The Coin of Valhalla Prologue Draft 5

The Coin of Valhalla

Prologue

By: Chase L. Currie

Edited By: Matthew Barnes

I haven't been here in years.

I can't remember the last time I saw the old brick house; to see home once again. Making it back here seems all like a dream to me now, a dream I could wake up from at any moment. I told myself I wasn't going to set foot back in this town, the place which made me into a man. I wasn't going to make it out of the war alive, but I did. These old bones made it back to the States in one piece when some friends of mine did not.

A Valkyrie was looking out for me, I could feel her presence the whole time I was in that sand pit. She would lie beside me at night protecting me from harm with her black wings. She would march along with me every step of the way. My warrior lady got me home alive, to step foot once more in this town we both came from. 

            I jumped into a rented car from the airport and rushed down I-85 North racing home towards some good old southern cooking. Getting off the exit made me slow my speed while I tried to calm myself down. Missing home was part of war; every soldier did it, every soldier knew of the longing regardless of which side of the line they stood. We all wish to see our family, our friends and rest in our own beds. We all wanted it and I was going to have it, my reward for the blood on my hands. 

I try not to put the pedal to the floor on Concord Parkway because I remembered there was always a cop or two waiting to hand a painful golden ticket to some poor soul. They sat between the mall and the Speedway, an enemy in waiting in their own kind of way.

They might let me pass with just a warning considering I'm dressed in my Marine Blues. My mother's cooking paid for the uniform, she loved seeing me in it, even if I hate the uniform. A Marines real uniform is what he wore into battle. Not wanting to test the fates, the car slowed, and I drove by them eyeing the blue and white crows wishing to feast on me.

            After the stop light I swung right, then a few moments later turn left heading down Morehead with the cold rain falling this autumn day. North Carolina always looks like Heaven in the fall. The trees sing out in color like Monet came by and painted each of them. I wondered what Monet would think of this place if he saw it. How different would his painting come out if he lived here?

            The wet drops of water hit my window shield followed by bigger drops of orange and red leaves. The wind kicked against my car, moving it just ever so slightly and I knew it was cool outside without even feeling it. I felt the heat blasting from the engine down at my feet, it shot up my legs and around my chest. It made the cold day seem ever more perfect and a smile crossed my face at the thought of coming home in the picturesque American way.

            I guess that's what I miss most of about being home. The fresh air, warm food, and changing colors of the trees. But the trees above all else. After spending far too many years in the deserts of Iraq there’s nothing like seeing oak trees and dogwoods that stipple the Southern states.

            I went around the bend, over the bridge that leads into the small town of Harrisburg, the place where my childhood still resides in far back memories. I slow down looking around, noticing everything that hasn’t changed. Back in the barracks, soldiers coming back from visiting home would always talk about how much things had changed, but nothing seems to have changed here. It was as if someone reached inside my mind, plucked out the picture of my town and kept it locked away in a chest just for me until I came home. 

It all look the same.

It all felt small.

I drove passed a few streets, knowing which members of my family still lived down those roads. I remember which friends never made it out of this small town. My head floods with summers games and an army of small children with toy guns running around yelling at each other. “I got you!”

“No, you didn't, I was too fast!”

“You’re a liar!”

            My hands turned the wheel to head down on those roads that were not mine, smiling as I went, reliving just for a moment the life of a child I once was. How life back then seemed so different. My child incarnates believed the sun was warmer, the sky was brighter, and everything felt alright once your friends showed up; nothing like the rough days of adulthood now. We would play for hours until the street lights came on, the unmistakable neighborhood light houses telling us it was time to go home and to wait until tomorrow when again the battles of our imagination would rage again.

The stop sign sang for me to haul and I followed its orders. Looking in the mirror seeing some kids walking home from the bus stop, I saw myself in the pack. It was as if there was a part of me that never left this blessed time in my life. 

I had seen real war people dying, losing friends, and attending funerals. War is no game when you're an adult, but as a child, it's just a way of being a kid. War then was nothing but a game. A game, I wish, I could back too, but I can't.

            My pleasant daydream passed the house of the first girl I ever kissed in high school. I wanted to stop to see what happened to her. Would she recognize me now? Has war or life changed me so much she couldn't remember the scared boy trying not to miss her lips? 

They say war changes people.

Then again so does a kiss.

 The first girl I kissed was named Jessi Lee. She had long black hair, a lovely button nose hung on her face, and that would wrinkle up with she smiles. She never did smile too much but when she did it lit up the world. Or at least it did back then. 

We skipped school one day to go to her house, had a few of her dad's beers and it was under these circumstances that she kissed me. We kissed for what felt like hours and she told me I was the best kisser she ever had. It was a lie but a lie I was willing to believe then.

A couple of days later, we did it again but this time we made out all day until her mother came home. She was so mad at Jessi, yelling about how she couldn't keep bringing boys home to kiss. The only thing I could ask was how many boys has she been kissing. Come to find out it was a lot.

            Her mom called my mom, and she grounded me for a week. Not for kissing Jessi, not for being alone with a girl, but it was skipping school that upset her. My father would later tell me later he trusted me not to do anything over the top, and for the most part he was right. All I wanted was the kiss itself.

            I had continued to see Jessi at school and we talked and hung out some, but we didn’t kiss anymore. I couldn’t do it anymore, not after finding out she was kissing every other boy in the neighborhood.

One day, when I went to homeroom and Jessi wasn't there. In fact, she never showed back up to school. We later found out her home life was not that great. Her dad drank too much, and her mom walked out on them. She hadn't move away, just stopped coming to school. I would see her around town sometimes, working at the gas station or the grocery store, but we never talked. I never understood I couldn’t bring myself to speak to her again.

            Presently, I stopped in front of her house. Her dad was still driving an old red truck. I wanted to know if her life got any better. If she was happy now? If she found out where her mother ran off too? Did her dad ever stop drinking? I opened the door, but the cold wind kissing against my skin stopped me from going any farther. My foot planted on the ground, my hand on the door and my eyes staring at her house.

            I sat back, shutting the door and putting my seat belt back on. I didn't have time to stop and see Jessi. I didn't have the time to find the answers to all my questions. I had to get home.

            My house was around the bend and at the end of the other street. The sky darkens, and the rain started to fall harder. It was cold even with the heat blasting. I slowed my driving more than I wanted but the car just seemed cruise on that one speed against my will.

 My joy fades like snow in Africa and I remembered why I came home. Around the bend seeing all the cars of my family and friends, I wished that they were there to see me.

Instead, they came home because of something sadder, something I wish I could skip.

 I pulled into the driveway; my mother would be crying on the couch by now. I didn't have to get into the door to know the house was so quiet, even a mouse would fear to break the silence. My uncles were trying to lighten the mood with some bad jokes, but it wasn't working. The jokes were their way of showing grief while some of my friends were trying to find away outside to smoke a cigarette to be away from the crying.

They were getting nowhere.

            My foot stepped out of the car, my hand shut the door behind me, and I stood there looking at the house. It was the house that my grandfather built and my father lived all his life. These red bricks were the castle of my youth, a castle it still seemed to me now. 

I made my way between the cars to the garage when a warming voice called my name.

Richard was standing there smoking a pipe and smiling big at me. His tired skin hung sorrowful off his bone. I put my arms around the man's fragile body. He looked at me with his dark brown eyes full of youthful energy while his body longed for a moment of rest. He always looked that way, full of energy, ready to go, to do something, never being able to sit still.

            I grabbed the smokes from my pocket, lit up a match and pulled the mild smoke to the back of my throat while Richard said, "You're looking good, son."

            “You're not looking half bad yourself,” I replied, looking down at him a little. He was shorter than I remembered but still commanded a sense of power. I was standing beside him as his equal and yet, I felt like a child again, revering him in awe.

            He ran his bony hand through his little bit of red hair he had left, and said, "I haven't worn this suit in a very long time." It was a simple black suit, nothing special about it and it looked simple on him. It had probably sat in Richard's closet for years until now. "But it quite shines. Not like your suit, son."

            “Aaa . . . this old thing,” I said, “I would rather be in something else.”

            He laughed a little. “It's really good to have you back.”

            “It's good to be back,” I said, glancing at the door.

            “You can go in if you want.”

            “Nah, I think, I need to wait,” I told him, looking back at the smiling old man. He seemed way too happy to be standing at a sad house on this raining day. “Not too sure, I'm ready to deal with all of it, you know?”

            “I don't think you are either.”

            "What you mean?" I asked, raising one eyebrow, but he didn't answer my question. Instead, he pulled a silver coin from his pocket and rolled it around in his jointed hand. I haven't seen the coin in years. That singular coin, that changed my life forever.

            “You remember the summer you stolen this from me?” He asked.

            "How could I forget," I told him. I can remember those times like it was yesterday. I never left those warm months.