Static cut in. Soren tweaked the dial, but it did no good. He had lost the signal.
They swung east of Harrisburg. Their route took them neat Indian Echo Cave, which Soren had visited as a boy, and on through Hummelstown to within a mile of 81. A turnoff took them along a country road past several farms.
At last the familiar white stucco farmhouse atop a hill came into sight.
Toril sat forward and clasped her hands. “If only we could have gotten through to her. She could be ready to go.”
“We’ll spend the night,” Soren offered. The sun was already perched on the horizon, and a night’s sleep in comfortable surroundings would do the children good.
Gravel crunched under their tires as Soren wound up a long drive flanked by stately maple trees. He braked next to a lilac bush and everyone piled out. He brought Mjolnir with him.
The rocking chair on the porch was empty, the house quiet.
Toril dashed up the walk and knocked eagerly. When there was no reply, she tried the doorknob. “It’s locked.”
“Maybe Sigrid is watching television and didn’t hear you.
“Or she doesn’t have her hearing aid in.” Toril went to a potted plant, lifted it, and produced the key.
The house always smelled of food. Today Soren would swear it was oatmeal. He followed his wife into the living room, but Sigrid wasn’t there. A dark hall led past the dining room, with its mahogany table and chairs, and into the kitchen.
“Where can she be? She wouldn’t go anywhere at a time like this.” Suddenly stopping short, Toril raised a hand to her throat.
“Mother!”
Sigrid Uhlgren sat slumped over the kitchen table, one arm under her head, the other dangling.
Toril ran over and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Mother?
What’s wrong? Speak to me!”
Soren confirmed that Sigrid would never speak again. She wore a peaceful expression, as if dying had been a pleasant passage from here to the hereafter. He looked at his wife and shook his head.
“But bow?” Toril cried. Bending over her mother, she began to sob.
Soren suspected a heart attack or stroke. Sigrid had been in her late seventies and in failing health ever since her husband had died. She simply hadn’t cared to live without her Karl.
“Mom?”
Soren quickly ushered the kids to the living room and told them to stay put. Then he went out to the truck. He still intended to stay the night, and they would need their backpacks.
When he returned, Toril had stopped crying, but her cheeks and chin were wet. Sniffling, she tenderly stroked Sigrid’s hair. “I loved her so much. She was as good a mother as anyone could ask for.”
Soren agreed. Sigrid had accepted him dating her daughter long before Karl had. Maybe her intuition had told her he was the one.
Or maybe it was that they were so much alike. She had been steeped in the old ways, and while she hadn’t believed as he did, she’d respected his right to do so. “Do we burn her according to the old ways or bury her? She’s your mother, so the decision should be yours.”
“What if someone saw the smoke and came to investigate?
Burying is fine.”
Soren doubted anyone would come, but they were pressed for time. “Okay.”
“Give me a few minutes. I want to pay my respects.”
Soren went out and over to the garden shed. Inside was the shovel he needed. Where to dig was the next question. He chose a spot near the rose bushes. Roses had been Sigrid’s passion.
Toril insisted on a service. She brought the children outside and they stood around the fresh mound of earth with their heads bowed.
” ‘I know where stands a hall brighter than sunlight,’” Soren quoted. ” ‘Gleaming better than gold in Lee-of-flame.
Hosts of the righteous shall inherit it, and live in the light everlasting.’”
Supper was a sorry affair. Toril made soup, but only Soren was hungry. The kids asked to be excused. Toril put down her spoon, leaned her elbows on the table, and placed her face in her hands.
“I’m sorry. I’m too broken up.”
“She was your mother,” Soren said quietly. “The healing will take time.”
“Thank you for saying the words. I couldn’t think.”
Soren reached across and gently placed his hand on her arm.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” He couldn’t help wondering, though, if maybe a different passage would have been more appropriate. One, in particular, had stuck in his mind most of the day. The sun will go black and the earth sink into the sea. Heaven will be stripped of its bright stars. Smoke will rage, and fire, leaping living flame, will lick heaven itself.
Toril looked up and said, “My father had a gun.” “What?”
“A shotgun. In the closet in their bedroom. He didn’t shoot it much, but it should still be there.”
Soren glanced at Mjolnir on the table beside them. “I’ll rely on my hammer.”
“What if we run into looters with guns? You’re not Thor. You can’t call down the lightning and the thunder.”
“Would that I could.” Everyone had a secret yearning they rarely revealed, and Soren’s was that he would dearly love to be the true and real God of Thunder. Childish, but there it was.
“What will happen to us? What will happen to our children?”
Toril gazed out the window at the gathering darkness. “What will the world be like when this madness is over?
Soren didn’t say anything but he was thinking, Maybe it never will be over.
Professor Diana Trevor had no hope of getting to the cornfield before Hercules caught her. She veered toward the barn and ducked around its wide door, pressing her back to the wall. She heard the dog’s heaving breathing and the pad of its paws, and the next second it hurtled past her and slid to a stop in the dusty barn.
She held her breath, afraid the sound of her own breathing
