The Boar's Head Dagger

This is my entry in the Heroism - the Oggbashan Memorial Event 2025. Ogg was a long time contributor and active presence on the Literotica forum for many years. He embodied the word heroism, fighting against death itself. This story is in his honor. BE WARNED! This is a long story with a slow burn, and has a great deal of historical content. Please try a different story if you are unprepared to engage.

Visiting the Normandie region of France, a Norwegian woman hears a legendary tale of bravery by the people of Rouen as they faced an invading Viking army in the year 841. Tracing the footsteps of the Vikings, she follows a trail of clues that lead her to the grave of a Canadian soldier who fought in France during World War II. While uncovering his extraordinary story, she finds an unexpected link to the legendary tale from twelve centuries earlier, and learns that real treasure is held in your heart. All characters at all times are over the age of 18.

Out of every one hundred men, ten shouldn't even be there, eighty are just targets, nine are the real fighters, and we are lucky to have them, for they make the battle, Ah, but the one, one is a warrior and he will lead the others back. -- Heraclitus

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Chapter 1

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"It is so peaceful here, Father. Standing on this pebbled beach and watching the breakers."

"My son, the sea is always in motion and makes the heart restless with longing for adventure."

"Where the wind takes me, I will go. But there is fear in my heart."

"Fear of what, my son."

"The long voyage to Frankia."

"Olaf, there is a special bond between our people and the sea. The sea is in our blood. And our blood is in the sea."

"Father, I have been told the Franks fight with passion, so I should expect many fierce battles."

"The Franks fight to protect their families. Such a thing makes sword arms stronger and hearts more stout. Fear not death, for the hour of your doom is set, and no one can escape it. You must face your Fate bravely, if you are to feast in Valhalla. Here, I want you to have this."

"A Boar's Head Dagger? It is magnificent, Father. I shall treasure it."

"When you hold it, the dagger will remind you of your mother and I. You family is the real treasure. A man's kin are his true worth."

"Father, will there ever be a king of Norvegur?"

"I do not foresee it. Every leader in the North Way fights against the others. We must put aside our differences if we are to unite behind a King."

"I will fight with honor, Father."

"Keep the dagger close, my son. From his weapons on the open road, no man should step one pace away. Hail to the Sea!"

"Hail to the Sea!"

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Chapter 2

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I took a sip of my latte as I walked down the steps to the first floor. There must be a secret to making a good cup of latte, but that secret eludes me. My ex-wife made a great cup, though perhaps she flavored it with love, for a while, anyway. But after catching her sleeping with a younger man, I my love for her was shattered, and she obviously had none for me. I took another sip and smiled, knowing I'd rather live with a bad latte than a bad wife.

Finding the light switches, I flipped them on, one at a time. I didn't want to risk any surges in my four-hundred-year-old house. The electrical system wasn't that old, of course. It only felt like it at times! I looked around at the exhibits and decided they did not require dusting today. I began the morning routine. Open the front curtain. Unlock the door. Flip the sign to OPEN. My one-man Viking Museum was ready for visitors! Perhaps there would be one today. If not, I would get further into the good history book I was reading.

The old-fashioned bells on the front door tinkled as it was opened. A tall blonde woman dressed in a nicely tailored suit stepped in. She looked a few years younger than me, perhaps fifty.

I proclaimed, "Hail, seeker of knowledge! Your presence honors me!"

She scanned the room, then said, "The sign outside says there is a Viking museum here. May I inquire as to its location?"

I replied, "The museum is all around you! Immerse yourself in the history of the Vikings in Normandie!"

"All I see are a handful of artifacts, at least half of which are obvious reproductions. And I doubt looking at those 'things' hung on the wall will give me information I couldn't find on the Internet in ten minutes."

"My humble apologies. I don't charge any admission fees. I retired two years ago and set this museum up by myself. I have ideas and plans to make it better one day."

She took a deep breath and slowly released it. "I expected more from the city of Rouen. I went into your famous Cathedral to see the tomb of the great Viking leader, Rollo. The Gothic Cathedral was full of towers, spires, arches, stained glass, and stone. Lots and lots of stone. Maybe interesting if you are into architecture, but I'm here for history. I found Rollo's tomb quite disappointing. There was nothing except a life size statue made of metal and stone lying supine atop a rectangular stone sarcophagus. The head was stone, but the face was far too pretty for a Viking, and worse, the figure had no beard. Unheard of!"

I replied, "The tomb was partially destroyed in the bombings during World War II. The head is actually a copy of a young French king."

She yelped, "Right. Other than some Latin writing on the side of the sarcophagus there was nothing to honor Rollo or his accomplishments. I did find one pleasant surprise inside the Cathedral, the tomb of Richard the Lionheart! I believe he is one of Rollo's descendants."

"That is correct."

"The Joan of Arc museum was my next disappointment. It's supposed to be the site where Joan was burned at the stake in 1431. Convicted of the crimes of heresy and witchcraft, Joan was forced to sign a confession in exchange for life imprisonment. So, why was she still burned? Because after signing her confession, Joan committed the most horrific crime in all of France. She dressed like a man! You French take your fashion seriously. And now I'm here in this wretched little museum, disappointed again. Wait until I tell my colleagues back at the University of Oslo about this."

"Oslo?" I asked. "Are you Norwegian?"

"I am. I'm a professor in the music department. My specialties are the Sagas and skaldic poetry, hence my interest in coming here."

I found a glimmer of hope in her words. "Then you know Viking history was rarely written, but rather, was kept as oral history. While my exhibits may be lacking, I hope you will allow me to weave you the tale of the Vikings in France. My name is Victor, by the way."

She smiled for the first time, then replied, "Well met, storyteller! Share with me your tale of yore! Please, you may call be Kari."

I said, "Thank you, Kari. Viking raids began on the coastal villages around the year 820. The raids grew larger until, in 841, they sailed up the Seine to Rouen, looted it, and burned it down. Larger raids continued along the Seine, sacking other towns and monasteries, until the year 845 when a Viking army led by Ragnar sailed all the way to Paris and captured it. After Frankish troops failed to re-take the city, King Charles paid 7000 pounds of silver in ransom. Large Viking raiding parties came from every Scandinavian country and this continued for decades while the Frankish king fought his half-brothers for control of Frankia. The king even paid one group of Vikings to fight against his enemies, sometimes pitting Vikings against each other in battle."

"In the year 887, a Viking leader named Rollo took the town of Rouen and imposed himself as the ruler of the lower Seine region. Though the battles did not end, neither the Frankish king nor other Viking raiders could dislodge Rollo. Then, an amazing thing happened. Rollo became a ruler, rather than a raider. He recognized it would be better to work with the local Frankish people so that everyone prospered. Rollo began trading with all of western Europe. In the year 911, the Frankish king stopped trying to oust Rollo and instead granted control of the region in exchange for his allegiance. Rollo became the first Duke of Normandie, known as the land of men of the North."

"Melding the Franks with the Scandinavian people, Rollo created a new population of people known as Normans. Viking men married Frankish women, and over time, the Northmen became familiar with the language, culture, and politics of their new home. One hundred and fifty years of prosperity passed, then Rollo's great-great-great-grandson crossed the English channel in 1066 to conquer all of England. His name was Guillaume le Conquérant, better known as William the Conqueror."

Kari said, "Well done, Victor the storyteller. Are there other places, better places, I should visit while I am in Normandie?"

"Few Viking artifacts have been found here in France. They did discover the burned remains of a Viking burial on the island of Groix. The museum there has some artifacts, but I don't think it's worth visiting. The Louvre was originally built as a fortress to defend against the Vikings, but there is nothing original left to see. I do recommend a trip to Parc Ornavik near Caen. It's a reproduction of a Viking camp with fully costumed living history reenactors. Don't just listen, ask them plenty of questions. And do stay for lunch if you can, as the galettes and crepes are quite good."

I continued, "The Vikings became Normans, and much of their recorded history begins with the Norman chronicles documenting their own history. It is worth a visit to see the Bayeux Tapestry, though it is more Norman than Viking. Look closely at the detail of the embroidery. But get there soon if you are interested. The exhibit is closing at the end of summer for renovations. As you are aware, the rest of what we know about the Vikings in France comes from the Sagas, written three hundred years later. But we do have an interesting local legend right here in Rouen."

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Chapter 3

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Kari said, "I'm intrigued. I should like to hear it. Please continue."

I pulled up a stool, sat down, and began. "The year 841 in the city of Rouen. If the rising pillars of black smoke on the western horizon were not enough to frighten the people, a stream of fleeing refugees yelling, "Norsemen", sufficed. Hasty preparations were made to mount a defense, in hopes the raiding party was small and could be turned away. But hope was replaced by fear when scouts reported an enormous fleet moving up the Seine River."

"Beaching their longships just west of Rouen, the Viking army marched into the city and plundered the town with fire and sword, slaughtering the monks and laying waste to the monastery of St Ouen. Herding the rest of the city's population together, the Norsemen demanded an enormous sum of silver in exchange for sparing the city. The fearful people paid. But it wasn't enough to satisfy the raiders, so they began going house to house, pillaging everything of value and burning the homes of all who resisted."

"Four of the Norsemen rolled a hand cart full of silver down to the riverfront, where an open rowing boat called a Færing lay waiting. After loading the silver into the boat, they were surprised by the arrival of a dozen Frankish men armed with a mix of old swords and farming tools. The Norsemen pulled out their excellent swords and stood four abreast as the Franks charged. But numbers won out and the invaders were vanquished. However, the sound of fighting drew other Norsemen who rushed to the scene."

"Nine of the Franks still stood, and as warlike cries drew near, the leader of the Franks ordered four men to climb into the boat and row away to save the silver. They took with them the weapons of the slain Vikings. Their eyes protested, but with a shout of, 'GO!', the leader pushed them off. Manning the twin pairs of oars, the four left the shoreline just as the Norsemen crashed into the five remaining Franks. It was over quickly, but the five had given the men on the boat enough time to escape. They were safely out on the Seine, where only shouts and curses could reach them."

"Knowing the Norsemen's ships lay to the west, the Franks rowed against the current of the Seine towards the east. They arrived at Sancti Stephani and were greeted by the monks at the Abbey of Saint Wandrille. The monks helped them unload the silver and hide the boat. Borrowing robes from the monks, the four Rouen men improvised packs, hauled the silver up the hillside, and hid at the edge of the Forêt de Rouvray."

"The setting sun brought but a temporary moment of relief. As the men watched, torches appeared on the waters of the Seine, casting rippling, red-orange fingers onto the still waters like the flames of a dragon. The Vikings were looking for something, and the men knew it was them! One of the longships stopped and several Norsemen leaped into the shallow water holding torches. A moment later, branches were pulled off the hidden Færing and shouts rang out. Three other longships beached on the narrow shoreline and over one hundred angry Norsemen leaped onto the sand."

"Unable to outrun the Vikings carrying the heavy silver, the men buried the treasure and covered it with rocks. They ran deeper into the forest leaving an easy trail to follow, in hopes the Vikings would tire of chasing them. But the Vikings caught up, and when they saw the weapons taken at the waterfront, knew these were the men they were after. They demanded to know where the silver was. One of the men supposedly said, 'The silver belongs to the people of Rouen. We'll never tell!' To which the Vikings responded, 'Your request is granted.' The Vikings headed back to Rouen, passing by the Abbey, sacking it in revenge. But the monks had hidden everything of value, and later, they recorded this story in their records. But over time, the paper has been lost in the mists of history, and thus, the story passed into legend."

"You are a talented storyteller, Victor. All twelve of those men are heroes."

"Thank you, so much, Kari! Every good legend needs heroes."

Kari asked, "Do you think the legend is true?"

I replied, "Some event made the Vikings very angry. The next day they burned down the city of Rouen, and then returned the following year to burn it down again."

"That's pretty intense."

Kari spent the next ten minutes taking a closer look at my exhibits, mixing in an occasional nod of her head. I spent those same ten minutes looking at Kari. Her body was slender and fit, and I wondered if I misjudged her age. Her long, pure blonde hair hung below her shoulders. When she turned back, her hair swished, and I marveled at the purity of her deep blue eyes.

"I should be going now," said Kari.

Four years into my divorce, I couldn't let a beautiful Norwegian woman get away this easily. If nothing more, I might get a few hours of needed companionship. "Allow me to defend the honor of my fair city by taking you to lunch, Kari. I know a nice cafe not far from here."

"What about your museum?"

"Closed for repairs!"

"Lead on," said the smiling Kari.

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Chapter 4

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I led Kari on a short walk through my medieval city of Rouen. We were surrounded by copious amounts of its color and history. Stone and half-timbered buildings with brightly painted exterior trim were adorned with hanging flowers, green plants, and banners. Many of the cobblestone stone streets in the old town section are open to pedestrians only. Near the Old Market Square we enjoyed a nice lunch at a small cafe. We were able to get sidewalk seating and the food was delicious. Kari was well-educated, funny at times, and stunningly beautiful. The only thing missing was a musician playing French love songs on an accordion.

After lunch, we walked over a huge building called 'Hangar 105', right on the Seine. Behind the staggered glass paneled façade was the Cité Immersive Viking. An Immersive Viking City. An appropriate location, in that Viking longships passed this very spot twelve centuries ago. Using projections, sound, and lights in 3D and 360 degrees, it is a showcase of visual and auditory media, presenting a stylized version of the history of Vikings in France.

Moving through several enclosed rooms, we either stood or sat on the floor while scenes were projected onto the walls, floor, and ceiling. The computer graphics here were amazing, with seamless fades, and professional actors filling the roles of Vikings. It was in French, but I helped Kari with the language. It was a great excuse for me to whisper into her ear and smell her perfume. Some of the scenes were a bit overdone, unnecessarily dark and intense, and when I heard Kari softly gasp and cover her face with her hands, I reached around her and pulled her tight against me.

Was she scared of the intense scene, or did she want me to get closer to me in the dark? I hoped a bit of both. The presentation continued in relative darkness for an additional five minutes. It felt good to hold a woman close to me again. Kari's body was a sensual blend of both soft and firm. When the presentation ended, my cheek received a gentle kiss. As the lights came up, I looked towards Kari and received a smile. I returned one.

Completing the last of the audio-visual rooms, we moved to benches at each of twenty or so sitting stations. An actor or actress appeared on a large portrait-like screen and we watched videos where they told us about their Viking life. Some of these were quite good. It would have been nice to have actual costumed performers moving through the static displays, but I'm sure it would be challenging to find actors with intimate knowledge of Viking history. The whole experience was two hours well spent.

As we walked back to my museum, I doubted I would never see her again. I grasped at a straw and wished upon a star. I asked, "Kari, if you studied skaldic poetry, can you read Runes?"

"I'm am hardly an expert, but I know the symbology and can form words."

"My son's tech company has a contract to digitize old church burial records. He has a rather unique situation at a church not far from Rouen. The paperwork documenting one particular burial has symbols on it that he claims look like Runes."

Kari said, "Any burial that used Runes must have happened centuries ago."

"The old church wasn't built until the mid-1700s. After it was destroyed during World War I, a new church was built, and the burial records transferred there. It's a bit of a mystery why the burial record used Runes. In the words of the great French detective, Hercule Poirot, 'The impossible could not have happened, therefore, the impossible must be possible in spite of appearances'. Would you be willing to go with me tomorrow and translate the Runes?"

"Well, storyteller. No story should be without an ending. I would love to give it a go!"

Outside my museum, we looked into each other's eyes. I felt like there was something there. Something happening. Something awakening. I wanted to kiss her, but didn't. Too early. We set up a meeting for tomorrow.

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Chapter 5

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Kari was staying at a hotel in Rouen, so I picked her up there. A short drive later, we arrived at the new church, a solid looking stone structure that nonetheless looked its age of one hundred years. Entering and passing through a stout wooden door, we took dungeon-like stone stairs to the basement. There, in a brilliantly lit room, was a team of six people wearing white gloves, surrounded by cameras, scanning equipment, and powerful looking laptop computers. My son Phillipe handled the introductions, including himself and five college-aged students. The team quickly returned to their tasks. Phillipe owns the small tech company working on this, and serves as the on-site project manager. He came over to me and Kari holding a sheet of paper.

Phillipe said, "Most of the old records here are on quite fragile paper. They are at least one hundred years old, but some go back as far as three hundred years. This one is an incomplete burial record, with only a four fields completed. The name of the deceased, the date of burial, the location, and the person who completed the form. Each of the four is written in symbols that appear to be Runes. Rather odd. My father indicated you may be able to help." Laying the paper into a tray, Phillipe handed Kari a magnifying glass.

Kari said, "Runes originated in Scandinavia. The Vikings believed the Runic alphabet was sacred, possessing magical properties. When translating them, I look at a rune symbol and use the phonetic value rather than treating them as a visual letter. Each symbol has a unique sound, and can represent a number, a letter, or a combination of letters. There is a little matter of translating them from Old Norse to modern Norwegian and then to modern English. I would like to translate directly to French, but I am not proficient in your language. Write what I say down as I translate them."

Phillipe provided me with a writing tablet and pen and took one for himself. Kari started with the name of the deceased, pronouncing the Rune and the associated sound of the letters. "Kenaz, which could be K or C. Hagalaz would be an H. Ansuz is Ah. Raidho is R. Laguz is L. Ehwaz is a short E sound. Sowilo is S."

I looked at my paper and cried out, "Charles!"

Then, Kari translated the next word. "Gagnon!" said an excited Phillipe.

The next Runes appeared after the word for date and Kari translated the sounds. "Th-F-V-Ah-Ah. Any guesses?"

Both Phillippe and I stared at the paper where we wrote down the notes. Silence.

Kari said, "The Vikings used the decimal system and assigned numbers to certain Runes. Let me try using that. "Three. That's a sacred number in Runes. Then 1-8-4-4."

"31 August 44. Would that be 1944?" I asked.

Phillipe said, "If you look closely at the ink, you will see it is from a fountain pen. Notice the inconsistent ink flow and two places where the ink skipped. Both likely from a clogged tip or bad ink. It must be 1944." A hopeful Phillipe looked at Kari and asked, "Can you read the next line? Perhaps it is the name of the person who wrote the Runes."

"I'll try," Kari responded. "J-ah-k R-ah-t-ee-l!"

"Ratelle!" yelped one of the young workers who must have overheard us. She used the correct French pronunciation. Her name was Marie. "It sounds like you are saying Jacques Ratelle. I have a friend named Giselle Ratelle. She lives on her family farm not far from here and she might be related. Let me give her a call. Perhaps she knows who Jacques Ratelle was."

I cautioned Marie, "Don't tell her it's a burial record for Charles Gagnon. Just say we found an old church record with Jacques's name and have some questions."

Marie stepped away and placed the call on her cell phone. Several head nods hinted at a hopeful result.

"My friend Giselle says her great-grandfather was named Jacques Ratelle, but she knows little about him. Jacques's granddaughter is still alive and lives there on the farm. Giselle is at the farm now and said you could come by if you wish."

I looked at Kari and asked, "Are you up for a bit more mystery?"

She replied, almost shouting, "Let's get going!"

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Chapter 6

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Kari and I followed the directions Marie provided and made a turn off the main roadway. We found ourselves on a narrow gravel road leading through a forest of dense oak trees. Fearing this was the wrong turn, we were relieved when the trees opened up to reveal an old farmhouse and barn, surrounded by several fields which seemed to be in use.

A pretty young woman exited the house, greeted us with a friendly smile, and introduced herself as Giselle. She looked about the same age as the students working on digitizing the church records. Soft auburn curls framed her freckled face, and she wore a white apron over her long grey dress.

"My grandmother's name is Amélie. She is about to turn eighty years old and has lived on this farm her entire life. Jacques Ratelle was her grandfather. I told her you were coming, and she said, 'Perhaps it is time'. I'm not sure what she meant."

We went inside and found Amélie sitting at a large farmhouse table. She stood, holding onto the table, then offered us a glass of wine. We politely declined. I asked, "Have you ever heard the name Charles Gagnon?"

She sat and lowered her head, catching it with both hands, burying her face. "Yes!" she replied. "He was my grandfather."

"Can you tell us anything about him?" asked Kari.

"Most of what I know comes from stories told to me by my mother. Her name was Johanne. Charles was a Canadian soldier my mother met during the war. She said he was quite a handsome fellow. He talked a lot about his family and wanting the war to end so he could go home to his mother, father, and younger sister. Charles stayed at this farmhouse for a few days. While he was here he told funny stories and liked listening to the birds singing in the trees. My mother told me that one day, Charles left us. I was born on 27 May in 1945 and never met him."

Kari asked, "Do you know anything about what happened to Charles?"

"My mother never said anything more about Charles. She passed away twenty years ago. When I was eighteen, back in the 1960s, I was curious, so I contacted the Canadian Military. They told me Charles was a corporal in the Second Canadian Infantry Division. He was reported as Missing in Action on 26 August 1944. They told me nothing more, because I had no proof Charles was my grandfather. Nothing other than my mother's stories."

I said, "We found a burial record for Charles Gagnon. And we think we have the right Charles."

A stunned Amélie asked, "Where is he buried? How old was he when he died?"

I replied, "He appears to be buried in the graveyard of an old ruined church, very close to here. The date of the burial was 31 August 1944."

"Oh, my. Oh, no! How?"

I said, "The burial record was written using Old Norse Runes, as if someone was trying to hide Charles' identity."

"Who would have done such a thing?" asked Amélie.

"Your grandfather."

Amélie voice crackled and she kept saying, "No. No. No. I can't believe it. Why? My Grandfather studied Viking history in this area and he had a book on Runes. Let me show you."

Amélie asked Giselle to go to a sideboard and open the bottom drawer. Giselle returned a moment later.

"This is my grandfather's book," said Amélie. "Look here, on the inside of the back cover. My mother said Charles drew this map and he told her it marked a treasure. Here are his initials, CAG and the date. 30 August 1944. If what you are saying is true, that would mean Charles was buried the next day. Why would my grandfather do this?"

Kari said, "Since both your grandfather and your mother are deceased, we may never know. All your mother said was, 'Charles left us'. It's not very precise. Perhaps he was killed by the Germans on the 31st?"

Kari and me each took a cell phone photo of the map in the book. Beyond the initials and date, there were a few notes. The sketch showed a rock formation and a viewpoint overlooking one of the loops of the Seine River.

I asked Amélie, "Have you ever thought about looking for the treasure?"

"No. My mother did not believe it was real. Even if it existed, anyone who knew about it would have gone back and dug it up."

I said, "I have a friend at the Hexagone Balard, the headquarters of the French Armed Forces. I will ask him to reach out to the Canadian Military and let them know we may have found Charles."

Kari and I returned to the car. As we drove back out the narrow gravel road, Kari said, "Mystery solved."

I replied, "Au contrare. The Germans didn't kill Charles on 31 August. Rouen was liberated the day before. By the 31st, all German units on the south side of the Seine had retreated across the river. I think Jacques did it."

"Why would he do that?" Kari asked.

"Maybe he caught Charles having sex with his daughter. That would explain Amélie's birth and the coverup using Runes."

Kari snapped, "Sorry, Master Detective Victor. But if Jacques killed him, why go through all the trouble of filling out a burial paper? He could have easily buried Charles in some secluded place on the farm."

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Chapter 7

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We drove about a minute in silence, then Kari said, "We need to see if there is a grave. Let's go look for it."

Because I had earlier discussed this project with my son, I knew the way to the old church. When we arrived, Kari and I got out and gazed upon a scene of near total destruction. Only portions of three walls remained standing and the arch above the entrance was covered with vines. To the left was an old cemetery. To the right was a pile of debris, well into the process of being reclaimed by nature.

As we walked towards the rubble to get a closer look, two rabbits scurried away. Jutting up through the tall green grass were splintered pieces of decaying wood, weathered to grey with age. In places, I could see remnants of brick, stone, and even a few pews. Kari gasped, and I traced her stare to the prow of a broken pram sticking up from the debris.

I said, "No one was killed here. According to the stories, a rolling barrage began in the distance. As it drew closer, everyone ran to the basement of a factory across the street. The mother must have carried the child to safety in her arms. As you can see, the barrage blew out the stained glass windows and collapsed the roof. Would you like to go inside the church?"

Kari replied, "I would."

Entering the ruined church, a path had been cleared from the nave all the way to the alter. Rubble lined the outer walls and in between, weeds grew, seemingly from the dust. Looking down, I saw parallel depressions on the limestone floor, worn down by the passage of countless feet.

"Such a waste," said Kari. She shook her head and said, "That is enough for me. Let's go find the grave."

I replied, "Other than being in this graveyard, there's no record of its row or location."

"We'll find it," said Kari in a determined voice.

Entering the cemetery, it's age was apparent, even through the tall grass and weeds. There had to be at least three hundred graves here. The oldest-looking headstones were little more than well-worn rocks. A number of headstones had toppled. I was surprised to see Runic carvings on scattered gravestones.

Kari noticed too. She pointed to one, "Those are Runes on that gravestone. Vikings would sometime erect runestones as a monument to the dead, They would inscribe the stones with Runes, telling the life of the deceased and their place in Viking society. The Runes themselves were thought to have protective qualities with the Gods. Surely this graveyard was not in use during the time of the Vikings?"

Trudging through the tall grass and weeds, I spied a row of upright gravestones backed up against a line of trees. We headed for them.

I pointed and said, "The one on the end of the row looks different from the others. It's not lined up and seems to be less weathered."

Kari replied, "That might be the one we are looking for!"

Examining the gravestone closer, I saw curved Runes arcing above the carved face. Below them were more Runes. Rubbing my hand over the Runic characters, I noticed something. Then I moved over to the adjacent gravestone and examined that one as well.

I said, "While the stones themselves are similar, the carvings on the end one are not. The adjacent stone is carefully carved and each character shows weathering. Can you tell what the one on the end says?"

Kari looked closely. "These characters are more crude, as if done in haste. Or by someone not well-versed in stone carving. Quiet now, and let me try to read the Runes."

After a minute, Kari said, "They match the name and date on the burial form. We have found Charles Gagnon! Let me read the Runes arcing across the top."

It was a longer phrase and took her a moment. She said, "Lying beneath a hero."

I said, "That's odd phrasing."

"It's the way sentences were formed in Old Norse. It was not uncommon to place the verb first with the object following."

"So!" I yelped. "Why would a Canadian Soldier be buried in an abandoned graveyard no longer in use? Maybe Charles isn't even here. What if Charles got Johanne pregnant and promised to return after the war, but never did? Jacques didn't want his daughter to think she was abandoned, so he invented the whole burial story."

Kari asked, "Why go through this much trouble if Charles deserted them, and carve a Runic gravestone like this for a phantom burial? A simple headstone would have sufficed. I think Charles is buried here?"

"Then who killed him? Our mystery is still a mystery! Now what?"

Kari said, "If the grave is real, then maybe the treasure is too. We should try to find it."

I replied, "The Forêt de la Londe is thick with oak trees. It is cut with Mountain Bike, E-Bike, Horse, Trail Running, and Hiking trails. But we'll likely need to do some bushwhacking. Are you up to it."

Kari laughed and said, "I'm from Norway. Bring it on!"

We agreed to start our search tomorrow morning. That would give me enough time to gather what we needed.

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Chapter 8

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Three Days Later

I picked up Kari at her hotel again. She was dressed in the same tan hiking shorts, but today wore some type of stretchy blue T-shirt. Her top showed every curve, and Kari's wonderful breasts drew my eyes. Looking up at her face, I saw her smile. She knew. Our treasure hunt through the woods had come up empty the last two days, and my sore leg muscles fought me for this third attempt.

Arriving at a trailhead, we got out and stretched. The forest looked beautiful in early June. As we followed the winding trails, we passed through dense foliage and discovered hidden lakes. It was a peaceful escape from the city. While nature had repaired much of the damage from the war, we were able to spot remnants of old bomb craters. The once sharply outlined edges had faded and were now obscured by grass and foliage. But the dip in the earth remained. The labyrinth of trails sometimes led us to the edge of the cliff overlooking the Seine River, where we compared the view with the photos we had taken of Charles' map. Nothing matched.

Kari announced, "We'll never find anything staying on these trails. Let's try bushwhacking. That way we can stay close to the crest and look out over the Seine."

Kari took the lead, cutting through some bushes, and we reached an overlook. Nope. Slicing through more bushes and tall grass, it felt like every meter forward required an additional one meter down and another back up. Thorny plants left wicked-looking scratches on the exposed skin of my legs. I wanted to stop and turn around, but seeing Kari ahead of me, I went forward. I watched the swaying of her hips, the strength of her leg muscles, and the swishing of her long blonde hair. How could I disappoint her? I couldn't.

Kari opened a twenty-five meter lead, and not hearing my trudging footfalls close behind, turned around to look. "We should take a break, Victor."

I nodded. Spotting a gentle slope, I descended a small dip, then stretched out on the soft forest duff.

Kari came over and kneeled next to me. "Thank you for following me this far on my wild goose chase. Not every treasure hunt finds a treasure."

"We tried," I replied.

"And for that, you shall be rewarded."

Kari's slender fingers moved to my belt buckle and opened it. Her hand slipped down inside my shorts to locate my cock. She began rubbing my shaft, and looking up at her smiling face, I quickly rose to an erection. "Let's see if we can make this a little bigger."

Grasping the sides of my shorts, she started to pull them down. I lifted my butt to make it easier. Shifting position, Kari leaned over and began licking my exposed shaft. Four long years. Four long years since a woman's lips and tongue had touched my cock. Kari began attacking my cock with more intensity. Sucking, rubbing, licking, and giving me teasing nibbles. It felt so wonderful. I began softly moaning. Then Kari stopped her efforts and looked at my cock. I knew what it meant.

"I'm sorry. That's as big as my cock gets. I've never been gifted. Down there."

The magical spell was broken, and I felt like a pumpkin. I knew what I had to do. Rolling Kari over onto her back, I climbed over her and pulled down her tan hiking shorts. I was greeted by a small patch of pure blonde bush, and beneath it, the most beautiful pussy I had ever seen. Perfect butterfly inner labia stretched out from between her swollen outer labia. I slid down and began licking.

"Right there, Victor. Ahhhh!"

With my cock lacking, I had learned how important it was to please women in other ways. And this was one I was especially good at. I swirled my tongue up and down within her folds while I nuzzled her bashful clitoris with my nose. I was in no hurry. Between the legs of a beautiful woman is the most wonderful place a man can be. Kari began lifting her hips, and I responded by stiffening my tongue and holding it completely still. Slowly rolling her hips, she squirmed beneath me, pushing up and moving her labia against my firm outstretched tongue.

Kari's hands reached down and grabbed her hips, helping to hold them up as she rubbed her pussy against my tongue. Bucking, gliding, and rubbing, my tongue hung over her like the Sword of Damocles, waiting for the chance to split her pussy in two.

"Blow into my vagina!" shouted Kari. And I did. Pursing my lips, I exhaled with a long, slow blow. "Oooooo!" whispered Kari.

It was my turn to take over. I drove my stiff tongue into her vagina, and Kari screamed in ecstasy. Her hands found the back of my head and as her unsupported hips slumped down, she pulled my face tight against her. I gently fought against her efforts, gaining enough space to start nibbling and sucking her labia. I worked my way slowly up her folds towards her emerging nub. Pointing my tongue, I tickled her clit with just the tip of my tongue, drawing it out further. She was ready. Opening my mouth wide, I captured her clitoris and began sucking.

Kari released my head and slumped back, opening her legs further. I continued sucking gently. Then I heard soft murmurs. A cooing sound escaped Kari's lips. She had melted into a state of total relaxation and sexual pleasure. It seemed like time itself stood still. I began to notice subtle things. Ones easily overlooked in a heated moment. I watch her breasts slowly rise and fall, her stomach tense and relax, and little bumps forming on her bare skin.

Then, her hand came down and her fingers slid under my chin. I looked up at her smiling face.

"I want your cock in me."

"But..."

"Now!" yelped Kari.

I moved into position and easily slipped into Kari's wetness. I began pumping, wondering if I would be able to please her the way she wanted. My cock was fully inside her warm, wet tunnel and I felt my ball sack slapping against her. I thought of my wife, yelling that my small cock was the reason she was divorcing me. Kari must have sensed something wrong, because she tilted her hips, wrapped her legs around my back, and locked her feet behind me.

I continued pumping, but my cock could no longer move in and out of her vagina. Our hips began moving in unison. Instead of forcefully trying to slide my cock against the walls of her vagina, it moved just a little. So strange. And so erotic.

Kari gasped, "Your cock has just enough curve. The tip is touching my G-spot. I've never felt anything like this. Or anything better."

Encouraged by her words, my hips began thrusting harder. My cock didn't change position, but I was driving Kari's body down into the soft ground. I concentrated on every sensation from the tip of my cock. Can a cock feel a woman's G-spot, or was I imagining it?

It felt real to me, and the thought pushed my over the edge. Intense sensations built up along my shaft, and it began twitching, taking on a life of its own. "Ahhhh!" I shouted as my orgasm hit. "Owwwww!" shouted Kari.

I slumped down on top of her, and she yelled, "Get off! Get off me!"

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Something is poking me in back. It hurts."

"It must be a rock."

Kari rose to her knees and began clearing away the forest duff. I saw her expose something grey. She kept digging with her fingers until she pulled out something that appeared to be a large knife. "What is that?" I asked.

"I think it's a very old dagger. There are jewels in the handle!"

Kari kept digging and pulled out a piece of brown cloth and two tarnished coins. Both appeared to be silver. Pulling aside more dirt, Kari exposed what looked to be a large Viking horde. She handed me the dagger and two of the coins.

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Chapter 9

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After gently brushing off a bit of the dirt, I examined the jeweled dagger and coins. "The coins are certainly French. One is from Louis I and the other from Lothair I, which places them in the Carolingian Period. The dates for that period range from the early to mid 800s."

I continued, "The dagger is interesting. It isn't French. I suspect it's Viking. The blade is badly tarnished and pitted but has held up remarkably well for being buried this long. That would indicate a high level of metallurgical skill. If you look closely, the guard is rather ornate and is made of wrapped silver wire, with three inset jewels. The grip is missing, which is not uncommon in artifacts this old, especially since they were made of bone, wood, or antlers. But the intricate carvings on the pommel clearly point to the Vikings. It appears to be a boar's head."

Kari said, "In the Sagas, boars are symbols of strength and bravery, evoking images of sharp tusks and powerful jaws. The goddess Freyja was said to ride a powerful boar named Hildisvini. While better known as a goddess of love and fertility, she was also the Norse goddess of war.

I said, "I'm not an expert on Viking art, but this might be from the Oseberg period, named after the ship they found in a burial mound in Norway. A weapon like this was likely owned by chieftains, elite warriors, or possibly wealthy merchants who could afford such a dagger."

"I've seen the Oseberg ship in person. It's on display at a museum in Oslo," Kari said.

"France has strict laws about relics and artifacts," I said. "They are covered under the Carcopino Law, which was implemented in 1941. We are supposed to declare this find to the local gendarmerie who will check if the items were reported as stolen. I'm confident they won't find the original owners! Should you unexpectedly locate a treasure trove on someone else's property, you can declare 'un tresor' and get to split the find with the land owner."

I continued, "In some areas, searches are banned due to archaeologically sensitive sites or dangers from unexploded bombs. The area around Rouen was heavily bombed and this might be one of those areas. On public lands, it is forbidden to carry out excavations without specific authorization from the State, which means the Regional Directorate of Cultural Affairs. I think this is public park land. I know an archeologist at the Musée d'Archéologie Nationale. Let me talk to him first. Don't tell anyone we found this or people will start combing the woods."

Kari and I covered everything back over, and tried to make it look undisturbed, but kept the dagger and the two coins. I would make some calls tomorrow, but the exact location would remain a secret, for now. On the way back to Kari's hotel, she told me she had a new idea. I agreed to pick her up the next morning. Parking at the hotel, Kari waited for me to come around and open her door. After helping her get out of the car, we kissed. As we stood there, time passed slowly, or quickly, I couldn't tell. Perhaps both. When our lips parted, I looked around and saw people staring at us.

I badly wanted to take Kari up to her hotel room and spend the night with her. But after our kiss ended, she stepped back and said, "Good Night, Victor."

I paused, then replied, "Have a good evening, Kari."

"You're taking me to Juno Beach tomorrow."

"I am?"

"When you are with me, you should always ready for anything," said a smiling Kari.

Kari turned and entered her hotel through the revolving door. Should I follow? Or is Kari asking for space right now? I would see her tomorrow. But I realized I also needed space. To think about Kari. Kari was pushing me to do things I had forgotten how to do, or rather, had given up trying. No. Pushing wasn't the right word. Kari was beautiful, intelligent, and possessed an unquenchable desire for adventure. She was like a powerful magnet. An irresistible force was drawing me towards her. A force I only felt once before. A force my ex-wife had buried. A force Kari had resurrected. A force called love. It would be a long, restless night.

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Chapter 10

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I met Kari again at her hotel. She had transformed from a smartly dressed Oslo professor, to a Norwegian woodswoman, and now had become a fun-loving beach holiday seeker. Beneath her white wrap top and casual shorts, I could tell she was wearing a swimsuit. She carried a beach tote, complete with a rolled-up white towel sticking out. Fortunately, I anticipated this and was similarly prepared.

We drove to Juno Beach, the site of the D-Day landings by the Canadian Army. Our goal was to learn more about Charles and the Canadian Second Infantry Division. It was a pleasant day with puffy white clouds. We went past prestigious seaside resorts, luxury hotels, casinos, manors, castles, and the unique Norman-style houses featuring a round stone tower topped by a conical roof. I looked over at Kari whenever I could. Her hopeful smile brightened the day. She wore a silver necklace, and hanging down into the V-shaped opening between her breasts was a small round pendant. I asked her about it.

Kari replied, "The pendant is made from a Viking coin I found years ago, when I was young. I was fascinated by it, and that unexpected discovery led me into my profession. I never take it off."

Along Rue de la Mer, the main street of Courselles-sur-Mer, we saw shoppes, bakeries, and wine stores. The town was preparing to celebrate the 81st anniversary of the D-Day landings, meaning tri-color banners and flags hung everywhere and multi-lingual signs welcomed visitors. Finding a car park, Kari and I grabbed our totes and walked a few blocks to the beach.

The smell of the ocean greeted us, even before we saw it. A few steps later we emerged onto a pedestrian promenade and saw the wide beach, covered with golden sand. Passing through a row of white beach huts which were available for rent, our shoes quickly found their way into our totes. To our left and right, large apartment blocks dominated the promenade. Judging by the signage, many appear to be in use as short term holiday rentals. Vaguely remembering photographs I had seen of the D-day assault, none of the original oceanfront buildings remained.

Kari yelled, "Watch my tote!" She dropped it and ran towards the ocean, moving with athletic grace, her hips rocking side-to-side. She waded into the surf, up to her knees, then reached down and splashed two handfuls of water into the air. I saw her yell, but couldn't hear over the din from the other beachgoers.

She slowly walked back towards me, her gaze shifting as she took in the entirety of the Courselles beach. Reaching me, she said, "The water is wonderful here. So warm!"

Removing the beach towel from her tote, Kari spread it out on the pure gold sand. Turning away from me, she slowly undid her wrap top and let it drop. Her shorts followed. I watched as she bent over to pick up her clothing. Kari did not have the body of a frolicking eighteen year old. She had the body of a woman! Soft and shapely, her hips, thighs, and butt cheeks melded together perfectly. When she turned, the top of her one-piece swimsuit showed off a nicely rounded pair of breasts. I was impressed by her tight stomach. Clearly she looked after herself. It was a pleasure just being with her.

My polo shirt and shorts dropped, and the warm sun struck my slightly flabby, under-exercised body. Kari looked at me and smiled. We laughed as we took turns spreading suntan lotion over each other. Her nipples and my cock revealed how much we both enjoyed doing this. A bit of roasting on each side, mixed with conversation, and I could not have been any happier.

But after an hour, Kari said, "I'm hungry. And we won't find Charles on this beach. Let's head towards the Juno Beach Centre and grab something to eat on the way."

We walked to the end of the resort beach and prepared to cross the River Seulles, over to the section of battle preserved beach. Kari pointed to a rather simple looking place called 'Wood Truck'.

The building was not much to look at, but the main attraction was the white table and chairs overlooking the beach. Kari and I both ordered a burger with fries.

I said, "There is a fish market here, and the seafood is really good. I'm surprised you went with a burger."

Kari replied, "The seafood is great in Norway too. But the burgers are terrible."

We picked up our order, sat down, and ate while looking at the beach, and at each other. When finished, Kari seemed lost in a dreamlike state and said, "Lecker. Oh! Yes. I mean delicious."

We walked past the marina on the River Seulles, with its small yachts and sailboats, crossing over into an entirely different land. Far more natural, with grass covered dunes and fewer people. We passed several static displays describing the events of D-Day, and stopped to stand on one of the dunes, sandwiched between two German bunkers.

I said, "What would it have been like on that day to be here on the German side and see the English Channel filled with ships? These are original bunkers. Undamaged by both the invasion and from time. How could any of the Canadians survive the assault on the beach?"

Kari said, "I am trying to imagine what it was like in the year 841. The Franks stood on this very spot, and looked out into waters filled with dozens of Viking longships. I'm not sure which scene would have been the most frightful."

We made our way into the large museum known as the Juno Beach Centre. It was abuzz with visitors and young Canadian volunteers. We saw an older volunteer, went over to him, and asked about D-day.

He replied, "Juno beach is a five mile stretch of sand. The town of Courselles is right in the middle. The landings on 6 June were delayed due to tides and an offshore reef. When the Canadians hit the beach the Germans were waiting. You can still see several bunkers here. The bombing runs were off target and the naval guns weren't powerful enough to take them out. In the small villages along the beach, soldiers had to get across the beaches under heavy fire, climb over seawalls, then take the village fighting house by house. Soldiers landing between the villages encountered dunes protected by gun emplacements, concrete fortifications, barbed wire, and mines. The Germans fought heroically. They expected to win."

I asked, "What is it like here to be here for the D-day activities? It's only a few days away."

He replied, "The ceremonies and speeches and parades happen every year. Only the speakers change. But what I find most touching is this. Early in the morning, at the exact time of the landings, families of the soldiers who landed that day stand in the water and look up at the bunkers. They want to experience what it was like back in 1944."

Kari asked, "What can you tell us about the Second Canadian Infantry division?"

The volunteer replied, "Not much. Sorry. The Canadian Third Infantry Division landed here. The Second didn't reach Europe until the first week in July."

The news was disappointing. A dead end.

Kari looked at me and said, "We will have to find some other way to learn about the Second Division and its time in France."

My cell phone rang and I answered it. It was good news. I smiled at Kari and said, "That was a major in the Canadian Military. They found the records for Charles, our guy. His family from Quebec arrived today and they would like to meet us at the farmhouse tomorrow morning."

Kari and I spent the rest of the day walking the beaches. Arriving back in Rouen, I dropped Kari off. I was exhausted from all the walking, the sun, the sand, and the ocean breezes. I begged off dinner, went home, and fell directly into bed. With a smile on my face.

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Chapter 11

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Kari and I arrived at the Ratelle farmhouse and found two other vehicles parked there. Entering, we saw Amélie sitting in her spot at the farmhouse table. Across from here was an older woman with thin grey hair. A soldier, dressed in a crisply pressed uniform stood, as did Giselle.

Major Johnson introduced Christine, the younger sister of Charles. He thanked her for coming, and mentioned she was ninety-two years old. Giselle handled the rest of the introductions. On the table in front of Christine was a black and white photograph of a soldier. Christine mentioned it was her older brother Charles, taken in 1941.

She told us Charles worked at a petrol station with his father before the war. Two pumps, two bays, and two men working together to fix cars. She told us Charles volunteered right after the Germans invaded France. The news about Charles missing in action struck her mother and father hard. It was a difficult thing for them to accept. They grieved at the first report, then again a second time, one year after the war ended, when they knew Charles was not coming home.

Major Johnson said, "After I spoke to Amélie yesterday, she wanted to know more about the day that Charles was reported as missing. With Christine's permission, I can provide some background from what I learned in the official records."

"Please proceed, Major," said Christine.

"Roughly a month after D-Day, the Germans realized that Normandy was not a feint, but was the real invasion. They gathered their forces and began an attack to push the Allies back into the sea. After a few days of gains, the attack failed miserably. The allies counter-attacked, trapping much of the German Army in an area known as the Falaise Pocket. Allied fighter-bombers attacked relentlessly, and ground troops pinched in on the German flanks. One of those units was the Second Canadian."

The major continued, "Suffering enormous losses, what was left of the German Army in Normandy made a headlong retreat towards the Seine River. They hoped to get across before they were trapped. The Allies bombed bridges crossing the Seine, along with the city of Rouen. The Germans were squeezed into one of the loops between the Seine, and put up a stiff fight trying to save what men and equipment they could. They used pontoon bridges, barges, and rafts, trying to cross the river at night."

"The Second Canadian Division pushed into the Forêt de la Londe trying to drive the Germans into the river. But thick trees and stout resistance by the Germans made for rough going. Several days of rain limited Allied air support, so on 25 August, a patrol was sent out to see what the Germans were up to. The patrol reached the Seine and accomplished their mission, but while returning to the Canadian lines they were ambushed. Charles Gagnon was a member of that patrol. Three of his fellow soldiers were killed instantly. The official report states that as the patrol retreated, Charles stayed behind and kept firing at the Germans, allowing the rest of his patrol to escape. When the Graves Division went to the site of the ambush three days later, they found the bodies of the three soldiers, but no sign of Charles. He was declared Missing in Action, and presumed Captured. Later, for heroism under fire, Charles was posthumously awarded a Bronze Star.

It was my turn. I told the story of the burial record with the Rune characters, and Amélie finished up with her portion of the story.

"Well," said Major Johnson. Four intersecting stories, all of which match up. We definitely have our man. Charles must have made his way to this farm, otherwise Amélie would not know his name. Charles had a brief affair with Johanne, died here, and was buried."

Kari asked, "Why would Jacques try to hide his identity?"

Amélie said, "I have been thinking about the possibilities. During and after the war, the French fought amongst ourselves. There were "Good French" who resisted the Germans, and "Bad French" who collaborated with the Boche. After the war, women who had a child with a German father were shamed, and their heads shaved in public. Perhaps my grandfather was trying to protect his daughter, my mother Johanne, from such shame. They had no proof Charles was the father."

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Chapter 12

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Major Johnson said, "Your theory is compelling and probably correct." He looked at Christine and said, "Charles never married, so as his closest living relative, you have the choice of how to handle his remains. We have the results of the rapid DNA test you took in Canada, and if you would like, we can do another test on the Charles' remains to confirm."

"No," replied Christine. "The rest of the stories fit so well together, they must be the truth. I'm sure we have found my brother. The part about the Runes is interesting. My DNA test showed I am part Norwegian. Odd, isn't it?"

I said, "Not as odd as you think. The Vikings settled in this part of Normandie and intermarried with the French population. It is very possible that one or more of your ancestors was of Norman heritage, and emigrated to Canada when it was under French control."

The major said, "Christine, you can decide between having his remains returned to Canada, or we could move his remains to the Bretteville-sur-Laize War Graveyard near Caen."

She replied, "Charles has been away from his family and relatives in Canada for far too long. I'm leaning towards bringing him home."

The major said, "I can assist with that. You will need to authorize the disinterment, then I will work with the appropriate French authorities and arrange transport. But I do suggest you visit the war graveyard before you make your final decision. It's quite peaceful, and many of the soldiers buried there are from the Second Canadian Infantry Division. Often, families decide to place their loved ones with his fellow mates."

"I don't know," said younger sister.

Major Johnson said, "I also handle veterans who come to the D-Day activities, which are coming up in three days. One of the veterans I am assisting is from Charles' Regiment. Perhaps he even knew Charles. According to the schedule, he will be at Bretteville-sur-Laize tomorrow morning. I'm can try to set up a short meeting with him."

"I would like that," said Christine.

"I'll see what I can do," replied the major. "That is another thing in favor of Bretteville-sur-Laize. Fellow veterans and their relatives have a single place to visit in order to pay respects to the fallen."

As I drove Kari back to her hotel, she said, "I'm not buying what Christine and Major Johnson are selling. It doesn't answer who killed Charles, nor explain why Jacques used Runes. There would have been no reason for Jacques not to turn over Charles to the Canadians once he knew the Germans were gone. I'm frustrated by this mystery. Come up to my room and fuck me!"

I gladly did as Kari asked. There was fire in her eyes and she assumed the lead. Not that I minded. The bed was firm. My cock was firm. And Kari's body was firm, except for a few soft places, right where they needed to be. I wanted more than anything to please Kari, and hoped I did. After wonderful sex, Kari nibbled my ear and whispered, "I've never had so much fun, Victor, working with you on this mystery. I love you!" And with that, she fell asleep, her head coming to rest on my shoulder. I smiled in the darkness. Her words were music to my ears.

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Chapter 13

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The next morning, Kari a I met the others at the Bretteville-sur-Laize Canadian Graveyard. It was tricky to find, because we could not get to it from the main N158 road. Instead, I had to go into the village of Cintheaux and take D167 north.

We were the first to arrive, and after stepping out, we immediately saw that the grounds were impeccable, the grass was mowed, and the hedges and bushes neatly trimmed. Maple Trees, bushes, hedges and flowers were everywhere. Well tended fields came right up to the edge of the graveyard. Clusters of people walked or stood between the near rows of gravestones. When the others arrived, Major Johnson led us on a tour.

"Most soldiers who were killed in action were buried where they fell. Later, they were brought here for a proper burial. Here they receive perpetual care, tended by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. The other major graveyards is Beny-sur-Mer. Closer to the coast, many of the soldiers from the Third Canadian Infantry who died on Juno Beach are buried there."

Kari said, "The thing that made me weep is the fact that all these graves are so far from their loved ones. So few will get the opportunity to come and mourn the lost lives and broken dreams of these young men."

As we walked among the gravestones, I noticed that they did not say 'Second Canadian Infantry Division'. Instead, they listed the Regiment the soldier belonged to. The Black Watch of Canada, Calgary Highlanders, Essex Scottish Regiment, and Royal Hamilton Light Infantry.

Major Johnson said, "Nearly all of the gravestones have a Maple Leaf, the symbol of Canada. Also, note the personal inscriptions and epitaphs on each gravestone. Those were provided by the families of each of the soldiers."

"There are so, so many," sobbed Giselle. "And many were the same age as me."

Kari leaned over and whispered to me, "It is peaceful here, but there is an intense sadness too, because so many lives were lost. Look there," she said, pointing to a gravestone. "That is the saddest one of all."

The marker displayed no name, only 'A Canadian Soldier of WWII.'

Kari said, "No one knows who he was. No one will visit him. No one will honor his sacrifice. Somewhere in Canada, there is a family left with only fading memories. Hope at first, then accepting, but never knowing for certain."

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Chapter 14

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We saw a small group between two of the rows and the major pointed that way. "That must be him. He's very sharp for his age and has lots to say. Go ahead and get closer."

As we drew closer, I saw an old man in a wheelchair, his legs covered in a blanket. He was wearing a beret and was talking to the people gathered around him. I stood behind a short middle-aged woman so I could hear.

One of the crowd spoke out in a loud voice, "You're a hero!"

The elderly veteran replied, "No. A lot of people say the men buried here are heroes. I won't dishonor their sacrifice, but dying doesn't make you a hero. There are plenty of heroes here. But there are also heroes who made it home. And some heroes are neither here nor there. They are still out there somewhere, fighting."

"What was it like to be greeted by the French during liberation?"

"They were happy. Lots of smiling faces, kisses from the French women, flowers, and they made the V-sign with their fingers. In some towns, they gave us bottles of an apple brandy called Calvados. We later adopted that as the official drink of our regiment. When we meet, we use it to toast our fallen comrades. But in between the towns, we would travel through the liberated countryside. For hours we passed destroyed Jerry vehicles, dead horses, burning rubble, and the hastily buried bodies of their dead. There was nothing glorious or heroic. No bands were playing patriotic music to cover the distant rumbles of more fighting."

"War movies today claim to be authentic, especially using advanced computer graphics. Do you think recent movies capture what war was really like?"

"If they wanted to make an authentic war movie, it would start with an ear-splitting explosion, then the concussion would knock you out of your seat and make you want to crawl under it. You'd stay there a while until a voice inside your head finally told you to get up and keep going."

"Why do so few World War II veterans talk about the war?"

"War ain't pretty like you see on TV shows and movies. It's dirty. It's messy. It's ugly. Not everyone who walked out of the fire left the flames behind. Talking about it brings back forgotten memories. Few want to go there. But the one single memory that has haunted me the longest is the lingering scent of death. It was everywhere. You can try to forget what your eyes saw, but you will never forget that smell."

"After seeing all your fellow Canadians killed, did you come to hate the Germans?" asked another voice.

"We had a lot of respect for the enemy. The Jerries had a job to do, just like us. We fought hard, and so did they."

"Will you keep coming back to Normandie?"

"No. I turned one hundred years old this past April. This will be my last year. I wanted to say my final goodbyes to the men of the Second Canadian Infantry. And make sure they were being cared for."

As the people drifted away, a middle-aged woman pushed the wheelchair down the path between two rows of graves. The old soldier held up his right arm and yelled, "Stop!" using his fading voice. "Give me a quarter!"

The woman reached into her pursue and pulled out a coin. Tossing the blanket aside, the soldier stood up and saluted. He said the name on the gravestone, took one step forward, then placed the coin on top of a gravestone. Curious, I walked up to the woman and introduced myself just as the old soldier slumped back into his wheelchair. I asked her about the coin and why he said the fallen soldier's name out loud.

She replied, "This is my grandfather. He pronounces the names so the fallen soldiers will not be forgotten. The coins let any families that visit know that a fellow soldier passed by. Each denomination means something different, depending on how well the two men knew each other. Ten years ago, he gave out four types of coins. But today, he is only looking for soldiers he was with when they died. He uses a quarter for that."

I thought of Charon, the ferryman of Hades, in Greek mythology. He required payment for carrying the deceased across the River Styx into the world of the dead. Those without a coin would be left to wander the shore for one hundred years.

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Chapter 15

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I asked, "I wonder if your grandfather knew a soldier named Charles Gagnon?"

Turning his head, the old soldier looked up at me and snapped, "Why are you asking? My eyes are cloudy, but I can hear better than ever with this new fangled bionic hearing aide."

Major Johnson stepped forward and said, "I think we have located the grave of Charles Gagnon."

The old veteran looked at the major, struggled to his feet, and then saluted. "Lance Corporal Thomas Bouchard, sir."

"As you were soldier."

"I knew Charles," said Thomas as he returned to his seat. "I was with him the day we were ambushed. Every Regiment in those darn woods was being ripped up by the Jerries. The fly boys were grounded by the weather, so oOur captain came around and asked for volunteers to go see what Jerry was up to. I raised my hand and joined the other men. I was happy to see Charles had also volunteered. He fought at Dieppe in 1942 and was one of the lucky ones who made it out. Charles had seen combat. Most of us hadn't until we landed in France. We all looked up to him."

"The twelve of us went out on patrol just south of a town called Rouen. We made our way through a thick oak forest of beautiful old trees and approached a bluff overlooking the Seine River. Bombs had turned the landscape into a hellish mix of splintered trees and craters. Overlooking the river, we saw thousands of Germans bunched up along the shoreline, trying to cross on a string of barges to get to the north side of the river. All of their vehicles were covered with foliage to try to hide from the Allied planes."

"We were so busy looking at the river that we walked right into a Jerry ambush. As they opened fire, three of us were gone instantly, including our sergeant. I saw Charles get hit. Still alive, he crawled into a bomb crater. The rest of us ducked behind fallen trees or into the deepest hole we could find. We returned fire, but the Jerries were fanning out, trying to trap us against the cliff. Charles poked his head up, waved his arm, and pointed towards a small gulley. Then he gave hand signals ordering us to retreat. We opened up with everything we had, hoping to pin down Jerry and then made a dash for it. All, except Charles."

"We hunkered down in the gully and argued amongst ourselves. If we went back for Charles it would be suicide, plus we would be disobeying his order. Charles kept firing at the Jerries and we wanted to go back to get him anyway. But right then the Jerries unleashed a hellish fire at Charles. When they stopped, there was a full minute of silence. Mortar rounds started falling all around us. We thought Charles was dead, so we followed his last order and got the intel back to our lines. We felt like cowards. The only good thing is that each of us fought that much harder for the rest of the war."

"It's easy to talk about sacrifice. Brave words come easy. But it rips you apart when you have to match words with actions. We traded one man against stopping thousands of Germans and their equipment from crossing the Seine and fighting us later on. It's still a terrible price to pay."

The old soldier lowered his head into his weathered hands and sniffled. There was total silence as we took a moment to reflect on the story we just heard. As I stood amongst the thousands of graves, the true horror of war cut deep into my heart like a dagger. Armies don't win wars. Armies don't actually die. Soldiers do. And sometimes victory requires the bravery and sacrifice of individual soldiers like Charles.

The woman pushing the wheelchair looked around at us and said, "My grandfather never tells stories like this of actual combat. Charles must have been very special to him."

**********

Chapter 16

**********

Major Johnson looked at Christine and said, "What you just heard is why this graveyard is the best place for Charles. He can rest here with his mates."

Christine said, "I am still favoring taking Charles back to Canada."

Amélie said, "Why not leave Charles where he is? He was given a decent burial. Why disturb the dead?"

The major said, "At least here, those who knew Charles can come to pay their respects."

Christine's face showed a determined look, "Most of the soldiers in Charles' regiment are from Canada. If he is buried there, they won't have to travel all the way to France."

Amélie said, "Now that I know where Charles is buried, I can visit his grave often, and tend to it."

Major Johnson said, "Sorry, but you have no proof you are related to Charles. It's not your decision. Christine, I want you to look around. This place is in immaculate condition, and it will remain that way forever. There is no better place for Charles."

Thomas rose from his wheelchair and in a firm voice yelled, "Chrisse! Listen to your three! I fought alongside British, Polish, American, Free French, and Australian soldiers. We were Allies. If we fought amongst ourselves like you're doing, we'd all be speaking German now! You three are Allies. Start acting like it!"

Giselle spoke up and said, "The Lance Corporal is right. I can't stand this anymore. I've kept quiet until now, but that's my great-grandfather you're fighting over. Whatever you decide, wherever Charles is going to be buried, I'm going to go visit him. Just stop arguing!"

The old veteran sat down, looked at Giselle, and said, "Come closer, young lady."

Giselle approached the wheelchair and dropped to one knee. He reached out and ran his hand over her hair.

"What is your name?" asked the veteran.

"My name is Giselle. Charles was my great-grandfather."

Thomas said, "Charles was a handsome man and you are a beautiful young woman. When I look at your face I see the resemblance. You even have the same Auburn hair. We used to call him Rusty. Rusty had freckles just like yours."

Christine gasped, "He's right. Both of those things runs in our family."

Thomas spoke in a loud, clear voice. "Listen. All of you. Family was the most important thing to Rusty. Family is the real treasure every soldier holds in his heart. When things got rough, what kept us going was the love of our families, and wanting to get home to them as quick as we could."

He paused for a moment, then resumed. His voice began to crack, "This is Rusty's family! Right here in front of me. He earned the right to be with them. And if anyone tries to take that away from Rusty, they'll have to fight me! While the rest of you were arguing over what was best for yourselves, this young lady was the only one willing to go anywhere necessary to pay respects to Rusty. She's braver than the lot of you put together. I'm getting old. There are only a handful of us old soldiers left. When our torch falls, who will pick it up and tell our story?"

"I wish you could tell me more about my great-grandfather, Lance Corporal," said Giselle.

"Please call me Tommy. Walk with me if you will," said the old veteran. As the woman pushing the wheelchair started down the row, Tommy extended his hand and Giselle took it. It was a tender moment. The Greatest Generation and the Next Generation walking hand-in-hand.

As they moved further away, their words gradually faded away, "Rusty could fix anything on wheels. He even got a shot-up German officer's car running. Rusty liked to slick down his hair with olive oil, when he could get it, and that wasn't very often once we got to France. So we used to tease him with an oil can..."

The trio left the rest of us stunned. My thoughts on heroism had been changed. Real heroes don't fight for glory, honor, and riches. They fight for the thing which is most important to them. Their families.

"I'm not going to argue with him," said Major Johnson.

"Nor I," said Christine. "I will leave Charles buried where he is. With his new family. But I would like to hear more stories about my older brother."

Kari said, "Wait about an hour, then ask Giselle. As she grows older and has her own family, she will be able to tell them Charles' story. They can visit his grave to honor him. Charles will not be forgotten."

Kari leaned over and whispered into my ear, "No warrior wants to be forgotten. Take me to his Charles' grave."

**********

Chapter 17

**********

We drove to the old cemetery and found Charles' grave once again. Tucked up against the trees, the birds were very active, singing their melodies.

I asked Kari, "What are you going to do with the treasure you found? It's not yours to keep, but the Ministry has decided to let you designate where it should be kept to be studied and displayed."

"Norsemen took the treasure from the people of Rouen. And now, a Norsewoman is going to return their treasure to them. It belong to the people of Rouen. The only thing I ask is that credit for the find goes to Charles Gagnon."

I said, "The Ministry usually offers a small finders fee to those who donate their discovery. Do you have any plans for that?"

"I'd like to see half go to the church, to restore and maintain this old graveyard."

"And the other half?"

"There is a wretched little Viking museum in Rouen run by some gruff old man. That museum needs new exhibits."

"Who are you calling gruff?"

Kari ignored me and said, "If Charles' sister had Viking blood, then so did Charles. No Viking warrior wanted to be forgotten. They wanted their lives to be remembered in Runes, sagas, and songs."

A light rain began to fall and swirling fog moved in, pushed by a stiff wind. Kari knelt down and pulled the jeweled dagger out of her sling bag. She used it to cut out a small section of grass over Charles' grave. Gently pulling apart the underlying earth with her hands, she slipped the dagger into the ground, covered it over, and replaced the grass.

I asked, "Why did you do that? That dagger is worth a lot of money."

"Charles will need this more where he is going. The dagger is part of his Viking heritage."

"It's old, and tarnished, and the blade has almost rusted away."

"It can be re-forged once Charles reaches Valhalla."

"I understand now. As Tolkien said, 'Very bright was that sword when it was made whole again; the light of the sun shone redly in it, and the light of the moon shone cold; and its edge was hard and keen. And Aragorn gave it a new name and called it Andúril, Flame of the West'."

Kari replied, "There are no better smiths than the ones in Valhalla."

Kari removed the necklace from around her neck. Unclasping the pendant containing the silver Viking coin, she placed it atop the gravestone. "If any others of Viking heritage pass this way, they will know that a kindred spirit stopped here to honor this warrior."

There was a brief squall of heavier rain, then the wind paused, as if it were holding its breath. I stood back.

Kari yelled, "Hail, friend of the North. May Odin smile upon you! Skål to the fallen! May your name never fade!"

Behind the grave stood a row of ash trees, forming a dense canopy that grew together. A gust of wind stirred the mists, causing them to rise up through an ash trees. I thought of Yggdrasil, the great green ash tree connecting the Nine Worlds in Norse mythology. Travelers moved between worlds on its branches. Did Charles' spirit just pass from Midgard to Valhalla?

Kari said, "Je Me Souviens. I will never forget."

We returned to Kari's hotel and got out of the car. Kari looked at me and said, "We still don't know for certain who killed Charles, why Jacques used Runes, and why he didn't turn over Charles to the Canadians. I hate to leave our mystery hanging this way."

I replied, "A good mystery is one that is never solved. It leaves people wanting more."

"But a great mystery is one that does get solved."

I asked, "Still, this has been quite an adventure. Perhaps we can share another?"

Kari replied, "With me, when one adventure ends, another begins. I'm ready if you are. I want to volunteer at your wretched little museum."

Words of consent never left my lips, because they were pressed too tightly against Kari's.

**********

Chapter 18

**********

I took a sip of my latte as I walked down the steps to the museum on the first floor. There must be a secret to making a good cup of latte, but that secret eludes me. Fortunately, Kari made my morning latte, and she knows the secret. It tasted delicious, though perhaps it was flavored with love.

We stayed up late last night. Kari was practicing for a performance she will be giving in two days for one of the many local Viking History Groups here in Rouen. There is quite an interest here, along with plans to build a full-sized longship and dock it on the Seine. For her performance, Kari will be assuming the role of Jorunn Skaldmaer, one of the few known female skaldic poets. Skaldic poets sang at court, praising the jarls and kings of Norway.

Kari had asked a colleague to ship her the outfit she wore when giving performances back in Norway. It was expected to arrive today. Flipping the sign to OPEN, I sat down on my stool and waited for Kari to come down. She always took longer to prepare herself each day, but the result was worth it. Perfection. Sitting down with her latte, we resumed our conversation on improving the museum.

A short while later the old-fashioned bells on the door tinkled. It was Giselle!

Kari yelped, "Welcome, Giselle. Nice to see you again. How is your grandmother doing?"

Giselle replied, "She is doing well. We have been to Charles' grave several times. The old graveyard is a lot different now than when you first saw it. A group of my friends got together and we mowed, stood up the fallen grave markers, and cleared away a lot of rubble. The new church has set up a mowing schedule now. My friends and I have started video conferencing with Tommy every Sunday. He is great storyteller and they get to ask him lots of questions. I think he enjoys our visits as much as we do, because he never seems to get tired."

Giselle's words had an instant effect on me. Both inspiring and hopeful. Perhaps this next generation possesses enough of a spark that they too, could become great.

Giselle continued, "We began doing historical research on the old church and graveyard, and as part of that I picked up Jacque's book on Runes. As I was looking through it, I found this note. It appears to have been written by my great-grandmother, Johanne. Let me read it."

"There was a knock on our farmhouse door on the night of 26 August. We feared it was the Boche, but realized they would not have knocked. Opening the door, my father and I saw a wounded soldier. He spoke French and told us his name was Charles Gagnon, from Canada. We helped him to the small bedroom at the back of the farmhouse. My father, who was an experienced hunter, removed two bullets. But he dared not remove a third, because of its location. I ripped a linen sheet in order to make bandages."

"Charles was filthy. Both him and his uniform were caked with mud. I helped him remove his uniform, and bathed Charles with warm water and a bar of lavender soap I had been saving. Charles smiled through his pain, and said he smelled like flowers. The distant sounds of fighting were constant, and we feared the Germans might return any time, so my father burned Charles' uniform the next day."

"I sat with Charles each day, and we listened to birds singing. Charles enjoyed doing that. Charles told my father and I about the war. We had heard little actual news, and instead relied on rumors and radio broadcasts from London. Charles was a pleasant fellow, and both myself and my father enjoyed his presence. He told us stories of Canada and his family back there. He didn't have a girl waiting for him, but would start looking as soon as the war was over."

"Each day, I would clean and re-bandage his wounds. I also bathed his male parts, and was surprised at how much they grew under my touch. Charles said I was beautiful and thanked me, but I could tell he was in pain. We gave him the last of our Calvados, but when it was gone, we had nothing left to offer him. The next day, after bathing him, I climbed onto the bed, straddled his hips, and lowered myself onto him. It was my first time lying with a man, and brought momentary pleasure to Charles. I lay with him twice more."

"On 29 August, both my father and I could tell Charles was losing his hold on life. The Germans had ordered everyone to remain in our homes, under penalty of being shot. But my father went out into the forest to find the Canadian soldiers and bring them back to help Charles. I was proud how brave my father was to do this. He returned four hours later and said he met a band of Maquis in the forest. They were scavenging for dropped weapons. He told them about Charles and they agreed to pass the message onto the Canadians."

"On 30 August, there was no sign of the Canadians. Charles drew a map in the back of one of Jacques' books and said he had found a great treasure. Charles died later that day. My heart sank, and it was filled with anger at the Canadians for not coming to help Charles. My father shared this anger. He took Charles' body and gave it a proper burial. He swore that the Canadians would never find Charles, and made me promise never to tell. I love your Charles, and will never forget you."

Giselle said, "That must be why Jacques used the Runes. To make sure the Canadians would never locate Charles and take his body away. I searched the Internet to try to understand why the Canadians did not come, and found an interesting story. The Germans machine-gunned a group of Maquis in the woods just before they retreated across the Seine. The message Charles asked them to pass on never made it to the Canadian Army. That is why they didn't come."

Kari said, "That would also explain the cryptic use of the words, 'Charles left us'. I think you have solved our mystery, Giselle. You have written the last part of the Saga of Charles Gagnon."

Giselle said, "When I learned this, I told my grandmother. She needs to know that the French and the Canadians stand united, as Allies. There should be nothing between us."

I said, "You have done well, Giselle. I thank you for your efforts."

"I really enjoyed the last three weeks, and helping you with your mystery. I should be going."

As Giselle left, a package was delivered. It was from Norway.

I said to Kari, "This must be your skaldic poet outfit."

"It is. But don't open it yet. I have some important news to tell you. My request for a sabbatical was granted. I'm going to do research on the interaction of Vikings with the local Frankish people. I want to search through the old records kept by the monks."

"You'll need a local historian who speaks Old French for that."

Kari smiled at me, and said coyly, "I'm particularly interested in intermarriage between Norwegians and the local population."

I smiled and nodded my head to let her know I got her subtle message, "You'll need a local historian for that too."

"I'm counting on it. History may not repeat, but hopefully we can make it rhyme. Together."

I was eager to see my future wife in her skaldic poet outfit, so I pointed to the box. "Can I open it now?"

Kari smiled and said, "There is a second outfit in that package. Have you ever been visited in your bed at night by a sex-starved Valkyrie?"

"No," I replied.

"You will be."

**********

Author's Notes

**********

I spent May and June of this year visiting the Normandie region of France. I was stunned by the intensity and density of history, and wish to thank all those I met for providing me with more wonderful information than I could possibly fit into a single story. I hope you enjoyed this story. If you did, you may want to look at my Oggbashan Memorial 2024 story, "Sic Transit Gloria Mundi", about the German battleship Tirpitz in Norway.

I selected the first name of Thomas for the old veteran in this story. I did this as an homage to a Canadian soldier named Thomas Prince. Better known as Tommy Prince, he was a First Nations Canadian war hero in the elite American-Canadian commando unit known as the Devil's Brigade. Fighting in both World War II and Korea, Tommy has been described as "perhaps Canada's greatest soldier." You could not write a story about heroism and include everything Tommy did. No one would believe you. If you have an interest, his story is well worth your time. The Tommy appearing in my story is a wholly fictional character, pulled from a composite of the many who fought in France during the war.