Winter 07

Lake Superior is nice this time of year. Calm, quiet, not like November when it turns gray and deadly. Not like January, either. In January the lake itself is dead. Nothing moves. Nothing breathes. You can stand on the shore and stare out towards Canada and imagine yourself trapped in the ice, desperate to get free, ready to rip your arms away from your body if only the lake will let you go. But in June it's nice.

We used to be Vikings, we used to be tall, vital warriors with hair the color of straining sunlight. We used to be the Lords of the Northlands, invading and burning and sacking and looting and killing as we pleased. We worshipped Odin. We worshipped Thor. We went to Valhalla when we died in glorious battles, our bodies sent along their way in longboats set ablaze and launched from shore, with loved ones watching until the smoke disappeared over the horizon.

After we were Vikings we were miners. We came to a new country and ripped apart the hills, invading and blasting and hacking and looting again. We were stern-faced men with shoulders the shape of the hills we tore apart. We worshipped copper and we worshipped ourselves. When we died we were buried instantly, and those who survived never looked back. It was bad luck.

My father was at Khe Sanh. He was a Marine. He won a medal. He never showed it to me. When you're older, he said. I'll show it to you when you're older.

After the mines closed, my father started hunting for our food. He would bring home fresh meat, sometimes venison, sometimes something more stringy, more gamey. I would ask him what it was, and he'd say it didn't matter. I'm providing for my family, he'd say, that's what matters. The businessmen won't pay me for my work,
the government won't pay me for my disability, but there's food on the table anyway. That's what matters. I asked him to take me with him, take me hunting. When you're older, he'd say. I'll take you when you're older.

The Vikings lived well. They did not starve. They took what they pleased and lived off the fat of the land, no matter whose land it was. They were rich and powerful, and theirs was a land of plenty.

When I could read, I read about our people, and I read about our Gods. Odin was the ruler of Asgard, the doomed home of all the Norse gods. It is said that he gouged out one of his own eyes in order to drink from the Well of Wisdom. He hung from a tree for nine days and nights in order to win the Knowledge of the Runes. He fought the
Frost Giants for the Skaldic Mead. He did this all for the benefit of his people, even when he knew that, in the end, it would all be for nothing.

The miners worked for their living, worked for their food, worked for the sake of working, worked because work was what men did. They tore open the earth and pillaged and plundered and took what was theirs. They grew fat and rich, and theirs was a land of plenty.

My father was at Khe Sanh. I used to call him Papasan, until someone told me that was Japanese, not Vietnamese. I didn't know either language, so I couldn't be sure. If I was wrong, my father never corrected me. There were times when he would hold me on his lap and tell me stories, tell me about what happened to him in the jungle, how he got the metal plate in his skull. I used to ask him to show it to me. He would point to his skull. I would see nothing. It's there, he'd say. It's there. I asked him if he could crush his empty beer cans against it. He always said no. He said that it could kill him. I kept asking.

Lake Superior is what I imagine the North Atlantic to be like. I've never been to the North Atlantic, though, so I
don't know. But I've heard stories, and I imagine it is like this. It truly comes alive only in November, when it is harsh, violent, deadly. It only comes alive when it has the power to kill.

Every winter there is a race, a cross-country ski race, south of here, in a town called Cable. It's called the Birkebeiner, named after a more famous race in Norway. I used to tell myself that I should win this race, I should enter, I should learn to ski and enter and win. I wouldn't even have to learn, it would come naturally, just strap a pair of skis to my feet and my blood will do the rest. But the Vikings didn't ski. The Lapps skied. And we aren't Lapps.

Frigga was the wife of Odin. She kept to herself. She knew everything and told nothing, not even to Odin, not even when it mattered most. She spent the entire day, every day, at her spinning wheel, spinning threads of gold, but never told anyone what they were for. When her son Balder died, she wept bitterly, and when Hermod failed to bring Balder back from the Land of the Dead, she never completely recovered.

My mother used to have a picture of a group of miners standing at the opening of a shaft. She told me that one of
the men standing in the picture was her grandfather, my great grandfather, but that she wasn't sure which one he was anymore. After the mines closed, she put the picture up in the front hallway so my father could see it every night when he came home from the bar. He took it down after she died.

I drop the match onto the shroud and watch the flame spread quickly. I see the smouldering spread over the outline of my father's body. I shove the boat with all the strength I have, the muscles in my arms straining, feeling like I want to tear them free just to survive. But when I have finished my work, I stand upright, my back straight,
my shoulders wide. I watch as the smoke disappears over the horizon.


	Roadkill By Will Curl

	Lake Superior is nice this time of year. Calm, quiet, not like November when it turns gray and deadly. Not like January, either. In January the lake itself is dead. Nothing moves. Nothing breathes. You can stand on the shore and stare out towards Canada and imagine yourself trapped in the ice, desperate to get free, ready to rip your arms away from your body if only the lake will let you go. But in June it's nice. # We used to be Vikings, we used to be tall, vital warriors with hair the color of straining sunlight. We used to be the Lords of the Northlands, invading and burning and sacking and looting and killing as we pleased. We worshipped Odin. We worshipped Thor. We went to Valhalla when we died in glorious battles, our bodies sent along their way in longboats set ablaze and launched from shore, with loved ones watching until the smoke disappeared over the horizon. # After we were Vikings we were miners. We came to a new country and ripped apart the hills, invading and blasting and hacking and looting again. We were stern-faced men with shoulders the shape of the hills we tore apart. We worshipped copper and we worshipped ourselves. When we died we were buried instantly, and those who survived never looked back. It was bad luck. # My father was at Khe Sanh. He was a Marine. He won a medal. He never showed it to me. When you're older, he said. I'll show it to you when you're older. # After the mines closed, my father started hunting for our food. He would bring home fresh meat, sometimes venison, sometimes something more stringy, more gamey. I would ask him what it was, and he'd say it didn't matter. I'm providing for my family, he'd say, that's what matters. The businessmen won't pay me for my work, the government won't pay me for my disability, but there's food on the table anyway. That's what matters. I asked him to take me with him, take me hunting. When you're older, he'd say. I'll take you when you're older. # The Vikings lived well. They did not starve. They took what they pleased and lived off the fat of the land, no matter whose land it was. They were rich and powerful, and theirs was a land of plenty. # When I could read, I read about our people, and I read about our Gods. Odin was the ruler of Asgard, the doomed home of all the Norse gods. It is said that he gouged out one of his own eyes in order to drink from the Well of Wisdom. He hung from a tree for nine days and nights in order to win the Knowledge of the Runes. He fought the Frost Giants for the Skaldic Mead. He did this all for the benefit of his people, even when he knew that, in the end, it would all be for nothing. # The miners worked for their living, worked for their food, worked for the sake of working, worked because work was what men did. They tore open the earth and pillaged and plundered and took what was theirs. They grew fat and rich, and theirs was a land of plenty. # My father was at Khe Sanh. I used to call him Papasan, until someone told me that was Japanese, not Vietnamese. I didn't know either language, so I couldn't be sure. If I was wrong, my father never corrected me. There were times when he would hold me on his lap and tell me stories, tell me about what happened to him in the jungle, how he got the metal plate in his skull. I used to ask him to show it to me. He would point to his skull. I would see nothing. It's there, he'd say. It's there. I asked him if he could crush his empty beer cans against it. He always said no. He said that it could kill him. I kept asking. # Lake Superior is what I imagine the North Atlantic to be like. I've never been to the North Atlantic, though, so I don't know. But I've heard stories, and I imagine it is like this. It truly comes alive only in November, when it is harsh, violent, deadly. It only comes alive when it has the power to kill. # Every winter there is a race, a cross-country ski race, south of here, in a town called Cable. It's called the Birkebeiner, named after a more famous race in Norway. I used to tell myself that I should win this race, I should enter, I should learn to ski and enter and win. I wouldn't even have to learn, it would come naturally, just strap a pair of skis to my feet and my blood will do the rest. But the Vikings didn't ski. The Lapps skied. And we aren't Lapps. # Frigga was the wife of Odin. She kept to herself. She knew everything and told nothing, not even to Odin, not even when it mattered most. She spent the entire day, every day, at her spinning wheel, spinning threads of gold, but never told anyone what they were for. When her son Balder died, she wept bitterly, and when Hermod failed to bring Balder back from the Land of the Dead, she never completely recovered. # My mother used to have a picture of a group of miners standing at the opening of a shaft. She told me that one of the men standing in the picture was her grandfather, my great grandfather, but that she wasn't sure which one he was anymore. After the mines closed, she put the picture up in the front hallway so my father could see it every night when he came home from the bar. He took it down after she died. # My mother always said my father was still fighting the war. That was what she said. I asked her why he was the way he was, why he did the things he did. I asked her why I couldn't go near him. She said he was still fighting the war. That's what she said. # I thought I knew which one of the miners was my great- grandfather. He was the one who scowled at me, who stared straight at me, who wouldn't let me go. He was stronger than I will ever be. He will always be stronger than I will ever be. His stare went right through me. I was glad my father got rid of the picture. # Balder was the favorite son of Odin and Frigga. He was beloved by everyone, and gave both gods and men hope for the future. When he died, Odin was grief-stricken, and Frigga simply went to pieces. When he died, all hope was lost. # My father came home one day and told us we weren't going to be eating as well as we had. He told us it was the government's fault, the government was trying to starve us, get us to move on somewhere else. I was mad, really mad, more mad than I knew I could be, wanted to hate the government as much as he did. Later I found out that what the government had done was to say that nobody could pick up roadkill from the side of the highway without a permit. # We aren't Vikings anymore. We're just Gundersons. We are stooped, expendable laborers, lords of nothing, invaded and burned and looted and pillaged. We worship God and Jesus Christ and Martin Luther. We go nowhere when we die. We have to be Vikings, though. We have to be. To be anything else is a lie. # Hermod was the second son of Odin and Frigga, and always seemed to be in Balder's shadow. When Balder died, Hermod went to Niflheim, the Realm of the Dead, to try to set him free. His quest failed, and all hope for Balder's release faded. Frigga was never able to look at Hermod quite the same way again. # My father was a Marine. He was never at Khe Sanh. Mr. Sekkula was at Khe Sanh and he said my father was never there. Mr. Sekkula showed me his own medal. He said my father spent his tour of duty at Bien Hoa. He took care of corpses. He tied tags on toes. Say that five times fast. # Lake Superior is never really alive. It is all an illusion, a myth. There are certain things that stir within it, giving it the appearance of life. It moves. It changes. It is dangerous. But anyone who believes it is truly alive is a fool. # Hermod wasn't even at the funeral. He was never able to load Balder into the longboat, never able to see the flames envelop the hero, never able to see the longboat off on its final voyage. # We were never really Vikings. It was a lie. We never invaded, never plundered, never sacked or looted or killed. We foraged and we scavenged. We lived off the scraps of others. # We were never really miners. It was a lie. We never tore copper from the guts of the hills. We foraged and we scavenged. We lived off the scraps of others. # I drop the match onto the shroud and watch the flame spread quickly. I see the smouldering spread over the outline of my father's body. I shove the boat with all the strength I have, the muscles in my arms straining, feeling like I want to tear them free just to survive. But when I have finished my work, I stand upright, my back straight, my shoulders wide. I watch as the smoke disappears over the horizon.

	Will Curl teaches English at the University of Wisconsin-Fox Valley. He's a past editor of Fox Cry Review and has fiction forthcoming in Hayden's Ferry Review. Other than that, he's not terribly exciting.