A Sonata of Seers - Part I
The first time Sören saw him was on the bus.
Never mind that he had an assignment due in an hour. This was more important. He flipped to a clean page in his sketchbook and started scribbling. There was only about fifteen minutes left in the ride and he wanted to make sure he got all the details.
High cheekbones. Strong, shaved jawline. Cupid’s bow mouth, curved slightly upward in a smile. Button nose. Shaggy, dark blonde hair under a pair of massive headphones.
And those eyes…
The warm, wistful light in them.
He was beautiful.
It was hard to sketch straight while the bus moved. That was fine. It didn’t have to be perfect, just good enough to work from later on the off chance his memory failed him. Most kids with eidetic memory tended to outgrow it. Sören was fortunate enough that he’d never quite lost that talent. If anything, it had only become stronger with age, probably from practice.
The man looked away from the window to jot something down in the notepad open on his lap. He tucked the pencil behind his ear and closed the it.
Sören recognized the cover. It was a sheet music notebook for musicians. He’d bought Aleksandr a pack for his birthday last October.
The bus was getting close to the university. Sören only had a few more streets go memorize the focused intensity on the man’s face. He wished he could catch the way his fingers left moved, likely playing along with whatever he was listening to on his walkman.
Eight minutes left.
Sören’s assignment was completely forgotten. Honestly, it was more than good enough to turn in. And if it wasn’t, he only cared so much. There would be other assignments. This was so much more important.
The way his hair curled around his headphones was more important.
The man, who really didn’t look like he was older than Sören, reached up to pull the cord that ran overhead. A light ding rang out, signalling that a stop had been requested. Nearly all the bus’ riders, most of whom were also university students, began gathering their thing. The man slung his backpack over his left shoulder and tucked his notebook under his arm.
Sören kept drawing. Even when the man stood, with one strong hand gripping the bar to keep himself upright, Sören kept drawing. He didn’t stop until the bus did.
It wasn’t done.
Sören was tempted to chase after him and ask for a picture so he could finish it later. He had a cheap digital camera at the bottom of his bag somewhere. Sure, he had his memory, and a photograph wouldn’t capture the man’s soul, but it would at least be something he could keep. It would be worth invading the man’s personal space for it. The worst he would probably do was say no. He did his best to keep his eyes on the back of the man’s head as he shuffled toward the front of the bus. There were three or four people behind them, including one whose head nearly brushed the roof. He managed long enough, until he got off the bus and lost him in the crowd of people swarming the stop.
Sören’s heart sank.
Shit…
He pushed his hand through his hair and rubbed his face. He shifted his grip on his sketchbook.
At least he had something started. And he had his memory. No matter how much time he had left, he was never going to forget that face.
For now, he had an assignment to finish.
###
“Fredrik, Sören is on the phone!” Amalia shouted.
Sören pressed his face against his pillow. He’d really been hoping that Aleksandr would answer. Why were they home so early?
It wasn’t that he didn’t like talking to his parents. That wasn’t the case at all.
He just… didn’t really like talking to his parents.
“Is Aleksandr home?” Sören asked.
“What was that?”
“Is Aleksandr home?”
“Oh. I don’t know,” she said.
There was a long moment of silence. Sören realized he should say something else.
“Can you check,” he said.
“Do you need something from him?” Amalia asked.
Sören rolled over onto his back, careful not to crush his sketchbook. He’d been touching up the drawing he’d started on the bus all week, and he still wasn’t even close to happy with it. From a technical perspective, it was perfect. It looked exactly like the man, it was just missing something. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, exactly.
There was about twenty minutes before Karl got home and wanted the phone to call his girlfriend in Malmö. They’d be talking all night, so if he was going to talk to Aleksandr, it had to be right now.
He really needed to get a cell phone.
Aleksandr really needed to get a cell phone. There was no way Amalia and Frederik would get him one. Sören wasn’t even going to ask them for one for himself. He’d been saving up from selling sketches and paintings all semester. Maybe he could get one for Aleksandr instead. There was just under a month until his birthday, which meant he’d have to work fast, but that way, he would be able to talk to anybody he wanted.
“Could you just check?” Sören asked.
“I hardly get to talk to you anymore,” Amalia said.
“I have a question for him for school.”
He didn’t, but it was easier than explaining that he wanted to see how Aleksandr was doing.
Amalia and Frederik weren’t bad parents. At least, they weren’t the worst parents. They made sure that both their sons were physically taken care of. It was just that for whatever reason, they strongly favoured Sören and they never made it a secret. Sometimes, it was like they were so busy thinking about him, they forgot Aleksandr even existed.
Even though he’d been away from home for a year already, he still hadn’t shaken the guilt of leaving his little brother behind. But getting into school in Falun had been too good an opportunity to pass up.
Aleksandr wouldn’t have to live there forever. He would be going to university soon himself.
There was a loud knock on the other side of the line. If Sören strained, he thought he might be able to hear the faint strumming of a guitar.
“Aleksandr! Your brother is on the phone!”
The strumming stopped abruptly. The door clicked open a moment later, then shut again.
“Sören?” Aleksandr said.
The excitement in Aleksandr’s voice never fails to make Sören feel homesick. His little brother was pretty much the only thing he missed about Boden.
“Hey! How are you, Aleksandr?” Sören asked.
“I’m good.”
Sören waited for him to elaborate, and remembered that he always had to prod when Aleksandr spent too long alone with their parents.
“I thought I heard you playing guitar. Are you working on anything new?” Sören asked.
“Nothing special,” Aleksandr said.
His braces made him lisp a little.
“Tell me about it anyway.”
“It’s… It’s this Blood Eagles song. The chords are really complicated but I think I’m starting to get it. There’s a weird shift that gives it this kind of discordant sound. It just feels wrong every time I try to do it. I think my hand keeps going a bit flat. If I can figure out how to get that right—”
The more Aleksandr talked, the more animated he sounded. It wasn’t hard to picture him demonstrating what he was talking about with his left hand, even though Sören obviously couldn’t see it.
Sören didn’t think it would be fair to say he knew absolutely nothing about music theory. He knew the basics, and he could fumble his way through Ode to Joy on the piano, but he definitely didn’t have Aleksandr’s understanding.
“That sounds great. I can’t wait to hear it when I come home,” Sören said.
“You don’t like metal,” Aleksandr said.
“I still want to hear it!” he insisted.
He meant it, too. Even if they didn’t have the exact same taste in music, he loved the way Aleksandr’s face lit up when he talked about it or when he played.
“Mom and dad say I should learn leads. They didn’t call it that, they said ‘the important part’, but I think that’s what they meant,” Aleksandr said.
“Forget what they said. I thought you like doing the chords?”
“I do. I know leads are more impressive, but I like the way chords sound. They make the tone of the song. Plus, going back and forth with fast, complicated chords… It’s fun.”
“Forget what they say, then. Keep doing what makes you happy,” Sören said.
There was a moment of silence.
“I haven’t told them I want to apply to music. I don’t know what they’ll say,” Aleksandr said quietly.
“They’ll get over it,” Sören said firmly.
“I won’t get in.”
“Yes you will.”
It wasn’t even a question. Aleksandr was a fantastic pianist, a fantastic composer, and a fantastic guitarist. He got top marks in all his music exams. How could he not get in?
Besides, Sören had seen it. And everything he saw, happened.
There was another pause, and the real of bed springs.
“I want to apply to Falun,” Aleksandr said.
Sören smiled.
“You’ll get in,” he promised.
Aleksandr was meant for so much more than their hometown and their family. Big stages, tours, crowds of fans… Sören had seen that too.
“Are you coming home for Christmas?” Aleksandr asked.
“Of course. How’s everything else? How’s school?”
“It’s fine. It’s already getting busy. I have a test next week, which I really should be studying for. I need to keep my grades up.”
“You will. You’re smart.”
Aleksandr snorted.
Sören half wanted to smack him for it. While it was true that Aleksandr’s grades had never been as good as Sören’s, that didn’t mean Aleksandr wasn’t smart. Aleksandr was still near the top in most of his classes and he had an affinity for music most people couldn’t even begin to match.
“Just stay focused. You only have a couple more years,” Sören said.
Aleksandr was going to be fifteen next month. He only had two years left of high school. If he could hold out until then, he could go wherever he wanted.
Downstairs, the front door opened.
Sören turned his head to check the clock. Dammit, Karl must be home. He sighed and rubbed his face. He really needed to get a cell phone.
“Hey, who has the phone?” Karl shouted.
Damn him…
“I have it! Aleksandr, I—“
“Hurry up because I need it!”
“Give me a minute! I’m really sorry, Aleksandr. I have to go. I will call you after class tomorrow. Oh, and I’m going to email you some sketches I want your opinion on.”
Not the one from the bus, though. Sören didn’t think he was ready to share that one just yet.
“Okay. I miss you,” Aleksandr said.
“I miss you too. Love you.”
“Love you.”
Karl started pounding on the door just as Sören hung up. They got along well enough most of the time but right now, Sören kind of wanted to punch him in the face. He forced his temper down and opened the door, shoving the phone into Sweyn’s chest.
“Here. Try to keep it quiet. We don’t need to hear you and your girlfriend all night,” Sören said.
Karl scrambled to catch the phone before it fell. His round face turned bright red.
“You don’t hear me,” he said defensively.
“I promise we do.”
They didn’t, but it was fun to tease him sometime. He deserved it a little for interrupting Sören’s call.
“Yeah, whatever. You wouldn’t be so uptight if you got a girlfriend,” Karl said.
“First of all, I’m not uptight. And second of all, I’m—“
“Right, boyfriend, whatever. I know a couple guys I could set you up with,” Karl said.
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m good.”
There didn’t really seem to be any point in getting involved with somebody when he knew his days were numbered.
Of course, everybody’s days were numbered. Nobody knew when or where or how they would die.
Except Sören did.
Sort of.
The Gods had been either kind or cruel enough to let him see the date. It hung over his head every day. Getting involved with somebody and then forcing them to go through losing him that way… He liked to think he wasn’t selfish enough to put them through that.
“Are you sure? There’s a guy in my calculus lecture you might like,” Karl said.
“Isn’t your girlfriend waiting for you?” Sören asked.
Karl finally took that as his queue to leave.
Sören closed the door behind him and moved back to lie face-down on his bed. He pulled his sketchbook toward himself, propping himself up on his elbows. There was still something missing from the man on the bus, he just couldn’t think of what it was.
He would have to come back to it again later.
He flipped through the more recent sketches. While he preferred portraits, there were a few recent landscapes he didn’t mind. At least the area had some nice views he could take inspiration from. There just wasn’t as much soul in them.
The last one was also a portrait.
The woman’s face was mostly hidden by a headdress that covered the top half of her face. Black lines ran from beneath her eyelids to her jaw. Small antlers stuck out of the top of her skull. He had never seen her before, but he still felt a deep sense of intimacy with her, like she was still familiar to him in some way. It was a little unsettling.
He started to tear the page out, but stopped himself. Instead, he flipped to a clean page and wrote the date in the top right-hand corner. Whoever she was, he would figure it out sooner or later.
###
It was Wednesday, Odin’s Day, and Sören hadn’t eaten all day.
The Jungfruberget trail was always quiet this time of week and day. He’d come out here before sunrise with his lighter easel, cheap canvas, and set of acrylic paints. He preferred oil for landscapes, but oils were way more expensive and took way longer to dry. If he wanted to do something in a day and if it wasn’t for school or a commission, he would have to settle for acrylics.
The leaves were starting to change colours. There were more reds and yellows than the last time he’d painted this spot.
A large, black raven with glossy feathers settled beside him. The white patches on its forehead feathers looked like the Triskelion. Aside from pecking at the pumpkin seeds Sören had dropped for it, it didn’t acknowledge his existence until it cawed loudly several hours later. He did his best to ignore it, but it refused to be ignored. The bird cawed again, hopped up onto his bag, then cawed a third time.
Sören sighed and angled his head down a little.
“Does it have to be right now?” he asked.
The raven’s response came out sounding like the most obnoxious “Now!” possible.
Sören tried to blame his annoyance on his hunger, but he was pretty sure he’d be annoyed even if he’d let himself have the burger he’d been craving since morning. At least the painting was almost done. If this didn’t take long, he might still be able to finish by sundown.
His vision swam a little as he stood too quickly. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and slung his bag over his shoulder. Leaving his things here didn’t bother him. The only thing he really had to worry about was if it started raining, but the sky was clear and the forecast didn’t call for any rain.
A twig snapped beneath his foot as he walked the trail. The raven followed behind him, flying onto a branch and waiting for him to catch up until it moved ahead. He passed only one couple with a large golden retriever. Other than them, the path was empty. Sören took the opportunity to study the leaves as he walked, mentally classifying the colours and deciding how he could replicate the texture of the branches on a canvas. Oil would be best for that, since it would be easier to add layers. Acrylics just didn’t work the same way.
Sören didn’t stop until the raven did. It landed in front of him and looked up with a semi-impatient look.
“I am too hungry to deal with your attitude,” he said.
The raven only shook out its feathers.
Sören stepped off the trail. It wasn’t dangerous, most people just didn’t. The first few times he’d wandered away from the path, he’d almost gotten lost. If not for the acrylic paint smudged on one of the trees, he might have spent hours trying to find his way back. It had been purely by accident. Acrylic was practically liquid plastic. He never would have intentionally put any on a tree.
He didn’t need any markers anymore. He knew where he was going.
There was nothing really special about this spot in particular. It was just far enough from the trail that he didn’t have to worry about anybody seeing him strip down until he was naked. The hairs on his body stood on end, and his muscles locked up tight in an attempt to protect him from the cold.
As much as this sucked now, it was going to suck a lot more when the snow started falling.
The thought didn’t help.
Sören used to have an Aunt Helen who had told him once that most practitioners of seiðr magic were women. While it wasn’t entirely uncommon for women to teach their sons or male apprentices, it wasn’t entirely common for men to practice it either. Odin was a rare exception to the rule.
Aunt Helen had killed herself when he was twelve and Aleksandr was eight. Sören was pretty sure Aleksandr hadn’t seen her body. It hadn’t been hard to distract him with Aunt Helen’s piano while Sören scrubbed the blood out of the tub. He wasn’t sure what his logic had been. In hindsight, the first thing he should have done was call his parents or the police. Instead, the only thing he’d cared about was making sure Aleksandr never saw the blood.
He still hated that Bach minuet.
Apparently, there were two things that ran in the Ecklund side of the family: seiðr magic and depression.
The Gods had never talked to him until then.
It didn’t take Sören long to lay out what he needed for this. He spread the red shawl he’d taken from Aunt Helen’s house that night and stood on it with his bare feet. The cotton would wash easy. He dropped his sketchbook open to a clean page on top of it. He tucked a charcoal pencil behind one ear.
The wold volva meant something like ‘staff-carrier.’ Some had staffs. Some had wands.
Sören had pencils and paintbrushes.
Whiskey was easier to get than mead. This particular bottle was borrowed from Karl’s stash. The kardemummabulle was from Jonas’ stress baking last night. Neither of them were exactly traditional, but neither was the sound of traffic off in the distance. He tore the cardamom bun in half and set it on the ground. It took some effort to get the whiskey open with one free hand, but he managed to do it while only spilling a little bit onto his hand.
Sören didn’t really know any Old Norse. After all these years, he probably should have. The only bit he knew was the song Aunt Helen used to sing.
“Hljóðs bið ek allar helgar kindir,
Meiri ok minni mögu Heimdallar.
Viltu, at ek, Valföðr! vel framtelja forn spjöll fíra,
þau er fremst um man.”
“Hearing I ask from the holy races,
From Heimdall's sons, both high and low;
Thou wilt, Valfather, that well I relate
Old tales I remember of men long ago.”
He sat down on the shawl and poured some of the whiskey out near the half bun. It wasn’t so much an offering as an invitation to share.
The raven hopped toward the bun. It tore a strip of pastry and scarfed it down before poking its beak into the small puddle of wine. It tipped its head back. When it opened its beak, the second part of the verse came out.
“Ek man jötna ár um borna,
þá er forðum mik fœdda höfðu.
Níu man ek heima, níu íviði,
Mjötvið mœran fyr mold neðan.”
“I remember yet the giants of yore,
Who gave me bread in the days gone by.
Nine worlds I knew, the nine in the tree
With mighty roots beneath the mold.”
Sören grinned. He poured out a little more whiskey and tore into the other half of the bun with his teeth. His stomach growled loudly. With pretty much nothing left in his stomach, the whiskey went right to his head. He set the bottle down, and picked up his sketchbook
