I lived in the midwest for a few months. It was brutally boring and one of the most dry, unmemorable periods of my life. One of the only memories I have from that time is how quickly storms came on. We would drive home from the grocery store–back before my wife had tentacles–and it’d be clear as all get out. The sun would be out in front of us, not a cloud in the sky. The UV nipping at me through the windshield. Then I’d blink and in the rearview mirror there’d be a tornado or thunderstorm booming behind us, sirens blaring in the wind telling us to seek cover…
As Olaf and I sat crouched behind that bench, I feared that’s what was happening: a thunderstorm magically appearing, out of the blue, like a dark rabbit out of a magician’s hat.
The sky itself seemed to roar as the stone viking’s sword met the kraken’s tentacle in mid air. Each blow of the sword on the scaly skin echoed across the water like thunder; each swing of steel sent a bright ray of sun across the park like lightning. They clashed and thrashed. Water shot up in seven directions. The boats on the bay bobbed and weaved and crashed into each other while the two mighty giants fought.
Each time one of the seven tentacles raised, the water beneath it seemed to recoil–as if trying to hide while the stone viking seemed to harness the power of the waves. Each time he thrust with the sword, a curl of water wrapped around his arm, pushing the sword forward.
For the first time, the kraken’s head finally emerged from the water. The top was round like an octopus, but it had a face like a stingray, with low-set eyes and a wide, drooping mouth that ran right off of its glistening head. The stone viking was a massive being, but it paled in comparison to the earthly god that had been awoken. You could have stacked three, maybe even four, of the stone vikings up against just one of the kraken’s tentacles. I feared this was the end. The kraken’s drooping mouth slowly inverted, grotesquely twisting into a wide, caricature smile. It knew, as it grew out of the water, that the stone viking had met its end. And we would be next. How could this end any other way? The kraken’s grinning mouth roared opened, revealing several rows of rotting teeth, each yellow blade sharper than the last. And it swallowed the stone viking whole.
I could not see Olaf’s face, but I looked at him all the same, hoping that the mystical bronze man would provide some insight. That he would grab my arm and tell me to be patient. But his own face remained glued to the scene in front of us and we were left to watch as the viking disappeared.
The kraken’s grin widened in victory and looked at us. It’s cock-eyed gaze, looking in two completely opposite directions, somehow stared directly at us… Then a gleaming sword shot through its brow, emerging with a spurt of purple blood right between those same disgustingly gleamy eyes. The kraken’s pupils rolled back and looked straight up at the sky, straight up at the imaginary storm that had never come, and crashed back down into the water. The massive sword ripped through the kraken’s forehead, slicing with the cut of a steak knife, from top to bottom. The kraken’s head floated in the water, slimy blood running out from its wound. Its scaly skin separated, piece by piece, like stitches being unwound, and the stone viking emerged covered in green slime.
Olaf grabbed my arm. “Quick,” he said. “We don’t have much time.”
He tugged me towards the water. Something every cell in my body vehemently protested. Hazel’s leash was still tangled around my hand and she, too, fought as we drew closer to the waterline. Even she, four legs and a dream, knew better than to get close to the purple monster. The stone viking waded to the shore, his energy spent and his sword dragging ripples through the water. When Olaf reached him, they took each other by the forearm and said no words. They only shared a look of understanding–of grace.
Olaf waved his bronze sword in the air and the stone viking did the same. A rainbow of light–no, a rainbow wouldn’t have covered the array of colors that emanated from the two swords moving in tandem. Colors danced out from the steel and bronze, echoing across the sky like northern lights. Vibrant hues I’d never seen before fractured across every direction. And then there were bubbles. Slowly, at first, then choppier and more urgent. A wooden helm roiled beneath the surface, led by a wooden statue of Medusa so accurate it startled me. Hazel’s hairs stood up. She growled as a few more wooden boards, then a wooden deck and a pair of white sails finally reached the surface.
“We must board,” Olaf said. The ship emerged from the water gracefully, aligning itself perfectly with the floating metal dock already there. I asked no questions and walked the steps across to the wooden ship. Olaf walked in front of me, leading the way, and Hazel didn’t need her leash any more to realize that this ship was our path to safety. Once onboard, I looked around. There were cabin’s quarters and a few faceless men manning the sails. Before I could ask where the ship had come from or where we were going, water began running across the deck. I ran over to the rails and watched as a waterfall cascaded down the side panels of the ship. By the time it cleared, we were in the air, surfing along the clouds, leaving our own misty rainbow to trail through the sky. Ahead of us, Mount Olympus stood tall and wide, calling to us as a lighthouse calls to lost sailors.
