“Yes, I know. You promise to wear the muffler—”
Gunnar took it as he cast a sheepish look at Odin. “All right. All right. I’ll take it—”
After Freida’s boat had disappeared, Gunnar tried to joke about the muffler. But he was a bit proud of it too, and put it around his neck. The ends almost brushed the ground, but it was so warm that he soon had to roll it up and carry it with him.
The two went for a meal. But Gunnar ate little, grumbling at the food. Once he assured Odin that he had never had a chill in his life—that Freida was too thoughtful about him—
“Sure. Sure.” Odin agreed.
Then, finally, Gunnar cleared his throat and spoke the things that were in his mind.
“Friend Odin,” he began, looking down at his plate as though he expected to see an answer there. “I fear that I have seen my family for the last time. We are in for a trip beyond the dreams of men. Beyond Ragnarok—to the edge of the night where the mad gods make bonfires of worn-out suns—where space itself serves the mad squirrel.”
Gunnar paused to mutter a few words to himself and then looked up at Odin with the old smile on his broad face. “Oh, well, a man must go as far as his heart will take him—”
But for all his big talk, Gunnar tossed and muttered that night. And once, Odin heard him cry out—“So, Hagen, the stars swing right at last, and you are mine for the taking. Oh, my lost little boys and my lost little girl—”