Rent-Seeking at Ragnarokk

Like so many people these days, the old man was sitting on a dirty blanket, a pile of junk (his wares) arrayed before him. Most likely, it was everything he owned.

I'd pawed through thousands of such tumbled heaps, looking for good flips, and it was much the same: the rat's nest of costume jewelry (including a heart-shaped locket with the inscription: "Love Always, Your Champion"), a lamp with a dented shade, some fancy plates you couldn't even give away anymore, cans of soup and cat food.

I picked up the locket. Engravings spoke the language of my heart, all melted into to one word--gold! The other sentiments... showed their value plain enough.

I looked to the old man, Odjinn, he was called. His gaze was fixed across the street, and something told me he was in a poetic frame of mind.

"'Twas a war between wolves and giants that tore that monolith in two," he began, gesturing to the vacant mill--one giant had erected it, another had torn it in half out of pure spite.

The outer wall, and much of the building that was once there, was missing, its viscera draped and hanging open to the world, wrenched and twisted: steel girders, wooden flooring, bloated layers of pink and yellow insulation, crumbling concrete, all tilting downward at violent and unlikely angles--about to pitch itself to the ground, yet hanging, year after year.

Torn in half as though it might have been a little layer cake. Left to rot in its suffering as a reminder to us all.

I sighed; everyone knew about the giants, everyone knew about the wolves. Never seen, always felt and heard. "Working against each other for once, instead of us," I remarked, trying to curb what I sensed might be a lengthy tale--one that I knew all too well.

I didn't know why he was going on about such old news anyway. Buildings were collapsing all over the place, day to day now. "Nothing holds anymore," I reminded him, as I'd had to remind myself, when this all began for me.

"Time was, the bonds of the world were made of the same gold as our hearts."

"And so the world crumbles." ...People were always so righteous, like they'd done nothing to bring this to pass. Hearts of gold!!!??? It made me so angry I spat.

"Better to live with a black heart, you think? What value do your words have anyway, young man who plays for the giants? They make you small, as you scurry about with your foolish trades, ripping the marrow from all you touch, and trading back the rattling bones. You make us all smaller day by day."

I shrugged, immune to his disgust. He sat in the place of ethical men.

I continued to scan his merchandise, and noticed an old brass clock. It was surprisingly heavy for its size. Opening the door in its back, I discovered the workings were hand-made, a rarity of expertise.

But they were nothing compared to what else I saw: stacked bundles of gold coins, carefully fitted into the clock's casing. It took me half a second to know there was twenty grand sitting right there.

I slapped the box shut. "How much for this?" I asked, feigning nonchalance.

"Bah-- what would you want with that? We all know what time it is, yet it spares us nothing! Light and dark have left the sky, and we shiver in the gray, knowing day nor night!" He paused abruptly from his haunted musings, looking at me with a smile. "I'd recommend the cat food, if it's plunder you're after. It could soon make you a rich man."

Typically weird, these days. People were raving everywhere. But I was used to the floor falling from the world; this was my moment, and no way I'd grow a conscience now. "I'll take my chance with the timepiece all the same. How much?"

"How much for a piece of my life..." he looked off, with yet another aggrieved expression.

Like I said, people were raving everywhere. I wasn't taken in.

Then the old man spoke softly, with an eerie intensity: "What is the treasure that you truly seek, and what is it worth to you?" He looked up at me, moving a clump of hair that had covered one eye--revealing the horror of an empty socket.

I pride myself on not being shaken, yet that eye raised a shudder in me like few things ever had. It was like the abyss itself peered through where his eye had been, looking at me with all the gravity one would expect from an infinite chasm. How could emptiness feel so full of terror?

After a moment, I caught myself. Despite my best efforts, I had a poetic spirit. I'd fallen for his little drama, for a second. Admittedly a good ruse on his part, but I would win.

What he said next, though, utterly surprised me: "Young man, I'll give you the riches, but you must take this book as well, and use it. It is a treasure beyond measure."

That poetic spirit again, it was the bane of us all. In this case, it had brought a surprising twist. I wasn't looking for him to capitulate so readily. And generally, I didn't deal in religiosities (stingy clientele), and I had no interest in using them myself. But I focused on the gold coins. I would use the book (clearly some devout prison of a tome) a time or two perhaps, to honor the deal (tainting me already, tricky old goat).

Even thinking the word, "honor" had made me grit my teeth, but I knew I would follow through on that. Maybe because I owed his generosity that much effort, maybe just macabre curiosity about what the book contained. Still, something about the whole transaction had a sour feeling. I'd won, yet somehow it seemed that he wore the glow of victory.

He handed me the clock, the locket, and the book. I was so stunned--I even thanked him!--as I shoved the goods in my backpack. Clearly I was slipping. Word of my softening edges would hit the streets in no time.

But the grayness of the sky seemed somehow brighter. I turned, toward the giants' ruin, walking to a path hidden in the tangled vines that covered one side. Underneath, it was unearthly quiet, a place suspended in some other dimension.

I emerged at the banks of the river, and sound erupted all at once: water rushing over the rocks, a strong wind rattling what brown leaves remained on the trees. It was a shunned and lonesome spot, but it was mine.

Settling on my favorite rock, I pulled the little black book from my bag. Small as my hand, bound in worn black leather. Looking a moment more, I saw that a pattern was inscribed into it. Intricate scrollwork--feathers, perhaps?

Before my eyes, the design revealed itself--emerging from some secret realm. It was a yew tree, gnarled, thick-trunked, and ancient. "Bridge between life and death," I mused. My life might as well have been written in its wood.