Web of the Norns

Except for an oversight. One raveled, loose end of his thread that hadn't been clipped off.

Looking past his skinny wrists he saw the sword on the ground, still wet with undried blood. Unbelievingly he bent and picked it up. Heavy and crude, the blade was nicked and dirty as well. Yet it was the most precious thing in the world to him.

It was the key to what had happened. As long as he looked at it he could remember the snow, the Good Duke, the Berl-Cats, the war — and Aker Amen. Bloody, frightening memories of a barbarian world now impossibly distant. But they were precious memories too.

"Granty — where are you dear? You must hurry."

His mother's shrill voice penetrated and brought him back with a start. He straightened up slowly and let the sword fall back to the ground. It had done its work, he was finished with it.

When he walked back into the church he seemed to be the same tall and skinny young man in the tight coat. Only his back was erect for the first time anyone there had ever noticed.

"— where have you been, don't you know it's time? I thought by now—" His mother's voice sounded like a phonograph record played backwards too fast, and made about as much sense.

"Oh, shut up," Grant growled. "And go and tell. Lucy I want to see her at once. It's important."

His mother's voice cut off in mid-gripe, and Herb Collomb's pipe dropped from his suddenly slack jaw and clattered to the floor.

After, three gasping tries, his mother managed to choke out her words.

"What's come over you? You're not well. You know you can't see Lucy before the ceremony, she's in her wedding gown—so it is impossible, the bride and groom never. ."

"I don't give a damn for your silly superstitions," Grant roared the words into his mother's face. "I said to get her in here — or should I do it myself?"

Grant's mother started to say something about blasphemy in church, but a single glance at his face sent her scuttling sideways like a crab, out of the room. Herb managed to retrieve his pipe and stuff it back into his mouth while Grant paced like a caged tiger.

Lucy steamed in, flushed with anger. "What do you mean by this, Grant, seeing me now. The ceremony is late as it is."

"Let them wait," Grant laughed. "After all, it's our wedding and we'll do it in our own way. It's just that I had to tell you how wonderful everything is and how much more different things are going to be than you or I had ever dreamed. .

In his exuberance he had taken her in his arms. She would soon be his wife, that's where she belonged.

"Stop that, you fool," she squealed. "This is neither the time nor the place — and you're crushing my lace!"

"The hell with your lace," Grant mumbled and his mother wailed again over the blasphemy. Things weren't going at all the way he had planned.

This was really the first time he had ever held Lucy so close. In the past they had always pecked a single good-night kiss from a distance. She was a lot bonier than he had realised and her skin was pale and mottled under the make-up. The barbarian girls had been much plumper and more feminine than this. He forced the thought from his guilty mind — after all, this was the girl he loved. Or did he? The thought hit him so suddenly that he let go of her and stepped back.

Both women were screeching at him now, but he didn't hear the words. Just the sound, like a pair of cats howling on the back fence.

Love her? He had never held her in his arms before, or really kissed her. They had always prided themselves on their intellectual match. How the devil did he ever put up with — that — and how had he ever got involved with her in the first place? Weren't her parents old friends of his mothers?

"Mother!" he said fiercely. They both shut up instantly at his tone. "Did you frame up this marriage? Did the two of you collaborate to put a ring in my nose? I want to know more about this before I go through with this ceremony."

"Well, I know enough right now," Lucy screamed in a high, cracked voice. "This marriage is off, postponed — until you apologise and act decently."

"Right you are," Grant interrupted calmly. "Marriage is off and you can keep the ring for a souvenir. Marry in haste, repent at leisure I always said."

Lucy gagged at his words. Of course her threat had only been a gambit to get him back into line. But something had gone terribly wrong.

Before either of them could find their voices again, Grant had pushed Lucy and his mother into the next room.

"Faint in here," he said quietly. "There's a soft rug."

Then he backed out, closed the door and turned the key in the lock. Herb sat quietly puffing his pipe, looking on.

"Congratulations," Herb said. "I hope you'll be very happy."

Grant's scowl turned to a smile as he caught the sincerity of his friend's words. "You're not running out too?" he asked.