Odin's Tillit

By Edge O. Erin

Fox was twelve when he faked his own death to escape his father Dagr and his precious tugboat, Odin's Tillit. Cloaked in an identity produced from the inside of a tobacco can, he has become a glorified drug mule for Texas lawman Sheriff J. J. Raskin.

Sixteen-year-old Ren is at the helm of Odin's Tillit, pushing rafts of logs and helping the sheriff make his problems disappear. Obligation, destiny, and Odin's Tillit are bloodying the waters of British Columbia's Arrow Lakes.

Fox and Ren know better, want better, but they cannot escape the clutches of the incorrigible or incorporeal forces around them.

As the principals come together, the past threatens to destroy Fox and Ren, even as the sheriff seeks to eliminate them. What does fate have in store for them? Only Odin's Tillit knows.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Sep 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9780228882985

Edge O. Erin

Edge O. Erin grew up in British Columbia and now resides on the island of Cape Breton in Nova Scotia, Canada. A passionate outdoorsman, the natural world is imprinted on his psyche. His surveying and remote sensing experience in disparate parts of the globe has informed his opinion on land use, the human condition, and the importance of biodiversity and environmental stewardship. His previous books include "Legacy of Seconds," "Time Sneak: Emergence," and "Terraform Charlie." He is at work on his next novel, "War of the Scavengers."

Book preview

Chapter One

As Fox reached down to retie the laces of his hiking boots, the sleeves of his t-shirt pulled up, revealing the tattoo on his left bicep.

The man he knew as Manuel turned up his nose. Weird swastika. I thought you might be a Nazi.

Fox had long grown weary explaining the rune-ringed circle with spoke symbols to people.

It’s not a swastika, Nazi or otherwise. It’s a sólarhvél, or sunwheel, and it’s a Norse symbol for good luck.

Manuel took off his Diablos Rojos del Mexico baseball cap and, with an already soiled and soaking handkerchief, wiped off his forehead and neck.

Senor Fox, I think your horse luck is shit.

As it was hovering around 100°F in the Chihuahuan desert, and they were both wounded, Fox couldn’t argue. So instead, he offered the man a drink from his canteen.

Manuel eyed him curiously, looked down at his own canteen, emptied by a bullet, shrugged, and with a Don’t expect me to return the favor, gulped down some water.

As Fox saw the blood fanning out on the man’s midsection, he reckoned time and physiology would be the limiting factor on reciprocity.

Pointing at a withered, old mesquite, Fox said, Let’s pull up here and take a break.

Break! No, I will keep walking. If I stop, I will die.

Suit yourself. Fox plunked down beside the tree, sending a marbled whiptail darting for cover.

He watched Manuel walk for five minutes, stagger for one more, and as a black vulture arced high above, pitch face forward into the dirt.

Five years ago, the scene would’ve mortified Fox. Now it was just another day at the office. How much things had changed from the innocent 1970s to the wild 1980s! He ran his right index and middle fingers around the sunwheel on his left arm. It was as vibrant as the day it was inked, over twenty years ago now.

Fox winced as his mother, Freya, methodically tapped the pin on his arm. But his dad was watching, so he brought up his chin and looked him in the eyes. Fox was sure his father, Dagr Evigsen, could stare through the veil of a night sky, see into another universe, and make it blink. The ink, tap, tap, ink, tap, tap, seemed to go on forever, but he held his father’s penetrating gaze until the end. At that, Dagr stoked his pipe, and on the way out the door, placed his powerful hand on Fox’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. His father was a man of few words, and this, a rare sign of affection.

Fox’s mom took him over to the mirror, where he marveled at her handiwork and beamed a smile of appreciation. He went to touch it, but his mother eased his hand away. Not right now, Fox; later. It’s designed for good luck, so you may touch it if you feel you really need help. There is power locked within those wheels. At that, she ruffled his straight black hair and added, Now, go help your father before he smokes too much.

Beads of sweat dripping from his eyebrows brought him back to the present, and he instinctively touched his tattoo. He looked back at Manuel. There had been six of them when they had been ambushed by a group of seven. As the only survivor, Fox was lucky thirteen.

He produced a needle and thread from his small emergency kit and stitched up the gashes along his forearm and side where bullets had carved their initials. He had collected several such signatures since he came to Texas.

As the sun fell toward the horizon and the earth cooled, Fox rose and walked to where Manuel had fallen. This discouraged three black vultures from their investigation. Fox removed the backpack full of cocaine and dragged Manuel’s corpse back to the cover of the mesquite tree. Then he took Manuel’s ID and gun and walked back over to the bag of cocaine. Fortunately, the load of precious cargo was still intact. Fox was about to walk away when his conscience got the better of him. He hadn’t met Manuel before today, but he knew his brother Luis, so he felt obligated to say some words.

Hel, daughter of Loki and guardian of the spirits of the dead. This man, Manuel…. Fox paused and then recalled the surname, This man, Manuel Cabral, has come to you now.

Despite his efforts, Fox couldn’t prise any more words from the Nordic vault, so instead, he stacked what rocks he could find over and around Manuel and set off toward the border.

***

The words, Help! I don’t want to die! were barely audible above the rhythmic clap and shush of waves, but a boat had come into view from out of the half-light. Ren thrust her hand out of the water and yelled, Here, help!

It had been an immature and impetuous act to think she could drown herself, and as the white boat came closer and then glided by, remorse and panic amplified her plea.

Help! Please save me… I will do anything!

Nine waves later, a knotted rope spilled out of the boat, Odin’s Tillit, and the wake brought the rope’s end just within reach. Exercising a desperate will to live, Ren pulled her way up to the boat, clambered aboard, and rolled onto the deck like a wet rug. As it was October 31st, the wood should’ve been cold and damp, but instead it was warm and dry. The wonder of it was lost in the realization and relief she was alive. As freezing rain pelted down, she felt herself being dragged into the tugboat’s cabin. Borderline hypothermic and lacking the strength to look up, Ren only mustered the energy to utter, I owe you my life.

***

Ren yanked herself out of the recurring nightmare of a memory, and with a curse, tugged on her boots and stepped out of her shelter. Her dark red hair fell below her waist, and her tanned, lithe, athletic frame was as natural as the morning light. A nearby squirrel was unfazed by the appearance of its fellow resident of Dog Creek, and a fox, as it made its way down toward the ghost town of Renata, didn’t alter its gait.

Tying up her hair and stuffing it under a dark green Stetson, Ren sauntered to the fire where an old aluminum pot hung from a tripod. She dumped coffee grounds into the boiling water and, still half-naked, shook off a shiver and watched the morning sky transition from cold steel to a soft grey. The moments just before sunrise were Ren’s favorite time of day; it was as if yesterdays and tomorrows lay together and found harmony.

Two black coffees downed, she stepped back into her summer shelter and got dressed. She avoided the sunset stealing twilights’ bliss. Instead, she ate an apple and a peach picked from her own orchard, and when she stepped out, she was no longer Ren but The Contact.

Ren made like a goat and scampered up to the vantage point that overlooked Lower Arrow Lake. As had been the case for a decade, he, lay there, still, yet expectant. Ren recognized the maritime tradition for referring to boats in the feminine form, but Odin’s Tillit was no lady.

Typically, at this point, she would head straight down to the shore, do a recon, and take her skiff out to the tugboat. Ren would only dock the boat if she was confident the weather would be calm overnight, and last night, it was blowing a gale. But instead of heading down, she lingered. It was June 21, 1982, the five-year anniversary of her father’s death, and three years since his loss caused her to attempt suicide. Her dad, Jacob, had loved Electric Light Orchestra, so Ren dusted off her cassette player, and inserted ELO’s Discovery. She fast-forwarded past the first song, turned up the volume, lay back, and listened to Confusion.

After singing Don’t Bring Me Down a cappella, Ren flipped the cassette around, and pressed play to give the tape another whirl. Almost instantly, she pressed the stop button. What the heck was she doing? Ren made to toss the player before checking her temper. The positive vibes imparted by singing along to the tune had proved fleeting; ELO was dreamy, whereas she was far too often living a nightmare.

Damned if I do, damned if I don’t, so best get on with it, Ren voiced, to no one and the universe. She put on her rune necklace, and headed down the trail. Ren had a client to make disappear.

Chapter Two

Fox surrendered his gun and the man gave him a warm burrito and an icy stare. They had met many times but had only spoken a few words. Today was different.

Much blood spilled today.

It wasn’t a question. Fox took a bite out of the burrito, which tasted phenomenal.

Life can be a bloody business.

The weathered tunnel-keeper, who might’ve been fifty or sixty—Fox couldn’t tell—nodded and ground his cigarette butt into the sand with the heel of what appeared to be a brand-new rodeo boot.

The two-toned units were beautiful, and Fox said as much.

Damn nice boots. El Canelo’s?

Gracias, and yes. The Chihuahuan looked at Fox’s aging, beaten and bruised boots.

Wait. The man went back into the tack shed, which doubled as a watch shack.

Fox had no choice but to wait. Until the man gave him the go-ahead, he couldn’t go into the cellar.

A couple minutes later, the man came out with a pair of boots and a bag in hand.

Here. He passed them to Fox before adding, Jeans and shirt inside, they are your size. But make sure the boots fit.

It was an unexpected act of kindness. The dark brown botines charros were like-new, and Fox wouldn’t pass on those or disrespect hospitality.

Fox pulled off his footwear and tried on the charros. He walked around a bit and discovered the boots fit perfectly.

To what do I owe the pleasure, Señor.…?

Mr. Sin Nombre, and no charge.

Well, thank you kindly, Mr. No Name.

Mr. Sin Nombre pulled out a pack of Marlboros, took a smoke for himself, and held the package toward Fox. Fox obliged and used his own lighter to light both their cigarettes. Their individual smoke plumes hung around them, and they shared the smell and the silence. It could’ve been nice, even comforting, but the strain of recent events and the stress of what might come had Fox fidgety. Cigs finished, Fox grew impatient and was shifting his weight from one foot to another. The new footwear felt great; his soul did not.

You should take off the new boots and put your old ones on for the walk.

Fox got it. He would wear his old shoes until he was ready to exit the tunnel. Fox would also put on clean pants and a shirt. It wasn’t until then he looked down at his torn shirt and pants and realized they had a lot of caked blood and ground-in dirt; he must’ve looked a mess.

Fox put his old boots back on and put the charros and clothes in his pack.

Okay, you can go into the cellar now.

Okay, and gracias de nuevo Señor Sin Nombre.

Don’t come by this way again.

Fox got it. He dropped into the cellar and the gatekeeper passed him a flashlight and water bottle.

Thank you.

Don’t come this way again, the man repeated and closed the hatch.

As Fox reached the bottom of the steps, a man that looked as uncompromising as the sawed-off shotgun in his hand stopped him. The man kicked a garbage can lid that hung under a small table. From above came three stomps and the fearsome-looking guard stepped to the side. Fox walked past and continued walking. No matter how many times he made this walk, whether at this location or another, he was always relieved to go far enough down the tunnel that being shot in the back was no longer a concern.

Three miles later, and having passed a snoring border guard and a dead guy perched precariously on a mountain bike, Fox emerged from the tunnel in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Presidio, Texas.

He removed a large backpack from an old cabinet and filled it with cocaine, dirty clothes, and footwear. Fox then put on his new boots and bloodless clothes and took a few lungful’s of stale air before connecting wires to a car battery and plugging an extension cord into an inverter. Then Fox lit up another smoke, dusted off the old monitor, and viewed the environs of the warehouse via the exterior security camera. Nobody was within view, so he unplugged the inverter, unlocked the door and stepped out into the waning light of a sultry high-desert evening.

Presidio (Fortress in English) was the same as when he left and, presumably, had been for decades. The nearby meandering Rio Grande may occasionally change its course, but Presidio never wavered. It was the Americanized cousin of neighboring Ojinaga and the jealous older brother of the county seat of Marfa, which was sixty miles to the north. Most people in Presidio were friendly, of Hispanic origin and were married. There were sand, gravel, silver, cattle, and some crops. And there was the Sheriff’s office, where the heavy hand of the law selectively meted out justice and exacted profit from sin.

Fox kept his head down, but in truth, with a population of about 4,000, most people in Presidio knew who he was and how shit went down. As he emerged onto the street, a couple dogs barked, a woman looked up at him as she swept off her walk, and a man tipped his hat as he glided by at twenty mph in his dinged-up El Camino. As the Rio Grande perpetually ignored humanity’s comings and goings, the townspeople also minded their own business.

Fox coded into the back of the Sheriff’s office and used the washroom to splash lukewarm water onto his face. It made him feel partly alive, but since he was doing what he was doing, it was about as vibrant as he got—unless he was with Delila.

Backpacks emptied and weighed, Luis, a lanky Mestizo with an el-bandito moustache and immaculately trimmed goatee, nodded toward the Sheriff.

The full twenty in each bag? The Sheriff asked.

Yes, but there is some, he paused, some blood in a couple ki’s.

The big Texan just shrugged. You can snort that, Luis. It will almost be like eating the heart of your enemy. Isn’t that what some of the cactus-sniffers believe in?

Luis stiffened, but then separated out some of the product for himself.

The Sheriff unceremoniously poured some coke on his desk and snorted a line that would’ve dropped a water buffalo.

As he recoiled like a western diamondback, he said, It’ll do. Want some, Fox?

Sure. He didn’t really, but it was better to appease the Sheriff.

Go for it; I left some on the desk.

Fox eyed the desk that had probably seen as much debauchery and corruption as a couch in a brothel.

I will take some of the tainted product.

Luis, The Sheriff barked out his name like a command. Help the man out. After all, you two are almost like blood brothers now.

Luis brought him a blood-speckled spoonful, and Fox imbibed, locking his eyes with those of Luis the entire time.

You should know your brother fought well and died bravely, with dignity.

The Juarezian said nothing, but his eyes suggested a Thank you.

I would’ve liked to carry him, but well, you know.

Luis knew as they all knew. Product was number one, saving your own skin was number two, and you can’t accomplish number one and two if you’re carrying a dead man across the desert.

The Sheriff interrupted their truce by clearing his throat.

Now, Luis, Fox and I have some things to sort out and you have a brother to mourn. My condolences to you and your family.

Whenever the Sheriff said, things to sort out, you knew you were about to be tied to the tracks, or otherwise railroaded.

Luis left, but not before taking a snort of the Sheriff’s stash and grabbing a stack of bills sitting on the corner of the desk.

The Sheriff opened a desk drawer, producing and lighting

Reviews for Odin's Tillit

[vasca · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Ya había leido este libro hace unos meses, pero me da mucho gusto ver que la lfrecen en esta pagina. Es una historia bastante entretenida sobre un chavo canadiense llamado Fox que se vuelve narco por aburrimiento pero esta enlazado con la magia de un barco con un poder maligno que habita en su pueblo natal. El barco usualmente asesina al capitan, pero su actual capitana es una joven mujer llamada Ren que lo supo dominar y las historias de Fox y Ren se entrelazan. Hay terror, comedia y acción.