Arthaus: The mask foretold

 Arthaus: Day Thirteen

Thirteen is a number of many myths and the supernatural. Thus it is only fitting that on this day, the mask saw fit to gift me the presence of death. It is perfect as it is:

A flash of green, something hurtling towards him at great speed. A splatter of blood on the ground. Before he hit the ground, Baldur knew he was dead.

Baldur wakes with a start. It was a dream! There was still time. And so Freya called out to everything that was and is, wasn't and isn't yet, and made them vow never to hurt Baldur. Iron came and promised. Poison winked and said, sure. Height looked down menacingly and said yes. Viruses bowed their tiny heads. And everything and everyone promised. Save one. Mistletoe was not asked. Mistletoe, who grew far out of reach. Mistletoe, who would never harm a fly on anyone's head. Mistletoe, who would never dream of poking, or prodding, much less hurting anyone. And Loki, upon this understanding, made a spear made of mistletoe, and handed it to Hodur, Baldur's blind half brother.

All things alive and dead, organic and inorganic had swore an oath to not harm dear Baldur, and it was time for rejoicing. During the festives, a new game was born. First, apples were chucked at Baldur. The apples, remembering their promises, softened themselves. Baldur wondered at the lack of pain. Next came the cheese. And then came the bread. Soon came heavier things like the roast leg, and then a spoon. When the knives were finally used to bounce off Baldur's skin, he was feeling pretty invincible. Laugh he did, merry and loud, and his voice was rich and filled with youth and the invincibility that came with it. Gone were the dark dreams, the shadow, and images of death. Gone was his trepidation, replaced only again by his love for everything around him. For he was Baldur, wise and loving, full of joy and admired by all living things.

Hodur hefted his spear. He was deadly good with his aim. He didn't like to brag, but not being able to see had honed all of his other senses, and he could hit Baldur 50 yards away with his eyes closed. This throw was as much a throw to show his arm off, as much as to show off Baldur's impenetrable skin. For a split second, he wondered why he was doing this. And then the cheers and the laughter wafted down, and those thoughts were gone. He so wanted to join in the festives. Be part of them. Again, he tested the weight, and found the center of the spear. There was an odd lightness to it. As though… it wasn't made of the right material. Hodur aimed right for Baldur's heart, and threw.

The aim was true. Baldur stood there in the open field, filled with joy and amazement, and with the knowledge of invincibility written all over him. A godly stance, as powerful as Odin himself. His voice ringing out, reaching as high as the mountains. Right before the spear hit him, there was a flash of green. Something hurtling towards him at great speed. The spear buried itself all the way through Baldur's chest. A splatter of blood on the ground. Déjà vu.

The world came crashing down. It was as if Jormungandr itself had risen from the depths, wrapped itself around reality and squeezed so hard that everything shattered. Baldur looked at the spear poking out of his chest at a comical angle in disbelief. A cry escaped his lips. The richness was gone, replaced by a dryness and a raspyness with a gargle. This cannot be. His left leg was the first to go, and he knelt, still holding onto the stick coming out of his chest. Was that mistletoe? Baldur cried out again, looking around wildly at the confused faces around him. The other gods were unclear if this was a joke, but Baldur was never one to take jokes too far, and the stick poking through his chest seemed too real to be a trick. Baldur tried to reach behind to touch the other half of the spear. This happened in my dream. He couldn't breathe. He was hyperventilating. Air was coming in and going out all at once. A tingling appeared in his chest, it was out of his control. I cannot escape destiny. As it started spreading, the understanding of its inevitability hit. This tingling was not stopping. My mother didn't do this right! Baldur's arms had begun flopping in a fishy fashion. Somewhere between begging for help and understanding, and shooing destiny away. My brother did this??

Hodur came crashing down onto the blood-specked mud next to Baldur. There had been a silence after his throw that told him something was very wrong. The gasp told him all he needed to know, and he sprinted towards his brother. No!!! The spear was in the chest! How can this be? Hodur broke the spear off and placed his palms on Baldur's chest, attempting to stem the blood flow. Resisting every spurt that was bubbling up. This is all my fault! Hugging him close, Hodur started rocking Baldur, tears welling up. I should have known!

Baldur flopped to the ground, his legs dangling spindly. He was still grasping at straws, gaping and gnawing, unable to comprehend the gravity of the situation. I did this all wrong! This is all wrong! The breaths came now, short and fast, gasping for oxygen that would not serve for very long. Time came gently to a stop, as time usually does around death. Time stops for no man, but death is an old friend, and it's nice to sit for a while together. Baldur was now grabbing at mud on the floor. It had begun drizzling, and he saw the blood splatters mixing with mud and rain - are those tears?  No, Hodur, it isn't your fault. He let out another cry. His resonance was gone. His voice had hallowed out, gone was the power and gone was the relish for life, replaced by a meek wail. Help, please. Mother, where are you?

And then Freya was there.

It's my fault, I failed you. Something in her broke to see her once-mighty son on the ground. A son that was invincible in all manners of the word save the literal. That when she tried to make it literal, she failed. Divinity had a way of laughing at the gods, and Freya felt the full weight of irony on her fragile shoulders as she pulled Baldur into her lap. Shhh, shhh, sleep now, son, I am so sorry. So, very sorry. Mothers have the heaviest burden. To watch something so precious take the first steps, to watch them grow into something so sentient, so wonderfully complete. And then to let them go so that they can choose how they die. To go from complete power over her baby's health, to complete and utter helplessness at watching her baby die. That it didn't matter even if she intervened, because mothers are just as powerless as sons are.  It's okay, now. Everything is okay. Freya looked down at her son's turmoiled face, and realized she only wanted peace for him now. Cradling his head, she started to sing.

Published on

8/1/19 1:09 AM