Gjallarhorn

And the horn shall sound, and its voice shall be heard in all worlds.

God.

Once, among mortals, a god lived.

He did not arrive.
He was born.

Slippery.
Blue.
Crying.

They laid him on a woman’s breast.

She checked whether he was breathing
and fell asleep.

He had to learn the air.

Winter brought frost blooming inside the room.
Water in the bucket crusted at the rim.
Bread grated with sand between the teeth.

He was ill.

Fever tangled his tongue.
Once he called himself by another name
and did not notice.

A cough cut at his chest.
Sometimes he pressed his palm to his heart,
as if something extra had been left there.

He grew.

Not faster than the others.
Not slower.

He carried water.
Held the ladder.
Mended the roof.
Sat beside the beds of the dying.

He learned to remain
when leaving would have been easier.

The first child died in his arms.
The body was too light.

After that, it grew quieter inside.

He buried them.

The earth is heavy.
There are fewer people.

Each time, something tightened
and did not return.

Infinity does not vanish.
It slips from between the fingers.

You may watch them go.

Faces change.
Pain remains.

You may not watch.

An old cow lay behind the shed.

Her milk had saved the winter.
Now she did not breathe.

He sawed off a horn.

The smell was sweet.
Heavy.

He boiled it down.
Scraped it with a knife.
Burned it clean from within.

Until a smooth curve remained
and a hollow
into which air enters.

He held it in his hands,
testing the weight.

He said:

When suffering becomes air.
When day ceases to differ from night.
When there are no petitions left, no excuses —

sound it.

If anything still remains —
I will hear.

He did not test it.

Later, he grew old.

Forgot names.
Once he did not recognise the house
and stood at the door
until he was let in.

He coughed blood.
Sometimes he did not rise.

And died.

Without light.
Without a sign.

The body was burned.

Skin blackened.
Fat cracked.
Bones reddened, then greyed.

The ash scattered.
The name — earlier.

The horn remained.

At first they kept it in the house.

Then they carried it beneath the lean-to.

Then they laid stone around it.

Not from fear.
From memory.

The words were passed on precisely:

when suffering becomes air — sound it.

Walls appeared.
Then a vault.
Then a cold hall.

A temple rose.

They did not adorn it.
Did not petition.
Did not appoint dates.

The horn lay at the centre.

No one touched it.

They waited.

Centuries passed.

Cities grew and emptied.
Rivers sank deeper.
The earth cracked.
Summer did not end.

There were fewer people.

It became hard to breathe.

Day ceased to differ from night.

There were no more words.

They gathered.

All who could still walk.

The temple was almost empty.

The stone cold.
The horn light.

The eldest lifted it.

Did not breathe for a long time.
Then drew breath.

There was little air.

The sound came out long.
Even.
Human.

It rose to the vault.
To the sky.

The sky remained closed.

The sound dissolved.

The people stood.

Then someone sat.
Then lay down.
Then there were fewer of them.

Last remained a child.

He sat by the wall
and waited
for the adults to rise.

They did not rise.

He went to the horn.

Held it on his knees a long time.

Ran his finger along the smooth curve.

Looked inside.

There was emptiness there.
The same as in the hall.

He lifted the horn with both hands.
Set it to his lips.

He did not know words.
Did not know what must be called.

He simply drew breath.

There was not enough air.

The sound was short.
Fragile.

It struck the vault
and fell back.

The child sat.

Then lay down.

The horn slipped
and touched the stone.

The sound was quieter than the first.

And there was no one
left
to breathe.