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Polaris, v. 1, issue 4, September 1940
Page 12
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12 YGDRASIL by John F Burke Roland Prentiss had always longed to visit Norway. He would apend odd moments in the Reference Library, reading books on Norse legend, and looking through the photographs in travel pamphlets with wistful eyes. He found it hard to explain to himself why Scandinavia should have such an appeal but within him he always felt that urge to explore the grim, mountainous country of the North - an urge that led him nowhere, since he had not the money to make the trip. He saved about two shillings a week, which was not much of a help; sometimes he would find his shoes needed mending, and then he would draw from that two shillings.... Prentiss was twenty-seven when the War broke out. From a rather uneventful life, shared between the dull, monotonous reality of the dingy insurance office and the fantastic dreams of the Library, he was plunged into this strange new world that was apparently going topsy-turvy. He volunteered rather than wait to be conscripted, although there was a singular lack of any anxiety to fight for his country. All about him people mouthed patriotic slogans, but he was not one of that class - in the back of his mind he felt that he wanted to visit Norway. Maybe he would manage, if he came through this alive. He found himself in Norway sooner than he expected, but the conditions were not those in which he had contemplated visiting the country. Before he had much chance to look around his right leg was shattered pretty thoroughly, and he was moved into an improvised hospital in an old barn. They gave him attention, and shook their heads. "I suppose I'm finished?" said Prentiss, watching them calmly and then looking over their heads to the white patch of light that was the door, with mountains framed in its opening. These mountains seemed to dominate him, and, unconscious of the fact that he was muttering feverishly, he strained to reach them. He could not quite work out how he came to be on the large plain. He looked about him. His memory of what had happened since he left the hospital - for he obviously must have left it, or he would not be here - was hazy. He had an idea that this was a plateau, not a plain. It was rather surprising. He looked all around at the barren waste; not a plant on it- "That's funny", he said. He turned round as a rustling sound came to his ears, and found a large tree close to him. That tree certainly had not been there a few minutes ago. "Are you coming to the top?" said a voice from the uppermost branches. Prentiss stood back a little, but he could see no-one. Why should he climb the tree - how could he, with his injured leg? Or, rather, without his leg. The tree looked curious - he could not see whether the top branches were far from the ground or not. They were close to him; he could touch them if he wished. They swept about the trunk, where it plunged into the ground, but they stood up proudly, reaching out for miles, shading the whole earth, taking
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12 YGDRASIL by John F Burke Roland Prentiss had always longed to visit Norway. He would apend odd moments in the Reference Library, reading books on Norse legend, and looking through the photographs in travel pamphlets with wistful eyes. He found it hard to explain to himself why Scandinavia should have such an appeal but within him he always felt that urge to explore the grim, mountainous country of the North - an urge that led him nowhere, since he had not the money to make the trip. He saved about two shillings a week, which was not much of a help; sometimes he would find his shoes needed mending, and then he would draw from that two shillings.... Prentiss was twenty-seven when the War broke out. From a rather uneventful life, shared between the dull, monotonous reality of the dingy insurance office and the fantastic dreams of the Library, he was plunged into this strange new world that was apparently going topsy-turvy. He volunteered rather than wait to be conscripted, although there was a singular lack of any anxiety to fight for his country. All about him people mouthed patriotic slogans, but he was not one of that class - in the back of his mind he felt that he wanted to visit Norway. Maybe he would manage, if he came through this alive. He found himself in Norway sooner than he expected, but the conditions were not those in which he had contemplated visiting the country. Before he had much chance to look around his right leg was shattered pretty thoroughly, and he was moved into an improvised hospital in an old barn. They gave him attention, and shook their heads. "I suppose I'm finished?" said Prentiss, watching them calmly and then looking over their heads to the white patch of light that was the door, with mountains framed in its opening. These mountains seemed to dominate him, and, unconscious of the fact that he was muttering feverishly, he strained to reach them. He could not quite work out how he came to be on the large plain. He looked about him. His memory of what had happened since he left the hospital - for he obviously must have left it, or he would not be here - was hazy. He had an idea that this was a plateau, not a plain. It was rather surprising. He looked all around at the barren waste; not a plant on it- "That's funny", he said. He turned round as a rustling sound came to his ears, and found a large tree close to him. That tree certainly had not been there a few minutes ago. "Are you coming to the top?" said a voice from the uppermost branches. Prentiss stood back a little, but he could see no-one. Why should he climb the tree - how could he, with his injured leg? Or, rather, without his leg. The tree looked curious - he could not see whether the top branches were far from the ground or not. They were close to him; he could touch them if he wished. They swept about the trunk, where it plunged into the ground, but they stood up proudly, reaching out for miles, shading the whole earth, taking
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