If he could do anything to shape his destiny, today would end better than that day.
“Dr. Haukssen?” Theresa advanced to greet the white-haired gentleman who came to meet them in the museum’s Great Hall. “We’re pleased you could see us on short notice. We’re researching Beowulf for a documentary on the truth behind the myth.”
“An appointment would permit me to prepare.” His English had the clipped accent typical of some Northern Europeans as he stared over his reading glasses. “The snow discouraged my staff. Today I am left alone.”
“We sincerely apologize.” Theresa explained their cover story. “But our funding came through only thirty-six hours ago. The donor offered us frequent flier miles for the trip, and we had to arrange our flights and photography equipment quickly.”
“Airline miles.” Still unsmiling, the director of Danish Prehistory nodded his complete understanding of donor peccadilloes before turning to Wulf. “Are you a photographer?”
“No, he’s stuck in Reykjavík.” Wulf strove to look envious of an imaginary assistant stranded on a frozen volcanic rock. “He said he was going to try hákarl. I almost gave up my ticket to stay with him. Have you tasted it?”
“Ja, I have.”
Wulf widened his eyes and faked enthusiasm for the fish dish he’d avoided for the last thousand years. “What’s fermented shark meat like? Sushi? Or kimchi?”
Dr. Haukssen’s mouth twisted. “I do not know kimchi, but I would say hákarl is like chicken left in the waste can for three months.”
“Ahh.” Wulf sighed deeply and raised his gaze to the ceiling. “An authentic cultural experience. I wish—”
Theresa stepped between them. “Let’s focus on our assignment, Millard.”
Ouch. That name hurt. Next time he’d choose his own alias.
“We’re interested in sword hilts from approximately 500 A.D.” Behind her back, she waved one hand at the floor in a patting motion.
Tone it down? Not a chance, babe. I want to see you laugh.
“Today is a slow day because of snow, so I have time to show you a few to consider. You may follow me.”
As the director led them through the three-story atrium and then in and out of a series of rooms filled with car-size rune stones, ships pulled whole from the peat and gold treasures, Wulf’s head spun with memories. Not all were good, so he cut ahead of Theresa and focused on Dr. Haukssen instead of the helmets suspended lifelessly in cases. “You must hold excellent dinners here.” He lifted his hands to create a mock frame around a case of golden horns. “I see a bar for small-batch herb-infused aquavit in this corner. You must have a wood-fired oven for whole-grain rye bread in the courtyard. And butter churning! Women love butter churns!” If Cruz and Kahananui could see this act.
“There is no eating or drinking in the museum.” Dr. Haukssen raised his voice as if speaking to a group of children.
“Of course not.” Wulf jerked his chin back like a turtle. “I’m talking about a fundraiser, not children snacking on mass-produced crackers.” From the corner of his eye, he spotted Theresa’s twitching lips and flaring nostrils. He knew she’d never acknowledge wanting him to misbehave, but how could he resist teasing her when she was this easy? “Have you considered rooftop beehives? Single-source artisanal honey is the food world’s next gold mine.”
Theresa dropped two steps behind and almost completely muffled her snort.
Objective number one achieved.
“Beehives. No, I do not believe I have considered beehives.” The director tilted his head and blinked several times at Wulf. “I thought you want to know about Beowulf?”
“Of course she does, I mean, we do.”
“We are here.” Their escort’s shoulders sagged with relief as he ushered them into a white-painted space. “The storage units contain several swords you may view.” He opened a drawer whose gliders were as silent as the room.
Disappointment crashed through Wulf as strong as the North Sea. All three swords arrayed on the plain white linen had blades, the iron black with rust and flaking with age. He hadn’t thought their quest would be easy, so why did he suddenly feel like he was wearing someone’s extra-extra-small body armor?
“These are wonderful, and we can use them to represent the sword Hrunting.” Theresa extracted Heaney’s Beowulf translation from her shoulder bag and waved it at the director. “But, sir, you know we’re looking for a hilt alone. No blade.”
She pointed to a passage. “Line 1614. ‘And the inlaid hilt embossed with jewels; its blade had melted and the scrollwork on it burnt, so scalding was the blood of the poisonous fiend.’”
“I beg your forgiveness.” The gentleman bowed slightly. “You, madam, have done your research.” He shut away the swords and moved to another stack of drawers.
A museum with holdings this vast would have dozens, maybe hundreds, of swords and hilts. If he had to ride this roller coaster every time a drawer opened, he might start to actually age.
“The description continues.” She flipped pages. Those fingers that could work miracles on patients or on him traced to the next blue highlights. “At line 1694, ‘In pure gold inlay on the sword-guards there were rune markings,’ blah blah, ‘scrollworked hilt,’ etcetera.”
He hadn’t realized she’d mastered so many of the books in her breakfast-room office. She’d either charm the hilt out of the old man or badger him until he gave up, but one way or another, if it was here, Wulf didn’t doubt Theresa would find the remainder of the sword.
“You are quite literal, yes?” Dr. Haukssen curled his fists around the drawer pulls.
“Our documentary emphasizes facts. Since Heorot’s been located near Gammel Lejre—”
He cut her off with a raised finger. “Potentially located, madam.”
She waved aside his caution. “There are marshes to the west, as described in the story. Or should I say history? What if it was all true?”
None of the relics in the next drawer were the one they sought. The two hilts with lobed pommels weren’t the barbed work of the giants, the third had runes that told the wrong story and while the fourth sported a bejeweled pommel of small stones set in gold scrollwork, it didn’t have the dragon-eye-size ruby. Fifteen hundred years hadn’t erased his memory of the jewel that had glowed like enchanted fire in the swamp while they carried Grendel’s head.
“We intend to show the evidence for, and against, the truth,” Theresa continued.
“Very American, your approach.”
The four hunks of metal could have been forged at the same hearth where he and his brother had volunteered for the voyage. These might have been used, held, even treasured, by men he’d known. Men whose bones were dust and their names erased from the earth. But these hilts could connect him across the chasm of time. “May I hold one?”
Theresa gasped, and he looked from her to Dr. Haukssen and then he realized his mistake. These relics had drawn out his original language, a tongue he hadn’t spoken, not even with Ivar, for more than a thousand years.
“You speak...not Danish.” The man’s watery blue eyes, bulging with surprise or, oddly, fear, consumed his lined face. “You speak the language of the Geats, do you not?”
“A teensy bit.” Pinching his first finger and thumb together, Wulf switched to English and tried to salvage their cover. “We practice authenticity for our research.”
“Do not lie.” Like a man fifty years younger, the curator ran across the room to a red-handled alarm and rested his hand on it. “Scholars come every season. Only twice have I heard that language. Who are you? What is your true purpose?”