I suppose I must have finally passed out from the schnapps ….
“….but there is so much more than you remember ….” Jörn is saying
it seems he has been talking ….even as I was not conscious….but he speaks to me as if I am….for how long has he been speaking to me thus….
I am sprawled across the giant bed in the giant master bedroom that I know well, as have shared with him ….
like a life time ago
And as I think this I hear him say,
“so many life times that ….you could never understand ….how even centuries and new eras sweep into decades and centuries ….people die and you learn not to attach ….but still you would think ….the memories would have faded to nothing ….replaced by newer—fresher—more dna upgraded ….humans….you’d think your beauty would have faded from my memory ….?without a photo to hold onto ….replaced by some supermodel along the way ….is that what you thought….Elan ….” he whispers this
It is dim darkness. Our eyes look at each other
and I don’t really know if it is the left over of being drunk ….but I am held as if out of myself but fully present
and my questions are in unison of things I can’t fully grasp but think anyway and —intensely ….feel
I turn my head on the mattress to look at him
He is standing with his arms crossed, half his body turned to the window but his torso snd shoulders are turned inward towards me
“You don’t remember ….” he says to me
I hold my breath
“You only remember up until the night when you died in the hut ….”
And more still— I hardly dare take a breath
He is staring at me,
“but that wasn't the time I was ….too late….”
That sick taste and my mouth goes dry. That cold heat. That knowing dread.
“No,” I whisper and shudder as a deep chill overcomes me as I start to whisper,
“Jag är tillbaka före midnattssolen,” the words seem to come on their own; as if it is their free will possessing my vocal chords
“Ja….Jag är tillbaka före midnattssolen…. you were saying that on the field the second time you died—the final time—“
“Second time?”
“Ja—yes….another signal to me that it was you….you died and came back—when I got there—you see….and but—you see?—that was it—how I knew—you see?— how I knew it had to be you —that you are Elan—because it was the same date of the same year of your life at the other —lifetime….there was another father you don’t remember—the Druid was not your blood father….you knew that ….I mention this now because you are still being haunted — this is where the father complexities came from—but watching you still fighting like Don Quixote’s windmills, completely blind and I cannot keep standing like a bystander and say nothing anymore ….”
I sit up,
“What are you talking about?”
“You don’t remember him ….you used to talk about him to me ….he was from the keltoi line, the real Celts, not the ornamental posers you see strutting at comic con ….he was from the Germanic tribes from across the Alps but….he became a mercenary ….that is how he found your mother —Elan’s ….she was from the raids ….I believe some kind of Siberian tribe, she was a seer, she was trained in the arts of healing and she had natural skill —like you do…. but he seemed to care for your mother and she had good stories of the early years but—you always felt he wished you’d been born a boy so —you never felt you measured up enough ….that is why ….you always find yourself in ….”
But I finish his sentence
“The Self fulfilling prophecy ….complex ….”
