Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Four

Chapter Four

The wind carried the smell of rain, and far away he could hear a familiar rumbling. Bard picked a direction at random, walking until he recognized the part of town he had been left at. It was the old downtown; familiar homes, many of which falling to ruin, announced it long before Bard found a market square he hadn’t visited in years. There was a water fountain at the center, the source spraying from the bodies of pagan deities. Semi-naked figures held each other in a deep embrace, legs and arms wrapped in angles hard to follow.

Bard admired the one figure he recognized, Hermes, standing atop it, holding aloft his iconic staff. The symbol of alchemy and medicine, of knowledge brought from the gods. Fat water droplets began to fall the mark of rain, and in a flash of lightning, Bard blinked, and found the head of Hermes had moved to stare him down.

“No,” he laughed, uncaring of a couple passersby who rushed out of the coming rain. “It’s just my imagination.” Hermes lowered his arm and with his Caduceus pointed right at Bard; stone lips moved, unable to expel air or sound, to silently form words Bard could not hear.

“You’re not real. This isn’t real.” Bard walked backwards, nearly falling on his back. “Leave me alone!”

Another rumble, as the skies ran crisscross with lightning, and from the fountain rose all its water as a waterspout, circling higher and higher until it reached the very heavens, then added to the rain which hit with the might of fists. Bard tried to shield himself with his jacket but the wind stole what little protection he had until the winds nearly swept him away.

For a moment, Bard was a black-winged bird midflight.

Around him the clouds and rain billowed like a cloak, and above him was the great black shape of a hammer. From the massive open mouth blew a gale, and throwing Bard backways, flailing to the ground, it seemed the storm-head announced to the world the coming of the old gods.

But rather than a name, came the scream of a horse. A whining and neighing that drove 

Bard to run for his life, as the skies exploded with lightning and the buildings shook with the strength of the thunder. Projected upon and ahead of Bard was a misshapen shadow, far-reaching, with the hammering of an anvil the size of the world came sparks the size of harpoons, raining on the world of men.

Each scorching blast seemed to draw nearer, despite the next bolt always being a near miss. One piercing bolt of light hit close enough to scorch Bard’s hair, sparks flying in every direction as Bard turned a corner, nearly sliding to the ground, his shoulder thumping against the glass display of a shoe store.

Large as a titan, fully formed, came horrid Donar, a younger man astride his father’s horse, naked, slowly turning the corner with hammer in hand. His eyes and mouth expelled black clouds emitting thunder, and repeatedly he hit the ground and surrounding buildings with his hammer. More lightning came as he rode on a black cloud-horse with too many legs. On his shoulders hung a storm mantle weaved of the sky-symbols that morphed from one shape to another, crafted by the hand of Wotan and unreadable in the eyes of mortals, casting the enchantments with which Donar chased Bard.

Frigid winds blew, slowing Bard down. Nearly blind, he peeked between shadows and lights, and saw long lost forests. Bard was, for a moment, trapped between present and past. One moment he ran down alleyways, the next he was dodging massive trees, running away from Roman soldiers.

Bard would have gladly crossed to those other woods and dealt with a human menace rather than the godly one, if he had the chance, but the mirages were gone the moment he reached them, leaving behind only the frigid cold. Bard continued being pelted by rain and hail, freezing him to his bones as he reached the foothold of some edifice, too darkened by the storm for him to see clearly. Bard fell, managing to sit with his back to the gates of the building, staring into the eye of the god thing who gazed down at him as if he was both cathedral and lighthouse.

“Leave me alone! Leave me alone!” Bard screamed, driven mad with fright. “I don’t know you; I have nothing!” Donar raised his hammer to the skies, while the horse lunged forward towards Bard, who screamed and pushed himself against the gates.

He tried to escape in blind panic, wishing with his whole body he could squeeze through the metal bars of the gate that were digging into his back, until the gate swung inward, giving in to his weight. Bard fell past the threshold and into the building; without looking back, he turned and raced inside, past the double doors.

He was crouching with his hands on his knees once he made it to some sort of reception area. Warm artificially conditioned air, and artificial light that hurt his eyes, welcomed him from the chaos outside as the doors closed behind him. One last bolt cracked like a whip, shattering stone and filling the air with static. This lashing out and the roar of the cacophony were muffled by the thick walls.

“Hi,” greeted a jovial voice, blind or pretending to be blind to Bard’s distress. “Welcome to the War Museum. Would you like an audio guide?”

Drenched, swallowing dry, Bard stared the young woman in the eyes. He had been tempted to say something quite rude but held back his piece, stunned by her resemblance to his sister. The receptionist was much younger, but the resemblance to that memory Bard still held was baffling.

“No.” He swallowed again, regaining his breath, forcing the parts of his brain that helped him act and sound normal even when stressed out of his mind. “To be honest I hadn’t even noticed where I was going. The storm got so awful I just wanted out of it.”

The young receptionist seemed genuinely worried. “I hadn’t realized it got that bad; helps explain why things are slower than usual around here.” She stood behind a counter and pulled something for him. “Here, it’s not much but you can take this towel.” She winked. “No need to pay. No one’s been buying the things. Not sure why they thought people would buy these from the souvenir shop. No one’s picking the umbrellas either.”

Bard accepted the towel and thanked her. It was the second time in a short period he had received the kindness of strangers, and as counter to his nature it was to accept kindness from others, it would have done him no good to refuse.

“Since you’re here, spend some time looking around. You’ll dry up faster and be a little less bored while you wait for the storm to pass.” Bard was about to mention he had no money on him, when the receptionist anticipated the argument. “You don’t have to pay to enter. We’ll happily sell you stuff or accept a donation to help run the place. Just come back some other day to make up for today, if you feel like it.” She smiled. “We joke about it, given the museum’s theme. ‘War is for everyone’, we say.”

Bard laughed awkwardly at the joke, thanked the young woman again for her kindness, and headed further in while drying himself up.