted before my draft letter came,” he said vaguely, not wholly certain whether he spoke the truth.

Dr. Millson sat back, still playing with the pen, seeming a bit disconcerted himself. “When I asked about knowing why you’re here, I meant ‘do you know why you’re here
in my office
at this time?’ ”

“No, sir.” Larson sank deeper into confusion.
I haven’t done anything weird that I know about.

“Do you remember taking a written test for us?”

Larson nodded. “Sure.”

Millson leaned forward, pencil still weaving between his fingers. “Al, what was your state of mind at that time?”

Larson shrugged, trying to remember if he had written anything bizarre. “Regular, I guess, sir. Why?”

In characteristic fashion, the psychiatrist threw the question back. “Why do you think, Al?”

“I honestly don’t know.” Larson guessed some of his responses seemed unusual for a man of his age, either due to his experiences or his grief for Astryd, the baby, and his father. “I didn’t get called before a psychiatrist the last time I was inducted.” He looked up, soberly awaiting Millson’s response to his reference, remembering his promise to tell the truth.

Millson’s gaze fell to the file. His eyes rolled back up to meet Larson’s. “You’ve been inducted before?”

Larson kept his tone level, allowing no emotion to leach through. “Of course. I spent almost a year in Vietnam.”

The pen stopped moving, then dropped to the paper. Millson scribbled something. “When was this?”

“November 16, 1968 through September 8, 1969.”

Millson glanced up, frown scoring his features. “Are you sure of those dates, Al?”

“Yes, sir. Particularly the second one. That was the day I died.”

Millson put the pen aside and leaned forward, his chin on his hands, his full concentration focused on Larson. “Do you know today’s date?”

Larson nodded, still keeping his expression rigid and unreadable. “Yes, sir, I do. August 3, 1968.”

“Doesn’t something strike you as odd in the comparison of those dates?”

“Yes, sir. It’s because I wound up in a sort of time loop.”

“A time loop, Al?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me more.” Millson looked openly skeptical.

Larson ignored Millson’s manner. He explained with the composed matter-of-factness that could only accompany truth. “The Norse god, Freyr, rescued me from death and put me into another body. An elfs body.” He added, “Mine was pretty torn up, I guess.”

Millson retrieved his pen. “And why do you think this god ...” He paused, squinting over the rim of his glasses. “... Fred, was it?”

“Freyr.” Larson restored the name, adding its Old Norse inflection.

“Why did Freyr do this favor for you?”

Larson met Millson’s gaze without flinching. “It was hardly a favor. Freyr needed a man from our century because we don’t have mind barriers and the people in his time do. He needed someone to wield a sword that could only communicate with an unshielded mind.”

“I see.” A light seemed to dawn behind Millson’s dark eyes. He wound the pen between his fingers again. “Al, has anything like this ever happened to you before?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you ever hear voices in your head?”

“Well, yes, sir,” Larson admitted. “But only when there’s a sorcerer or god who wants to talk to me.”

“And what do these sorcerers and gods say to you?”

Larson shrugged. “It depends on the sorcerer or god. Bramin and the Fenris Wolf mostly just threatened. Sometimes, they forced me to remember things from the war.”

“The Vietnam War.”

“Right.”

“What about Freyr?”

Larson continued, still holding his voice to a monotone.

“Freyr stayed sort of aloof. Vidarr....” He clarified, “That was the sword. See, he was a god, too.” He considered. “Still is. Anyway, Vidarr used to argue with me a lot, though he always meant well. He thought I was too sarcastic.“

The speed of the pen increased, lashing between the stubby fingers like the tail of a riled cat. Millson sighed into a long silence. “Al, tell me. Who’s the president of the United States?”

“Lyndon Baines Johnson. At least until September.”

“And before him?”

“Kennedy.”

“And before him?”

“Eisenhower. Dwight.”

Millson frowned, apparently not receiving the responses he expected. “Classic,” he muttered.

Larson said nothing, not daring to believe other men might have told Dr. Millson stories about dying, Old Norway, and gods. A strange thought struck him.
Perhaps my return has changed history as well as the future. Maybe I got those presidents wrong.
Suddenly, he needed to know. “Did I make a mistake?”

“Huh?”

“The presidents. Did I miss one?”

“Oh.” Millson seemed startled by the question. “No. No. Your
memory
works just fine. No evidence of an organic brain lesion.”

Larson blinked, uncertain what to make of the statement. By declaring one aspect of Larson’s mental functioning normal, he seemed to imply others were faulty.
Not surprising after the story I just told.
“Is that good?”

“Well, yes. Of course.” Millson set aside the pen. “Al, have you ever been hospitalized for mental illness?”

“No.” The psychiatrist’s intention came through clearly. “Are you suggesting I should be?”

Millson dodged the question. He gathered the papers on his desk, shoving them into the manila envelope. “You stay here. I’ll be back shortly.” He scurried out of the office with little decorum, as if he needed to put distance between himself and Larson.

Al Larson folded his hands in his lap. And waited.

Silme met Al Larson at the outer door, looking stunningly beautiful in curve-hugging blue jeans and a T-shirt that left little to the imagination. The comparison to the conservative, loose-fitting garments she had worn in Old Norway staggered Larson. He stared, studying the golden waves of hair, his eyes tracking down breasts and thighs with a pleasure that almost allowed him to forget a day of needles, doctors’ cold hands, and corridors full of young men in their underwear.

“Gosh,” Larson said at last. He tried to say more, but was overcome by incoherent stammering.

Silme laughed. She caught his hand, leading him onto the sidewalk. “So how did it go?” She used English, colored with her melodious accent.

“They didn’t take me.” Larson placed an arm around Silme’s narrow waist. “They did recommend a good psychiatrist, though.” He waited. Although Silme could no longer cast spells, she had retained her ability to explore superficial thoughts, a process that had never cost her life energy in the past. Now she was using the procedure to help her learn English, slang and connotation as well as denotation.

“They think you’re crazy?” Silme tested her newly gained knowledge.

“Right.”

“You’re not going to see the doctor. Are you?”

Larson retrieved the psychiatrist’s card from his pocket. “Actually, I was thinking I might.” He corrected quickly, “Not because I’m insane for talking to sorceresses and gods, though. I’m just thinking he might be able to help with the war memories.”

“I hope so,” Silme said. “You know, I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Larson gave Silme a vigorous hug. “And you know why?”

Silme embraced him with nearly as much force. “No, why?”

“No reason at all. Does that bother you?”

Silme hesitated, her grip loosening. Then she laughed. “Not this time. Not in the least.”

Larson released Silme, taking her hand and continuing the walk along the roadway. Now, fully drawn into his joy, the induction process faded, allowing other thoughts to intrude. “Shadow didn’t feel up to coming along?” Astryd’s death had taken its toll on the little Climber. And, though understandable, it hurt Larson to see the friend who had kept his spirits through so much pain now fade into a quagmire of despair no one could broach. Over the last two months, Taziar had made obvious and conscious efforts not to inflict his grief on anyone else, even those who had known Astryd and shared his sorrow. He had even learned some new English phrases.

Silme stopped at a four-way intersection, waiting for the walk sign to light, watching the cars trickle past. “Shadow came along. He’s just down the road here, helping a woman who locked her keys in the....” Silme trailed off, apparently trying to remember the correct English word.

“Car?” Larson supplied.

People joined Larson and Silme in clusters of two and three, gathering to wait for the light.

“Correct.” Silme pointed to a row of cars parked along the curb ahead. “He’s right there.”

Larson craned his neck around the crowd. Taziar crouched on the hood of a red Mustang, concentrating on some unrecognizable object in his hand. He wore a black dress shirt tucked into pants equally dark, looking like a tiny but dashing villain. A woman leaned against the bumper, watching him intently. She was small. Larson guessed she would stand only a few inches taller than Taziar. Copper highlights wound through sandy curls, defying the current long, straight style. Her body went against the trend as well, stocky and muscled like an athlete’s, squarish in an era of tall, willowy women.

The walk sign lit, and Larson and Silme crossed with the group. Apprehension struck Larson.
Shadow doesn’t know a damned thing about modern locks. What if he breaks something?

As if to enhance Larson’s concern, a policeman wandered over to the car just as Larson and Silme arrived. The remainder of the crowd passed with no more than a disinterested glimpse.

Taziar looked up. “How’d it go?” he asked in barony tongue.

Closer, Larson identified the object in Taziar’s hand as a piece of wood carved to the shape of a key. The Climber clutched tiny tools, using them to scrape shavings from the wood.

“Fine,” Larson said. “They didn’t take me.”

“Great!” Taziar said with genuine enthusiasm, before returning to his work. “Perfect.”

The officer peered over Larson’s shoulder. “What’s he doing?”

The woman poked a finger at the Mustang’s driver’s window, a fingernail clicking against the glass. “I locked my keys inside. There.”

Larson looked in the indicated direction. A ring with three keys lay on the seat, frustratingly beyond the locked doors and closed windows.

The woman’s freckled face turned from the policeman to Taziar and back. “He’s making a temporary key, I think.”

The policeman snorted. “That’s stupid. It’s not going to work.”

Larson nodded, echoing the sentiment.

Taziar sprang from the hood to the ground. “Excuse me,” he said in English, pushing past Larson and the officer. “May I, Claire?” He turned his attention to the woman, awaiting permission.

Claire nodded. “Can’t hurt. Give it a try.”

Taziar placed the makeshift key in the lock. To Larson’s surprise, it fit, though when Taziar twisted, nothing happened.

The policeman rolled his eyes.

Larson sighed, sympathizing with his friend’s failure.

Taziar put a bit more pressure on the key, then whipped it free. Seizing the handle, he opened the door, ushering Claire inside.

An expression of delight crossed Claire’s features in direct contrast to the policeman’s shocked stare. Claire snatched up her keys. “Thanks, Taz. Thank you so much.”

The policeman took the wooden key from Taziar, examined the complex series of serrations from all sides, then returned it to Claire. “I wouldn’t have believed it,” he muttered. Shaking his head, he continued on his way.

Larson squeezed Silme’s hand.

“Taz, hold on just a minute, would you?” Without awaiting a response, she turned her back, rummaging through her purse. Shortly, she spun around to face Taziar again. She handed him a folded ten dollar bill, then climbed into the car and settled into the driver’s seat. She started the engine, then rolled down her window. “Bye! And thanks again.” With a final wave, she pulled onto the road and roared away.

Taziar watched the car glide into city traffic, smoothing the bill between his fingers.

Noticing something unusual, Larson reached for the ten. “Can I see that?”

Taziar relinquished it without looking.

Larson studied the bill, discovering numbers hastily scrawled across Alexander Hamilton. “I think she liked you.”

Taziar turned. “What do you mean?”

“She left you her telephone number.” Larson indicated the handwritten numbers. “Apparently, she wants to see you again.”

Taziar made a noncommittal noise. At length, he smiled.

Larson handed back the bill. “At least, you seem to have found your calling. Carving out a working key. I’m impressed.” It occurred to Larson just how versatile his companion’s skills were.
Even without an education, he could become almost anything. A circus acrobat, a locksmith, a stunt man.
He smiled.
Even a jockey.