It was hazy. I could barely see my hand in front of me, nor could the merchants and the fishermen. The Viking statue was barely visible in the old Ravnkloa fish market. That Viking, Harald Hardrada was his name, stood with victory in his gaze,taking watch over the clock before him and over us down below. That day, however, Harald was a ghost, a silhouette in the mist. Yet, I could still feel his eyes through the fog, staring mercilessly through me as he cast his disapproval over those who smelled of the sea. I’m sure he thought all the seamen had betrayed him, for no one continued to pillage. They were nothing but kind fish-sellers anymore, or so I thought at that moment.
Norway was a forgotten land, a hollowed-out shell, and even more so was Trondheim. As I walked by the Byhaven shopping mall I had an epiphany: the world was ending. You see, no one cared. Everyone guarded themselves, leaving no room for trust or love. People turned on each other, too, you know, man against man, brother against brother, son against father and so on. I had never had a real friendship, never felt as though someone truly loved me. Apocalypse must be coming.
Then it happened. I tripped over the slab of pavement that stuck out at the corner of Ravnkloa and Jomfrugata. I fell right into him. We tumbled to the pavement. He had a beard. And a gun. The gun went off, so, naturally, I screamed. He mumbled something, “Be quiet wench or I’ll blow right through you.” So of course I was silent. I stood, and helped him up, then brushed myself off and kept walking. Then it struck me; he was English. I paused for a moment, baffled to find a naturally English-speaking man on a street in Trondheim. I then continued forward, only to be stopped again by a husky English voice calling after me.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” called he, and at that I turned around.
“It’s of no consequence. Had it not been me, however, you would have certainly needed to apologize. People around here aren’t too loving.”
“But, are you?”
“Well, I try, a bit,” said I, startled at my own affability.
“I certainly appreciate it, marm.”
“You are quite welcome. Now, watch where you wave that thing and have a safe,gun-fire-free day, sir.”
“Thank you again, and the same to you.”
“You’re welcome again, and thank you, too. Good day.”
I turned briskly and kept walking, strangely hoping to never see this man again, but somehow still wanting to see him once more. I wanted to hear his voice at least one more time before the world was finished. Somehow I knew that wouldn’t happen.
I caught myself smiling on my way home. Strangely enough, I didn’t stop myself from it. I opened my small, cold door and entered my small, cold house. To my surprise, I discovered someone sitting in my living room. He was my uncle, and he was dead. I felt his neck, but immediately pulled my hand back from the shock of his icy skin against mine. I rubbed my hands together then took the whiskey bottle from his hand; I was afraid that this discovery was a sign of the end. It’s an omen I thought, then addressed the body of my uncle. “Look at you, why have you done this? Why have you come here, of all places?” I was so used to his quick, “Ah!” then a long delay. I almost expected his response, despite the shade of gray that was flushing over him.
I made a quick call to the coroner and a sharp, “Komme hit og ta dette døde kroppen bort før jeg nødt til å begråve ham selv og treffer deg med en spåde! (Get over here and take this dead body away before I have to bury him myself and hit you with a shovel!)” As they carried him away I thought to myself, I should have prayed. I guess it doesn’t matter when I do it, he’s dead anyway. Well, God, rest his soul.
The next day, I walked to the fish market with my coffee, as I had done for many days prior, and looked at the Viking sculpture, as I had also done for many days prior. It all seemed the same. It was too hazy to see my hand, Harald gazed at me disapprovingly, and I left, with my back to the sea. Something was different, though, and I couldn’t put my finger on it.
Things started to change as my head started to swim in a sea of nausea and disaster, and the fog lifted much earlier than usual. As I leaned against the wall of the Byhaven mall and held my head, I saw a man lying next to where I stood. He looked like myuncle Ansfrid, loosely holding a half-empty bottle of whiskey in his hand. He was just as dead as my uncle, too, but the whiskey wasn’t the cause. I lifted the hat from his face to find that he was the man with the husky English voice that had made my heart melt.
All my premonitions were falling together. I stood and tried to compose myself, but this was the last straw. My head pounded with agony, and I shrunk to the ground with my back to the wall. I heard inquiries to my health and well-being – for the first time that I could remember – but the voices were so distant. Maybe it was because my knees were covering my ears, or maybe it was Armageddon. All I know is that the world went black and I felt a glorious peace for a fantastic moment, but it soon left. It left forever.
