Mickey Reichert: Godslayer

Gavin sidled several paces ahead while Larson watched the corpsman's retreating figure. It seemed ludicrous. Here was this troop of trained soldiers playing games like they were in some kind of sandlot, while he and his buddies prepared for fire action in the jungle. As instinct rose like ire, he could almost forget the card game in the hut. Everybody took a turn on patrol. It just felt better when it was the other guy's turn.

Larson hurried to catch Gavin, and they strode side by side to the perimeter gate. One of the sentries yawned as he tripped the latch, and the other raised his gun in mock salute. The men made no sound as they crossed three hundred yards of tank-cleared ground and entered the steamy murk of the jungle. The ghostly cry of a macaw drowned the noise of their boots in the soft, red mud. Gavin stiffened. Larson knew his companion believed macaw calls foreshadowed death. With so many of the birds in the Vietnamese jungles, it seemed unlikely. Yet death was nearly as common. Alert, Larson moved away.

Humidity converged on them with a stench of sewage and blood. Larson crept through brush like a shadow, tensed for a sniper's volley. For half an hour he moved, muscles knotted. Biting insects and heat weakened him, but he found nothing except jungle fauna. Larson wondered whether he should feel relieved that no snipers waited or terrified of one concealed in the trees.

Suddenly, an explosion rocked the forest behind Larson. He plunged into the mud, heart racing. An ugly scream numbed his mind till it allowed no thought. But his body reacted. He wriggled forward cautiously.

"Al." Gavin's frantic whisper came from his right. Though tinged with panic, the familiar voice soothed.

"What happened?"

"Trap," said Gavin.

Larson shuddered. The dying scream of his companion would haunt him to the end of his life. He did not want to see what remained of the others, but he could not continue until he knew their fates with certainty. Reluctantly, Larson followed Gavin.

Bellies to the ground, they crawled between the trees. Gavin stopped abruptly and loosed an oath. His body spasmed regularly as he retched. Steeling himself, Larson looked beyond at the torn bodies. His mind exploded in terror. The corporal still lived. Nothing protruded below his waist, but he breathed in a regular, shallow pattern. Larson pushed past Gavin who caught his arm.

"No, Al." Gavin's face turned the color of fatigues.

"He's alive."

"Not long," Gavin said weakly. "He won't make it to camp. If we carry him, neither will we."

"Let go." Larson tried to twist free of Gavin's grip, not certain why he had to rescue the corporal. He could imagine his own body hemorrhag-ing on the jungle floor, living food for rats.

A macaw shrieked four consecutive notes. Gavin shivered, and Larson pulled away.

"Wait, listen." Gavin seized the back of Larson's shirt.

Above the continuous hum of insects, they heard the faint rustle of approaching men. "Stay." Larson licked dried lips and flitted between the trunks. Ahead he saw a dozen black-clothed figures moving stealthily toward them. Larson stood, paralyzed.

Gradually, he gathered his wits and headed back to where he'd left Gavin. "Charlie. Too many for us. Hide."

Gavin nodded. "This way."

Gavin slithered to the right. The thick foliage let too little sunlight through for underbrush to grow. Trapped in the open with only trees for cover, Larson saw no means of escape. But Gavin grabbed his arm and led him to a dry river bed. Larson grew giddy with hope. They might hide between the banks while the Vietnamese passed. Gavin gestured Larson to stillness and crept farther along the stream bed. Kneeling in mud, Larson watched his companion merge into the green infinity of jungle. The rustlings grew louder, and Larson heard a gruff vocal exchange.

Gavin's pained cry broke the hush. A volley of gunfire followed. Larson's heart beat at least as loud. He could only imagine what happened, perhaps a snake bite caused Gavin's indiscretion. It no longer mattered. Larson flattened against the bank, clutching his M-16 like a teddy bear.

Limbs frozen with fear, Larson forced himself to think rationally. The enemy knew as well as he that soldiers did not travel alone by choice. They would come looking for him. Even as he watched, a man in black circled and entered the river bed north of his position. Larson lined his sights but did not fire, unwilling to reveal his own position. The moment he did, he died.

Larson knew without seeing that another man stalked him from the south. Cornered, he needed a miracle. God help me, he thought. Despite his situation, the irony of his prayer struck him. Not quite ready to accept death, he hugged the bank and waited.

Death prowled closer. He let understanding settle over him. He would die, but not alone. Deliberately, Larson switched the gun setting from semi to full auto. Freyr. You're a war god. You ought to love this. "For my buddies, Freyr!"

Larson burst from the river bed, shooting. He embraced death.

Al Larson stared at bleak stone walls. Alive, he thought. Impossible. Those guns should have cut me in half. He ran anxious hands along his body and felt nothing abnormal but the slick sweat which coated his palms. He sat up and realized he lay on a hard stone floor, alone. He ran his fingers through the fine, soft hair on his head and his hand stopped on the edge of a pointed ear.

Startled, Larson leaped to his feet. He did not recognize his clothing: tight doeskin pants, a blue linen shirt, and a matching cape. " Wha?" he said stupidly. His hands clamped over both ears. Each came to a delicate point. "I'm a goddamn Vulcan!"

"Elf," said a voice. Larson whirled but saw no one. Except for a belt and sword in the far corner, the room appeared empty.

Larson stared at his hands which looked smaller than he remembered. "Who are you?" he shouted. "Where are you?" If this was a Vietnamese torture, he found it extremely successful. He knew he had gone completely insane.

"Silence." The powerful voice echoed. "I am Freyr. You called me before you died."

"I did?" Yes, I guess I did. Larson caught a handful of the pale hair which fell to his shoulders. "Who am I?"

"I haven't time for foolishness," said the voice impatiently. "Neither have you. You've a purpose to fulfill."

Larson felt small and confused. "What purpose? Where am I? Help me please." He felt ridiculous pleading with a disembodied voice.

"Take up Valvitnir, your sword, and guard it well. Pass northward. You will find an old man and a young woman who are more than they seem. Trust them. They'll aid your task."

Larson's head whirled. "What task?"

No reply.

"Oh, hell." Larson walked to the corner. He hefted the swordbelt, a gaudily-tooled work of leather. He fastened it about his waist, and it dragged like dead weight at his side. Larson gazed at the ceiling. " Freyr? Freyr!"

Silence.

Larson patted the jewel-encrusted sword hilt. "I don't know how to use a sword!"

Nothing.

Larson shrugged. He pulled the worked steel from its sheath. The sleek blade glowed faintly blue. His unfamiliar hand fit the grip exactly. "Why me?"

He had not anticipated a reply. "I found it necessary to bridge time. We'ye few worshipers after the coming of the White Christ. Now, please go. Your companions will explain further."

Larson resheathed the sword and walked to the door. He took hold of its ring and pulled. It opened with a complaining creak to reveal a green meadow surrounded by hills. After months of artillery and jungle, the scene shocked Larson. Jaw gaping, he walked as if in a trance, and the door swung shut behind him.

The sun beamed down on Larson like a golden eye, striping the high grasses with light. In the distance, a tall patch of weeds rose like a tiny forest. Beyond, a real forest of evergreens waved like a chorus in the breeze. Anxiety balled in Larson's gut, and sweat beaded his neck. Fearful of the open terrain, he back-stepped and caught for the door handle. His fingers clawed through air. Startled anew, he whirled, staggered, and fell to the grass. Where the building had stood he saw nothing but fields, not even a shadow or a square of crushed foliage to indicate it had ever existed.