RUNE GAME

by

Barbara Mater

The 1988 Vinland Dig was Jonathan MacKensie’s pride and joy – at first. He had been teaching for three years now without a real break except for his sallies into the psychic world, which could hardly be considered recreational. Shadow chasing also offered little in the way of professional advancement, as he reflected, standing in the doorway of his rented trailer that first evening at the site. Nothing like an undisturbed site and a year to investigate it! He gazed out across the gently sloping hillside where gnarled trees shaded the rows of weathered stones whose presence revealed the long-ago settlement of this now desolate piece of land.

Two weeks before, Professor Moorhouse, chairperson of anthropology at Georgetown Institute of Science and Technology, had called him into her office. Jonathan had gone in prepared for some ridiculous paranormal investigation assignment. To his surprise, however, she offered him a chair and a cup of tea. There was a mysterious gleam in her eye. “Sit down, MacKensie. We have something to discuss.”

“To what do I owe this honor, Professor?”

She raised her cup. “To the Regents of the Institute, MacKensie.”

He drank. “The Regents? Last year they wouldn’t even get me the new lab equipment I requested.”

“Well, they’ve changed their tune now.” She set down her cup. “You’ve heard of publish-or-perish, I think?”

Jonathan nodded.

“The Regents want to see both of us in print by the end of next year. Otherwise the Paranormal Research Unit will be shut down.” She sipped again, eying him over her glasses.

He avoided her gaze. He wasn’t altogether sure how much he wanted the PRU to survive. But what was she saying?

“…even wrote us some grants.”

“Grants?” Jonathan looked up. “Money?”

“Money, yes. For specific research.”

Jonathan took a deep breath. “What research?”

“Mine is to be a series of article on psychic content in Renaissance art. I leave at the end of the month for Paris, London, Florence, Madrid…I forget where else.”

“And my assignment?” Would it be anywhere his girlfriend, Rosalind, would want to spend her vacation?

“Ahem. Well, let’s just say it’s somewhere safe from tabloid publicity. It’s unlikely that even that irresponsible Edgar Benedek will be able to find you…”

He had tried to tell Rosalind about his project twice during the week before he left. But each time other people were there and someone had changed the subject and she was distracted. He ended up phoning her from the airport.

Wasn’t he going to be back in Georgetown at all this summer?

“Well, I’ll be back for a few days in August to confer with Professor Moorhouse. I hope we can see each other then.”

“Sure. Call me.”

“It’s a beautiful place, very peaceful. I hope you’ll come up and visit.”

She said she didn’t like digging.

“Darling, of course I don’t expect you to dig.”

They were calling his flight.

Well, where was it exactly? Was there a good hotel?

“In St. John’s, yes, but that’s quite a drive…I can meet you there. Just let me know when you’re coming up.”

Wasn’t it cold way up north in Canada?

“It is at night, but I’ll keep you warm,” he said softly.

“Jonathan, I have another call coming in. Hold on.”

And then there was just a dial tone, and the plane was loading.

Jonathan smiled with satisfaction: a good first day’s work was completed. The local diggers had driven off in their jeep, down the dirt road to the village several miles away, and he welcomed the peaceful solitude. He didn’t even have the phone to disturb him, way out here. Professor Moorhouse wouldn’t be intruding, and neither would Benedek, with his hare-brained schemes. As the last rays of the late June sun faded into night, he closed the door, found his glasses, and sat down at the little kitchen table in the trailer, the Coleman lantern lit beside his notebook, and began to write up his notes for the day.

* * * *

The client looked at her watch. That got Harald’s attention. He sighed heavily, and sounding like a judge about to invoke the death sentence, intoned: “I see good news coming to you. You will receive money from a distant source. Someone close to you will recover from a serious illness.”

The woman nodded, anxious to get away but not until she had her money’s worth. This fellow made good news sound bad. His depression was contagious.

When he had finished, she picked up her purse and her little stack of newly purchased paperbacks, on top of which was a copy of “Europe on Five Ghosts a Day,” and started to get up. Just then she caught a whiff of Patchouli, and a young girl with a large and complicated hairdo approached the table. The girl wore a tight pink dress, several yards of beads, and a fancy costume ring. As she fingered the ring, the client noticed a sudden warm friendly feeling towards her. The girl smiled charmingly and held out a sheet of paper.

“Here’s your printout, Sweetie. All good stuff.”

“Thank you, dear. Have a nice evening. “ The client took her paper and headed for another woman who stood at a jewelry display. “Gladys, see what a good fortune I got.”

Moisture-laden breezes redolent of chemical manufacture did little to refresh the crowd in the Inn’s lecture room next door. Edgar Benedek, seated on the outside aisle where he could observe all events, felt his scalp tingle as someone approached him, unseen in the crowd of people who had just been enlightened on the subject of aura-reading and were on their way to the ice-water pitchers arrayed on a table at the back of the room.

Benny stood, turned and scanned the room. “Serena?” It had to be his old girlfriend; nobody else had those beautiful vibes. “SERENA! Over here!”

“I’m right beside you, Sweetie.” She linked her arm with his and rested her dimpled chin on his shoulder, spikes of dark hair tickling his ear. “Buy me a drink.”

“Whoa, woman, you are moussed to the max. Get those quills out of my – where are you going, Babe? I’m only kidding!” He gave her a squeeze as they sauntered down the hall.

In the air-conditioned bar, Benny sipped an Orange Blossom. He rolled the little onion around in the glass as he considered the evening’s pink-clad possibilities. “What brings you to the con, Babe?”

“Observation, mostly. Harald Olafsson’s teaching me to read runes, and I’m watching him work for a few weeks and selling his books in the booth.”

“Harald, the Sage of Norway?” Benny leaned across the table. “Old Gloom and Doom?” I interviewed him when his book came out, Improve You Memory Through the Mystic Power of Runes . I even tried the system for a while.”

“Did it work?”

“No. First you have to memorize the runic alphabet, and all the characters look like little pine trees to me. But I haven’t seen Harald since that party in Georgetown when he sent ol’ Jon-Boy back to the days of Robin Hood. When did he get back from Norway?”

Serena shifted her ice cube to the other cheek. “In April. He says they’re digging a new Viking settlement in Canada. Well, actually it’s about nine hundred years old, but they just found it. He thinks his ancestors lived there.”

“Whoa, wait till Jack hears about this!”

“Your long-haired friend from the twelfth and twentieth centuries? I think he’s the one doing the dig; it was somebody from Georgetown. Listen, I have to get back to work for an hour now.”

“Swell, that’ll give me time to get my story to the Register. How about dinner? I know a little place on Monroe Ave. where they have great ribs and wings.”

“Hey, bone-chewing’s my favorite ritual. Let’s go for it.”

* * * *

She walked leisurely around the outside of the stone foundation, and when she tuned the far corner, he could see that she had pulled up all the stakes he and the diggers had so carefully put in, and was coiling the twine over her elbow with the practiced ease of a sailor. He opened the doors and called, “Hey what are you doing there?”

The woman looked back at him. Her face was sad. He blinked, trying to see more clearly in the dim moonlight, and she vanished. Jonathan stood amazed, staring at the pile of stakes and twine that lay in the grass.

* * * *

She shook her head. “Gotta keep running. Pays the rent, y’know?” She slid the key card in the door and opened it a little.

“I guess.” Benny glanced a little too casually at the door. Was Harald in there, waiting?

Serena’s smile faded. She linked arms with him again and looked straight into his eyes. “Benny? Will you stay with me?”

His eyes told her yes, but he said sadly, “Babe, you know I’m a bad luck charm. My life is a combat zone, and anybody who stays in it gets hurt. “ Gently he touched the bright-painted curve of her cheek. “Can’t let it happen to you.”

She bit her lip. “Sweetie, nothing could hurt me more than missing you.”

He held her tight, and they kissed. Then he remembered. “What about Harald?”

“Harald? HARALD? Listen, Sweetie, it’s all I can stand to WORK with Harald. You didn’t think I was living with him, did you?” She studied his face. “You did think so, I can tell. No way! Harald’s got no…pizazz!” She stroked Benny’s chin. “But you do!”

Then she turned and led him into the room. She didn’t see him smiling behind her, half-wise, half-tender.

“Then you won’t” -- he shut the door behind them – “need your Psychic Charm ring.” Taking her hand in his, he removed the large costume ring and set it beside her purse, on the dresser.

* * * *

Amid hasty preparations for the day’s work, he looked out the window at the site. Had it been a dream, the woman pulling up the stakes? No, and she had come back and finished the job when he wasn’t looking, too, because the stakes were arranged on the grass in funny patterns that looked like a child’s incomplete drawing of a row of Christmas trees. He squinted and grabbed his Polaroid camera. There was something familiar about the patterns… Runes? Were they runes? He snapped a few pictures from the doorway.

The diggers stood silently by the jeep, staring at a barefoot Jonathan taking pictures of the scattered markers.

”What’s this?” asked the older man. “Someone’s idea of humor, eh?”

Determined not to be irritated, Jonathan smiled. “Ya got me, pal.” What? Did I really say that? Must be Benedek’s influence. He pulled on his boots and the large hat he wore to keep the sun off, and went outside.

“Now, gentlemen,” MacKensie began, shouting because the wind was blowing very hard this morning, “a few words are in order before we begin. Have you done any archaeological digging before?”

No hands went up. The diggers looked at one another. Digging was digging, wasn’t it?

“Good, very good, then neither of you will find this overly familiar. He began to feel apprehensive. “The object of course in digging an ordinary hole is usually to make the hole bigger, by removing the dirt as efficiently as possible.” He gestured with a shovel, throwing imaginary dirt into an imaginary pile. “In work of this type, however, we aren’t in any hurry to get the dirt out; we’re concerned with the contents of the dirt – bones, pottery fragments, cinders –anything that will tell us about the people who built this building.”

Jonathan looked at the diggers, neither of whom was looking back. One man was tying his bootlaces and the other was lighting a cigarette.

“Ahem!” Jonathan plunged bravely on. “Therefore, all the dirt must be sifted and examined. In the work tent, over there.” He gestured to the large canvas tent which stood some hundred yards from the trailer, at the opposite end of the dig. “So we want to know exactly where each of these buckets was filled.” He indicated the row of galvanized buckets which stood beside the jeep. “That will tell us things, like where the firepit was and so on.”

His audience was growing restless. That didn’t sound like s proper way of doing a job to them.

“No shovels at first. Just trowels. We have to keep track of every fragment. I can’t overemphasize that.”

“Sounds like a ladies’ garden club,” the old man grumbled.

“Yup, George, we’ll be at this all summer,” added the younger digger, a teenage boy with a Bryan Adams hairstyle.

“Which should be good news to you, Tim,” Jonathan smiled again, “since the Institute is paying you by the day.”

Remembering this, they brightened. “Let's go then,” George nodded, buttoning his jacket collar against the chill of the wind.

Young Tim, the rock star wannabe, found the first of the bones after lunch. His trowel struck something that was hard and sounded slightly hollow. “Doctor Mackensie, what do you think this is?”

Jonathan, squinting and keeping his mouth shut against the drifting dust, went to look. After brushing the dirt away carefully, he stared down at the roundish, dark object in the ground. “I think you’ve got something there, Tim. Let’s dig a little further that way.” He pointed where feet would be if the skeleton were complete.

By dusk they had uncovered most of a female skeleton.

“She’s a big one, eh?” George offered.

Jonathan had to agree. The woman who had once used these bones would have been over six feet tall.

“Want some help gettin’ ‘er out of there?” George had the weary air of one hoping to be refused.

“No,” Jonathan answered quickly. “Thank you, but I’d like to take some pictures and study these bones where they are before we move them. Several are missing, as you can see.” He pushed his hat back, looked at the diggers’ blank faces. “Well, perhaps you can’t see it, but I can, and so, no, thank you very much, George, you can go. You can both go now.”

As they drove away, the wind began to blow harder and clouds covered the fast-darkening sky.

Jonathan lit the Coleman lantern and set it beside the hole, where he knelt down and looked at the bones. As he puzzled over them, a terrific gust of wind came along and the skull rolled a bit toward him, as is the woman were alive, trying to turn and see who had disturbed her slumber. Then the skull rolled all the way over, and bounced up out of the hole.

This was incredible! The wind blew like a hurricane, and Jonathan reached instinctively to catch the skull. He thought he had it, but then the wind knocked him off-balance, and as he tried to hold the heavy skull in one hand and catch himself with the other, it got away again.

“Come back here!” he shouted, staggering in pursuit. “Where do you think you’re going?”

The runaway skull rolled toward the steep grassy slope to the sea-cliff.

“Stop!” he called. “You’ll fall down the cliff!”

It didn’t stop.

Frantically, he grabbed his hat and mad a flying leap into the tall grass, snaggin the skull at the last moment. He wrapped the skull carefully in the hat and carried it into the work tent. He was about to put it in a box for safekeeping, when the canvas began to swell and rise overhead, the line which held it down screaming with the strain as it flapped like a raven’s wing, and collapsed, bringing Jonathan and the skull down with it.

While he was still fighting his way out of the tangled canvas with the skull under one arm, rain began to fall, at first a few drops striking a pizzicato on the tent, then a steady patter, and by the time he was halfway to the trailer, a heavy downpour. The lantern in his hand was miraculously still burning, and he hesitated for a passing glimpse of the bones in their ancient grave. No way to cover them or to get them out now. He hoped they wouldn’t wash away.

The trailer door was stuck. Of all the times for that to happen! He yanked on the door handle, he hammered on the door, but still it did not budge,

Drat! This was ridiculous! He was locked out of his own trailer, inches away from warmth and comfort, and miles away from the nearest other living human being. He gave the skull a distasteful glance, then scanned the ground for something to pry the door with. There was nothing outside to help him except the skull, lantern and cinder block step, and a broad river of muddy rainwater gushing down the hillside.

He dragged wet hair out of his eyes and tried to think. Of course! There was a tire iron in the trunk of his car! He made it to the car, his boots slipping and sloshing in the wet, tangled grass. He groaned as saw that he had left the driver’s window open and the interior was soaked. It had, after all, been that kind of day, hadn’t it? Now, keys, keys. They weren’t in the ignition. Jonathan set down the lantern, patted all his pockets, then remembered leaving the keys on the kitchen table. Inside the trailer.

He stared at the trailer, a tightly-closed capsule of shelter and security. It was his, at least for the next two months; how dare it shut him out?

Well, he reflected, renting things had never been good for him.

The only other tools he might be able to find were in the tent, or rather under the tent. With a loud groan, he turned back into the storm. Just then there was a brilliant flash of lightning and a great roaring crash of thunder, and the earth trembled. Jonathan slipped and fell in the mud. When he picked himself up, the trailer door was open, banging against the outside wall.

Softly, lest the door change its mind, Jonathan crept inside. The day’s stored-up heat spilled with the lantern’s light out into the dark and the rain, and he sat sideways in the doorway on the warm, dirt y linoleum, his back resting against the wooden cupboard, his boots dripping on the floor, just inside, safe now from the torrential rain, the cold and the lonely night.

After he had caught his breath and pretty much finished dripping, Jonathan decided to close the door. It wouldn’t stay, and he had to tie it shut with a piece of twine.

Dulled were the sounds of the storm. Wearily, Jonathan started the little gas burner and put on the tea kettle, leaving it to heat while he got into dry clothes. He sat with a mug of tea and stared at the skull, which lay in state in his hat on the table, next to the car keys and the camera. She had no comment to make on the professor’s hardships.

* * * *

Serena opened her eyes reluctantly. The first thing she saw was Benny’s Edgar Cayce talking watch on the nightstand. He wasn’t in her room, but he couldn’t be far away. In fact, she was just coming out of the shower when he knocked at the door. “Serena! SERENA!”

She let him in.

“Hey, Babe, I got us some breakfast. Here’s a couple of frozen custards, some Wendy’s chili.” Benny lifted cups and cartons from a paper bag, set them on the coffee table. “And here’s the early edition of the local rag.”

Among local advertising and wire service pieces were two paragraphs announcing the beginning of the Vinland dig. “Led by Dr. Jonathan MacKensie!” Benedek read. “See, you were right, Serena!” He gave her a hug. “Hey, I hope he knows enough to stay out of trouble up there.”

Haunted bike shop, here I come, Benny thought half an hour later as he cruised along in his rent-a-wreck, blue Hawaiian shirt sleeves flapping in the breeze from the open window, singing with the radio. When the weather report came on, Benny reached to turn up the sound.

“…Hurricane watch is in effect through tomorrow night for the Northeast US and Eastern Canada. The storm is one of unprecedented magnitude, which developed against all expectations in the Arctic over only a few hours’ time.”

Whoa, sounds bad for Jack up there in Vinland. Good thing I’ve got nothing on the fire for tomorrow. And storms of suspicious origin would fit right in with the theme of his new book. Benny stopped to make a phone call. He left the phone booth with a big grin on his face. Okay, on to psychic Rochester!

* * * * * * * *

That night, after a most enlightening day among sprockets and rims, he parked the car at the Holiday Inn and scampered up the stairs to Serena’s floor.

The psychic fair had ended and Harald and Serena had just closed up when Benny intercepted them in the hotel hallway. “Hey, Serena, pack up your runes. We’re off to Newfoundland.” He turned to the catatonic Norseman. “Here ya go, Harald, it’s all set up.” He handed the Sage of Norway a telegram from his agent saying that his itinerary had been changed and he was scheduled to make an appearance at St. John’s, Newfoundland, in two days. “We leave tomorrow,” Benny told him.

Melancholy Harald took the news quite well, as far as anyone could tell. “Ya sure,” he said.

In their room, Serena started throwing clothes into her suitcase. “How did you do that so fast?”

“Piece of cake, Babe. I called my editor this morning and said I had the story of the century waiting for me up in Canada and I’d need you and Harald. He sent a release to Hank, on the paper up in St. John’s, that Harald was coming to do a local appearance. Of course he didn’t say anything about who was sponsoring the show, and by the time Hank noticed that, the story had gone to press. He has to make it come true, or the Register prints what I know about his Bigfoot photo last year. I even know who gave him the bear suit.”

* * * *

The diggers didn’t who up the next day, because it was still raining hard. Jonathan spent the daylight hours cleaning and measuring the skull. It was a delicate task, for earth had accumulated inside and clung to the fragile bones. Jonathan made careful notes as he worked, and saved the dirt in a bucket by the table.

The trailer, haven though it had seemed last night, lacked space, and Jonathan grew restless. He looked outside. Rain still poured. His work tent was a sodden mass of muddy canvas, and the hole where the skeleton had lain was filled with water. Drat!

He realized about sunset that he was hungry. Lacking electricity, he had not brought a refrigerator, so there was nothing to eat but canned stuff. Chef Boyardee may have been to blame for the dream he had that night. Or maybe not.

The woman with the long braids was walking around inside the excavation again, except that her feet weren’t visible. It was as if she were walking on a floor lower than the present ground level. She searched for something on an unseen shelf, scrutinized an invisible item as she held it up before her, exactly as Jonathan’s mother used to check for holes in the clothes she folded. She appeared to be gathering an assortment of objects together into a bundle. This seemed rather touching to Jonathan, an unguarded glimpse into someone’s home. Someone nine hundred years dead, packing for an unfinished journey.

Then she looked up, suddenly, as if frightened. She backed into a corner and stood defiantly, swinging something in both hands as if attempting to ward off an attacker. She struggled with someone Jonathan could not see. The fight was brief. She fell to the ground and faded out of sight.

Jonathan got up feeling very disoriented, cold and hungry again. He opened a couple more cans, and tried to ignore the taste. How the mighty have fallen, he thought. From dinners at Rosalind’s favorite French restaurant to canned soup and stale bread in the trailer. On the counter sat a jar of blueberry preserves, a parting gift from Professor Moorhouse. Jonathan ignored it, trying to forget about his trip with Benedek to Blueberry, Wisconsin, and the puzzling events he had witnessed there.

* * * *

Benny, Serena and Harald were on the road by now. He took the first shift driving, and got them well into Canada before Serena took over. Harald stared out the window with his usual faraway expression. The storm showed no signs of letting up, and the trio were glad to find a motel for the night. They steered Harald to the dining room and then to his room.

“I wonder if he sleeps in his clothes?” Benny asked Serena, when they were alone.

She giggled, “Maybe a Valkyrie comes in and takes care of him. He’s always neat as a pin.”

“Maybe he doesn’t even sleep,:” Benny speculated. “It doesn’t look like he ever wakes up.”

But in the morning, they steered Harald to the driver’s door of the car. “Follow the signs,” Benny said.

Harald gave him a reproachful look. He got in, but did not turn the key in the ignition.

Benny got in on the passenger side. “Harald, they’re paying you in advance for the gig at St. John’s, you know.”

Harald folded his arms and stared into the distance with Nordic dignity.

Serena, in the back seat, twisted her ring.

Harald’s eyes opened another millimeter, still staring straight ahead, and one corner of his mouth twitched just perceptibly. He sighed and started the car.

* * * *

Morning came, still dark and rainy, and Jonathan, who had slept badly again after a day of inactivity with the books he had brought, needed some exercise. Besides, he needed to get out of the trailer. Accustomed as he was to old bones, the skull was beginning to get on his nerves. Whenever he looked at it, he saw the woman in the dream.

What he missed most, he decided, was conversation. It would be good to confide his dream to Benedek over whoppers and fries. Benny would say something utterly preposterous like, “Chill out, Jon. It’s only a ghost, re-enacting her past life.” But at least he would listen.

The rain was still falling, but the wind had died down. He bagged up the empty cans from the trailer and carried them outside, thinking about kitchen middens and the archeology of the future. He lined up the cans on a makeshift platform of equipment crates over by the work tent, and picked up a handful of pebbles from between grass clumps.

He didn’t seethe two figures walking up the road toward the trailer.

Jonathan swung his arm, warming up. Then he let a pebble fly at the cans. Missed! He tried again. Bong! Chef Boyardee went down. That was more like it. He flung another pebble. Ping! Orange juice fell. Bing! Bonk! Two more hits.

“Whoa, decent, Jack!” said a familiar voice behind him.

Jonathan turned around, incredulous. “Benedek! Where did you come from?”

“Out of the blue,” Benny grinned. “Serena and I heard you were up here getting stormed and we thought we’d join you. Did the last half-mile on foot, too. The road’s washed out, over that hill. He pointed into the hazy distance.

“Serena?”

“Yeah, remember her? We met back in the twelfth century, but we were incorporeal at the time and I didn’t get a chance to properly introduce you. She’s in the trailer. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

Jonathan thought it over for a minute. Benedek’s friends were often peculiar, but rarely dangerous. ‘No, of course not.”

Benny watched Jonathan’s face as he asked, “Where’s Ros?”

Jonathan flung another pebble. A soup can fell.

“Couldn’t get the time off, I bet. Well, I know how it goes.” The journalist picked up a few pebble and shot one, neatly twanging another can to the ground.

Rage was in Jonathan’s eyes as he turned around. He saw real understanding on Benny’s face, though, and he said nothing until four more cans had fallen. Then he temporized. “She has allergies.”

Benny nodded, decking one more can. “She didn’t strike me as a country girl.”

Jonathan sighed. “Would you like some tea?”

A young woman with dangling earrings bigger than her ears, and black hair in slightly wilted spikes was sitting at the table in Jonathan’s trailer, holding the skull. She jingled as she turned to see them, activating tiers of tiny bells on the earrings. Her pink-fringed sleeves swept the table top, her hands were clad in fingerless lace mitts, and the scent of patchouli drifted from somewhere in her chiffon draperies and three-layered multi-colored skirts. “This thing is loaded with psychic energy, Benny,” she said, staring at the skull. “Oh, hi, Sweetie!” She gave Jonathan a dazzling smile. “Love your little nest here.”

The trailer was dingy and cold. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink and laundry was crammed into a bathroom corner. Rain had seeped in around the door and the floor was wet and muddy. Jonathan’s bunk was cluttered with sweatsuit, books and sleeping bag and the spare bunk was stacked with more books. But Serena had lit the lantern, and put the kettle on. The presence of friendly humans, complete with difficult questions and outrageous clothes, was comforting to Jonathan. The made life seem more normal.

“How long has it been raining like this?” Benny asked.

“I’ve lost count,” Jonathan answered, making the tea. “The first night was incredible.”

Benny went to the window, squinted at the sky. “What a revoltin’ development.” He flung open the window. “Hey, out there! Enough already with the water!”

Something began to rattle on the roof, louder and louder, and in a moment they realized that the trailer was being pelted with pebbles, like the ones Jonathan and Benny had used for target practice. “See?” Benny shouted to Serena over the din. “I told you it was no ordinary rain. What a chapter for my book! Charles Fort should be around to see this.” He went back to the window. “How about fish?” he called. “Can you do fish? No tuna, please.”

He had hardly finished speaking when he was smacked in the face by a wet, flopping flounder. The fish bounced off Benny and flopped on the floor a few times, then expired.

In the sudden silence, Jonathan realized that it had stopped raining anything at all. He stared in disbelief.

Benny busily splashed water from the tap onto his face, and groped for the paper towels.

Serena smiled affably as Jonathan’s inquiring gaze landed on her. “She was just trying to get your attention.”

Jonathan frowned. “Who was trying to get my attention?”

Benny’s girlfriend nodded toward the skull. “The previous tenant.”

“Serena,” Jonathan explained with exaggerated patience, “that skull is anthropological evidence. It is not a rainmaking device, and it is certainly not inhabited.”

Benny stood at the sink cleaning the fish. “I wouldn’t be too sure. Who broke the trailer door, huh?”

Jonathan stared at the journalist, incredulous. “How could you know about that?”

“Elementary, my dear Doctor. They couldn’t rent this trailer with a broken door latch, so it must have happened here. Now, you, you’re a little bit…accident prone. But you wouldn’t deliberately vandalize your own home. Somebody did, and this doesn’t look like a street gang neighborhood. So… who done it?” He pointed with the fish head at the skull.

Jonathan fumed, not wanting to agree, although he felt against all reason that Benny just could be right.

Serena was examining the Polaroid snapshots of the stakes arranged on the hillside that mysterious morning. Twisting her ring, she asked sweetly, “Do you know what these are, Doc?”

Jonathan looked over her shoulder. “Runes, aren’t they?” Here at least was something tangible to discuss, despite their incredible origin, and he was grateful to her for changing the subject. “But they all look like little pine trees to me. I can’t read them. Can you, Serena?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, shaking her spikes. “They’re runes, O.K. The marks of the old Norse gods.”

Jonathan gaped. That was the last straw. No more pretending that everything was fine and the apparition and the storm and the stuck door were all coincidental. Although he hated to admit that the paranormal had arrived on his doorstep, he told them about his experiences. “…and these are the patterns she made with my stakes.”

“She was sayin’ her prayers!” Benny exclaimed.

“Prayers?” Jonathan asked, perplexed.

“Well,” Serena pointed to one of the pictures, “there’s a sign for danger here too. I bet she was warning you off this dig.”

“Then they made the storm come up,” Benny added.

“Oh, for pity’s sake, storms occur naturally all the time. And as for gods – what happened to justice and mercy and all that?”

Serena lifted an eyebrow. “Right chapter, wrong church, Doc. Thor and them aren’t into human rights; they rule by fear.”

Jonathan thought of the rush of anxiety he had felt when the storm had wrenched the skull from its resting place, threatening to leave him without the valuable remains he had just unearthed. “Hmm. They probably scared her, too. I JUST saved her skull from falling off the sea-cliff! You’d think she’d be grateful, really.”

But then, women were sometimes ungrateful.

Benny turned from the gas burner, frying pan in hand. “Let’s eat, and then Serena can try to contact the ghost.”

The flounder was delicious, but Jonathan had his without the blueberry preserves.

                                     ****

After lunch, Serena took the skull in both hands and began to talk to it. “Hiya Sweetie, how’s death been treatin’ ya?”

She paused, as if listening.

“Uh-huh. Man, I bet you were glad to get out of there.”

Another long pause.

Jonathan picked up the now-full and fishy garbage bag and took it outside. He didn’t want to watch Serena’s performance. Part of him still denied the existence of ghosts, yet there was something chilling about that skull. The air was still muggy, but warming. He decided to check on the car. It seemed futile to close the window, as there was no way of drying out the inside first. He got in and tried to start the engine. As he had thought, there was no life in it. The spark plugs must be wet.

He got out and raised the hood. Everything was soaked. Now that the rain had stopped, perhaps the wind would help to dry it out. He felt as if everything were going against him.

“Hey, Jon-Boy, you all right?” He had been followed.

“Now, look, Benedek, it was very kind of both of you to come up here to see me. But there’s no need for all this play-acting!”

“Whaddya mean, play-acting? Serena’s onto something, and I think it deserves to be followed up. If you’ve raised a restless spirit we’ve gotta come to terms here or your project’s gonna be cursed from start to finish. Like all those Indiana Jones types in Egypt, remember?”

Jonathan was thoroughly annoyed now. “Oh, really, Benedek! Your innocence is as profound as it is false!”

“And your mind is jammed shut, just like that trailer door!”

They faced each other, anger rising.

Then Benny got a thoughtful look. “Hey, wait a minute. This isn't you and me, Jonny, somebody’s playin’ the old game with us.”

“Game?”

“Yeah, the big kids used to play it with the little kids back at P.S. 48 It’s called Let’s You and Him Fight.”

“Someday, Benedek, you will say something that makes sense. Then I will listen, but for now…”

“Hey, we’re acting like two dogs after the same bone, and five’ll get ya ten that we don’t have PMS. Can’t you tell somebody’s starting trouble between us?” Benny pointed to the sky.

‘Yes, your girlfriend! Oh, she’s very…talented,” he smiled, thinking what a vision Serena made amid the chaos of the trailer, gorgeous in pink fringe and lace. “And I am happy for you, but this is just not reasonable, talking to a skull.” In his mind, he heard his own voice calling, “Stop! You’ll fall down the cliff!” as he ran after the skull. He scowled uneasily at the memory.

Benny seemed to read his mind. “She tried to get away, didn’t she?”

“Who?” asked Jonathan, stubbornly playing dumb.

Benny waved his hand, dismissing the question. “She tried to get to the sea, and that was when the storm really broke loose, wasn’t it?”

Jonathan nodded, all rationality defeated.

“Well, don’t you see,” Benny went on, “the gods want her to stay! They’ve been using her to occupy their turf. Now they think you’re gonna take her away, so they’re on your case! They’re the ones who are punishing you. The runes were a warning, ‘cause she’s on your side. She wants you to help her get free.”

“How? What do you mean?”

“Come on, we need Serena.” Benny seized Jonathan by the arm and dragged him back toward the trailer.

Serena was standing in the doorway with a big smile. “Beret told me all about it.”

“Who?” asked Jonathan.

“Beret Olafsdottir.” She nodded toward the skull. “We had a nice talk.”

“What did she tell you?” Benny asked as they sat again at the table.

“She was here when the Vikings fled from the Skreylings. That’s what they called the natives here. See, her father thought she went in her husband’s boat, and her husband thought she went in her father’s boat, and actually,” Serena paused for breath, “she got left behind and the Skreylings killed her.”

Jonathan jumped up and began pacing. “I saw it happen,” he whispered. How had Serena known? He felt his neck hairs rise.

“No kiddin’? Well, she wants to go join her husband across the sea. But she doesn’t know where they went.”

“They went to Greenland, every anthropology student know that.” Jonathan tapped a book on Norse explorations which lay on the bunk.

“Well, then, all we gotta do is dig up the rest of her and pack her off to Greenland.” Serena grinned in triumph.

“The Canadian government would never stand for that. And what about my dig, and the book I mean to write about is?” Jonathan reminded her. “This is a year out of my life, my first major work on my own since my doctoral project!”

“It’ll be all right,” Serena soothed, stroking her ring, and in spite of himself, Jonathan felt that it would. He picked up the book about the Vikings.

“Tell ya what,” Benny addressed the skull. “The gods love a gamble. Let’s roll for your freedom!” He looked at the ceiling. “Odds she stays, evens she goes.” He winked at Serena.

“Hey, Sweetie,” Serena protested, “this is serious.”

Benny looked mildly insulted. “Please,” he held up a hand dismissively, “I’m a pseudoscientist.”

Jonathan frowned cynically and buried his nose in his book.

Benny produced a pair of dice from his pocket and rattled them with glee. “Come on, come on, Beret needs a ride!” and he threw the dice onto the table. One die bounced into the fire under the teakettle and was quickly reduced to an anonymous lump. The other came up an ace.

“See whatcha done?” Serena squealed.

Benny was amazed. “Those were my sure-shot, snake-eyes every-time loaded dice! How did they do that?”

“Doctor Linquist says,” Jonathan looked over his glasses at Benedek, a gesture he had learned from Professor Moorhouse, “that the Norse god Loki is also known as the Trickster. He often gave his victims what looked like an advantage, then trapped them by their overconfidence.”

Benny spoke again to the ceiling. “Loki here, don’t be Thor at me!”

Even Serena groaned.

* * * *

“Whoa, Jon, do you see what I see?” Benny sang out excitedly, pointing to a stone which had been partially revealed by the receding water. Jonathan had hoped Benedek would sleep in late on the trailer floor, but no such luck.

Squinting in the sunlight, Jonathan bent over the pit and looked.

Benny jumped in. “Hey, Jack-be-nimble, come here and look at this!”

‘Benedek, you’re crazy! That’s not safe in there!”

“No sweat, Jon-Boy. Yeah, these marks look the same…Whew! Man, does it stink down here! This mud smells awful!”

“Yes, and it’s not very solid either. You really shouldn’t be down there; the sides of the pit are weak and could cave in on you, if you disturb the ground.”

“But look, Doctor Jon, this is fascinating! As near as I can tell, the carvings on the stone are the same as Beret’s runes on the hillside.” Benny fanned his face with one hand, grimacing against the foul odor of the mud.

Jonathan squinted at the runes. “They all look alike to me.”

“The smell’s making me dizzy.” Benny sat down in the mud, one hand on his head. “Oh man, I haven’t felt like this since the alligator wrestling contest in –“ His voice trailed off as he passed out.

Jonathan stepped cautiously over to him. “Benedek! Wake up! What’s wrong?” He checked Benedek’s forehead temperature. “He’s feverish. George, here, help me get him out of this pit.”

George and Tim both came running, and soon the three of them had Benny out of the pit. Jonathan was gasping from the mud smell, too, but didn’t stay in the pit long enough to collapse as Benedek had done.

“What stinks?” George asked.

“I don’t know,” Jonathan replied. “Could be trapped gas, seeping up through the mud. Or some kind of germs that have been buried till now. Tell you what, let’s put him in the trailer and let him rest a while.”

“If we can get your car started,” Tim offered, “I could go with you to take him as far as the washout. Then take him to the hospital in my jeep.”

Jonathan considered. “My car is doubtful. Here are my keys; why don’t you give it a try. Either way, I’d be grateful if you’d get to your jeep and call on your CB for medical advice.”

“I’ll go with you, once we’ve got him inside.” George pointed back at the pit. “I’ve had enough of that smell.”

In the trailer, Serena sat beside Benny, wiping his face and holding his hand as he lay on the spare bunk. He looked very pale. “Wake up, honey!” she said uncertainly. “Come on, it’s okay to wake up now.” She touched his temples, the way she always did for healings. She felt the warmth flow through her hands, but this time it wasn’t absorbed by the patient.

Benny didn’t wake up. He lay very still, breathing shallowly.

Serena bit her lip. Her eyes were full of tears. “I can’t wake him up.”

Jonathan sat down facing her. He wondered if Benny could have had a stroke. That wouldn’t explain the fever, though, and neither would the weather; it was cool again today. “If he doesn’t wake up soon we’ll have to get him to a hospital.”

A tear fell from Serena’s thick lashes onto the sheet.

“Serena?” Jonathan watched her face. “You really care for him, don’t you?”

“I do. I love him, Doc.”

Jonathan took her hands in his. “We’ll take good care of him. Tim will find out what to do.”

“It won’t help,” Serena pleaded. “It’s not natural. The gods did this to him.” She began to cry quietly.

“Serena, you don’t have to rely on folklore and drama. There’s modern medical help only a short drive away. I’m sure –“

“You don’t understand! Haven’t you seen enough, Doc? The gods are mad at Benny now and all the science in the world won’t work against them.” She pulled away from Jonathan and returned to wiping Benny’s face.

Jonathan wondered. Maybe there was something in what she said. An awful lot of weird things had been happening. Even if it was all due to suggestion, he could offer something of the same kind in opposition.

He went outside and gazed down into the wet pit, at the runestone and Beret’s tumbled bones, a stone spearhead still lodged between her neck vertebrae. “Some gods,” he muttered. “To use people like this, people who only wanted to learn about you. Well, I don’t want to know any more. You can have your runes and your old stone walls. I’ve waited years for a dig like this.” He shook his fist at the sky. “But in just a few days I’ve had enough of you. I want no part of it if someone has to die.”

Professor Moorhouse would never forgive him if he gave up. Was there a way out of this, a bargain that could be struck?

“I won’t come between you and your priestess, or whatever she is,” Jonathan offered. “It’s not my quarrel. Just leave Benedek alone. He didn’t mean any harm. He’s impulsive, that’s all.” The most incredible thing of all is that I really am standing here, talking to someone who’s probably not even there, making excuses for him.

Inspiration struck, and Jonathan’s tone became more aggressive. “If you kill Edgar Benedek, I’ll make this spot a memorial to him, just the way he would have designed it. I’ll turn your colony into a tourist trap with fat men in tuques selling junk food and beer, and little plastic runestones and plastic Viking helmets and COMIC BOOKS ABOUT YOU!” He stared upward, awaiting a response.

Although nothing in the sky responded, Jonathan felt better for having made his statement. He began to feel the cold, too, and walked back to the trailer, head high.

Serena’s head was bowed over Benny’s unconscious form. ‘Please get well, Benny. I love you,” she whispered.

As Jonathan paused by the bed, Benny took a deeper breath and began to talk in his sleep. “Story of the century, Babe! Prof’s Project Wrecked by Runes – Viking Vision Visits Vengeance. I love it. But what about Jack? And Beret…” He sighed, and settled into normal, lightly snoring slumber.

Serena touched his face, and it was no longer hot. “He’s all right,” she beamed. “The gods musta liked your style, Doc.”

“I’m sorry I can’t return their compliment. But I had to agree to leave Beret and the dig.”

Serena blinked, shocked. “Leave your dig? Benny said it was really important to you.”

“Not as important as a human life.”

Serena chewed a fingernail, thinking. “I think we can make everybody happy. Let me talk to Beret again.” She held up the skull in both hands. “Listen, Sweetie, I think I got a deal for ya.”

Jonathan stared out the window. The sun shone on the wide natural meadow; the mud in the pit gleamed. The runestone was rapidly drying, its mysterious markings becoming indistinct at this distance. He must get some photographs, perhaps some castings, before he left for Georgetown.

“Spooked Spokes Speak Spanish,” Benny announced, as his eyes popped open. “No ghosts, no ET’s. It was the new helper in the bike shop, a Puerto Rican art student, exercising his creativity. He sold his first sculpture to a college in Rochester for enough to invest in the business as an equal partner, how about that?” He seemed to notice Jonathan’s inquisitive look. “Is it morning already?”

“Benedek, you’ve recovered!” Jonathan gripped his friend’s shoulder.

“Recovered from what? Whoa, I don’t remember a thing, not since I started thinking that you need a real expert to help you study that runestone.”

“I certainly don’t need any amateur enthusiasts climbing around in my dig! You got very sick from something in the mud. Don’t you remember?” Jonathan realized he was trying to explain away the gods’ putative influence.

“Not a whole lot. Hey, can I get some coffee? I’m still kinda sleepy.”

“Tea is all I have.”

“Fine, that’s fine.” Benny turned to Serena. “Were you talking to me while I was asleep?”

“Yeah.” She searched his eyes. “I said, ‘I love you.’”

Benny brightened. “Oh wow, I’d like to hear that again. A lot more.”

She hugged him. “You will, don’t worry. But, listen, I just talked to Beret again. We figured out a way how she and Doc and the gods can all get what they want.”

“How?” Jonathan asked. He had politely ignored their private conversation, but this was about his project. Was there a way to salvage it, without inviting any more disasters? The tea was quickly ready and he poured three cups.

Benny reluctantly detached himself from Serena, who seemed oblivious to the mud all over her clothes. They sat down with Jonathan at the table.

“Well,” Serena explained, “I told her it would be impossible to find her husband and would she settle for a distant relative to keep her company, and she said she would if he’d come here, because she’s havin’ a little trouble getting’ herself together right now.”

“A relative?” Jonathan asked, offering sugar.

Benny chuckled. “Mr. Gloom-and-Doom, leader of the innocent to rune, just the man you need to help you with this project, Jack! You can put him on the Institute payroll and your troubles with the gods and the ghost will be over.” He kissed Serena’s forehead, carefully avoiding her spiked hair. “You picked a winner again, Babe. He’ll be just Beret’s type. She’ll stay happy and keep the gods happy and that will keep J-J happy.” He turned to Jonathan. “And he can read the runes for ya, too.”

“Who?” Jonathan asked, for the third time that day, very suspicious now.

“My boss.” Serena twinkled. “Harald Olafsson. You’ll get used to him.”

Jonathan winced as he remembered the gloomy Norwegian from his misadventures at that bizarre party last year. “I doubt that.”

Benny stirred blueberry preserves into his tea. “Well, Jack, you’ll just have to grin and Beret.”