Concussion

From Rebecca:

A green world slowly comes into focus around me … and I am most assuredly not aboard the Bera. Leaves rustle in front of my face as a squirrel bounds down a huge, twisted ash bough just above my head; the branches stretch up and outward to enclose the sky. Yggdrasill, the World Tree. Home of the Fates I serve. Its roots reach into every world, supporting, connecting, always in danger of failing. As I stand, a graying woman pours a pail of water onto a nearby root. “You again.”

“Good evening, Wyrd.” Careful manners, with her. “An honor to see you.”

Wyrd’s sister, Being, packs white clay around another root without looking up. “She must need something. She never visits unless she needs something.” Being twitches suddenly, as if pinched, and glares over her shoulder. “There’s that gnawing again in the Underdark,” she grumbles. “And we just got that root patched up. There’s something new down there.”

The third and prettiest sister, Necessity, just smiles at me. The roots are not her concern, or not yet: many more generations will pass under her crescent knife before she finally fells the Tree. I hope.

Being rises, shaking the clay from her hands. Where it falls, the flowers and crawling things turn white. “Well, why did you come here, child?”

I pause, blinking at a confusion of red memories. “I … I’m not sure I meant to.” Wyrd frowns: one does not waste her time with casual visits. “I think I hit my head.”

“Well you aren’t dead,” Necessity says carelessly. “I would know.”

“If she’s brought herself here,” says Wyrd, “it is for a purpose, no matter whether she knows it. Will we let her go away empty-handed?” The women share a considering look. I swallow. Serving the Three Sisters is not like serving the younger gods so popular among my Paladin colleagues. The younger gods can be capricious, even cruel; compared to them, the Fates are sedate. They just aren’t … safe. People appreciate gifts from the gods. You hardly ever hear anyone enjoying a “gift of the Fates.”

“This way,” beckons Wyrd, before disappearing around the huge bole of the Tree. Being takes my arm in hers and, with Necessity following us, we step in and out of interlaced roots until we reach a pool nestled in the crook of one. The pool ripples as we look at it; for a moment, I think I see an eye at the bottom. A drinking horn hangs from a branch nearby.

“Mimir’s Well,” I say quietly. A gust of wind stirs the branches and briefly takes the shape of four deer, dancing lightly on the boughs before racing off in their cardinal directions. “But where is Mimir?”

“Gone.” Necessity is no longer smiling. “Abandoned his fountain of knowledge and prophecy, as have the gods who once held court here.”

“You may not drink from the Well,” Wyrd says warningly. “Those days are over, and the price is beyond you in any case. But you may look.”

I take a hesitant step forward, kneel, and peer into the pool.

Images rush over me in waves, one replacing the other before I can comprehend them. I see flashes of places and people, some familiar, some strange. The great trunk of the World Tree rent by enormous claws. An aged Hermiad shooting down the four deer of the wind as they flee. Sunrise from a shore I’ve never seen before. Wyrd placing her thumbprint on an infant Rurik’s forehead. Bartix decorating our longboat as if for a festival. Myself as a child, trapped in the flames of our burning house. Varin reaching into a pool. A huge white bird perched on Being’s prone body. Edgar sitting on a high cliff. A hand carving Mendas’ name into a wooden tablet. Darkness.

A dim, smoky space comes slowly into focus around me, smelling strongly of herbs and salt. I can feel the rise and fall of the Bera as she follows the waves. The bandage around my head feels heavy; the ship’s healer bends over me, offering a drink and asking me to name the days of the week. I shut my eyes and try to separate reality from what I’ve seen.