Oath of a Viking

By Sasha Kehoe

What do you get when you mix time travel, physics, magic, and the Fae? This enthralling urban fantasy action-romance that pitches a Viking, a Ph.D., and the Fates against an ancient cult and time itself!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Hand Publishing
• Release date: Jun 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781958296004

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Copyright © 2022 by Sasha Kehoe

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

For more information, address: [e-mail]

FIRST EDITION

www.sashakehoe.com

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 978-1-958296-00-4

For those who gave me wings.

Pronunciation Guide

ð: Pronounced as a soft th as in this other and smooth

Vörðr Blóð: VOR-ther BlOHth

Seiðr: SAY-ther

Seiðmaðr: SAYth-MAH-ther

Jørmund: YOR-muhnd

Aegishjalmur: EYE-gis-hiowlm-er

Vegvisir: Vegg vee seer

Episode I: Legends

865, Denmark

The longship was a gentle caress along the surface of the water. Sighs and murmurs gurgled from the river as the men rowed in rhythm, pulled deeper into the channel. Osmund exhaled slowly. Outwardly, he was as still as night but his muscles twitched with readiness. His long, oiled braid hung straight down his back. A fresh tattoo stung his chest beneath his light armor. Aegishjalmur, the Helm of Awe, was marked in his skin. The pain was a familiar burn, as certain as the Seiðr in his blood. An echo of a familiar voice roamed between his thoughts.

Moonlight cast a glow upon the shore. The river turned shallow. Theirs was a small war party, the thirty of them silent. At Osmund’s side was Henrik, his eyes reflecting black off the water. He was the largest of Osmund’s men, a head taller than even Osmund. He was as broad as an ox and had fire-red hair.

Are you with me, Henrik? Osmund asked. Henrik blinked and focused on his chieftain.

Ja, I am with you, he said, his voice a low, rough, growl. Hardly more than a grunt. They looked towards the sky, at the wisps of smoke standing out against the night. The monks slept. Filthy English. You know they bathe only once a month? Savages, he said, readying the blade of his ax, testing his thumb against its edge. But their wines. Henrik made a smacking sound. Sweet like girls in summer. And always hidden away. He nodded at his ax in approval. Not for long.

"Drink your fill. After we’ve reminded the monks of their disrespects. They’ve encroached on our lands long enough without paying their due." Osmund looked forward, but Henrik glanced back.

Karlsson is said to have eyes on these shores.

Why have eyes on a thing when a man can have his hands on it, Osmund dismissed. Let him watch. That fuck is nearly as English as these. There’s no honor in plotting politics.

The longship bobbed in choppy waters as the waves bounced back off the shore.

Osmund stood with the ball of his foot on the edge of the longship, poised to spring. He motioned for the men to sit low. There was someone on the shore. A night watchman, unaware of their presence. Osmund reached out his hand. Henrik placed a long pole in it, the tip fashioned into a sharp point. Henrik motioned two fingers to Osmund, a challenge. Osmund shook his head and raised one finger.

It will take just one strike, his smile told Henrik. Osmund tapped on the Seiðr, borrowed its strength in a whisper as he slipped into the cold, waist-high water. The dark energy flowed easily as he moved towards the shore. He focused it as he poised, his arm drawn back. In that moment, he felt rooted to the spot. Steady. Present. Connected. A whispering song teased his ear, a promise of power. The spear flew through the night. The watchman’s gasp was lost in the lapping of the water. Osmund reigned in the Seiðr, pushed it back down to his center. He gestured a single finger to Henrik and the rest gathered around him.

The monastery was a stone building erected to house the new English god and its stone walls were there to keep the old gods out. Osmund felt the wards lain into the stonework and smiled inwardly. Even with their silver and gold cups and crosses, their high towers, and their holy words scrawled in the scriptorium, the English had not been so foolish as to forget the ancient superstitions yet.

Built into the side of a hill, the monastery looked like a scaled growth that deformed the beauty of the world around it. It needed to be cut out. Osmund gave the order.

Burn everything.

As deadly as a pack of starving wolves, they scaled the walls and moved onto the grounds. Osmund led their stealthy charge and threw open the first door.

His battle cry cut the night in two.

Fires set and the grounds pillaged, Osmund burst into one last room but found it empty. A small wooden desk sat beneath a window, loose parchment still on its angled surface. He wiped blood from his sword and sheathed it in the scabbard on his back. He swung the satchel he wore around to his front. Fresh ink was always a good sign, and the English’s desk looked well-used. He rifled through the pages that the monks had been reproducing. It was all the English did: write down stories that had already been written, go to places where men already lived, bred more and more of themselves. Words that Osmund was well-familiar with jumped out at him from the pages:

Tincture.

Treatment.

Evils.

He stuffed these pages into his satchel along with others that carried skillful drawings of the beasts of Osmund’s own faith. The old gods. Something shifted, like the sound of a quiet footstep. He snapped his head up.

Come out where I can see you, he commanded. He knew the English, like rats, would retreat into their very walls when most of them had been burnt out.

Or was it her?

Every raid, each new camp, when he slipped into the fervor of battle he found himself searching for the woman. He knew her, but they had never met. A dream, a spirit, a curse upon his sleeping mind. His heart thudded with the delusional hope.

Let me see you, he ordered again.

He froze. His Seiðr spiked, strangely alert - a whisper in the dark. He ducked!

The blade that had been aimed at his neck slipped through the air. The sword cut deep into the writing desk. Osmund whipped around to meet his opponent, a man cast half in shadow. A foreign slave. Dark-skinned like an Arabic nobleman, but dressed in rags with his hair cropped short.

Osmund backed out of the room. The slave stalked him, matching him step for step, his eyes never wavering. When Osmund paused, the slave went tense. With a grunt of unskilled effort, the slave swung the sword again in a circle.

Osmund easily side-stepped the sloppy overhead hack. The slave’s sword pierced the dirt. Osmund stepped on the sword with one foot and kicked the slave’s hand with the other. The slave dropped the sword and launched himself at Osmund! They fell to the ground, grappling. The slave’s arm snaked around Osmund’s neck and tightened. Osmund drove his armored elbow into the slave’s bare chest. He stood, but the slave’s grip did not lessen. Osmund threw the slave over his shoulder. A grunt escaped the slave like a bark when he hit the ground. Osmund kicked him on the backside for good measure as the slave scrambled away. Disarmed, the slave caught his breath and glared up at Osmund from his hands and knees. He huffed like an animal and spat blood on the ground. Eyes like torches were sunken into his face. Overly thin, nearly starving, the foreigner had a savage determination. He stood and raised his hands in closed fists.

Again, he uttered through a thick accent.

Osmund cut in close. A sharp, painful, crack against his brow let him know that the foreigner’s punch had connected, but Osmund was stronger than the half-beaten and malnourished slave. With a gust of force, he knocked the man from his feet again. He drew his sword.

No! A frail English cry rang out into the night! An elderly woman stood in the scriptorium doorway with several children crowded behind her. It was not silver and gold the slave defended. Not the monks. Their eyes shone in the firelight, wet with tears. The slave snapped towards them and shouted in English, unmistakably instructing them to keep back. The slave was exposed, distracted. Osmund lifted his sword with two hands.

Jötunheimr

"Him?" Dandi asked, disdain clear in her voice. Her dark eyes, however, ate Osmund up greedily. The chieftain’s long, saffron hair had come undone and rippled down his powerful back as he held the sword aloft. His eyes were set on his opponent. He could not miss. But he was not certain. Osmund in this frozen moment was considering his action, a breath away from one decision or another. A blesséd moment, the Nornir called these.

I’m aware of how…extravagant he seems, Skuld said of the warrior.

That’s a word for it, Dandi snorted.

I’ve checked nine centuries and a hundred warriors more, Skuld defended. I should have seen it before. At this moment, Osmund’s line glows golden and can be traced until the end of days. He is the one for the task.

She’s going to hate him, Dandi laughed caustically. He’s a brute.

She doesn’t have to like him, Skuld said with a frown.

"We have one chance at this. Are you sure?"

He’s suitable, Urd concluded as she gazed down into her cupped hands. She scrolled through the portal pooled there, a black abyss populated by a web of interconnected threads, the white orbs of her pupil-less eyes absorbing all. They can be bound in different ways. Her deft fingers caught the two lifelines and passed one over the other, weaving them together to mark their place.

The three Nornir considered Osmund again with his opponent. The men were not truly frozen but slowed infinitely, for not even the Nornir could stop time; they could merely split it, travel it, wind it forwards and back. There was no stopping time. A loop with no end. A wheel hurtling down a dangerous path. Delicate changes could be made: blesséd moments, strong lines - these were the Nornir’s only hope to alter the wheel’s trajectory.

The Dark Harvest was coming. An age to end even time itself.

He’s human. We can’t thrust him forward, Dandi said. Unless you’d like to risk him either turning to dust or going mad, she said firmly. Dandi’s ardently unaffected expression reflected her disdain of the warrior. Skuld knew her well enough to discern that. Infinitesimally, Osmund had begun to lower his sword, but not in a killing blow. Subtler yet, Dandi’s eyes darkened. This also was a look Skuld knew well.

He’s a believer. His line is touched with magic, Skuld went on. He can be suspended.

Dandi’s eyes went nearly black. "Like Him? Who knows what heavy a hand you have in fate should you take it so far. It’s Seiðr he’s touched with. Not mortal magic."

What choice do we have? His light shines. It is the way, Skuld said simply. He’s going, Dandi.

Dandi scoffed but Urd stood and laced her fingers with Dandi’s and led her away, speaking softly. That was Urd’s way of things. Skuld, meanwhile, continued the projection of Osmund in real-time. The golden chieftain, a Viking warrior, sheathed his sword and offered a hand to the dark-haired man whose life he’d spared. The blessing was complete. Osmund’s aura flared and shone, boasting the spirit which had begged the attention of the Norn.

I am truly sorry, Osmund, she said softly to the image. For how you will suffer.

Niflheimr

Frëyja let herself feel the pressure of the atmosphere, a cloying hug on the lungs. Rain pelted against the feathered cuff of the long cloak that billowed around her. Fog had descended upon its nightly resting place. The pervasive mist wound itself around and between the ancient buildings. An old city now overgrown with thick vines and large, flat leaves that shone with wet and reflected the bright and colorful lights of shop signs that buzzed delightfully with Seiðr. The village had carved out a place for itself within the wrecked bones of the long-gone metropolis.

Street signs were spelled out in a mixture of languages, the symbols splashed together. Stone clicked beneath Frëyja’s heels as she walked unassumingly among the mortals there. The Seiðr that their village emanated warmed her, and she called on it to disguise herself. If anyone thought they saw her for a moment, they were reminded only of someone else. Their eyes turned from hers, and it was as if she was not there at all. Everything from the lights of their streets and shops, the communication devices on their wrists, to the symbols she felt that lined their clothing, all whirred with the constant working of Seiðr. A couple walked together ahead of her, their fingers interlaced, shoulders touching. Their younglings galloped on all fours, their slender torsos tucked safely into harnesses that kept them close by. They were still at the age where their feet were too big to walk upright as their parents did, and their fur had not yet shed. Frëyja watched them longer than she’d meant to before she left the main road and turned down another. The path was lit by the two moons that hung overhead and also by the small, roaming machines that tended to the vegetation planted in the otherwise abandoned spaces between buildings. Their blue glow dotted the night for miles.

There was the house that called to her, its front door nearly on the sidewalk. The door slid open at her approach despite the wards coded into its header and jamb. An old woman was in the receiving room. Two heavy wooden tables lined the far wall. Dishes covered most of their surfaces, along with candles and half-empty glasses of liquors and other gifts. Drawings, paintings, and photographs covered the wall above the tables and their offerings. The woman looked startled, or perhaps only interrupted. She wrinkled her nose at her guest.

What are you doing here? the woman asked.

I was invited, Frëyja said as she gestured. The droplets evaporated from her cloak into the already humid air.

May I offer you something to eat? the woman asked carefully.

Please, Frëyja answered and draped her cloak over her knee as she sat. When the woman returned with a slice of a sweet pastry and a small glass of hot, bitter tea, Frëyja plucked a feather from her cloak and handed it to the woman. The brilliant red feather glimmered black. The woman took a key from around her neck and placed the feather into a drawer before locking it away.

Why have you come? the woman asked.

I’m looking for my brother, Frëyja said.

Is he lost?

Lost to me, I think. I don’t understand him anymore. Our destinies are entwined, I know it. Yet I sometimes fear that they are opposite.

The woman said nothing for a long while.

We nearly destroyed this planet, the woman said. She had poured herself a cup of tea and took long, quiet sips between speaking. Frëyja enjoyed her voice on the quiet. It was like the gentle pull of a bow across strings. The first of us did, at least. We believed ourselves to be tied to it in a way that was mutual. The truth was that we had long forgotten its spirit, its Echo. We had projected our importance, our belief in our own destiny, onto something that was unfathomably larger than ourselves. We were convinced that we were equal to the revolutions of a planet whose fate, in the end, is rather indifferent to our own. Are you looking for your fate to keep yourself from seeing what looms above you?

There is nothing in existence that is above me.

Well, the woman laughed. That is the conceit of a Queen, isn’t it? She laughed again, and Frëyja smiled.

Why didn’t your kind fight with us in the Second War?

The woman wrinkled her nose. "We remembered you from the First. The Seiðr from our forefathers made us strong enough to resist your recruitment. Even after the planet had claimed most of us."

"It was our Seiðr that kept you alive," Frëyja said.

"The Seiðr may be what pulled us out of the spiral - it may have let us save this world from ourselves - but it was the Echo that awoke first. It was our foremothers that drew the forefathers down, remember. The Watchers. When there’s a disturbance in the Seiðr, we feel it here, too. It warned us of your Wars."

Only one was mine, Frëyja said. And the Echo?

The woman closed her eyes a moment to commune with her ancient planet. The Echo has been mostly quiet since, except of late. She sipped her tea. It is beginning to call for Gathering.

Frëyja stood and crossed the room. She picked up a small cigar from the table and lit it.

I have not come here to offer you wings, Frëyja said over her shoulder.

What else will there be but war when the Dark Compact breaks?

Why am I invited here? Frëyja asked, not unkindly. When she turned, she saw that the woman’s eyes tracked her as she moved, the dark slits of pupils set in golden irises. The points of her long eye-teeth were nestled into the soft folds of her lips. The woman finished her tea, then removed a slim case of cigarettes from a pocket. She joined Frëyja in breathing smoke into the thick air.

"This world is breaking in towards Faery. We closed all the Jumps we could find after the First War. Closed the ones we’d missed after the Second. There are more now. Unlike those before, these all break in towards Faery. Our younglings, females, those stirred by the Echo. They are going missing. Why are the Fae taking them?"

Frëyja crushed the tip of the cigar into a dish and shook her head. The woman reached into her pocket and brought out a small, delicate bundle. Frëyja sat next to the woman, who showed her the doll made of dried flowers.

It’s something that younglings make for their mothers. A mother gave it to me to help in my search. She handed it to Frëyja, who cupped it in one hand. The legs of the little thing were longer than the arms, the midsection tied with a leather scrap for a belt. There are no orphans on this planet, the woman said. We all take care of each other. We are all mothers here.

Frëyja closed her hand over the doll and tucked it into the robe she wore. She looked down into the woman’s face. High cheekbones, a flat nose, round chin. She touched a hand to her cheek.

You have a kind face.

The woman grabbed her hand too familiarly, like an embrace. Frëyja let herself feel the pressure of it.

Help us bring our daughters back.

Houston, Texas. Modern Day

Coffee wasn’t the best choice.

Zoe’s stomach churned the liquid into a frothy, adrenaline-and-anxiety one-two punch that added to the nervous tremor in her voice and did nothing to assuage her cottonmouth. She sipped again to wet her tongue, sneaking a glance over her cup at Dr. Gregor Humboldt. His grey eyes were as cool as the untouched cup of tea on his side of the small table. They sat so close their knees almost touched, and yet she felt that he looked down his nose at her from a very tall pedestal.

It’s not begging for money, Liz had assured her. Well, I mean, it totally is, but that’s what academia is all about. You’ve done the research, you’ve pushed the pen around as much as you can. It’s time to get the funding and get down to the adventurous part!

That was three weeks ago when the director of Houston’s Museum of Natural Sciences had referred her to Dr. Gregor Humboldt. Chair of the Grant Approval Board for Exploratory Expeditions. All Zoe had to do was present her case.

And she’d been late. Caught behind an accident that had gridlocked traffic, she had been a half-hour late. When she’d arrived, the warm coffee shop was as busy as a bar on a weekend. The Mean Bean. She’d never actually been to this coffee shop before. She’d passed it a few times while walking downtown. In passing, it had seemed cozy. Studious. In fact, it was loud with chatter and home to overpriced hand-ground pour-over brews. She ordered the house blend just to have something to do with her hands. Dr. Humboldt didn’t drink coffee.

You believe that Scandinavian raiders not only made it to the Americas but that they arrived well before European explorers, he asserted without asking. Bolder yet, you can provide irrefutable evidence of such a claim? There have been several hoaxes, I’m sure you’re aware.

My research heavily supports my findings, Zoe affirmed as she slipped the scarf from around her neck. Her coat was already pushed over the back of the chair. It was unseasonably warm even though half the city still had vestiges of Christmas decorations up. Every resource I’ve provided here suggests as much. She moved her coffee to the floor and spread her notes across the table. This area, she said, pointing to the map, is where we’ll find it. Off the coast of Newfoundland. Untouched by modern exploration. No one even knows it’s there. The discovery will be completely ours. An entirely new, groundbreaking exhibit for the Museum.

Dr. Humboldt looked down his long nose again, this time at the map. He didn’t look like he belonged in a coffee shop. Dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit with grayed, curly-bordering-on-bushy hair and eyebrows, he appeared to be very much the longtime professor he was. His judgment was astute, his manner austere, and his features absolutely goddamn unreadable. Zoe found herself holding her breath any time he moved as if he would wave a hand, cut her off, and simply leave her there.

It’s not like I’m not a doctor, too, Zoe thought to herself. Twice over, in fact. Scandinavian Studies and again in Linguistics. It should have been impressive for her age (almost but not yet thirty, hello) but no one knew who she was professionally and she didn’t have the balls to go into teaching. No, she remained a lowly, unbothered, unassuming, professor’s assistant at U of H while conducting her own research. The eternal student. Over-yet-under achieving was a balance she’d seemed to have perfected. This year, she’d told Elizabeth on a drunken New Year’s rant, this year’s gonna be different. I’m tired of standing in the shadows of my own life.

This isn’t your particular field of study, Dr. Cartwright, Dr. Humboldt noted aloud.

I disagree. Respectfully, she added with a tug at the hem of her cream blouse. It had come untucked from her black slacks at some point, and she was annoyed at how disheveled it made her feel. She straightened her back and smiled the way she’d practiced. These people are my life’s work. It’s not what I’ve written my books about, no, Zoe said, determined to feel like the doctor somebody she was. And I’m no archaeologist. But my expertise is in the culture of so-called Vikings – ancient Scandinavian raiders. Specifically, daily life, religion, and well,

Sex. He studied her closely. She couldn’t decide what kind of judgment was in his eyes. I’m familiar with your books.

You’d be one of the few.

Your translations are inspired. Thorough. They put me in the mind of Keene’s work. He breathed in a pause, and Zoe shrank inside, waiting for the descent of the however. Or alternatively the, I’m convinced. Let’s make history together. And also, Keene’s a showy prick of an academic.

A woman quickly approached their table. Zoe smelled her before she saw her – a deep suffusion of incense and oils.

You can’t go. Her voice was sharp and high. It sliced through the din of the coffee shop. Coffee churned in Zoe’s stomach overtime. Dr. Humboldt furrowed his brows at the intrusion.

Excuse me, ma’am, he began, but the woman shook her head with such force that her long white hair whipped back and forth across her round, middle-aged face. She wore a mish-mash of clothing, layered despite the heat. Leggings under a mid-length skirt, several blouses tucked into one another, a vest, a long coat, and a scarf. She seemed more ragged than dirty. There was an earthy scent of sweat beneath the perfume. Her eyes were glassy and she spoke loudly.

You know me, she said to Zoe and reached for the papers on the table. Instinctively, Zoe snapped her folder shut, but the woman had her hands firmly on the documents. "You know me," she said again, loudly.

Zoe froze, stricken with something that felt close to panic. She did know her. Behind her bone-white hair were indigenous features that she almost didn’t place. "Ana?"

They’re watching, they’re watching everything! They see you, the woman said in a whisper, but her voice still sang out like a knife ringing against glass. They don’t know I know. I see, she said, speaking through clenched teeth. Her fingers tightened on the files, and she pulled again. "I see."

Before anyone could snap out of their caffeine-addled shock and help her, Zoe was caught in a tug-of-war! Zoe pulled her folder back - hard - just as Ana let go. The backswing caught the table with such force that it toppled onto Dr. Humboldt’s lap. The tea barely missed his crisp white shirt. The tabletop landed with a loud crack.

"Do you know this woman?" he asked as he stood and set the table upright as if it was Zoe who’d caused the scene.

Not, no. Well, yes. For research, Zoe sputtered.

Ana raised a necklace from beneath her clothes. They don’t know I know, she giggled as she brandished a rune-inscribed length of silver at Dr. Humboldt. The rituals have failed. They’re watching you, Ana said seriously to Zoe as though there were no one else in the room. If you go to that mountain, you’ll die. She nodded her head curtly, tucked the necklace back into her clothes, and abruptly left the coffee shop.

Dr. Humboldt, Zoe said. A staff member was helping him gather his personal belongings from the floor. All eyes are were on them. Zoe could feel her face burning with embarrassment. If you would, um, like to continue our discussion?

"I don’t know what kind of stunt this is, but believe me, I’ve seen it all. If that woman is the sort of resource that you attribute your research to, Dr. Humboldt snapped coldly, then cut himself off to regain his composure. I’m sure you understand the level of professionalism that is required by the Institution. Our funding is a precious and finite resource. Have a good day, Dr. Cartwright." He turned to leave.

Wait, Zoe said and started after him. Of course, she’d forgotten about her coffee on the floor. As Dr. Humboldt paused and turned back towards her - perhaps to hear what she had to say, maybe to again review the details and compelling evidence - she kicked the coffee cup at him. It launched into the air. Lukewarm black coffee splashed against the front of his slacks, dripped down the fine wool, and into his leather shoes. He looked down at himself, jaw tightened.

Goodbye, Dr. Cartwright. And good luck.

…

Zoe, twice-a-doctor Zoe, slunk back to her office. Her desk, really; she didn’t have an office. Zoe shared space with other prof assistants who came and went. Quietly, she sat in her chair. Slowly, she pulled out the bottom drawer of her desk. The file made a thud as she threw it in.

Maybe I’ll go back to school. I don’t have to pay off my student loans if I’m in school.

She slipped her flats from her feet. The bottoms were sticky with the coffee she’d kicked at the esteemed Dr. Humboldt, and every step since had been a smooching, smacking reminder of whatever-the-hell that had turned into. She pumped a few squirts of hand sanitizer into a tissue and started to wipe the bottom of her right shoe.

Hey! Liz said as she zipped into sight with something tucked under her arm. She wore a copper-colored turtleneck, dark gray slacks, and black tennis shoes. Thought that was you in the hall. She parked her butt on the desk, took one look at Zoe, and said, Oh, no. How bad? Her brown eyes darted over Zoe quickly, measuring, assessing.

Zoe didn’t pause from cleaning her shoe. If she did, she knew that she would fall apart right there. A feather could have unspun her very existence. She spoke calmly.

Well. I think I’ve gone into shock. You know how your brain blocks out things that are too terrible to remember? She wiped diligently at her shoe. "I’m pretty sure a crazy person showed up and started yelling about knowing me. I knocked over a coffee table. I punted a cup of coffee into Dr. Humboldt. Just…punted it. Got my proposal rejected. She nodded slowly. Yep. That’s what happened."

Liz looked like she’d tried to smile but had gotten it caught up in a grimace, so she was just showing her teeth. She pushed her straightened hair over her shoulder. It would have naturally been a curly, kinky texture that complimented the mahogany of her flawless skin but she insisted on straightening it, claiming that a bad hair day would never get in the way of science - whatever that meant. Zoe didn’t understand the STEM types – always so worried with precision. She could tell that Elizabeth wanted answers, probably with a causal diagram, but was polite enough not to push.

Okay. One day you’ll be able to tell me that whole story, she said. "It can’t be that bad."

Zoe pressed her lips together and started on the other shoe. "No, it was the worst. Pretty sure. The worst moment of my life. I’ve never seen an opportunity be actually flushed down the toilet. Like, seen it myself in real-time. Majestic, really."

Stop that, you’re creeping me out, Liz said and took the shoes from Zoe. She put what she was holding on the desk and held Zoe’s hands in her own, something Zoe normally would not be all about. Person-to-person contact was not her thing. Books. Books were her thing.

Maybe just a quickie Master’s degree. Something to bury my head in. Books instead of sand.

Breathe in, Liz said and began to inhale vigorously like a woman drowning or trying to get a whiff of something very faint. Come on, I need you to inhale with me.

Zoe gave in, closed her eyes, and inhaled. Then exhaled at Liz’s direction. Then again, until the feeling started to fade from her hands from Liz gripping them so tightly. Liz was that kind of person: a fast-friends, hold on tight until the very end, I’m-your-anchor kind of gal. After a while, Zoe smiled.

That-a-girl, she said. She let go of Zoe’s hands and promptly retrieved the canvas that she’d been carrying. She presented it to Zoe. Made you something.

Oh, wow, Zoe gasped. What is it? She could tell right away that it was an electron microscope image of something. There was the familiarly eerie dynamism imbued in it. The subject seemed to be just on the verge of movement. A perfectly matte black background highlighted an orange-tinged fibrous growth wrapped through the opening of a smooth, gray structure.

It’s a needle and thread. Isn’t that nuts? Liz asked with a grin.

It looks like a frayed rope tied to the top of an anchor, Zoe said, mesmerized. All those minuscule fibers wrapped together to create just one thread. Makes you wonder how it all comes together.

We’re basically living on the edge of chaos, Liz said enthusiastically.

You guys get all the cool toys in the physics department.

"Love it, Liz sang. Can’t wait to do another one."

As she spoke, the Cultural Anthropology chair, long-tenured Professor Edmond Black, appeared in the doorway. His oversized button-down was loose in the shoulders and still tight in the middle, and matched both his name and the color of his thinning hair.

Heard it didn’t go well, he said coarsely in Zoe’s general direction. That’s too bad. A pile of papers made a slapping sound as they came to rest on the desk beside Liz. Anth just got a shipment in. The receiving needs to be done on it and the items cataloged. I can always count on you, he said, forgetting that bit in between where he was supposed to ask and wait for her to accept.

Sure, Zoe said, although it wasn’t an affirmation of anything, really. He left without another word, his head already in a different folder: more work he was dutifully delegating to everyone else in the department.

"You’ve got to learn to say no more often. Edmond can do the receiving himself," Liz snorted.

With all the Lib Arts majors out there looking for a job? Trust me, I’m better off keeping my head down.

You want to ditch this place and go get a drink? Liz asked with a grin.

It’s four.

We’ll make happy hour. I’m a baller on a budget.

I’ve got paperwork to catch up on, and he’ll be all over me if I don’t get it done. Besides, I like unboxing shipments.

"I’ll never understand you Lib Arts types. Your infatuation with musty old things." She gave an exaggerated sneer, nose tipped in the air.

Hello, you study the universe. That’s the oldest thing around, Zoe laughed. I think you get it plenty.

Maybe. Promise me you’ll meet me later, Liz said and wiggled her pinky finger at Zoe. If you don’t, you know that you’re just going to binge-watch Forensic Files all night.

I don’t know, Zoe hedged.

Come on. Forget the bar. We can go to your apartment, pig out, and watch Witches of Eastwick. Sound good? She wiggled her pinky again. Zoe rolled her eyes but hooked her pinky around Liz’s.

Just no coffee. Ever again.

After a few hours of working – rather, half working and half repressing that morning’s latest episode of Why Did I Even Get Out of Bed Today – Zoe made her way to the Anthropology Acquisitions Lab. She’d lied to Liz: she didn’t like unboxing shipments. She loved it. She cherished being the first person to handle whatever specimen or artifact the department received. She revered the work of studying an object in perfect solitude. A practical condition of the job was that she had to take her time, inspect every inch of the subject and describe its characteristics. Personally, it was nearly spiritual to handle items like the skeletal remains of Neanderthals, Mayan stone figurines, South American pottery, or any other representation of the entire human history that they were slowly piecing together, bit by bit.

She read the shipping information: that evening, she would unbox