Kissing Carrion

(Ick.)

Another damn zealot out of the same half-cracked mold, anyway—pure white, not too bright, up all night every night stockpiling weapons and updating websites in the service of the holy Cause. Same philosophy I was supposed to share just because an accident of genetics left me looking like the RaHoWa’s unofficial gay pin-up; same not-so-underground “culture” I now spend my days lecturing against, at colleges and universities from Vancouver to Florida.

The University of Toronto’s more than a bit off my beaten track, going by these established standards—a bit too close to my former home for comfort, all told. But it had been a long time, and I was invited, and so I came: Back to Toronto. Back to where Karl and I first rubbed up against each other.

And now . . .

. . . now, I don’t get much time to consider whether or not this may have been a mistake before the kid brings his fist up towards me, held at an awkward angle—and I feel my lips peel back, automatic front-or-flight reflex kicking in hard; get a sudden, giddy rush/flash of (gun), (no time), (screw it, screw him, just stand there and take it like a man, you dumb fucking faggot . . . )

Because: You always knew this day would come, now, didn’t you? In your heart of hearts. Or somewhere considerably—

(lower down)

As it turns out, however, all the kid has to offer is his palm, salmon-belly soft and city-bred callus-less—his palm, plus a dull brass key, half caught in the crease of his life-line.

“Brother Speller . . . ” He begins. And I think:

(Oh, be fucking serious.)

Flushing bright, temper flaring—snapping back at the very sound of that long-lost title, sharper than I need to, fear sliding fast into half-embarrassed anger:

“My name is Hengist, little boy. Okay? And I am not your ‘brother’.”

Because, sure, Karl might have pushed me into that fucked-up ritual acknowledgment of his—hand-fasting ‘round the fire, calling me his “shield-brother” in front of the whole camp and daring anybody else to say different. And sure, I might have gone along, like I went along with most of Karl’s suggestions—

(—to a point, anyway.)

But: Doesn’t mean we were ever married, him and me. Doesn’t mean I took his name like some housewife from the fucking ‘burbs, or anything . . .

The kid’s eyes stay steady, under those blond brows—eyes pale as Karl’s, brows almost-white as Karl’s. Karl’s chosen spawn, staring calm at Karl’s chosen . . . what?

Mate? Friend?

(fuck—)

—Buddy?

“Brother Speller,” the kid repeats, calm enough to lull and freeze—a cheap postpube imitation of Karl’s manly Fuhrer rasp, Novocaine-sting over sandpaper-rub— “. . . left us this. And he told us it was for you. Mister Hengist.”

* * *

When I turn my forearm over and look down, exposing the smooth inner flesh, I can still see Berkana—the bear-rune—imprinted just where the skin is thinnest: The slightly raised, black outline of two sidelong triangles on a stick, a Nazi letter “B.” Comes complete with a sense-memory of it going on, faint buzz and hot metal stink as Karl held my arm out to the tattoo artist’s gun, fisting my reluctant hand hard. Like he was helping a fellow soldier face down some battlefield surgeon—to stay brave while his bullet-wounds were packed with gunpowder and set alight, in tiny explosions of righteously-earned pain.

And speaking of pain, I remember that, too. Like getting stung by a bee, only worse. Longer. More intense.

But then, that was Karl for you: Pure intensity, constantly moving back and forth between himself and everything he touched. Including—

(me)

It’s a complex rune, Berkana—one of twenty-four, hallucinated from fallen willow-twigs by the great over-God Odin while he hung nine days and nights on the World-Tree Yggdrasil, a sacrifice, himself to himself. The Futhark alphabet, Viking wisdom reduced to sketchy little bite-sized chunks, each one a mess of contradictory implications. So scratch ’em into stones, throw ’em down on a scraped-out hide, read the results and draw your own conclusions . . . and if you don’t like the way your future seems to be turning out, so what? You can always cut yourself a handy mouthful of foxglove variant—belladonna, lady’s mantle, laurel leaves, whatever—chew on it awhile, and make up something better.

Berkana’s direction is the east: Spadina, Mimico, cottage country. Its bird is the swan, its color blue (like Karl’s icy eyes, or my own), its tree the beech. It’s the rune of birth, of creativity—children, or new ideas. A marriage—

(or remarriage)

—in the offing.

And even now, after I’ve had every other trace of that crazy man I once thought I loved lasered from my body . . . a demure swastika on either hip, palm-sized, like handles; an elaborate iron cross above my heart; Karl’s name like a half-collar across the back of my neck, where the first big visible knob of the vertebrae nests, so he could read it aloud while he plowed into me from behind . . . I still force myself to look at Berkana every day. The bear-rune. The sign of Karl’s chosen totem. The ancient, meaningless symbol that bound us together, then tore us apart.