INSIDE THE CROOK OF EILIF'S ARM

Stone-faced, Eilif stared at his big screen television. He lazed in his recliner with a pint of beer clenched in his right hand and a bulky crumpled piece of paper in his left. His ceramic Goddess full of ashes was tucked inside the crook of his arm. Eilif lived in a stone cottage in the northern part of Norway, near a magnificent waterfall where the water cascaded and thundered down the mountain into the tranquil fjord below.

His parents named him Eilif, as the name signified immortality, but more notably, his name revealed he was destined to achieve all of his dreams and to accomplish great things. As he does every day, he thought of Freyja.

Eilif and Freyja shared the same birthday in early May. They grew up in similar clapboard homes, on the same tree lined street in their Norwegian village. When Freyja was born, her parents named her after the Norse Goddess who was written about in tales of folklore. Her name was connected with fertility, love and beauty. Freyja was fair with eyes that sparkled like blue sapphires.

In early May, the day before turning nineteen, Eilif and Freyja sat up against a large rock, close to the magnificent waterfall with Freyja tucked inside the crook of Eilif’s arm. Their postures stiffened as they spotted the mating aerial display of two white-tailed eagles, in the cloudless sky above them.

“Did you know eagles’ bond for life, Eilif?”

“Just like us, Freyja.”

Eilif and Freyja exhaled and slumped against the rock as they saw the eagles break off at the last moment and then disappear from view.

“Eilif, what do you want to do with your life? What are your hopes and dreams?”

“I have so many, Freyja. My real dream is to become a famous artist with my own gallery. I hope to travel the world. And I’d like to become a volunteer firefighter like our dads are. I want to help people. Somehow, I’d like to make a mark on the world. The last thing I want is to end up being a pathetic old man lying on his deathbed, counting his regrets. What are yours, Freyja?”

Freyja smiled, something sad and sweet. “You could never end up like that, Eilif. You know I’ve always dreamed of being a mother. And of course, an eloquent poet,” she said giggling. Jumping onto his lap, Freyja planted kisses on both of his cheeks. “Oh Eilif, am I the love of your life?”

“Undeniably, my eloquent poet,” he said laughing.

Eilif proposed to Freyja in early May, the day before they turned twenty-one. Joined at the hip, they sat against the large rock, close to the magnificent waterfall, with Freyja tucked inside the crook of Eilif’s arm.

Eilif turned to Freyja, clasping her hand in his. “Let’s get married, Freyja. I want us to be bonded for life---like the pair of white-tailed eagles we saw two years ago.” Eilif slipped a pink quartz ring onto her finger. “Pink is your favourite colour. Right?”

Giggling, Freyja jumped onto his lap, planting kisses on both of his cheeks. “Oh Eilif, am I the love of your life?”

“Unmistakably, my eloquent poet.”

A month and a half later, near the end of June, while battling a Norwegian wildfire, both of their fathers were killed after being pinned under a falling tree. Freyja’s father, Ebbe died instantly and Eilif’s father Anker, died later that night. Both of their Scandinavian names held significant meaning. They stood for strength and bravery.

Eilif and Freyja, joined at the hip, their legs drawn up to their chests, sat against the large rock close to the magnificent waterfall, with Freyja tucked inside the crook of Eilif’s arm.

“My dad was only forty-two. Too young to die.” Tears fell like drops of wax down Freyja’s cheeks.

“Forty-two,” Eilif said with a blank stare. “He had his whole life ahead of him. I don’t think I want to be a firefighter anymore.” Eilif’s lips pressed together, as a waterfall of Freyja’s’ tears flowed into the palm of his hand, running through his fingers.

Eilif and Freyja were married in July, the year they turned twenty-two. Freyja’s cousin, Erik, gave Freyja away to Eilif and they recited their wedding vows near the large rock, close to the magnificent waterfall.

“I know our fathers’ passed away, but I feel them with us in spirit,” Eilif said to Freyja, as he clasped her hands in his.

“I know Eilif. I feel them too.”

Freyja’s long blonde hair blew in the breeze as she read out a poem she wrote for Eilif.

Eilif presented to Freyja: a charcoal sketch he drew of two white-tailed eagles in flight. Later, surrounded by friends and family, they danced under the red and yellow midnight sun.

In early May, the day before they turned twenty-five, Eilif and Freyja stared wide-eyed at the two pink lines on the home pregnancy test which lay in the palm of Eilif’s hand.

“We’re having a baby,” Freyja cried, as she jumped up into Eilif’s arms, wrapping her legs around his waist.

Eilif squeezed Freyja. “Two years of hoping and praying has finally paid off.”

Eilif danced and spun Freyja into their bedroom, both of them laughing as they tumbled onto their double bed made of pine, vanishing into the white heavy down comforter.

Freyja, twenty-two weeks pregnant, curled and uncurled her fingers, as she lay on the table at the medical clinic. Eilif sat beside her, his large fingers interlocking with hers.

The sonographer squeezed cold gel onto Freyja’s exposed and enlarged abdomen, moving the transducer back and forth and in circles, studying the image. “It’s a girl,” she said.

Freyja smiled, tears welling up in her eyes. “I’d like to name her Brigid, Eilif. It means---Celtic Goddess of Poetry and Fire. And I can’t wait to see Brigid tucked safely inside the crook of your arm.”

Eilif laughed. “Me neither. Brigid, it is then,” he agreed.

After they arrived home, Freyja said to Eilif, “We’re going to paint the baby’s room pink, EVERYTHING is going to be pink.”

“When you say---we’re going to paint the baby’s room pink, you mean me, right?” he said, narrowing his eyes.

“Well of course. You’re the professional painter in the family,” she said, giggling. Freyja curled up on his lap, tucking herself inside the crook of his arm, planting kisses on both of his cheeks. “Oh Eilif, am I the love of your life?”

“Indisputably, my eloquent poet.”

A knock on the door awakened Eilif out of his daydreams. His hands shook as his heavy and bulky body rose from his recliner. He opened the door to his neighbour, Dain.

“Hello Eilif. Could you drive me to the clinic? I’m feeling rather unsteady…”

“I’m sorry, Dain. I don’t drive into the city anymore,” Eilif interrupted. “It looks like our neighbour, Raum is home, so he can probably drive you. I’m kind of in the middle of something right now, Dain. I really do have to go,” Eilif said, shutting the door.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, and the months turned into years. Eilif stared at his big screen television. He lazed in his recliner, with a glass of scotch clenched in his right hand and the bulky crumpled piece of paper laying against his hip. Eilif sat amongst his boxes of alcohol, with his ceramic Goddess tucked inside the crook of his arm, as he reminisced about Freyja.

Eilif rinsed his beer can in the sink. “Freyja---let’s go, we’re going to be late.” Tonight, Erik and his wife, Annika had invited them over for Thanksgiving dinner.

Freyja swayed out of the bathroom, her swollen belly protruding on her slight frame. She came up behind her husband, embracing his love handles. “I’ll drive, honey. You’ve already had two drinks and we need to get there in one piece.” Then, squeezing him tightly, she said with a laugh, “You’re getting a beer belly.”

“Hey, don’t fondle the flab,” he teased. Turning around, he kissed Freyja, savouring the minty taste on her lips. “Just think---this Christmas, we’ll have our brand new “Brigid bundle” to celebrate the holidays with,” he said, circling her belly with his generous hands. Then, nudging Freyja away, he said, “Traffic will be crazy this time of day. I’m okay to drive, let’s get going, my eloquent poet.”

A knock on the door awakened Eilif out of his daydreams. His knees weakened, as he rose from his recliner and opened the door to see Ertha, who worked at the bakery. She smiled at him, holding up two theatre tickets.

“Hi Eilif. I was wondering if you would like to see a show tonight. I was given these two tickets…”

“I’m sorry. I really don’t enjoy plays, Ertha,” he said. “Raum, who lives across the street likes that kind of thing. Perhaps you could ask him? I’m pretty busy right now. I really do have to go,” he said, shutting the door.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, and the months turned into years. Eilif gazed at his big screen television. He lazed in his recliner, with a tumbler of gin clenched in his right hand and the bulky crumpled piece of paper lying against his hip. Eilif sat amongst his boxes of alcohol, with his ceramic Goddess tucked inside the crook of his arm, thinking back and longing for Freyja.

Eilif and Freyja never made it to Erik and Annika’s. Eilif never noticed the new stop sign. Their vehicle was t-boned at the last intersection before they arrived. It happened so fast. Glass and twisted metal strewn everywhere on the road. Fire truck and ambulance sirens screamed for miles before they arrived at the scene of the wreckage.

Paramedics found Eilif barely conscious; a waterfall of Freyja’s blood flowing into the palm of his hand and running through his fingers. She was already gone---tucked inside the crook of his arm.

“Oh Freyja, did you know you’re the love of my life?” Eilif breathed into her ear, just before he escaped into blackness.

Eilif’s ringing phone jolted him back from the past. Drained and out of breath, he got up from his recliner, his swollen ankles aching. “Hello?”

“Hi Eilif, its Erik. I know it’s been a while, but I was hoping you could help me with the annual fundraiser I’m organizing …”

“I’m sorry, Erik. I’m really busy these days. Maybe next year,” Eilif interrupted. “I have to go. I’m not feeling very well right now.” Tossing his phone onto his recliner, he stared out the window. He thought back to the day Erik drove him home from the rehab hospital two months after his accident.

Erik pulled into the driveway and said, “I’ll see you in.”

“No Erik. I want to be alone.” Fumbling for his cane, he got out and hobbled to his stone cottage, cane clenched in his right hand, overnight bag slung over his left shoulder and the ceramic Goddess tucked inside the crook of his arm.

The smell of lamb and cabbage filled the air. Eilif stiffened. “What are you doing here, Mom?” he said, staring at his mother in the kitchen making Norwegian mutton stew.

“Hello dear. I wanted to be here for you when you got home.”

“I want to be alone, Mom.”

“You know, Eilif---Freyja’s mother has forgiven you. You know. For the accident.”

“I don’t want to talk about that. I don’t mean to be rude, but I just want to be by myself.”

In the middle of the night, Eilif opened the door to the nursery. Switching on the light, he studied the mural of his two white-tailed eagles. With his fingertips, he traced the pastel pink letters he had painted all those months ago. Celtic Goddess. Knuckles white, he gripped his cane and limped over to the white crib. Gazing down, he touched the pink and white blanket Freyja crocheted. The corner was folded back into a perfect triangle. Laying on top was a pink sheet of calligraphy paper in his wife’s handwriting. For Brigid---Inside the Crook of Daddy’s Arm. Eilif’s heavy wooden cane made a clatter as it fell against the bars of the crib. He didn’t feel his legs as he folded down in slow motion like wet cement, his hands concealing the deep jagged scars that criss-crossed his face. The ceramic Goddess tumbled headfirst, its’ contents spilling onto the pink shaggy carpet.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, and the months turned into years. It was early May, the day before Eilif’s forty-second birthday. While watching his big screen television, lazing in his recliner and surrounded by his boxes of alcohol, his stone heart began to weaken. Clutching his heart, Eilif moaned, and collapsed onto his single bed inside his stone cottage.

On his last day on his single oak bed, an archangel named Azrael appeared in divine light before him. Placing his palm on Eilif’s faintly beating heart, Azrael asked in a faraway voice, “Did you become everything you were destined to be, Eilif? Did you fulfill all of your dreams?”

“Just my dream of finding Freyja, but I destroyed that dream. Eilifs’ lips parted, his eyes vacant. “After she was gone, I gave up on my dreams because I wasn’t deserving. I’m just a lonely, pathetic man,” Eilif said, his voice weak and raspy.

“You were not born this way. You did not come into this world a recluse---scarred, obese, addicted, nor made of stone. It is not who you are,” said Azrael.

“It was my fault I lost everything,” Eilif said, tears falling from his eyes. “My beautiful Goddess died because of me. She tried to warn me of our impending fate, but I wasn’t mindful. That was the day I turned to stone. I was not strong or brave enough to heal or repair the destruction.”

“You made a mistake, Eilif. Yet you deserve forgiveness. I feel your pain and grief, but suffering is no legacy to Freyja. Before long, you will see her again.” Azrael removed the ashes of Freyja and Brigid, tucked inside the crook of Eilif’s arm, and returned the Goddess to the mantle. Uncurling Eilifs’ fingers, he removed the crumpled piece of yellowed paper from the palm of his hand. It was Freyja’s collection of love poems and all of Eilifs’ hopes and dreams written in script, on an ancient scroll.

It was my choice to give up on life, after Freyja and Brigid died in that senseless car accident, Eilif thought. I have no legacy or profound gifts to leave the world. I never achieved great things. Who did I ever help? Eilif shivered as he felt his body grow colder.

A waterfall of tears coursed down the deep, jagged scars on Eilif’s face. It was the first time he cried since Freyja died. Struggling to focus, he saw, then heard the magnificent waterfall outside of his window.

He heard Freyja’s faint voice, Oh Eilif, did you know you were the love of my life?

Looking up through the skylight above his bed, he glimpsed a pair of white-tailed eagles spinning downward from the cloudless sky, breaking off at the last moment, disappearing from view.

As Eilif’s breathing became irregular and shallow, Azrael took his hand and remained with him until Eilif passed to the other side to be with his beloved wife and daughter.

Eilif was flawed because he was human, yet immortal because he will live forever, carved in Freyja’s eternal heart and spirit.

The waterfall cascaded and roared down the mountain into the tranquil fjord below. Eilif rested in peace in his marble coffin, with his rolled up ancient scroll placed in his right hand at his heart and his ceramic Goddess tucked inside the crook of his arm. Gazing down onto Eilif, a small group of mourners wept, as a deafening thunder rumbled. It was the stones---collapsing and crashing down.