To Valhalla!

‘We can’t do it,’ says Roman, wiping his tears. ‘It’s too hard. I’m telling Mum.’

‘No! We promised Grandad,’ says his twin Rommy. ‘But, how can we get him down the stairs?’ 

‘The kayak,’ says cousin George.

‘We know about the kayak, …Ohhh!’ says Rommy, ‘we bring it here, and kayak him down the staircase!’

‘Everyone quiet! It’ll all be ruined if the olds wake-up’. George pokes a finger to where their parent’s are sleeping. 

The extended family has gathered in their childhood home to farewell the Patriarch, or Grandad as the kids know him, before he dies, which he did, minutes ago, with the children by his side.

George curls a finger to Rommy to join him, before raising an arm above his head, and forward, commando-style.

‘Great,’ says Roman, pissy at being excluded, ‘not just body snatchers, we’re in the bloody army now.’

George points to Grandad, then waves his hands up and down his body.

‘Huh?’

‘Prepare him!’

‘Who died and made you king?’ mumbles Roman, as George and Rommy leave Grandad’s room.

‘Distasteful!’ Rommy pokes her head back around the door and glares at Roman before tiptoeing away. They avoid the creaky boards, ingrained in their memory from years of night-time raids in the old house.

Roman pulls a musty leather suitcase from under the bed thinking I’m not undressing him.

When the other two return carrying Grandad’s beloved kayak, they find he’s dressed for sea burial.

‘Geez, what the hell is that?’ whispers George.

‘That, the hell, is what he wants to wear,’ says Roman.

‘It’s a Ceremonial Viking Burial Suit,’ Rommy adds, ‘that’s a Viking headdress we made with him a year ago.’

‘It really isn’t,’ says George, ‘but, if that’s what he wants.’

They fashion a slide using the bedcover. But, instead of sliding on his back, Grandad rolls, face-planting both on and off the kayak.

‘Shitting fuck!’ says Roman.

‘Shh,’ says Rommy, ‘you wanna get us into trouble?’

‘Right! Like they’re gonna tells us off for swearing, and not notice the dead mardi gras queen we’re illegally dumping?’

‘Shut up you two!’ George straps Grandad to the kayak, using a selection of his belts, from the wardrobe. ‘And pull!’

The kayak slides across the threadbare carpet, but catches at the top of the stairs. 

‘Soap!’ Rommy runs to the bathroom, and returns brandishing a can of shaving cream. ‘Better! It spurts, and it’s really slimy.’ 

With a spray and another push the kayak tips forward. Sliding down the staircase, it rolls to one side. There’s a series of sickening thuds as Grandad’s head contacts every baluster, removing the headdress and partially scalping him, leaving a trail of blood.

Horrified at the sight, the children race down the stairs and right the craft, dragging and pushing it out the double-doors to the deck, down the five steps, across the lawn, and onto the beach. Grandad’s headdress and part of his head dangling. Fearful of dawn joggers and dog walkers, adrenalin speeds them on.

At the shoreline, they straighten his headdress and launch the death-ship into the sea. It floats for three metres and returns on the tiny waves.

‘Shit! Oh my days! Shit!’ George looks about the beach, as the joggers, and worse, the dogs start to appear in the golden morning glow.

‘It’s ok!’ Rommy turns to the boys, with both hands splayed in front of her. ‘I will be the Valkyrie!’ she climbs onto grandad’s lap, and paddles out beyond the second break. When she turns back to the beach the boys give her a thumbs up. She rolls into the water, and gives the kayak another push out to sea, and swims back, finally collapsing onto the sand. Roman pats her back, and George gives more thumbs up, their time of grief to come. Rommy, her face wet with salty tears, raises her head and sputters, ‘To Valhalla!’