Winter of My Soul

Drifting through the Void, with starlight radiating in every direction, a fragment of the mind took note of fleeting thoughts. Soon, a subtle urgency emerged … a calling to create something new. An uneasy anxiety hovered at the edge of perception, refusing to be ignored. Drawing this distress into full consciousness, concept struck that emotions are aroused by thoughts. The observer asked itself, What thought is stirring this emotion? Then, a memory of fire ignited a recollection that unleashed anxiety. Why does this fire unsettle me? it inquired. Fire had been a benevolent force, a giver of light, warmth, and life. However, this was no ordinary flame; it was an out of control, all-consuming fire, a force that devoured without mercy. It was not good. It destroyed the dream, the observer reflected. In that moment, the memory of fire unfurled into a tumultuous history … a disjointed cascade of sensory impressions. There was a clamor of voices and flashes of light. Horses neighed and galloped in sheer terror. Men, clad in animal hides and smeared in red ochre, swung bloodied clubs and hurled spears. In a haunting vision, a child was torn apart; its abdomen cleaved open, releasing a torrent of red blood. Battle-lust surged through every fiber as violence reigned. A searing pain sliced through knees, and a crushing blow to the head numbed the senses and nearly plunged everything into darkness. The acrid stench of smoke grew stronger, and the burning timbers of a collapsing longhouse scorched the flesh it fell across. Fire was everywhere, devouring all in its path. As the vision spiraled, the body twisted under its influence until consciousness was overwhelmed by darkness, drawing it back into the empty Void. Chapter 4: Again, awareness of itself floating in the Void stirred within him. Slowly, memories began to return; memories laced with terror and searing pain … only to be swallowed again by the endless black. The cycle repeated, the awful recollections alternating with the merciful emptiness, until through relentless repetition the pain faded enough to be endured and consciousness could hold on. In that gradual quiet, gentler, happier memories emerged and mingled with the shocking ones. An entire lifetime marched across his awareness. He remembered the overwhelming pain and confusion of birth, the tender warmth of his mother’s milk as it nourished his first cries, and the steadfast strength of his father’s arms lifting him in homage to the Gods. He recalled the thrill of learning … clumsily grasping objects, then taking unsteady steps that evolved into running, playing, and laughing with other children. Triumphs in youthful competitions and the echo of parental praise, punctuated by the soothing comfort of their embrace whenever he faltered, played like a bittersweet melody in his mind. A surge of sexual energy accompanied the recollection of first love … a heady, passionate rush … and then the fierce pride he had felt at the birth of his son, when he held the child aloft in thanksgiving to the Gods. Yet among these joyful recollections were also the full spectrum of his dealings with others: the honesty he cherished countered by the lies he’d told, the moments of integrity shadowed by times he had cheated and deceived. As a Norseman, he’d sometimes rampaged as a Viking crewman on fearsome longships, unsparingly taking lives in battle, seizing thralls to sell. Once, he had reveled in a warrior’s pride. Now, that pride was long since a hollow echo. But one memory cut deeper than all the rest: the horrible death of Leif, his son, torn away in a raid that razed his village in Vineland and heralded his own demise in a consuming fire. He recalled, with raw, unyielding anguish, that even as the flames took everything, his wife, Garda, had watched over Leif in silent grief. Suspended in the timeless Void, where minutes, hours, and lifetimes dissolved into nothing, he was forced to relive every fragment of his existence. Facing the countless moments in which he had wounded others with harsh words or deceit, stirred a pain unlike any other. The devastation of all he had cared for, particularly the loss of his infant son, bore a mental anguish that defied comfort. And yet, amid this torturous reexamination, the mystery of his own survival from the deadly conflagration confounded him … the impossible escape from the fire gnawed at his understanding. Eventually, his focus shifted outward. He became aware that nothing supported his body; he floated, suspended and directionless, unable to discern up from down in the consistency of the Void. A sudden, primal fear welled up as he longed for solid ground beneath his feet. In that instant, as if in answer to his unspoken prayer, a gentle, reassuring pressure rose from below. He glanced downward and saw a dense fog swirling around his legs, concealing both his feet and whatever surface supported him. Curiosity mixed with unease as he wondered aloud, ‘I am alive, yet I remember my death. Has Ragnarök come? Is this the fabled life that follows death? Is this my fate for all eternity? His whispered questions echoed into the emptiness until a deep, resonant male voice answered, “We are never truly alone. Only ask, and all will be revealed to you.” A rush of elation softened his fear. Though shrouded in darkness, he now sensed that he was not isolated after all. Summoning his remaining composure, he declared firmly into the Void, “Then I ask. Where am I? Show yourself!” In an instant, a man emerged; a figure clothed in a brilliant white linen toga that cascaded in neatly pleated folds, dissolving into the ankle-high fog. Vaguely familiar and strikingly handsome, the man radiated an inner light. With a benign smile, he announced, “You may not remember but you are Patrekur. This is the real world. You have just awakened from the dream we call Earth.”