As discussed, Harald Bluetooth eviscerates me with his broadsword. I collapse, cloud-watching until the battle ends – which will be in fifteen minutes; we do three of these per hour.
Sadly, the corpse next to mine is Sven Forkbeard. Why didn’t I check? I could have stumbled over to Alma Eagleaxe, currently sprawled under a pile of pretend guts. Alma’s nice. Before lunch, we were proposing personality disorders for the weird guy selling rabbit skins at the visitor entrance.
“Can I give you a tip?” says Sven’s corpse. He’s been giving me tips all week. I was grateful, initially.
“You,” says Sven, “are wearing a watch.”
“I need an alarm,” I whisper. Sven’s first tip: if you’re dead, you whisper. “For my medication.”
“It’s inauthentic.” Sven isn’t whispering.
I’d like to reply: “Deceased Vikings discussing watches at the slaughter of Trelleborg isn’t exactly authentic either.” But I don’t. I want him to like me. Being liked is why I’m here. Friends are the main predicator of well-being.
Instead, I say: “Sven, do you think Harald Bluetooth will prevail?” Stupid question: Harald never prevails. I’m asking because Alma told me to change the subject whenever Sven gets like this. Also, I should say “how interesting” in neutral tones.
“Stupid question,” Sven mutters. “Harald never prevails.”
“How interesting.”
On day one, Alma said, “Sven’s a sweetheart.” We were in her tent, making fake blood (chocolate sauce plus food coloring). “He’s been through a lot.” She smeared spare blood on a cracker and ate it. “He genuinely wishes he lived in the ninth century.”
The oldest actual Viking found at Trelleborg was fifty, his bones mushy from smallpox, an arrowhead in his ocular socket. This is Sven’s utopia. I should pity him.
Sven props himself up on one elbow. He has rune tattoos on his forearms. “Futhermore,” he says. “You moved. After being slain.”
I don’t say: “But Sven, you’re moving. You’re moving right now.”
I do say: “But Sven, Alma told me to. For health and safety purposes. If the battle nears, the corpses roll away.”
“I never roll,” says Sven. “And don’t listen to Alma. She likes fire extinguishers.” He spits into the grass. “Wants one within ten meters of every tent.”
“Well, they’re made of hides, so–”
“She’s wrong,” says Sven.
“How interesting.”
I can almost touch the rope separating us from the audience. It’s a good turn out: families sprawled on picnic blankets all the way up the hill – once the ring fortress’ outer wall. They’re wearing shorts and eating sandwiches. I wish I were eating sandwiches. I wish I were wearing shorts. Shorts and sandwiches seem preferable to chain mail and Sven Forbeard.
“So what do you advise, Sven? I appreciate –”
“Stare,” says Sven. “Even if flies land on your eyeballs.”
My sigh is a tiny fart of passive aggression. “I was staring.” Maybe he’s hazing me. Maybe when I get my Viking name — Alma likes “Ragnor Pickleblood”— Sven will accept me.
“Become the warrior,” says Sven. “Bleeding out, praying the Valkyries choose you.”
“Sounds a bit fascist, Sven.” When flustered, I mansplain. “Did you know the peoples we mistakenly call ‘Vikings’ thought Loki was bisexual? So actually they were surprisingly kind and tolerant.”
“Hmm,” says Sven. “A fringe theory.” He points his sword at me. “We were discussing Valkyries. Consider their names. Do they sound kind and tolerant? Shield-Destroyer, Battle, War–”
“Battle?” I sniff. “War? A tad literal, no?”
“Don’t be sarcastic,” Sven says. “Helmet-Clatter, Howling, Spear-Finger, Spear-Shaker, Spear-”
I stop listening. And hold my breath. Sven doesn’t shower. No showers in the ninth century.
“… and Victory-Froth.”
“How interesting.” The grunt-clunk of phoney carnage draws near. It’s drizzling. Families drift toward the carpark. I don’t blame them. Sven claims that looking upon a Valkyrie will blind you. It’s a long fifteen minutes.
Then, thank Freya and thingy, and the other ones, the din overwhelms Sven’s monotone.
Harald Bluetooth sinks to his knees next to me. He’s about to get his throat slit. Everyone gets a turn slitting Harald’s throat: today, it’s Orm Cleft-Chin (who has a cleft chin). Harald gurgles, clutching his neck. He’s good at dying. Better than Sven.
Orm coughs, looks at me, waggles his eyebrows. Meaning: “Move, new guy, or Harald, our Dark Thane, might land on your ass and sprain something.”
Sven’s eyes narrow. A test. Should I roll and earn (more of) Sven’s contempt? Or stay and endure Orm’s ire?
Why is male friendship so difficult?
“Forkbeard,” I say, “I am worthy of honor.” I shriek like a ninth century berserker. I roll away from Harlad, toward Sven.
Whose sword, still raised, is authentically sharp. And authentically stabs me in the guts.
Sven wails. “Jesus, no. Ambulance–”
Death IRL is easier than pretend evisceration. Any gurgle is a good gurgle, every groan convincing, by definition. Nobody gives you tips.
A surprising amount of non-fake blood exits my belly. Bet it doesn’t taste like chocolate sauce. I feel sorry for the folks in shorts screaming, holding their kids close. Hopefully, I haven’t ruined anyone’s Saturday.
Harald, in character, bellows: “Hold fast, uh, Northman.” Pretty sure he says “Northman” because he can’t remember my name. Alma shoves him aside, sobbing.
The clouds blacken, releasing ravens. They spiral in lazy gyres, closer, wings burning. In the spaces between: shapes, humanoid, almost.
Helmets flash, spears are raised and ready to bite, sharp of blade, desiring a feast. Pale hands grip severed heads, shields glint, draped with intestines.
Is that Helmet-Clatter? Victory-Froth?
My eyeballs blister. Truly, to look upon Odin’s maidens is to gaze into the flames. As my sight fades, a gaunt creature plants her boots on either side of my chest. She squats. Breath like battlefield meat.
The fuck? she says. A watch? A man of war wears no fucking watch.
With that, the Valkyries are gone. I exhale, everything slowing, everything stopping. I don’t think they liked me. They’d have loved Sven.
Kris Schokrowsky is a Scottish-German writer and illustrator living in the Netherlands. Kris has been an advertising creative, a ghostwriter, a chief editor, and a librarian. Recent stories have been accepted by Cosmic Horror Monthly and Not One Of Us. Recent illustration projects include a poster for the podcast Weird Studies, as well as work for BookTuber Jared Henderson, and political activist Anark. Publication credits also include nonfiction books, essays, articles, and more fiction (including a collection). Other creative projects include exhibitions in art galleries and at the Venice Biennial, directing commercials, product development, and teaching design students.
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