To The Misty Mountain

“Mother, I must go to the mountain.”

Mrs. Silvstedt sighed, “It’s a hill, not a mountain.”

Not in the least deterred the boy continued, “If I do not return, fret not mother for the old gods have taken me to their bosom.”

“Take your parka. It’s damp out.” As her son dutifully obeyed, she added, “And if you are not welcomed to Valhalla today make sure you’re home before your father.”

“I shall endeavor, mother,” he said from the doorway, “and I love you.”

“I love you too, Per,” and she went back to chopping vegetables for the night’s stew.

Young Per trudged steadfastly out the garden gate and onto the gravel road. A green behemoth rose before him, arching well into the low hanging clouds. His eyes narrowed. His grip redoubled on the small hatchet he had snuck under his jacket.

Today, he would find magic; of this he was sure. So many generations of myth and lore could not have come from nothing. There had to be a shining truth hidden somewhere in the shadows of the world.

There had to be adventure.

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