The Memory Painter

Finn grew rigid as he stared into Conrad’s eyes. His grip tightened on Conrad’s neck, choking him. Conrad held his breath, refusing to cower.

Diana grabbed Finn’s arm. “Finn! Stop! He can’t breathe.”

Finn squeezed harder, ignoring Diana’s screams.

Michael sat up. “Finn! That’s enough! Let him go!”

Finn finally released him and Conrad bent over, wheezing.

“Are you okay?” Diana rushed over to Conrad.

Conrad backed away, looking at all of them with disgust. “I need a break from you people.” And he left.

Finn sat down again. “Sorry, I…” He hugged himself.

Diana went over and knelt beside him. “What is it? Talk to me.”

Finn started shaking and broke down. “He’s lying. The bastard’s lying.”

“What are you talking about?” Diana tried to get him to look at her, but he wouldn’t. “Please, tell me. What’s going on?”

“It’s all fucked up. I can’t … I’m sorry.” Finn got up and ran out of the room without another word.

Diana put her hand over her mouth, looking ready to cry herself. Michael reached out for her. He was still shaking from phantom hypothermia.

“You need a doctor,” she said.

“I’ll be fine.” His tone was final.

They stared at each other for a long moment. “What the hell is happening to us?” she whispered.

Michael couldn’t answer at first. “We’ll be okay,” he finally said, willing himself to believe it as he tried to reassure her. “I’m all right now.”

“And Finn?”

“Finn will be too,” he said, with more conviction than he felt. “We’re all just tired.”

“I’ve never seen him like that.”

“We’ll go see him in the morning.” He tried to stand, surprised at how weak he felt. He just wanted to go home and crawl into his bed and hold Diana in his arms. Losing her was still fresh in his mind.

*

Diana drove them home, understanding his need for silence. Michael kept his eyes closed the whole time. It took all his strength to get out of the car. His feet were lead weights as he climbed the stairs. Diana followed, her hand on his back for support. She unlocked the door for them and went inside.

Michael collapsed on the bed and listened to her as she brushed her teeth and got ready for bed.

“You know what’s most frustrating?” she said. “You’re being deluged with all of these memories, and so far I’ve remembered a Dutch woman who had babies and watched her husband paint all her life. The only thing I can do now is go to a convention in the Netherlands and not need a translator.”

She crawled under the covers. Michael pulled her into his arms. There were several things he hoped she never remembered, like being burned alive in ancient Rome or her life in feudal Japan. And he never, ever wanted her to remember Garnissa. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what her fate had been in Tarr’s hands.

He turned off the light and felt her relax against him.

“Can you tell me about them? Bjarni and Garnissa?”

Michael stared into the darkness, unsure of how much he should share. “Bjarni first saw her at this thing we called the ‘Great Assembly.’”

Michael caught himself slipping into first person and focused on trying to stay detached from Bjarni. Diana either didn’t notice or was too tired to comment.

He continued. “All the tradesmen would bring their eligible daughters to cook at their booths and show off their housekeeping skills. Garnissa was the best— Ouch.”

Diana pinched his side. Her eyes were still closed, but a smile was on her face. “Give me a break. The best cooker?”

“What? She was.”

“Okay, He-Man. Was she pretty?”

Michael thought about it. “Not by today’s standards.”

He grabbed her hand to stop her from pinching him again and chuckled. One thing Michael had begun to see with these memories was how beauty was not fixed, but always changing, determined by a trinity of time, place, and perception. “What I mean is that female Vikings were a bit more masculine.” He tried to imagine all the women in the village and struggled to accurately describe what he saw. “They had broader noses, smaller eyes—or perhaps they were just more inset—and their bodies had stronger builds. It was a different kind of beauty.”

“Okay, strong Viking women. Got it.”

Michael laughed. “Bjarni swore on seeing her that she would be his wife. Usually marriage was a business contract between families, but Bjarni had been struck by inn mátki munr.”

“Inn ma-what?” She yawned, tucking her hands under the covers.

“The mighty passion,” Michael said with a soft voice.

In response, Diana gave him a tender kiss where her head was resting, just below his neck.

“And so he worked toward securing a handsal, a formal agreement with her father. At the time, eight ounces of silver was the minimum bride-price. Bjarni paid double in gold, plus a horse, a cow, and swords for every brother—”