The Journey to Find Mimir

Chapter Nine: Let There Be Lamps!

The elf was practically unconscious by the time we made it to my front door. His legs took shaky, wobbly steps. His eyes kept rolling back in his head. The golden light surrounding him had quickly begun to fade. Now it shimmered and pulsed faintly, like a weak heartbeat. I practically slammed the key into the lock, then ushered him inside. 

"Okay, okay," I muttered to myself. "How to help, how to help."

I scanned the dirty, dark apartment. He needed light, and fast. But how? There wasn't enough light in all of Nidavellir to keep him well. 

Suddenly, a revelation slapped me straight across the face -- I would have to build something to keep him alive. I broke into a cold sweat. My mind whirred like the fan of an overheated laptop. How was it that someone's life depended on my crafting skills? Me! The worst craftsman to ever exist! A short, crazed laugh burbled from somewhere deep inside of me. I was glad the elf could not hear it.

The elf groaned, his body leaning even more heavily against me. My blood ran cold as another horrible thought ran through my head: Would he even live long enough for me to invent something? Before I got to work, I would have to find a temporary fix. 

I examined the cluttered living room, stuffed with odds and ends. 

Dark. 

Kitchen? 

Still too dark. 

My panicked eyes landed on the open bathroom door. Suddenly, I had an idea. 

I guided the elf onto the white tiled floor of the bathroom and flipped the light switch. The room was small, just a little shower, a toilet and a sink. But one side of the wall was mostly mirror. The gears in my brain began to turn. I eased the elf onto the tiled floor. Then, dashing around the apartment, I started bringing every lamp I owned to the bathroom. A long, hooked living room lamp by Bifurr, son of Galar. The bedside lamp Sleepy Babe that my dad crafted when I was young. A reading lamp called Conan the Wise from the living room. I pointed all of their faces directly at the elf. I murmured each of their names before flicking them on. Light exploded in the bathroom. It bounced off the mirror and flooded the room, bathing the elf in light.

The elf continued to shake. I flew to the living room and brought a couch cushion for his head. I ran to my bedroom and yanked the blankets off my bed to make him a nest on the tiled floor. 

I was about to swaddle him in a blanket when a question crossed my mind: Did he need light-to-skin contact? I stared at his long pants and suit jacket. Heat rose to my face. 

I knelt down alongside him and shook him awake. 

"I am going to take off your, uh, jacket. So, you can get some more light. Okay?"

The elf nodded. 

Face still warm, I yanked off the jacket. A long-sleeved shirt was underneath. I inwardly groaned.

But one hundred percent silk, said my brain. 

Shut up, I replied. 

I could see another layer underneath, so I carefully unbuttoned the long sleeve to find a tank top. I tossed the clothes aside and noticed that his shivering was less "earthquake" and more "old blender trying its best". 

I breathed a sigh of relief. 

"Okay now what?" I asked myself, standing in the door of the bathroom.

This was keeping him stable, but what I needed to do now was revive him. Panic began to ensue. I would have to make something, and fast. 

A montage of every crafting-related blunder I had made in school flew through my brain. From kindergarten, what creation was alongside the pocketknives all of my classmates had crafted? A metal duck -- the first thing my dad showed me how to create. My year eight crafting final? Another metal duck. Senior year exit exam? Only passed because the metal duck I made expanded into a larger metal duck. College? A metal duck with a metal hat. Anytime I had to make under pressure, it resulted in metallic waterfowl (and shame). If the elf needed me to make him a metal duck to keep him alive, then he would be in exactly the right place. I inwardly groaned. The poor guy should have landed in Eitri Junior's trashcans. 

Usually, I would sit in a slump feeling sorry for myself. But an epiphany occurred -- there was no time to be sad. If I sat and moped, the elf would die. 

I closed the door to the bathroom and went to the threshold of my father's room. I had not been there since he passed but, again, there was no time for grief. I had one goal, and that was getting more light to the deaf, glowing elf curled in a nest of Taylor Swift blankets on the floor of my bathroom. 

I crossed the room to his wooden crafting desk, which took up an entire wall of the room. The monstrosity of a desk was covered with clutter: pens, blueprints, nails, jars of ink, screwdrivers, a few of my Father's Day ducks. I swiped a section of odds and ends onto the floor and sat in his rolling chair, ready to work.

I ignored the bubbling panic and began to think. 

Okay, start small, I thought. He needs light. That means lightbulbs. 

I dug around my dad's cluttered desk (nothing) then moved to the rest of the apartment. I found the right box tucked away under the couch. As I was pulling out the bulbs, something else caught my eye. I felt around and pulled out a miracle: a dozen long, skinny lightbulbs, roughly seven feet in length. 

I wondered what dad had bought them for. Then, a conversation from a few months prior flickered back.

"In Midguard," my dad had said over a breakfast one morning, "there are these machines called tanning beds. Pale people get into them to make their skin darker. To make it look like they spent more time in the sun."

I shuddered, and dad laughed. 

"I know, but bear with me," he said. "I was thinking. What if I crafted one of these tanning beds to be used for transporting criminals? That way you could petrify them before they tried to escape."

A murderer had been on the loose after tricking guards on his way to court. It was all over the news.

"That's a great idea!" I said. 

Dad smiled solemnly. 

"I thought so, too," he said. "But can you imagine what would happen if the design fell into the wrong hands? Chaos in Nidavellir. It's a brilliant idea, but it is one that would do more harm than good. So I've burned the blueprints. And you know what to do."

I nodded. Dad didn't mind failure. He always said it was a part of life. But when dad accidentally created something dangerous, we never spoke of it again. Nidavellir was lucky that he was talented and pure of heart. He could have used his inventions for far worse things...

Hello? my brain snapped. The elf is dying? You're just standing there!

I jumped up, still holding the long lightbulbs next to the couch. I could make one of dad's failed inventions. Okay! I had an idea. Now I just had to execute it. 

First, I would have to make a box for the guy to lay in. But how? I didn't have any metal, or wood. All of that was back at my dad's shop, and I didn't want to leave a dying elf on the floor of my bathroom. I would have to be creative. 

My eyes scanned the living room, then fell on a sideboard. It was rectangular box, easily seven feet long and three feet tall. All I would have to do was remove the shelves, strengthen the remaining walls, build a platform of light above and below him...

My mind began to whirl. Somewhere deep down, an excited part of me shouted, Yes! You're doing it! You're creating! But I ignored it. There was no time for celebrating -- I had a life to save.