Web of the Norns

Grant was annoyed and cold. He couldn't see the connection between playing with the pet and starting the much needed fire. The lizard, finished with his dinner, began to curl up again and go back to sleep. Aker brought it close to the mound of splinters and squeezed its tail. The lizard gave him a protesting roll of its eyes and belched a small cloud of flame. Aker popped it back into its box and blew on the smouldering kindling.

Grant felt his mouth hanging open stupidly. In fairy tales he remembered mention of a creature something like this. The mythical lizard that lived on flame. "A salamander!" he murmured aloud.

"Yeah," Aker mumbled between blasts at the fire. "They come in real handy."

The snow had stopped and the wind had fallen at sunset. The fire roared and sizzled and threw back a warm glow from the rock wall Grant's stomach ground contentedly. He pulled a piece of gristle from between his teeth with a grimy forefinger, surprised he could actually be feeling so well. His body was exhausted, but he enjoyed the pleasure of relaxation after continued exertion. He took a long drag of sour wine from the musty animal-skin container.

He had the salamander box open and teased the little animal with a twig. The indignant lizard blew out a little cloud of red flame, but he jerked his fingers away in time. He fed it, some tender splinters to soothe its ruffled feelings. It chewed the wood contentedly and let a little trickle of smoke out of; its nostrils.

The tiny lizard symbolized all his troubles. By the laws of reality it couldn't exist. Neither could these strange people with their impossible customs, nor the Berl-Cat, nor the spelt that Aker had used on the arrow. Either he was insane and this world was all a part of his tortured mind; or, if he were sane, he had been transported here from his own world in some unthinkable manner. Wherever here was.

"Aker, what country is this?"

"Ter-Klosskrass, Independent Free State of the Tyrant Helbida, Na'tunland. What's the matter, you lost or something?"

"Something." Grant went back to tugging at the gristle between his teeth. The names meant nothing to him. The names—they weren't English, yet Aker spoke perfect English. Well, maybe not perfect — but crude English. This must be the key to the whole mess.

"Aker, how is it that you speak perfect Xtylporf… I mean Hiiopmert. ." Grant stopped and rubbed the sudden perspiration from his forehead. Aker looked up from his sword-sharpening operation, slightly startled,

"How come I speak what?"

Grant knew what he wanted to say; the concept was perfectly clear. The English language, tongue of our fathers, Shakespeare, literature courses at Columbia. The English language. He'd say it slowly this time. . ENGLISH!

"UZQINNP!"

"You better give me the wine skin. I think you need some sleep."

"No, no. Aker, you must listen! Haven't you ever heard of… my country? The capital city is Rtyydbx, I live in. ." Grant didn't say it, he didn't want to hear it. He knew he would say something horrible that didn't sound in the slightest like New York. He could visualize the ideas so clearly, but he didn't have the words to express himself.

Was it amnesia? Or was it, the thought struck him suddenly, that he was no longer speaking English?

"What language are we speaking?"

"Why, High Na'tunlish of course. Are you stupid — or trying to kid me that you don't know the name of your own language? I can tell you were born here — no accent like me." He gave his chest a thumping blow. "I'm pure Thin tribesman. Slave traders stole me when I was a boy. I killed them later and became a Free Soldier. That's when I first learned Na'tunlish, so I still got an accent. Not like you."

Grant O'Reilly knew he had not been born here. He was sure now that here was not even his own world. This must be another world altogether, separate from his own in time and space. He wasn't sure about the details — it had been a long time since he had read H. P. Lovecraft — but this theory seemed the most tenable.

It also explained the language difficulties — or lack of difficulty. He spoke the language of this world, or this part of the world. Sort of like turning a radio to a different station. Same tubes and parts, but a different frequency going in, so different words came out. It was as if he had been tuned out of his own world into this one. The words for English and New York did not exist here; only their abstract concepts existed in his brain. It was all very confusing.

The wine and the warmth of the fire were making his head heavy. He pulled what looked like a moth-eaten bearskin rug out of the pack and wrapped it around himself There was another question he wanted to ask. He raised his head and opened his eyes.

"Aker, who were those men in the forest?"