The Gargoyle

Einarr scooped his son out and held him tighter than he ever had before.

In the days that followed, Einarr and Bragi spent all their time at Sigurðr’s favorite fjord, digging a massive hole. When it was large enough, they enlisted the help of the Viking crew to carry Bragi’s boat-the one that Sigurðr had painted so brilliantly-to the gravesite. While it was being lowered, some of the Vikings grumbled that Sigurðr was not so important a warrior as to deserve such a fine boat grave, but no one dared speak such a thought aloud. They simply left Einarr and his family to bid farewell to the man who had saved their child.

Beside Sigurðr’s body in the boat, they laid a number of items: his favorite frost-cup and the household’s ale-goose, both pulled from the ashes; his paintbrushes and pigments; Sigurðrsnautr; and the single unburned dragonhead from Friрleifr’s cradle. Then Svanhildr removed her treasure necklace and placed it gently across Sigurðr’s withered chest, keeping only the healing rune that he had given her.

Svanhildr and Einarr also considered placing the arrowhead necklace into the grave, but ultimately decided against it. It would go to Friрleifr, a talisman to protect the child as he grew into a man.

Einarr filled in the grave by himself. Bragi and Svanhildr, the baby clutched tightly to her bosom, stayed with him as he worked through the night. Just as the sun was rising, the last shovelful was put into place and Einarr slumped exhausted, to look out over the ocean at the sun rising like the condemning eye of Урi

When he was finished, Svanhildr touched her husband for the first time since the longhouse was burning. She couldn’t offer any words of forgiveness, but she took his hand into her own.

“I don’t know why I did it,” said Einarr, tears ru

They sat not speaking for a long time, Einarr weeping, until finally Svanhildr spoke. “Friрleifr is a good name,” she said, “but perhaps not so good as Sigurðr.”

Einarr squeezed her fingers and nodded, and then broke into new sobs.

“It is proper that we never forget,” said Svanhildr, looking down on the sleeping face of the rescued baby at her breast. “From this day forward, this child will carry our friend’s name.”

XXII.

Keeping a low profile is not easy for a burn survivor at the best of times, but it becomes exponentially harder when he is in a fabric store with a wild-haired woman holding up swaths of white cloth against his chest, measuring out the proper amount for his angel’s robes.

When it came time to pay, I stepped between Maria

After we had procured all our costume-making supplies, we ran a rather strange errand to a local bank. Maria

We went to a coffee shop to drink lattes with no foam, sitting on an outside deck while Maria

That Hell is tailored to the individual is hardly a new idea. It is, in fact, one of the greatest artistic triumphs in Dante’s Inferno: the punishment for every si

It made me wonder what my version of Hell-if I believed in such a thing, that is-would be like. Would I be doomed to burn forever, trapped inside my car? Or would Hell be a never-ending stint on the dйbridement table? Or would it be the discovery that when I was finally able to love, it was already too late?

As I contemplated this, I spotted one of my secret fraternity coming down the street. It was a strange feeling, the first time that I’d seen another burn survivor in public, and one whom I knew, no less: Lance Whitmore, the man who’d given the inspirational talk at the hospital. He came directly to us and asked whether we’d met before. I couldn’t blame him for not recognizing me, because not only had the contours of my face changed while healing, they were also hidden behind my plastic mask.

“It’s nice to see one of us out in the daylight,” he said. “It’s not that we’re ghosts, exactly, but we do a pretty good job of not being seen.”

We made small talk for perhaps ten minutes and it never seemed to bother Lance that we drew curious stares from nearly everyone who walked past us. I don’t doubt that he noticed, but I admired the way he could pretend he didn’t.

I was in a white robe and my wings were made of stockings stretched over coat hangers, trimmed with silver tinsel. Maria

She was also dressed in a robe-or, more accurately, a dress that hung and bunched so loosely that it looked like a robe. Her hair was somehow even wilder than usual, despite being tied with a band that encircled her temples and came together in a knot on her forehead. A wide tail of fabric escaped her curls and cascaded down her back. She gathered this excess material into the crook of her elbow, letting it drape over her forearm as a waiter might hold a napkin. In her other hand she held an old-fashioned lantern, without oil, and around her left ankle-the one with the rosary tattoo-was a circle of leaves. She explained that it was to represent the laurel crown that should be on the ground at her feet, because a real one would impede her movement around the dance floor. I asked her who she was.

“One of the Foolish Virgins,” she answered.

The party was at the oldest, most expensive hotel in town. A doorman with top hat opened the taxi door and took Maria

“Excuse me?”

“The only fallen angel I know, sir.” He bowed curtly. “Well done. Might I add the voice is an excellent touch?”

As we entered the lobby, Maria