At first I was taken aback by the mountains of papers that piled up on my floor, though, and it was some time before I developed an appropriate system of organization for them, much less discovered any of the literary gems buried within. As happenstance would have it, of course, the typescript of the novel in question was located in the nethermost stratum of one of those mountains, and consequently it wasn’t until nearly a month later—in January of 2005—that I unearthed it. The pile under which it was buried was a particularly large one that consisted mostly of jotted phone numbers, lists of Things To Do, enigmatic phrases scrawled on the backs of grocery receipts (what did Valison want with dog food when he had no dog?), and unfinished missives to friends. As soon as I recognized that this was a novelization of recent events, though, I could scarcely contain the hopes that rose up within me.
“Could this be Valison’s rumored final work?” I wondered.
The answer that I have since arrived at is an unequivocal “no.” Despite certain superficial similarities of style and content, I am convinced that this text can be nothing more than the work of a talented pretender—a lode of iron pyrite found among veins of gold—and the typescript must have been introduced into the collection of Valison’s papers at some point after they were initially entrusted to Jon Ymirson. Ymirson himself proved no help with regard to this matter, as he refused so much as to speak with me. But I am sure that his condition has rendered him a moron by now, regardless. Without anything more in the way of hard evidence, though, the typescript’s origin must nominally remain obscure.
Now, there are undoubtedly those who would still contend that this novel is indeed the work of Magnus Valison, seemingly without any more basis than the fact that it would appear to be the simplest supposition. Yet such theories fail to account for the multiple references to belts within the text itself, which clearly indicate an intimate familiarity with the circumstances of Valison’s death and perhaps even point toward the identity of his murderer. I am, of course, the first to admit the infinitely supreme nature of the Master’s talent, but even I do not suppose that he could have written a novel containing the details of his own death.
Without question, the Author’s main purpose seems to be to twist events—to confuse me—and I believe that a close reading of the text will bear me out on this assertion. Why else would this Author have ended the text in this place, when all of the best bits were yet to come?
Surt’s anger, for instance, when he discovered that the Hamlet (or, more precisely, Amleth, as Saxo Grammaticus would have it, and as any good forger would have known) manuscript that had been stolen from Shirley MacGuffin’s house had been nothing more than a straight translation of Saxo; Prescott and Gerd’s suddenly enforced flight when Jon Ymirson threw off his idiocy long enough to persuade the Refurserkir to turn on their masters; or before all of that, even, when Hubert Jorgen miraculously appeared at Our Heroine’s side in the back of the ambulance, assuring the EMTs that she had expressly requested his presence there. She hadn’t contradicted him, and in fact she’d even grabbed his hand as he proceeded to reveal the true twist of the story—that he had merely used an old Refurserkir trick to slow his heartbeat, in order to fake his death and thus escape the possible wrath of Surt (it was a fate he had mistakenly come to fear since hearing of Shirley MacGuffin’s death—because who knew what other loose ends the Master might want to tie up?). He had meant to lead her to the Two-Story House, where she would have discovered his body.
Our Heroine, of course, made the ridiculous suggestion that she had suspected this turn of events since the moment that Duplain had mentioned the fact that Jorgen’s body had gone missing—she knew about Jorgen’s fascination with the Refurserkir, she explained, and that he had spent considerable time with them while in Vanaheim. Yet if she truly was aware of this much, she nonetheless could not have been aware of everything.
Indeed, she continued to affect a false compassion for Jorgen even as he inwardly reveled in the glory of what he still thought had been accomplished. This was, of course, before anyone realized how implausible the text of the Amleth manuscript was or that—far from “getting away with it”—Gerd and Prescott would eventually return to their homeland in disgrace while Surt—the Master himself—would to all appearances die (yet again) within the next few days.
“But how did you get involved in this?” she had asked Jorgen at the time. She was delirious, perhaps, but it came across a delirious sort of kindness, which Jorgen found horribly sickening. “Were you Surt’s understudy or something? I mean, I know that you were always fascinated with his skill, and you probably just wanted to learn from him, but…” She slipped into unconsciousness before she could complete this condescending sentence.
The mere suggestion, though! After all, had Jorgen been deeply involved in the supposed Vanaheimic forgery scheme—which has never been convincingly established—it would have been in the role of master, not understudy. His work at that point would have surpassed anything that Surt could even have dreamt of doing. Particularly since the man was approaching his centennial birthday, and palsy tolls the forger’s hand…
But Jorgen did not let such underestimation disturb him. He knew how useful it could be. In fact, her comment set him off on a fit of introspection. He had sneaked into the ambulance solely with the intention of bidding Our Heroine farewell, yet her words had served to remind him both of his capabilities and his calling. No, he would not slink away to start a new life simply for the safety of it! He would embrace his fate! He left Our Heroine at the hospital entrance and proceeded on foot back toward his home, hoping as he walked that the party of unwelcome houseguests would have had the time and inclination to disband by the time he got there. Of course, he was in for a bit of a surprise on that score.
Apparently the Refurserkir had arrived at his home just moments before he did, pouring in huge numbers through the door in his basement. Watching the scene unfold through his drawing room window, then, Jorgen saw Blaise Duplain wildly swinging the Viking battle axe that had hung above the mantel, maintaining a perimeter within which Constance Lingus, Wible, and Pacheco cowered for safety. He saw the oafish Prescott trying to command the Refurserkir from the safety of the drawing room doorway as Our Heroine’s precious wonder-whelp nipped at his feet. And most amazing of all was Jon Ymirson, clambering atop one of Jorgen’s tables, spreading his arms and swelling with fury before letting loose a mighty shout that reverberated in Jorgen’s eardrums, outside of the house though he was. The Refurserkir had all ceased fighting, then, and looked to Ymirson. And then he began to speak. Jorgen couldn’t hear the exact words he said, of course, but… Well, I am going on too long.
So, against my better judgment, I have allowed this version of things to stand, exactly as its Author composed it. I have, regardless, exposed the truth beneath all of the falsehoods, not to mention the vice-versa. I no longer have any fear. No one cannot hurt me now with the doubts that they would sow. They think they have won. But oh, no.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For late-night conversations and general inspiration: Rizvan Khawar, Jason Ko, Trevor Perrin, Tony Sertich, and Scott Zorsch.