[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

This is Behind the Cut with Christopher Gronlund. The companion show to Not About Lumberjacks.

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

Behind the Cut is an in-depth look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and likely contains spoilers of the most recent story. You’ve been warned…

* * *

I was six years old when, during a weekend visit with my dad and his family, I was told my purpose in life was to carry on the family name.

It wasn’t said in those exact words, but that was the message.

It was a strange demand; after all, my father was creeping toward his mid-30s and still fertile. In fact, he did go on to remarry and have another child—a girl. But had my younger sister been a boy, and had I bought into the position of importance bestowed upon me by the Gronlund men who came before me, I would have been dethroned at the age of 10.

Just beginning life, but with no purpose.

* * *

Obviously, I don’t believe any of that…but I know people who would in that situation. Growing up, I saw many friends and acquaintances living lives chosen for them by others at a young age. Maybe it was the result of a dad lost in the glory days of his youth who ends up screaming at coaches at youth sporting events because—unlike him—his kid is destined for the big leagues.

Maybe it was an overbearing father pressuring his kids to succeed in business just as he had, even though the only thing going for him was money…if that’s your measure of success.

I’ve seen many people with lofty dreams told by those entrusted with their well-being to give them up and do what they deemed was best for them.

And, other times…I’ve seen people stick to their dreams and tell even family they no longer wanted them in their lives.

* * *

I wasn’t sure how the latest Not About Lumberjacks story, “The Song of the Stone,” would be received. I know first-hand how deciding to not have children can be seen by some…even though I would expect no one to do the same. Even more: creating a character who disowns family can be seen as extreme and wrong. (It’s always amazed me how quickly people can dispel the lifetime of abuse some faced with, “Your parents were only doing their best,” when they really weren’t.)

All these elements are part of a greater theme in the latest story: being true to yourself…living a life that, when your end comes, you don’t regret “what might have been…”

That aspect of “The Song of the Stone” seems to have resonated with listeners and readers, and I’m glad.

I often have a person or audience in mind when I write a story. If it’s a humorous story, I think about the friends I laugh with and know if they’d laugh at a scene, others will as well. Sometimes it’s not as specific—sometimes it might be as simple as, “I want to lift the spirits of someone feeling a bit down by the end of this story…”

With “The Song of the Stone,” I deliberately wrote a story for child-free people…and those who have stepped away from overbearing—even abusive—families.

* * *

Of course, when you write a story with such purpose, some might assume the actions of the characters are also those of the writer. It’s a fair point…there are some things I pulled from in my own life that made it into this tale.

• I was told at a young age that my duty was to carry on the family name.
• My wife and I were told by someone at a family reunion that we would have children…”just wait and see—you will!” (And, at another family reunion, told we clearly wanted kids because of the way we were “longingly” looking at a kid—when in reality, we were trying to determine if her face was smeared with dirt, chocolate, or feces.)
• And I did step away from most of my father’s side of the family because they were largely a bunch of bitter racists. (I believe if one won’t tolerate certain behaviors from a stranger, why accept them from family?)

But my story is not Zander’s story.

• Zander doesn’t want to marry…and I’m a month shy from 31 years with my wife.
• Zander did what his parents expected from him. My parents made no demands on me…I was allowed—even encouraged—to pursue my wildest dreams.
• Zander is so into solitude that he’s fine not having any friends. While I might be the most reclusive extrovert on the planet, I love my friends like family and enjoy time spent in their company.

I simply wanted to write a story for people like Zander because there aren’t many stories written for people like him. And I know, given history, there were no stories written for people like Einvaldr, who struggled with many of the same things people still deal with eleven-hundred-years later.

With “The Song of the Stone,”  I wanted to write a story that says, “There’s nothing wrong with you or the different things you want from life.”

* * *

For all the smaller themes in the story, it’s clear the big one is about living a life free of regret. (Specifically, not living the life others demanding of you.)

There’s a song called “Sweat Loaf” by the Butthole Surfers that…well, I’m not recommending you go listen to it, but there’s a good line about regret in it. A son asks his father what regret means.

The father answers: “Well, son, a funny thing about regret is that it’s better to regret something you have done than to regret something you haven’t done.”

In the context of the band, one could easily make an argument that it’s an endorsement of hedonism, but as a writer, I understand people sometimes see different things than the author’s intent—and that’s valid.

I always saw the line as saying, “At least try doing something”—that regretting a mistake is better than regretting not doing anything at all with your life.

* * *

I recently turned 54, and I can tell you there are things in my life I wish I’d done differently. But…it’s not regret.

No one lives a life free of mistakes. We all make poor decisions along the way and shouldn’t be made to carry them the rest of our days. I believe, if you’re a good person and do what you can to honor some of your truths, that you’re living well.

Your life may look like a wreck to others—and it very well might be—but if you’re living a life true to who you are, you’re doing better on some level than most people.

The line in the story: “I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me,” really is from an essay and book from a palliative care nurse named Bronnie Ware.

In the end, for all one might have accomplished, that is the most common regret she heard from dying people. And it’s no surprise—the people I know who carry the deepest regrets often came from judgmental households. They are often the people who lived the lives others expected of them, never even trying the things they always wanted to do.

* * *

Of course, many things are easier said than done.

I have a good job, but it is not the job I hoped to be doing when I was 20. Yet I’ve still found a way to be true to myself with this show. In ways, its lack of greater “success” only strengthens that truth. I keep making Not About Lumberjacks because I’ve always wanted to write and share stories with others.

I think the important thing is to not confuse one’s truth with an imaginary ideal.

When I was 20, I was naïve enough to believe the two were the same. Because I wanted to be a successful writer, anything less than that wouldn’t do. But I was still a realist: I believed I’d be comfortably supporting myself writing fiction by the time I was forty. (I gave myself 20 years to get there.)

That didn’t happen.

I can be sad about that, or…I can look at the body of work behind me—and know there’s still so much more to be written.

I know more than a few people who very well might have gone further with their writing than me but gave up because they didn’t get into a certain program or have a blockbuster debut. The imagined ideal mattered more than their truth. They were raised to believe if they didn’t succeed in a big way, that they failed.

In “The Song of the Stone,” Eivaldr still spent much of his life in Birka because most of us are bound by realities beyond our control. Zander lives in a time allowing more freedoms, but still doesn’t end up as a history teacher. And yet, each character found a way to make the things they loved their truths…because they refused to live the life others expected them to live.

I’m not the writer I believed I’d be when I was 20, but I’m not sure I’d be as true to myself had that been what I became.

* * *

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks and Behind the Cut. Theme music for Behind the Cut is a tune called “Reaper” by Razen. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the music, the episodes, and voice talent.

Also, for as little as a dollar a month, you can have access to a bigger behind-the-scenes look at Not About Lumberjacks on Patreon. Check out patreon.com/cgronlund if that sounds like your kinda thing.

In July, it’s a light-hearted tale about a writer who trades in his long-time muse for another…to disastrous effect.

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

[Listen]

[Sound of an ax chopping wood. Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…

My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.

This time, it’s a story about a person’s dissatisfaction with living the life others expected from him leading to a stone in a Swedish forest that also called to someone else during a turning point in his life in the early 860s. Not 1860’s…860s.

But first, the usual content advisory…

“The Song of the Stone” deals with lack of job and life satisfaction, pressure to marry and have children, career pressure, and death from illness.

Before we begin, A mighty thank you to Miro Karjalainen, aka Three Star Vagabond, for answering some questions about Stockholm and Birka. If there are any inaccuracies in the story, they are all on me.

Miro is my favorite travel vlogger. Each week, he documents his travels around Stockholm, the rest of Sweden, and the world. It’s an impressive one-person operation, full of great places, history, and humor.

Miro also has a second YouTube channel called This is Geeky! in which he knocks around documenting geeky things. Of course, I love that channel as well.

So, check out what he’s up to at either link above, or swing by his Three Star Vagabond Facebook group.

Also, I hint at a couple YouTube channels in this story. If you’re curious who inspired those lines, here you go:

Roaming Wild Rosie – A thru-hiking designer who stepped away from the hurried pace of life in London and bought a cabin in the Swedish woods. Most Sundays, she chronicles her efforts restoring her home and tending to her little plot of land. I can’t tell you how much I love the commentary in her video about being a hermit.

Lowkey Swedish – Ally and Hamish are the “adorable couple from New Zealand,” mentioned in the story. Like the others mentioned above, each Sunday they share their restoration progress on their cabin in the woods not too far from Stockholm.

It’s already hit 97F / 36C in Texas this spring, so I’m sure I’ll revisit their snowed-in video as it gets even hotter in Texas.

Links to everyone and everything I just mentioned are in the show notes.

All right, let’s get to work!

The Song of the Stone

It was always about more than just my job, but I didn’t realize that until I found the stone. One day we’re told we can be anything we want, but as we get older, we’re told those dreams aren’t “responsible.”

I’m sure there are six-year-olds who decide they want to be an accountant from the start, but growing up, all my friends wanted to be artists or writers or in bands. They wanted to make movies or explore the world. Now, they spend their days in cubicles or tucked away in home offices, never feeling able to fully step away from their work. But chat with them—maybe even loosen them up with a drink or three—and many admit they wonder what their lives would be like today had they been more true to themselves and not those who raised them.

Me? I wanted to be a history teacher, but my parents wouldn’t hear it.

“It’s a noble profession,” my father said, “but it won’t provide the life of a doctor or lawyer. At least consider business.”

The saddest thing about that day? Me saying, “I was raised to believe I could be anything,” and my mother looking at me and replying, “You should listen to your father.”

And that’s what I did.

I moved from my hometown of Olathe to Lawrence, where I enrolled in the University of Kansas School of Business. If nothing else, I was out of the house.

After I got my MBA, though, I was back home, working as a business analyst where my dad worked in Kansas City.

That’s when Crisis Number One hit…

* * *

I know I wasn’t the first 26-year-old to be burned out at work and feeling some degree of guilt about such a seemingly fortunate problem to have. My grandparents were married and had several kids by 26, and they sucked it up—so what was my problem? But why should a person compare themselves to others, and be made to suffer, when that’s not who they are?

I later found out from my mom that her parents were miserable together. My grandfather cheated on my grandmother for years, and she eventually had more than just a clinical relationship with the family doctor. My dad’s side of the family at least didn’t try keeping things together in an effort to appear happy. My grandfather had the typical mid-life crisis, dumping my grandmother for someone younger who eventually dumped him.

My grandmother, on the other hand, rolled with it and started living for herself instead of to the expectations of others—and today she’s one of the happiest people I know. She doesn’t regret having children, but there’s a spark in her eye when I say I don’t want that.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been told it is up to me to continue my family line. That’s a ridiculous weight to place on the shoulders of a six-year-old, but that’s how old I was when I first recall my family telling me—the last male in our family branch—that I was essentially here for one thing: to carry on the Pierson name. I have considered my aversion to being a father might be linked to that. Were my feelings just me pushing back against my dad, his father, and aunts and uncles telling me memories of them would die unless I sired at least one male child myself? Like we were royalty or something?

But it’s not that: I just like solitude. I’ve never dreamed of having a relationship with someone, let alone a marriage. I’ve been told by family, and even some people I barely know, that I’m greedy for being this way. I think it’s more greedy, however, to have children because it’s what’s expected of us. I’ve been told I can’t know what I’m missing until I hold my own child in my arms and look in its eyes, but I have many friends whose parents did that and then put on them all their regrets and failures and expected them to carry those hopes and dreams—even if they did not share them—to some imaginary end. The world is full of neglected children, many from some of the wealthiest neighborhoods that exist.

Yet I’m somehow the broken one rolling in a puddle of greed for not producing the children I don’t want, just so someone can say, “See? I told you so!”

I’ll admit, my solution to Crisis Number One might have been a bit extreme, but I made the decision on my 26th birthday to leave Kansas. I’d been thinking about getting my own place in Kansas City, but it was apparent I needed even more distance from home. Somehow, the conversation during my birthday dinner turned to talk about when I was going to settle down and give my parents grandchildren. I zoned out, but I remember my dad saying something about leaving behind a legacy and my mom asking me who will care for me when I get older.

It was my friggin’ birthday, and that was my gift? I looked at my mom and told her: “If I had kids, I’d not have them to take care of me. We shouldn’t be talking about my inevitable death on my birthday, but since we are, I’m fine walking into the woods and dying when it’s my time. And legacy, Dad? Who’s your great-great grandfather?”

He couldn’t name him.

“That’s legacy, Dad: forgotten in a few generations.”

“I’m here because of him, though,” my father said.

“Yes, you are, and honoring his legacy by working a job I know you can’t actually enjoy—and badgering your son on his birthday, despite knowing my feelings about all this.”

I’d done what I was supposed to do: I got an MBA and a good job, but it still wasn’t enough.

I knew the longer I stayed in Kansas that things would only get worse.

I wondered what another life entirely might be like…

* * *

AD 857

Einvaldr wondered what his life might be like had he stayed on the farm. It’s not that he lacked interest in the bustling trade city of Birka, with its people from distant places converging on the island to peddle and purchase wares, but it was the life his father wanted—not him. Einvaldr preferred the quiet pace of farm life, tending to the land and sheep, instead of the din and throng surrounding him. That didn’t stop his father from trying to convince him they shared a dream.

“Do you agree this is a good life, my son?”

The two huddled around the hearth in the center of their small shelter and shop.

“It is, father. But it is not the life I imagined.”

“What do you not like about it?”

“This building is small, and the village is crowded.”

“This building is warm and a reminder of our family’s work. This city is our connection to the world.”

Einvaldr looked at the piles of fabric making their already tight dwelling even more claustrophobic.

“I am proud of our work and do not mind coming here to sell it. I do not like living here, though.”

At first, Birka was not without its excitement. Einvaldr was content to sleep beneath their stand when the weather was pleasant, and moods were bright. When they settled into a permanent space—staying even through winter—the novelty quickly faded. Einvaldr only saw home when his father sent him back to the farm to retrieve more fabric.

“That we can survive, here, is a testament to our way of life,” his father said.

“My way of life is not here.”

“Your beard is still short. You will one day see the opportunities before us as I do.”

Einvaldr’s father stood and retrieved a piece of silk from a nearby stack of fabric.

“I will put our family’s work against any local, but it is not like this. Do you not want to travel east to see how this is made?”

Einvaldr drew his cloak around his body. “That will not keep you warm during winter.”

His father settled back beside the small fire. “I have given you a better life than mine. Your children will have a better life than you. One day, you will realize this.”

Einvaldr stared at the flames and said, “I had a better life on the farm.”

* * *

Crisis Number Two was on me.

I left Kansas for a corporate training position in Portland. It wasn’t teaching history, but it was teaching. I quickly realized how easy it is to convince yourself that doing something similar to a dream is the same as living the dream, but it didn’t last long. What I was doing in Portland was not much better than analyzing data back home in Kansas. Training people how to use proprietary software is not the same as teaching people something you love—it’s just a job like any other if your heart’s not into it.

I had aspirations to get outside with my move to the Pacific Northwest, to soak in the landscape—maybe become one of those people who forages for mushrooms and knows hidden places even most locals don’t know exist. But I spent most of my time in Globotek’s Pacific Northwest office, or in my studio apartment, exhausted. While I was free from the pressure of family, I was not free from its effects.

The problem with running from something is that you’re running. Instead of holding my ground when others demanded things from me, I gave in because it was easier than confrontation and feeling like the bad guy. Once you establish that as normal, though, you are—in essence—giving others permission to continue doing things in your life you do not like.

I once read an article written by a palliative care nurse—about the regrets people have at the end of their lives. I figured wishing they had worked less would be the number one misgiving, but it was number two. The number one regret of the dying? “I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.”

At least I was in good company.

I was on the cusp of another full-blown crisis just three months into my move when my boss asked me to come into her office. I hoped it was a layoff. I’m not sure what I would have done, but I was able to save much of what I made and knew I’d be fine. Worst case: I’d have a little bit of time to get out and see things I moved to experience before finding another job. But instead of saying, “We’ve unfortunately made the difficult decision that we have to let some people go,” she said, “How would you like to spend a year in our Stockholm office?”

* * *

Stockholm was nothing like Kansas City, or even Portland. If I had to compare it to other places, I’d say it’s like a cross between Paris and Vienna, with a lot more water and bridges. But that’s not fair—it is a city all its own, where Baroque masterpieces stand beside minimalistic works of art. A city that built its streets around walking and cycling. Despite breaking each morning for fika and eating pastries with coffee, it took little time to lose the bit of extra weight I hoped to shed hiking in the forests of Oregon. It was every beautiful thing about other wonderful cities in one place.

My work life was much different as well. I never quite figured out why I was needed, other than my manager wanted a native English speaker to create training content for some clients, even though my coworkers spoke better English than many native speakers I knew back home. When we worked, we worked with focus, but when the day was done, we stepped away. I wasn’t expected to answer email on my phone after hours or work on weekends. I never realized until then how even on my best day in the states, I still carried the hum of low-grade stress with me everywhere I went. When you factor in how stringent my parents were about school and sports growing up, I found myself with time to myself for the first time in my life. That’s when I discovered a new problem: I had no idea what to do with that time.

I mentioned my predicament to my manager, Nora. She suggested I get a hobby. I told her I enjoyed hiking, and she said, “That is a part of life. You need something to focus on.”

I said, “I enjoy history and reading.”

“That is also part of life.”

* * *

Another thing I discovered about Sweden is your work friends are your friends at work, but it’s up to you to find friends outside the office. It’s not like in the states where work friends are often personal friends; in part, because we never seem to stop working in the U.S. I suppose that’s why Nora suggested I find a hobby—so I’d at least have friends at a club for whatever I decided to focus on. But I preferred being alone.

I was content to wander Stockholm, so there was no reason to take up something new. The history of the area, and the city’s myriad museums and parks, meant I always had something to do. When the novelty of living in a new place faded, I rented an Aimo carshare one weekend and explored outside the city.

Of course, I still focused on history—opting to visit the ancient trading outpost of Birka west of Stockholm. It was a simple plan: visit Birka early, and then drive around and see what else was out there.

I was surprised how quickly the city gave way to suburbs, and then suburbs turning into country. The urban sprawl of the U.S. was so normal that I never gave much thought to how far you have to drive before things feel even a little open. A ferry ride got me to the Lindby jetty, where I parked and hopped a final boat to the island of Björkö.

The recreated Viking village reminded me of the Western villages I visited as a kid in Kansas and Missouri: everything was meant to appear authentic—and perhaps it was. At least there were no Viking battles in the streets like the mock shootouts back home. The museum was everything I craved, full of weapons, jewelry, clothing, and dioramas. After that, I wandered down to the water, where I saw a handful of replica boats on either side of a small pier. It was easy to imagine what the island and city must have been like then, with its tightly packed structures and throngs of people living along the banks of Lake Mälaren.

While it seemed most people’s favorite part of the visit was the overlook at the Cross of Saint Ansgar atop a stony hill, I preferred wandering the rest of the island. The trail meandered around so many burial mounds that I lost count of how many people were buried there. Sheep and cows lazed about in the shade of trees, and I was surprised to see fields and small farmhouses. I found a trail cutting through a small cluster of trees, giving me my first taste of Swedish forests. On a rise on the south side of the island, I wondered what it must have been like looking out across the water and the trees beyond. Or living there and looking across to Birka.

* * *

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No matter how low Einvaldr felt, returning home to the farm for stock and supplies always brightened his spirits. The family home sat on a slight hill overlooking a pasture full of sheep. Behind it all, trees scraped the sky. Their farm was humble, but a sprawling estate compared to the tight quarters in Birka.

It was Einvaldr’s first visit home since the death of his grandfather the previous spring. He had argued that his mother, uncle, and aunt needed him on the farm, but his father had final say. As he approached home, he considered anything he missed back in Birka. He liked being closer to the water, but not at the price he and his father paid. There was nothing else he liked about the place. All that mattered at the moment, though, was he had a few days at home before his uncle would help him drive a cart full of fabric back to a waiting boat Einvaldr would struggle to row back to Birka.

After their bellies were full of dinner, Einvaldr’s mother asked how his father was doing.

“He is father,” he said. “He should be here as well.”

“He is doing what he feels must be done,” his mother said. “I love your father, but I do not miss him. I miss you, however.”

“And I miss you. All of you. And home.”

“There are many years before you,” Einvaldr’s uncle said. “Give it time.”

“Time is one of the things I do not like about Birka,” Einvaldr said. “Here, time passes slowly. A year is measured on the land. There, it all runs together. We are losing our fascination with slower things. Now, it’s all about trade routes and goods. Birka is a place of desperation.”

Einvaldr’s uncle laughed and said, “You have always been wiser than your years. Do not worry—your day will come.”

* * *

Einvaldr fell immediately back into the routine of the farm. He rose early and helped his uncle tend to their cart. He cleaned up around the house, giving his mother and aunt time to ensure the fabrics they had woven were ready for market. He sat on the hill watching the sheep graze in the pasture stretching before him. Birka was not without its open spaces outside the village, but Einvaldr’s father kept him tethered to their small shop.

In the afternoon, Einvaldr returned to the lake the check on their boat. Perhaps the thing he disliked most about Birka was absorbing his father’s fear that if things were not watched, they would be taken. He never had such a concern on the farm.

After confirming the boat was secure, Einvaldr walked along the edge of the lake, eventually spotting a large stone through the trees. He made his way into the forest and climbed atop it. There was something about the way time had worn it down that cradled Einvaldr’s frame in all the right places. His stresses seemed drawn from his body and into the chunk of granite. Across the water, he could see the better side of the island of Bierkø. Birka lay out of view—from his vantage point, one would never know there was a city on the far side of the island, were it not for the occasional ship on the water or tales of the port.

It was a luxury for Einvaldr to lose track of time; he only realized how long he’d been sitting on the stone as the shadows of the day grew longer.

He couldn’t explain what it was about the spot he’d found, but he had never felt such a connection to a place.

* * *

I wanted to see what was south of Birka, so I doubled back after leaving the island. A couple ferry rides got me to where I wanted to go.

It’s funny how places far from each other can seem familiar. You could just as easily film a movie set in old England near Birka as you could a Viking saga. And when I lost myself among the pines, fields, and cabins south of the island, it became easy to understand why so many Scandinavians who found their way to the United States settled in Wisconsin and Minnesota—the scenery, in spots, was practically interchangeable. I parked the car at the end of a gravel road and stretched my legs.

It was what I hoped for when I moved to Portland and then agreeing to work on the project in the Stockholm office: the smell of the pines and lakes, the sound of water lapping along the shoreline and wind through the trees. Birds, the occasional boat, and nothing more. I grabbed my water bottle and headed into the trees.

It wasn’t a deep forest, but when you’re new to a place, even a small stand of trees feels huge and magical. I followed the shoreline where I could, occasionally making my way back into the forest. About 50 yards in, I found the stone.

It was roughly the size of a small car and smoothed by time. The annual expansion and contraction of ice on its surface created a ledge on one side almost like a chiseled seat. It was the perfect place to sit and think, or to clear your mind and do nothing more than take in all the forest offered. Years of stress melted away. I found myself practically sobbing as I let go of unseen weight carried within.

I couldn’t tell you why, but I’d never felt such a connection to a place.

* * *

When I lived in the United States, I believed my dissatisfaction with work came from the long hours I endured. My time in Stockholm revealed a deeper problem: I was not happy with what I was doing, even when I had more time to myself.

Parts of my job interested me: creating interactive learning modules, writing and voicing scripts, and even the occasional video presentation, but the topic always left me wanting more. Proprietary ordering software was not history. At times, I felt undeserving of the role I worked my way into as an escape from analyzing data. Somewhere, there was a person who studied what I had figured out largely on my own—some days, imposter syndrome got the best of me. Was someone with better credentials stuck in a job they hated because I took the seat in the role they craved?

I considered returning to school, to study what I wanted to do all along, but a semester had already started, and I only had a year in Sweden. So, I did my job as best as I could, and looked forward to my weekends.

* * *

There was no reason to explain why I kept returning to the stone, other than it was a place of comfort for me. There were more places to see north, south, and even the islands to the east—places I knew were more impressive than a boulder in the trees by a lake—but that spot had a strange allure.

I loved seeing cabins tucked away in the trees and imagining what it would be like to live in one, and I did visit more than just the stone. I’d pick a direction and drive, watching fields and trees roll by, or stopping for lunch in small towns along the way. It was a reminder that people were the same all over, city dwellers retreating to the country, searching for antiques and specialty shops, or time away at a bed and breakfast.

No matter how far I roamed, though, I always felt pulled back to the stone.

* * *

AD 864 – 873

In time, Einvaldr’s father’s promises of travel became reality. They traveled west into Värmland and north into Kvenland. They crossed the Baltic Sea into the land of the Rus. No matter how far they roamed, Einvaldr always felt pulled back to the stone.

When his father followed trade routes deeper into lands they’d heard about in Birka, Einvaldr insisted he stay behind to manage the shop. He missed the farm but appreciated his time alone—and came to appreciate being in one place again, even if it was a place where he didn’t want to live. When he was able to get away from the city, he wandered to the south side of the island, scanning the far shore for the spot where the stone lay.

Trips back to the farm to restock were also times to ground himself in his secret spot in the woods. His uncle joked with Einvaldr, asking if he had found a father’s daughter who held his heart. He told his family it was nice being in a place not so crowded and loud—that time walking released the stresses of living in Birka.

What Einvaldr didn’t tell his family was that he’d begun feeling unwell.

* * *

Fall was every bit as beautiful in Sweden as it was in Portland. Winters in Kansas City prepared me for the cold of winter, but not the darkness. Spring was an explosion of light and relief. Through it all, I visited the stone when I could. Like the seasons, I always returned.

That cycle was a reminder that life is never truly behind—it all loops back if we’re willing to receive it. It’s easy to feel lost if you measure your own worth based on the perceived successes of others, but I can say with confidence that while my father appeared to have everything constituting a well-lived life, he was not a happy man. My time in Stockholm, particularly my weekends, were happy times. And maybe that’s why I always returned to the stone: it was a reminder that if something stuck around in my mind, eventually I got to the things I want to do.

Sitting on the stone, looking across the water to Björkö, I could imagine someone long ago sitting in the same spot doing the same. Maybe a farmer imagining what life would be like there, or even someone from the city wishing for a slower pace to their life.

I have to think, even long ago, that people got burned out by the speed at which the world grew, and time passed.

* * *

Einvaldr’s life turned with the seasons. With his father mostly gone, he settled into his own routine. He came to enjoy winter—not because it was a slower season in Birka, but because he could walk across the ice to home, which was easier than arranging for a boat in warmer seasons. Other days, he crossed the lake and visited the stone.

With nature’s annual cycle came great changes in Einvaldr’s life: news of his uncle’s passing—and eventually, his aunt. When he insisted he come home to help his mother, she insisted he stay in Birka. In time, Einvaldr assumed his father passed away or found a new family in a faraway land. With his mother unable to keep up with demand, he sold his spot in Birka and returned to the farm. Eventually, it was just him.

Each year brought more fatigue, but visits to the stone rejuvenated him. Now, when Einvaldr looked across the lake to Bierkø, his past felt like a strange dream told to him by another person.

* * *

The last time I visited the stone was the weekend before my project came to an end. I expected a profound visit for some reason, but it was like all the others—which was not a bad thing. Sitting there eating a sandwich, I did spend a moment thinking about how many other places I could have seen during my time in Sweden. But I was always content to know specific details about a smaller area rather than seeing a smattering of things quickly over a wider space. I wouldn’t go as far as saying I lived like a local during my time in Stockholm, but on Mondays when chatting with coworkers, more than a few nodded and said, “That’s a good place,” when I told them where I’d been.

I’d seen more of the country than I’d ever expected to see. To think about what I might have missed served no purpose, other than unnecessary regret.

Before leaving, I placed my left hand on the stone. I wished I could absorb what it was that drew me there and carry that energy back to the states with me.

I patted the stone and said “Goodbye…”

* * *

AD 881

In the dark of morning, after summoning his final reserve of strength, Einvaldr struggled through the woods to the stone. It was more than the usual pull to the spot he loved, as though something inside had finally given up and sent a message to his brain that it was time, and that was the place to be. Too weak to climb atop the boulder, he gave it his back, propping himself up so he could see through the natural window of the trees to the lake. Above, stars shimmered as gentle waves counted down time against the shoreline.

The blue sky gave way to the sun’s glow beneath the horizon. Einvaldr listened to the arrival of another day in the forest: birds calling and animals scurrying about, all oblivious of their mortality. It would be easy to envy them, were it not for the pride he felt in living a life without regret. In the end, the demands of others did not weigh upon his soul.

Einvaldr reached back with his left hand and placed it against the stone. It gave him just enough strength to see his last sunrise climb above the trees.

He patted his old friend and whispered, “Goodbye…”

* * *

I thought I’d carry my Swedish weekends in the woods back to the states, but I was quickly reminded how broken work is in the U.S.—even in Portland. With the opportunity—even expectation—to work oneself to exhaustion, I did. When I was able to get away, I looked for a place that made me feel like I felt on the south shore of Lake Mälaren. I could argue the forests of the Pacific Northwest were more majestic than those in Sweden, but I felt more grounded over there. I loved the smell of ancient glacial lakes others might even find repulsive: the pungent decay and rebirth along the shoreline mingling with cool breezes and cold water.

I daydreamed about returning, becoming obsessed with YouTube channels about people buying cabins in Sweden and slowing down. I knew I’d have no idea how to fix up an old place, but each Sunday I watched a British designer who left her secure world behind to have a go on her own in the middle of nowhere, and an adorable couple from New Zealand who seemed to inspire people to help them figure things out in their efforts. It made it feel not so out of reach.

When I found myself working for the god-knows-how-many-consecutive weekend in a row (after promising myself I was done working weekends and would get out to do things that made life worth living), I told my manager I wanted to take a little time off to step away from the rush of days.

“We’re busy right now,” she said.

“I know. But we’re always busy. It’s my time to take.”

“Those Swedes got into your head.”

“Maybe. I’m not even talking about a week off. Just two or three days packed around a weekend,” I said.

“We’re pushing toward a product release. We need you to be laser focused in case training needs to be updated or the dev team drops a new feature on us without notifying product managers. After this project—I promise.”

Maybe my manager believed that, but I’d heard that line so many times before. I emailed Nora.
Nora,

Hi, it’s Zander Pierson, but you know that. Since returning to the U.S., things have not been great. I find myself working far too often. Any time away is spent preparing to work: doing laundry, shopping, and planning the next week. I miss Stockholm—I miss Sweden.

I feel I proved my abilities when I worked for you, and I wonder if there’s a permanent role for me at the Stockholm office? If there is, I’d love to return. I promise I’ll even get an actual hobby.

All the best,

Zander

I knew it was a risk. If word got back to my manager in Portland, she’d have likely taken it personal. Fortunately, Nora’s reply was more than I hoped for.
Zander,

Your timing could not be better. I’m leaving Globotek in three months to form my own company. How are you in front of a camera? We’ll need a native English-speaking content developer for an online effort. The first project is an educational series about Swedish emigration to the United States. You’d work with historians developing scripts and be one of the hosts on the series. There’s a need for your skills after that, so yes: it would be permanent.

Please let me know your thoughts. I look forward to hearing from you soon,

Nora

* * *

I had always done the right thing, but never the right thing for me. I avoided a third crisis by accepting Nora’s offer to help with her startup educational media company in Stockholm. My manager in Portland told me I was making a mistake by going to another country to support something that might fail. I reminded her in the few years I was with Globotek, that I’d seen enough layoffs to know loyalty and security only goes one way. It’s a matter of time before most of us, these days, are shown the door for no fault of our own.

The good thing about living a solitary existence is there’s no one to tell you you’re living life wrong—no one to tell me, “How can you leave your parents behind and move to another country?” as though I owe them something for which I had no say. No one to tell me I’m greedy for not having kids or that I should suffer because others have had a harder life than me. I know my parents did their best, but their blood does not bind me. I should not suffer and be judged based on their preconceived notions of who and what I should be.

I didn’t buy a cabin in the woods; instead, I stayed in the city and settled into a new job that satisfied my love of history. Things that didn’t seem possible in Kansas City or Portland seemed viable in Stockholm. My work friends were my work friends, and I was happy to spend my days with them. I didn’t need more beyond that.

On weekends, I explored. I visited the stone frequently, but also traveled north, south, and far enough east to where the Stockholm archipelago gave way to the Baltic Sea. I even discovered forests every bit as majestic as those along the Oregon coast.

And…I kept my promise to Nora that I’d take up a hobby.

* * *

Nora was right: reading for me was a part of life, not a hobby. Still, I wanted something that complemented the pile of history books about the area I kept on my nightstand. From its first episode, I fell in love with the TV series Detectorists, so I purchased a metal detector. Of course, the first place I visited was the stone.

Along the trail from where I parked to the stone, I discovered two pull tabs and a 25 öre coin from 1983; the body of a tiny toy car and a crushed beer can.

An initial sweep in the area around the stone revealed nothing, but when I moved closer to the boulder, I got a good hit on my metal detector.

After digging down a handful of inches and poking around with my pinpointer, I pulled out a metal loop about the size of a poker chip. In the same hole, I discovered a metal belt tip. The items were caked in dirt and corroded, making it difficult to see the simple design on the belt tip in any detail. Another sweep of the area exposed a cloak pin and a ring appearing to be made by the same hand. My heart raced as I set the pieces on the stone.

Almost immediately after returning to my search, I got my biggest hit. From a hole in the dirt beside the place I’d sat for who knows how many hours on weekends, I uncovered a knife. Its handle had long decayed, but the six-inch blade, extended tang, and pommel were in tact. I placed it with the other items and spent the next 20 minutes searching the area for anything more. The only other signs of life in the dirt revealed that sometime, probably in the 80s, someone liked to sit on or near the stone and drink beer.

As a kid in Kansas, I loved exploring the trails behind my hometown’s water works. Looking back, it wasn’t a huge swath of land, but it seemed endless when I was young. I’d lose myself in those woods, convinced I’d traveled back through time. It was always the discovery of a beer can that pulled me back to reality.

I put the cans in my pack and returned to the items on the stone. For all the history books I’d read, I could only guess at the age of the items before me. With no bones to be found, they were either placed beside the stone, or the owner of the tiny cache had been there so long that their mortal remains had been claimed by time. I carefully soaked the metal belt end with water from my water bottle, gently removing the dirt. It seemed the stone had been calling to others for a very long time.

Certain places stir something deep inside a person. Were I to analyze why this particular spot meant so much to me, I couldn’t explain it. Sure, it was a nice rock tucked back in some nice trees beside a nice lake, but for most people, it might only be a place to stop for a water break, perhaps a photo, and move on. For all I know, the person leaving behind the items I had spread out on the stone before me was just stopping by, but something told me I wasn’t the only one who heard its song.

I also wondered what became of the beer drinker of the stone. Was he still alive and in the area? Did he live in one of the nearby cabins that stirred a different sense of comfort in me? Perhaps one day I’d visit the stone and share a beer with him.

I was further removed from the life of the person whose life seemed to end beside the stone. There was no sword or surviving metal from a wooden shield, so it’s unlikely they met a violent end. The bit of cleaning I did on the found items indicated they once belonged to someone of modest standing. Was this spot his escape from what passed as the rush of life back then, like it was mine today? What were his final moments like? (What would my final moments be like?) What was it about this spot that seemed so important to us?

I contemplated returning the items to the soil, but I feared someone else might find and take them. I always had mixed feelings about respecting the final resting places of those who came long before us and removing remains. But when I thought about someone taking what I had discovered putting them in a drawer or showing them off to friends as a novelty, I knew what I had to do.

* * *

A proper archaeological survey of the area around the stone revealed a fragment of bone and some teeth—enough left behind to conclude my guesses weren’t far off from those of experts. Roughly eleven-hundred years ago, someone likely died beside the stone. There was nothing to indicate a burial, and with little more than remnants of a body to determine a possible cause of death, it was an end left to speculation. Everything pointed to a modest merchant with ties to Birka dying in that spot. I can think of far worse ways to go than hearing the wind through the trees and Lake Mälaren splashing along the shoreline as one took their final breath.

I was invited to the Birka Viking Museum shortly before opening on the day the items I found were added to the exhibit. The knife didn’t look much different than the day I found it, but seeing the polished pieces eased my concerns that I had done the right thing.

Over 1,000 years ago, people plying their crafts shaped bronze and silver into something more than utilitarian standards. Except for the ring, each piece still served a functional purpose, but their designs were a reminder of a society’s growth and appreciation of beauty, a step to where we stand today. Why should that work be left beneath the surface of a forest floor when their efforts can be admired over a millenia later?

I spent the morning watching people look at my discovery. Some marveled at the pieces, while most paused briefly before moving on. A small part of me hoped for a bigger reaction—not because my ego required it, but because the five items represented all that was left of a life. But they were still only a handful of fragments among hundreds. We’re all just a solitary piece of so much more in the end.

That morning reminded me the legacies we leave behind are always claimed by the ages. Living a life true to oneself—not giving in to the expectations of others—is always a life well lived. I hoped my inevitable end would be free of regrets. And I hoped the person who once owned what I discovered in the woods found what he wanted from life. He may have given his bones to the stone, but his memory had joined a song echoing through time.

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music was licensed through Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music. Also, for as little as a dollar a month, you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund.

Next time, it’s a light-hearted tale about a writer who trades in his long-time muse for another…to disastrous effect.

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

This is Behind the Cut with Christopher Gronlund. The companion show to Not About Lumberjacks.

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

Behind the Cut is an in-depth look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and likely contains spoilers of the most recent story. You’ve been warned…

* * *

J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit is one of the books that changed everything for me. It, and Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine, were novels I read multiple times in elementary school. They shaped my imagination and even the way I looked at the world.

Somewhere along the way after reading The Hobbit, I came into possession of the 1971 Ballantine Paperback Box Set of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings—the set with the trippy Barbara Remington art on the covers.

But no matter how many times I set out to read The Fellowship of the Ring, I always gave up. To this day, much to the surprise of people who know how much I loved The Hobbit as a kid—and all the hours I’ve spent playing Lord of the Rings Online—I’ve still never read the Lord of the Rings trilogy.

But I’ve read the appendices at the end of The Return of the King several times. I found it fascinating to see just how much work went into the books.

A quick aside since I mentioned Lord of the Rings Online. The latest Not About Lumberjacks story, “Rockbiters,” contains the names of two dwarves I’m quite familiar with. Thorvlin is my wife’s main character in the Lord of the Rings Online game…and while Bautigan was created in the early 80s for Dungeons and Dragons, I brought him back when I started playing the game with my wife and some friends.

His name is, admittedly, not very dwarvish-sounding. I was a kid and needed a different sounding name for a Dungeons and Dragons session, so…I looked at a bookcase in the house that housed a Richard Brautigan novel. I dropped the “R” in his last name, and the rest is geeky dwarven history.

* * *

Aside from playing Dungeons and Dragons and other table-top role-playing games, I am not into worldbuilding. In the fiction I write, I usually find it tedious and unnecessary.

In my younger years, when I started taking writing seriously, someone showed me how much they put into creating the characters for their stories—down to knowing what kind of soap they used. But for all their efforts, they still didn’t write very well, and finished very little.

* * *

My main issue with worldbuilding is that it can be a trap. It’s easy to keep tinkering with your world and how every little thing works…down to what soaps your characters prefer. You can convince yourself you’re writing without actually finishing anything.

Sure, depending on the story, worldbuilding is necessary to a point, but I know more than a few writers who have world statistics and places on paper, but no completed stories set in those worlds.

It might sound like I have something against worldbuilding, but that’s hardly the case. I recognize it can be necessary, especially for certain kinds of stories. I just think, instead of knowing what kind of soap a character uses before writing, that you should be able to figure that out in the moment if it ends up having any relevance to the story.

* * *

Genre fiction lends itself to worldbuilding—and with good reason. Writing a literary story taking place in the world in which we all live in obviously has its complexities, but names and places and other things are easier to come up with because this is what we know.

If I set a story in the Dallas area, sure…I might jump into Google Maps and make sure some cross streets I mention are correct, but I don’t need to build the world. I can grab the first name of someone I know or have known…and mash it up with a different person’s last name. BOOM! Character name.

What kind of car does that character drive? Well, they are upper middle class and beginning to become concerned with image, so…they’re in a BMW or Volvo. I might have to look up a model number, but I don’t have to build that world.

If I’m creating Middle Earth or the Star Wars galaxy, though, I need to know where I am.

* * *

Continuing with the point about fiction set in our world, I might have to research some details if I have a character travel from Dallas to Singapore, but I already know a bit about each place and how the characters would get there.

In a sci-fi story, however, if characters travel among planets in a different solar system, it’s not as easy. I have to make up planets and maybe even nations and cities. I have to figure out the method for travel between planets and maybe even galaxies.

I have to build [at least part of] that world or universe.

* * *

In recent years, with the exceptions of the mystery in “Godspeed, Crazy Mike” and the After Life in “A Deathly Mistake,” I’ve charged into the stories I write and share on Not About Lumberjacks with little to no planning. If I write myself into a corner where I’m not sure about something, I jump online, find my answer, and get back to writing.

But with “Rockbiters” I had to build at least the basics of a solar system.

I needed to know what planets made up the system, and I needed character names before beginning. I needed to know where asteroid belts were and some legendary history that guides the dwarves. I had to build all these things up front.

To my credit when it comes to not getting bogged down in unnecessary details, I know nothing about the planets mentioned in the story—other than what’s needed. Thara and Izli especially? No idea what they’re like, other than they are planets and they have names. They don’t matter beyond giving a sense of place.

* * *

I do understand the appeal of worldbuilding.

I want to know more about Izli and Thara…and even additional details about the planets getting more attention in “Rockbiters.” More history and lore and other things.

But had I done that, I’d still be building my worlds and not have a finished story.

Were I to ever return to this system in a future story, then sure…I’d add to what I’ve already made. If I set even more tales there, I might create a story bible…and more cool things to write toward.

But “Rockbiters” didn’t require anything more than some planet names, character names, a few places, and a touch of lore.

* * *

Let’s return to Tolkien’s Middle Earth…

Novels are different than short stories. While I still believe Tolkien’s worldbuilding is a bit much, it obviously worked for him. He not only finished stories, but wrote stories that reached legions of fans. And his worldbuilding led to keeping his tales and legacy alive today.

That’s the important thing: finishing.

“Rockbiters” is my first science-fiction story—at least something screaming sci-fi fantasy—and it required more effort before writing than any other story I’ve shared, here. And I had fun with the bit of worldbuilding the story required; in fact, I’ve had fun with other stories requiring more work up front on Not About Lumberjacks.

* * *

One of my wife’s favorite things I’ve written and recorded for the show is “The Other Side”—a story about a recently-divorced man who travels through a portal back to a fantasy realm he visited when he was young.

I had to make up locations, lore, character names (in fact, there’s a nod to some of those characters in “Rockbiters”), and even some made-up language and grunting, performed so well by my friends, Mark Hosack, Rick Coste, and Shawn Kupfer. Ever since writing “The Other Side,” I’ve wanted to write a fantasy story set in that world…or some other fantastic place requiring some worldbuilding up front.

So maybe 2023 will see another straight-up genre story on Not About Lumberjacks. In high school, a fantasy novel was never out of my reach, and I’ve had the urge to read more in recent years.

Who knows: maybe this is the year I finally get around to reading The Lord of the Rings trilogy…

* * *

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks and Behind the Cut. Theme music for Behind the Cut is a tune called “Reaper” by Razen. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the music, the episodes, and voice talent.

Also, for as little as a dollar a month, you can have access to a bigger behind-the-scenes look at Not About Lumberjacks on Patreon. Check out patreon.com/cgronlund if that sounds like your kinda thing.

In [probably] April—but definitely by early May—it’s another story with things rocky or stoney in the title. “The Song of the Stone” is a tale told through time, about two people drawn to a particular location as they ponder turning points in their lives.

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

[Listen]

[Sound of an ax chopping wood. Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…

My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.

This time, it’s the first science fiction story I’ve ever written—a tale about DWARVES IN SPACE!!!

Find out what happens when the Forgefire brothers, while mining in an asteroid belt called The Delve, discover something that changes the lives of an entire solar system.

But first, the usual content advisory…

“Rockbiters” deals with loss of life, brief mention of enslavement, and war. Some may find the battle scenes loud and stressful, but there is no gore or suffering. Think of it like Star Wars-level action and you’re fine. Also: I extend my no-swearing streak to a fourth story in a row…unless you consider a made-up, one-syllable word swearing.

Before we get going, I want to talk about this episode’s music. The usual theme music notwithstanding, all music is courtesy of Martin Goldmann.

Martin is a German video producer with an evening synthesizer habit. He has a handful of YouTube channels, one of which is full of his ambient soundscapes. It’s fair to say his music has gotten me through many a workday and writing session.

When he heard I was working on a story about dwarves in space, he wrote a piece of music aptly titled, “Dwarves in Space.” Like me, through a love of role-playing games and stories, Martin is also a fan of dwarves. Then, when he heard the title of the latest Not About Lumberjacks story, he wrote another piece called, “This Rockbiter Wants Some Marshmallow.”

I asked if I could use either piece, and Martin said I was free to use anything he’s done. When I asked how I could compensate him—like every contributor I’ve worked with on Not About Lumberjacks—Martin refused payment. So…a donation was made in honor of Martin’s talents and generosity to Musicians Without Borders.

I’ll be sure to link to the organization in the show notes, in case you’re so inclined to donate—as well as sharing Martin’s channels and website.

All right, let’s get to work!

* * *

Rockbiters

The Book of Roon – Part 1 – Malinor

From The Great Spark came the flame that started it all, The Time Before Everything giving way to the Age of the Gods. On Histrides, the three races—Dwarves, Humans, and the Sylvanon—took their first steps. In time, each claimed their lands: the Sylvanon left for the forests, the humans built their cities, and the dwarves found their way beneath it all. When the gods no longer listened, we turned to our legends for guidance and inspiration; of whom, the greatest is Malinor the Hammer.

Long before humans reached for distant systems, Malinor discovered the stones that would fuel their ships and dreams. No longer were we bound to Histrides—the Sylvanon settled on Moroth, while Malinor founded our home planet of Galbolduhr, where I, Roon—The Keeper of Tales—am writing this. The humans stayed on Histrides.

Malinor ventured into The Delve, the great rock field between Vondra and Toberon the Stone Crusher. There, he found more Ozymandite in one small asteroid than all of Histrides. An alliance between the three races of the system was formed, and Vondra became a processing outpost under dwarven guidance.

When the humans turned their attention to the stars, Malinor turned his attention to a new task: finding a stone that would restore the dying fires of The Great Forge at the center of our system.

* * *

The Discovery

Thorvlin Forgefire was deep down in Asteroid 2849 when he found it. He called his brother, Bautigan, over.

“By Malinor’s Hammer, is that…?”

“I believe so,” Thorvlin said.

“What is it doing here?”

“I’m not sure. Help me cut it free…”

* * *

On Vondra

Two days later, on the processing outpost of Vondra, Thorvlin summoned The Council of Nine. Three elected members from each race in the Alliance of Histrides appeared on the massive screen before him.

“Ah, if it isn’t the Forgefires!” an old dwarf said.

Thorvlin and Bautigan bowed. “Greetings to you and yours, Brondor Ironbeard. And the rest of the Council. Thank you for hearing us today.”

A human woman said, “Sur Ironbeard said you would not ask for our time unless it were vital.”

“Aye, it is.” Thorvlin gestured to something the size of a small shuttlecraft covered beneath a gray drop cloth.

“What do you have hidden there, Master Dwarf?” a lithe Sylvanon said while leaning forward in his seat. “Another large piece of Ozymandite?”

“No, something even greater.”

Thorvlin and his brother pulled back the cloth, revealing a massive stone on a wheeled pallet. They struggled to turn the chunk of Asteroid 2849 around to face the screen. The three dwarves on the council froze in awe.

Before them, fossilized in the stone, was the head of a massive drake. While its snout had long gone cold, its teeth were every bit as menacing as when it was alive. The beast’s horns spread out wide at the back of its head. Its scales looked like sculpture.

“Were you a human, I might think this is a joke,” the Sylvanon said. “But I know you would not summon the council unless you believed it important. Can you explain to us what it is we’re looking at?”

Thorvlin said, “Indeed, I can, Sur Greenvaro. We believe this to be the head of the Crowned Drake, Khurakmore.”

“I am sorry, I don’t understand the significance.”

“It is said that Malinor the Hammer slew the Crowned Drake on Malmora. We have never known where on Malmora this occurred, but we do know, from ancient writings, that Malmora was struck by a small rogue planet millennia past. I believe this to be a piece of Malmora placed into The Delve’s orbit by the gravity of Toberon the Stonecrusher.”

Seldona Greenvaro said, “Please forgive me, Master Dwarf. I still do not understand.”

Thorvlin turned to the fossilized drake. “It is written that Malinor and Khurakmore each met their ends in that battle. It is also written that in that battle, Malinor’s hammer was lost. We have known the hammer to be on Malmora for ages, but we have never known exactly where. If we can determine where on Malmora this is from, we might possibly retrieve Malinor’s Hammer.”

“You want us to sacrifice a mission to Malmora to retrieve an artifact?” Seldona Greenvaro said. “I understand its importance to you and your folk—we all have legends and treasures we hold dear—but we will not risk such a mission for a hammer.”

Thorvlin turned back to face the council. “What if I told you that hammer was forged with something greater than Ozymandite—something so powerful that it will revive the Great Forge before its fires die?”

“You mean the sun,” the Sylvanon said.

“Sun…Great Forge. We all have our ways of describing it. Ours is more…poetic; which is rather surprising, considering the Sylvanon reputation for airy songs and stories.”

Seldona Greenvaro smiled at the playful jab. A human man on screen said, “Assuming what you say is true. We have our plan. Sol will die, and it will die soon, which is all the more reason to not pursue such folly. As much as it may pain us all to leave, that is what we will do.”

Thorvlin said, “Sur Morro, I mean no offense with what I am about to say, but do you honestly believe we will all board ships and leave? Do you not understand that only the wealthiest among us will survive, while the rest of our people perish? Even if we could evacuate everyone, is this not worth the undertaking to find out if this is true? I understand your kind only live to 100 or so. We live several times that. And the Sylvanon live much longer than your kind and mine combined. If not for you, then for your descendants—so they may know the beauty of Histrides and not some distant system separated from their bones.”

“Those are fair points,” the man said. “What do you need from the Council, Sur Forgefire?”

“This fossil must be tested, to determine my heart is not leading my brain. If this is the head of the Crowned Drake Khurakmore, then we can determine where on Malmora Malinor’s Hammer rests. And once we know, we must go to there to retrieve it. For all our tomorrows.

* * *

Aboard the HSC Criterion

Twenty days until arrival at Irrades

Thorvlin and Bautigan sat in the mess hall with mission leaders Kalzoum Axebiter, Steen Brazol, and Andaleein Alzomar.

Steen looked at the emptiness of space through a port-hole window and said, “Surs, you like it out here?”

“On the ship?” Bautigan said. “Or do you mean in The Delve?”

“The Delve.”

“We like it,” Thorvlin said. “Galbolduhr is our home, but there’s something peaceful out here in these rock fields. Most of the time, we’re beneath the surface mining. The tunnels we carve may not be as grand as in the mountains of our youth, but it’s safe and to our liking.”

“I’d expect no other answer from a Rockbiter.”

“What?” Thorvlin said.

“Rockbiters,” Steen said. “That’s what we call you.”

“Well, I’m sure we’ve been called much worse.”

Andaleein smiled and said, “Do you have any names for us?”

“You’re a Sylvanon,” Bautigan said. “And Sur Brazol is a human.”

“That is not what I am asking. Do you have any endearing names for us?”

Thorvlin looked at his brother before saying, “I’m not sure about endearing, but we sometimes call you Leaf Ears. Because you like trees so much…and—ahem—those ears you all have.”

“And what do you call Master Brazol’s people?”

“Bunglers.”

“And why is that?”

“Because they bungle through everything, but somehow, it always works out.”

Andaleein laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Thorvlin said.

“That is not unlike my kind calling your kind Bolders. You are a bold people, but also: every bit as stubborn as stones.”

Fifteen days until arrival at Irrades

At breakfast, Andaleein Alzomar watched Thorvlin as he picked at his food.

“What?”

“You seem a bit on edge, Master Thorvlin.”

“I am not fond of traveling, at least like this.”

“There is no reason to worry.”

“Oh, I know that. It’s just…we like to be doing more than sitting and waiting. Take us from our work for too long, and we—as you say—get edgy.

“I can stomach the two days of travel from Vondra into The Delve. The four days from Vondra to home seems long, now. A week in this can is more than plenty. I don’t need a computer reminding me we still have two weeks to go.”

“It is a spacious ship.”

“Aye, it is. I suppose I prefer being in mountains or underground. I’d even take Toberon’s orbit being a bit closer as we pass through its space. Just to feel something other than nothing.”

“Have you ever felt Toberon’s pull?”

“I’ve been close enough to a convergence on the far side of The Delve to know I don’t want to be any closer than that. But the Stonecrusher brings with it a bounty. We’d not be in this can of a ship were it not for all Toberon places between it and Vondra.”

Ten days until arrival at Irrades

Thorvlin and Bautigan sat in the Captain’s Lounge with Kalzoum Axebiter, playing a game to pass the time. Steen and Andaleein broke free from their tables and sat with the dwarves.

“What is this?” Andaleein said.

“It’s called Hledatoml,” Thorvlin said.

“And how is it played?”

“The rules are simple enough. Kalzoum’s company starts in the middle of the board. Bautigan’s company is broken up to defend the six corners.

“Bautigan’s goal is to capture Kalzoum’s king by surrounding the piece on three sides. Kalzoum’s goal is to get the king to one of the corners of the board to win. Pieces move in straight lines. You take your opponent’s pieces by flanking them on three sides, or just one piece against the king’s starting space in the middle or a corner.”

Andaleein spent a few moments looking at the board and its pieces before saying, “You are correct. It is a simple enough game in concept, but I can appreciate its complexities. When your brother and Master Axebiter are finished, would you like to play?”

Thorvlin smiled. “Oh course!”

Bautigan and Kalzoum played until Kalzoum was left with only his king and one other piece. Bautigan had the advantage with five pieces of his own. That advantage served as Bautigan’s downfall. As he positioned his pieces to take Kalzoum’s king in his next move, he didn’t realize one of his pieces was against the king’s starting point.

Kalzoum flanked one of Bautigan’s pieces in the center, and in his next move, his king took a corner for the win.

“Ah, good match!” Bautigan said. “I thought I had ya!”

Kalzoum said, “So did I!” He slid the board toward Andaleein and Thorvlin.

Andaleein said, “Which side would you like?”

“It’s even odds, though some say the King’s side has the advantage. So, if you want, you can take the middle.”

As the game progressed, Thorvlin said, “Are you sure you’ve never played?”

And when Andaleein took a corner for the win, Thorvlin threw up his hands and said, “Ah, beginner’s luck!”

Andaleein smiled and said, “I would be happy to play again…”

“No, that’s all right…”

Five days until arrival at Irrades

“The rules of Ruuma are simple enough,” Steen said. “Using only your feet, your team tries kicking the ball into the goal.”

Steen and his human partner gestured to the court, a large, rectangular room with a round port at the far wall. Andaleein and another Sylvanon listened intently, while Thorvlin and Bautigan surveyed the space.

“The first team to 13 goals wins. You cannot stand in front of the goal, but if you are behind the goal line when an opponent kicks, you can cross and defend against them. Any questions?”

“Aye, can you play the ball off the ceiling?” Thorvlin said.

“You can play the ball off anything, Master Forgefire. Even your opponents. To that end, you can stand your ground and push against each other from a stopped position, but you cannot charge into others.”

“Ah, where’s the fun in that?” Bautigan said.

Steen placed the ball in the middle of the court, and each team retreated to a quarter circle marker in three of the room’s four corners.

“Three…two…one…GO!” Steen yelled.

At first, their familiarity of the game gave the humans a quick three goals. But Sylvanon speed quickly took over. With only one goal, it looked like Thorvlin and Bautigan would be better off letting their opponents play among themselves, but once they figured out trajectories and how to use their stout, lower centers of gravity to their advantage, they came from behind to win: their thirteen points to the humans’ ten and the Sylvanon’s nine.

As Steen struggled to catch his breath, he dabbed himself off with a towel and said, “That was quite a comeback for Team Forgefire. Tell me, what did you discover to change things to your favor?”

Thorvlin said, “Well, aside from being the stubborn Bolders Sur Alzomar mentioned a couple weeks ago, everything a dwarf knows can be found in family and the shapes of things. The structures that hold stones and gems together—what makes up our bodies. We know where to put pressure on rocks; where those rocks will fall and, possibly, even roll. We know how to make things do what we need, so it should be no surprise we can figure out how to get a ball into a hole.”

Six hours until arrival at Irrades

The cargo bay bustled with activity as crews prepared to disembark. Steen Brazol watched as the dwarves secured their axes and hammers.

“I’ll never understand the dwarven insistence to do battle with such outdated weapons.”

“They’re a bit more than they seem,” Thorvlin said.

“True. But one must still get close to do any damage.” Steen pointed to the Sylvanon crew’s preparations. “Their bows allow them to at least attack from a distance.”

“We can attack from a distance, too,” Bautigan said.

“I hardly consider hurling stones with primitive devices a proper attack.”

“Perhaps not,” Thorvlin said. “But it’s a good defense. And it explains why dwarves go to war far less than humans. You fight from a distance, making combat an easier option than talking. Because we get in much closer, it’s in our best interests to negotiate rather than coming to blows. Something worth considering, no?”

Steen laughed and said, “Indeed, it is. It has been my pleasure getting to know you all better in recent weeks.”

“Ours as well!”

* * *

The Book of Roon – Part 2 – Malinor

With Malinor’s discovery of Ozymandite, Dwarves, humans, and Sylvanon were able to travel the system. Humans dreamed of longer voyages. Malinor and The Crew of Twenty sought additional stone fields to mine and found the greatest of all between Malmora and Thara. The Far Stones yielded more Ozymandite and other resources than even The Delve. An outpost was established on Malmora, and more of our kind traveled far from Galbolduhr to work. There, Malinor discovered Forge Fire, a metal with the power to reignite the source of life should it ever fade.

But even the greatest of his supporters thought Malinor a fool when he set out to shape the rare deposit at his anvil. His undertaking became an obsession. Gone was his time in the stone fields; no longer did he seek camaraderie from his brothers and sisters. When even Malinor’s strongest allies were poised to intervene, he emerged from his shop with the hammer held high…

* * *

Above Irrades

“It never gets old,” Steen said as the HSC Criterion descended toward Irrades. The moon looked like an orange pupil against the azure eye of Malmora below. “I wonder what other marvels wait beyond all we know.”

“Regardless of our success, here,” Thorvlin said, “I’m sure you will know in your lifetime. As for me, I have no intention to leave this system.”

“Don’t you want to know what’s further out there? We know there are other systems like ours. New species to meet.”

“You think so much about what’s out there that I wonder if you fully see and appreciate what you have right here. What it is to truly know the ground on which you stand —what it is to know every stone of your homeland.”

“Well, should I ever travel far, I will be sure to send a communication letting you know what rocks I see in faraway places.”

* * *

The Briefing

Thorvlin and Bautigan sat with Kalzoum Axebiter and the rest of their assigned squad in the briefing room. He admired the assembled company, feeling a mix of pride and concern for the group. If something went wrong, how would he handle knowing his plan resulted in a loss of life? Was staking so much on an ancient legend a foolish pursuit? What would happen if Malinor’s Hammer were just…a hammer—a hefty piece of metal on the end of a handle created to shape its more stubborn ores? His concerns dissipated when the briefing started.

The commander of the mission brought up a map on the screen behind him.

“Our intelligence and readings put our objective here.” The human pointed to a desolate, scarred expanse of land in an otherwise mountainous region of Malmora. When this mission was proposed, my initial thought was, ‘If the Crowned Drake’s remains were scattered in a collision with a planetoid or small planet, why would this hammer still be there?’ But we are getting a reading that something is down there.

“Obviously, our main concern is the Vard. While there are no Vardian cities in the region, there are small towns and outposts. The plan is to send you down in shuttles with breakaway hulls so it appears to be nothing more than a large meteor breaking up on entry. We are the intruders, here, and you must remember that if something goes wrong down there, we cannot attack the Vard. May those who came before be with you.”

* * *

The Descent

Thorvlin’s favorite part of traveling into The Delve were the smooth landings. He was not as fond of the turbulence that came with the final stages of planetary travel, even in larger ships. Dropping into the atmosphere of Malmora in a shuttle was like rolling down the side of a rocky mountain in a barrel. Every bump shook him to his bones; he gripped the sides of his seat while counting to himself in an effort to steady his nerves. Just when he wondered if the break-away hull of the shuttle was about to give way to the only thing separating him from space, his world became quiet and smooth. A little tug of gravity here and there as they did a series of turns to slow the craft, but the worst part was over.

* * *

The Book of Roon – Part 3 – Khurakmore

With the Far Stones yielding a steady bounty, Malinor turned his attention to the surface of Malmora, believing more Forge Fire to be found on its surface. When he found none there, he tunneled into mountains.

It is not known how long the Great Crowned Drake, Khurakmore, slumbered beneath Monte Skalbruder—what is known is that, in their battle, Khurakmore and Malinor met their ends. Those present said the mountain shook with each blast from the Crowned Drake. Each hammer blow by Malinor resonated in the stones.

There is a carving in The Grand Hall of Erbadeor depicting Malinor’s Leap at Khurakmore’s crown. It is said the ground opened where Malinor fell, his final act looking up at the slain drake as the mountain swallowed him whole.

* * *

Under Ground

Thorvlin watched Steen Brazol step out from his shuttle and take a deep breath. Fresh air filled the dwarven squad’s shuttle when the seal on the door was broken. Thorvlin inhaled, savoring its taste and feel; it wasn’t the fresh air of Histrides or Galbolduhr, but between his time in The Delve and on Vonda, it was the first naturally breathable air he’d drawn in over a year.

“I’ll need a trip home after this,” he said to Bautigan.

“Aye,” Bautigan said. “It’s easy to forget how nice this is.”

The moment was disrupted by the human commander shouting, “All right, we need to move!” In and out before the Vard realize we’re here.”

The squads moved in double time toward a rip in the ground where once, a great mountain stood. Steam billowed from the crack and blew across the surface. A human closed the visor on his helmet and took a reading of the vapor with a small hand-held device. He gestured to seal up.

“It was good while it lasted,” Bautigan said.

Once underground, Kalzoum Axebiter brought Thorvlin’s squad to the front. They wound their way through an old lava tube full of noxious smoke, until it opened to a chasm dropping far below.

Thorvlin looked up, imagining Malinor falling to his end in the place he now stood.

“What now?” Steen said. “Climb down?”

Kalzoum set a small box on the ground and pushed a button on top. A single ping resonated. The dwarven leader looked at a small screen on his wrist.

“There’s another tunnel over there. Looks like it descends to the bottom without too much climbing.”

The company made their way down, following the lead of the sure-footed dwarves. Eventually, the passageway gave way to a wall of rubble.

“Dakk!”

“Hold on, hold on,” Thorvlin said to the commander. “Get back, the lot of ya.”

As the company retreated, Thorvlin and Bautigan opened a pack and got to work. They surveyed the stones, placing charges in just the right spots. The humans and Sylvanon retreated further as they watched the giddy brothers rushing back their way.

THOOM!!!

The settling dust gave view to a large cavern.

“If there are any Vardians about, they know we’re here,” Steen said.

Kalzoum raised his axe. “And we’ll be ready for them.”

Stones tumbled down from above as the company made their way toward the opening. The human commander held up his arm, signaling for the group to halt.

“Just some stone left over from the blast,” Bautigan said. “No worries.”

More stones fell as they neared the cavern.

“What about that?” Steen said.

Thorvlin reached down and felt the ground.

“No, that’s something different.”

He pushed his way past the rest of the company.

Andaleein Alzomar looked concerned. “Vardians?”

Thorvlin examined the edges of the opening.

“Don’t know.”

Going back to the ground with his hand wasn’t needed. Dust fell from the ceiling, and the ground shook. Thorvlin leaped to the side and shouted, “Drake!”

* * *

The Cavern

A gout of flame filled the tunnel, singeing those quick enough to make it to the sides. Those who didn’t perished in the blast. When the flames subsided, the dwarves were the first to rush in.

It became apparent to those who didn’t know him well how Kalzoum Axebiter got his name. He and the Forgefires worked at the drake’s legs in an effort to topple the beast.

Humans and Sylvanon fired on the creature from the mouth of the tunnel, retreating to safety only when the drake swelled and released another blast.

The massive beast turned its attention to the dwarves below, stomping and swinging its tail in desperation. Kalzoum and two others were caught in a swipe of its front leg—Thorvlin and Bautigan watched them sail across the room and smack into a wall.

“Kalzoum!”

With that, Thorvlin climbed up the drake’s rear leg and held tightly to its back. The company focused its fire on the beast’s lower body as the confident dwarf made his way to its shoulders. Halfway up its neck, the drake released another blast. Thorvlin lost his axe as the monstrosity lurched toward the tunnel entrance. Below, Bautigan continued working on one of its legs.

Thorvlin shouted, “Brother, my axe!”

The drake reared back on its hind legs as Thorvlin held firmly to the back of its head. It came down with all its might just as Bautigan grabbed his brother’s axe and hurled it skyward.

Thorvlin met the weapon as it made its way up and the drake continued its attempt to crush Bautigan. At the last moment, Thorvlin’s brother rolled out of the way. The momentum of the beast coming down made it easier for Thorvlin to steady his weapon and sink the blade into the drake’s head. It let loose with one final blast and fell silent.

Bautigan and Thorvlin were the first to reach their fallen squad leader. Kalzoum leaned against the wall with two others: all shaken, but not broken.

“Do you need aid?” Thorvlin said.

Kalzoum slowly stretched his back, working through a tinge of pain. “I can only speak for myself, but I will be fine.” The other dwarves grit their teeth and nodded in agreement.

As Thorvlin turned away to check on others, Steen approached and said, “It seems there is something to your belief that getting in close to a battle matters.”

“Ah, I can’t say it was all us,” he said. “Maybe you make a point about firing from afar.”

Thorvlin and Bautigan scoured the cavern for any sign of Malinor’s Hammer. The remains of creatures overcome by fumes at the upper drop to the cavern were scattered about the floor; some showing signs that the drake had its own steady supply of food from above, others seeming tossed about for amusement. They dug through piles of debris while the rest of the company tended to the wounded.

* * *

Malinor’s Hammer

On the far side of the cavern, beneath ages of dust and refuse, Thorvlin found more than he was looking for. The remains of Malinor were wrapped in an old space suit, a fragment of the mighty legend all dwarves held in their hearts. It was evident, however—that in his prime—Malinor was everything imagined. Few dwarves the Forgefire brothers ever met could fill such a bulky suit. Whether shoved aside by a descendant of Khurakmore or the ages didn’t matter—Thorvlin trembled as he gazed upon the legendary hero while reaching down and taking his hammer by its handle.

It was heavier than Thorvlin expected, requiring both hands to raise it against his chest. Its shaft was a wooden slat from a tharo tree from home. The head of Malinor’s Hammer was composed of meteoric iron. Etched into the sides was a bronze, isometric design Thorvlin had seen in books and carvings since childhood. A thick, bronze band wrapped around the center of the hammer’s cheek, secured to the head and throat with iron rivets. On each side’s face, inlaid with bronze, was the symbol of Galbolduhr. After marveling at the find, Thorvlin turned his attention back to the company.

“He should no longer lie here. My brother and I will carry him from this place.” He brought the hammer to Kalzoum. “I believe he would want you to protect this.”

Kalzoum took it in his hands, admiring the weapon’s heft. “Aye. Thank you.”

“We need to leave,” the human commander said. “If there is one drake, there may be more. And by now, we must assume the Vard know we are here.”

Bautigan strapped the remains of Malinor to his brother’s back, and the two followed the company back to the surface.

* * *

The Book of Roon – Part 4 – The Vard

With Malinor and the Forge Fire Hammer gone, we turned our attention to establishing the far stones and Malmora as a second dwarven outpost. Then, the Vard arrived.

It is still not known if they left a dying system as ours will one day become, or if it is their nature to take what they decide is theirs, but they came upon us like a storm. They enslaved our kind, forcing us to mine necessary resources as they prepared to take the system. Those who rose up were dispatched; there were no more legends among us to be found.

Were it not for the humans, the system would have been lost. We were content to hide away under mountains and in rock belts; the Sylvanon lost themselves in their forests. The humans built their cities and prepared for a war the rest of us didn’t see coming.

The Vard met their equals when they moved toward the system’s inner planets. They never made it past The Delve as the Sons and Daughters of Histrides came together to meet them. Some say it was only because killing all Vard would have been difficult that the humans gave them what territory they have today. It is only in knowing they are under constant scrutiny from Irrades that they have never fully regained their strength.

Still, while no treaty was ever signed, we do not infringe on their space. We left Malmora, the Far Stones, and Thara to them.

* * *

Above Ground

Once back in the open, the remaining humans took the lead. The Sylvanon took their place at the flanks and rear, while the dwarves and the injured moved along in the middle. They were halfway back to the shuttles when the Vard opened fire.

“We see you!”

Several humans and Sylvanon were hit before the mission commander shouted, “Shields!”

The company tightened ranks and dropped to the ground, firing in the direction of the attack. Thorvlin saw nothing.

“They’re cloaked!” Steen said as he dropped to the ground beside the Forgefire brothers.

Thorvlin’s force shield pulsed with each Vardian shot it stopped. He scanned the battlefield and slapped Steen on the shoulder.

“There!”

Steen shook his head. Thorvlin rolled to his side and lined his arm up with Steen’s field of view.

“See it, now?”

Steen nodded and took careful aim at the generator on the far side of the battlefield. It only took one shot from his plasma rifle to uncloak the Vard.

They came in three waves, firing on the company as they advanced—not caring about their fallen. As the company closed the ranks, the dwarves readied themselves.

“You’re about to see something wonderful,” Thorvlin said. He turned back to smile at Steen just in time to see his visor shatter from a Vardian shot.

“Steen!”

Thorvlin charged past the perimeter, spinning and ducking while dropping Vardians with his axe. A rage reserved only for rare moments such as this consumed him. He heard his brother behind him.

The two formed a tiny ball, back to back, savoring the battle. It didn’t matter that the Vard were taller than the Sylvanon and as stout as dwarves—the brothers worked together, taking down any Vardian foolish enough to get in their way. Their efforts were not enough to tip things in the company’s favor.

The Vard divided in an attempt to flank the company. The plan worked once they breached the Sylvanon’s ranks. It seemed like such a loss to come so far, only to fall so close to success.

A Vardian alarm sounded; Thorvlin braced for them to finish off his compatriots. Instead, the Vard stopped their attack and retreated quickly.

“What’s that about?” Bautigan said.

Thorvlin felt the quake in his bones before spotting the source of Vardian terror.

From a distant cavern opening, a drake dwarfing the one in the cavern rose from the ground. It spread its wings and took to the sky.

“Run!!!”

Thorvlin and Bautigan turned toward the shuttles and ran as fast as they could. The gargantuan drake made a run at the Sylvanon ranks, destroying their soldiers and shuttle in a single pass. Most of the humans didn’t survive the second attack.

Thorvlin watched the mammoth beast bank and begin its final run. He thought about Steen and wished, for once, he had a plasma rifle—not that it would do any good, but at least he’d go down fighting. Thorvlin watched the drake fill its lungs and advance. He reached back and touched Malinor’s remains for strength. Were the old stories wrong? Was this Khurakmore?

It didn’t matter—nothing did in the moment, except Thorvlin’s pride. For a rockbiter working The Delve, he did his people proud.

A screaming came from above, but it was not from the grandest of drakes. The defenses on Irrades had never been used against Malmora and the Vard, but a message was sent in defense of the remaining company. The drake vaporized as a beam scoured the ground and sky in front of Thorvlin and the others. Three charges rained down after that, seeming to do more damage than the rogue planet that demolished Monte Skalbruder.

* * *

The Voyage Home

Twenty-two days until arrival at Vondra

            Thorvlin spent most of the trip home in silence. There were no Hledatoml matches with Andaleein; no games of Ruuma with Steen and other new friends. Every corner of the HSC Criterion was a reminder that he was still here, while they were not.

            “You mustn’t let this rule you,” Kalzoum said over dinner one evening. “Hold them in your heart, but do not blame yourself. They were soldiers; they knew the risks. The sacrificed themselves so that all our people will live.”

            “I know,” Thorvlin said. “Still, it will take time. Perhaps one day I will take a trip outside the system, for Steen and the others—to see what they will not.”

            “You have plenty of time to decide,” Kalzoum said. “There are better days to come.”

* * *

The Great Forge

Throvlin stood on the bridge of the HBC Sol beside his brother and Kalzoum Axebiter. With the planet Izli behind them, it was just the ship and The Great Forge.

Several decks below, Malinor’s Hammer waited in a torpedo tube. Thorvlin and Bautigan had watched Kalzoum place it in a shell in preparation for its final mission.

“You hate to see it go,” Thorvlin said. “You hate to see a time come to an end.”

“As long as we are here to share our stories,” Kalzoum said, “nothing ever truly dies.”

“Still, it seems a shame to lose it.”

“It is what Malinor intended.”

On the bridge, Thorvlin and the other two dwarves were summoned to the main battle station. A human soldier activated the torpedo and pointed to Thorvlin. The ship’s captain said, “It only seems fitting to allow you the honor.”

With the press of a button, Thorvlin sent Malinor’s Hammer into the Great Forge, ensuring continued life to all the Sons and Daughters of Histrides.

* * *

On Galbolduhr

The burial of a dwarf is both a somber and joyous occasion. When the years are exhausted and one enters Final Sleep, the weight of their existence is given to time—but their memories belong to their people.

Thorvlin and Bautigan were given the honor of attending Malinor’s entombment. They watched as he was carried into his final resting chamber; they marveled at the armor that would protect his corporeal remains forever. When it was his turn to pass and stop at the tomb, Thorvlin bowed and whispered, “Thank you. For all you have given our people; for all you have given me. I vow before you today to honor your memory for all my tomorrows.”

Thorvlin and Bautigan ascended from the tomb, where torchlight gave way to the Great Forge glowing on the horizon. The day was almost done, but their time on Galbolduhr was not. Their time in the system was once more guaranteed.

Thorvlin felt the warm light on his face. Maybe it was all in his mind, but it seemed brighter than he’d ever seen it. He filled his lungs with the air of his home world and sang with his people in honor of Malinor.

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. As I mentioned up front, all music in this episode is courtesy of Martin Goldmann.

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music. And, for as little as a dollar a month, you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund.

Next time, it’s another story with things rocky or stoney in the title. “The Song of Stones” is a tale told through time, about two people drawn to a particular location as they ponder turning points in their lives. It might end up my fifth story in a row with no swearing…

A quick thank you to William J Meyer for recently sharing a sound effect technique on his YouTube channel. I used it as the basis for the sound of the Vard. Check out bywilliamjmeyer.com—all one word—for more information about what he’s up to. If you want movies in your head, William has you covered. I’ll include a link to his site and YouTube channel in the show notes.

One last thing before wrapping up. I want to thank my wife, Cynthia Griffith—not only for voice effects in this episode, but for all her help with the show and Patreon. She’s always pitched in to help, but since starting my Patreon account, it’s been more like a partnership than her patiently listening to me or offering the occasional idea.

I used to collaborate with creative friends regularly, but don’t have opportunities to do so as much today. At times, what I do is lonely—and I’m fine with that because I enjoy solitude. But I must confess to having more fun with Not About Lumberjacks these last 6 months or so than I have since the beginning. No matter how ugly the world may get, this show is a refuge.

So, thanks to Cynthia, and thank you for listening. Time is a precious commodity, and it’s not lost on me how lucky I am to have a bit of yours.

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

This is Behind the Cut with Christopher Gronlund. The companion show to Not About Lumberjacks.

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

Behind the Cut is an in-depth look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and likely contains spoilers of the most recent story. Also, I might swear. You’ve been warned…”

* * *

I am a man of many new years.

First comes that day each May when I mark another year of existence. I won’t go into great detail, here, but I spent most of my life depressed. Sometime in my early 40s, things got better and the worst of those thoughts are behind me. So, each May, no matter how busy life might be, I take the day off on my birthday to celebrate being here.

New Year number two:
Despite living in Texas, where it’s usually still well into the hundreds when the calendar turns to September 1, I view that day as the beginning of my writing new year.

I was born in Chicago and raised north of the city. September did mean returning to school, but it also meant I’d soon be surrounded by my favorite season. Even as a kid, life seemed more reflective in the fall. I loved the colors, the weather, and knowing quieter days were ahead.

These days, September is like a starting gun—weather be damned! I see “September 1st” on the calendar and my mind turns even more toward writing (or at least being more reflective, which never hurts a story).

My third new year is in November, when I release the annual Not About Lumberjacks story totally not about lumberjacks! While September and October were my favorite months when I lived up north, November and December are my favorite months in Texas. Taking a moment each November to remind myself, “You wanted to get back to writing short stories, and you did,” is never lost on me. Starting this show in 2015 is one of the best creative moves I’ve ever made.

That Not About Lumberjacks is a part of some people’s lives matters to me more than many things that probably should matter to me even more.

I celebrate what I have with this show each November, when I release the anniversary episodes.

Of course, there’s also the new calendar year. That new year means a little break with Not About Lumberjacks, even though I’m usually doing something behind the scenes. But after back-to-back releases in November and December, it’s nice returning to a slower schedule.

While November is the “new year” for the show, the calendar new year is the new year in my planning. Once November’s never about lumberjacks story and December’s Christmas episode are released, I’m back to writing without regard to themes. Anything I want to write is within reach.

And there’s one more new year I should mention: July 3^rd. I’ve been with my wife, Cynthia, for over 30 years. We’d both confess there are times sharing a life and tight quarters with another creative person can be tough (we both go through periods of wanting to be left alone to the things we do), but I’m lucky to share my life with an artist who understands there are times you rush to getting an idea down when it arrives, no matter what’s going on. [And really, as we’ve gotten older and not viewed our creative endeavors as an everything-or-nothing pursuit, we just have fun making things we don’t have to create, but do because we enjoy it.])

* * *

I’m writing this the day after Christmas. I stayed up reading last night as the fire in the fireplace died out, and then woke up early. I opened my list of story ideas to see what seems to demand the most attention. It’s down to three things: a sci-fi story (which would be the first sci-fi story I’ve ever written). It’s a story I know gets Cynthia’s vote.

Next: a story about the secrets of a small town (probably in Italy) being revealed to all…and the fallout from that. And then a story about a rough-and-tumble creative muse…and the writer who wants a replacement.

Of course, I have other story ideas to choose from…and this excludes the new story ideas I’ll likely come up with the rest of this month and into the new year. So, February could see something not even I knew about.

* * *

The thing about all the “new years” I celebrate is acknowledging the constants in my life. On May 26 each year I get older…but I’ve grown older just in the time putting this commentary together. Every second to some is loss—for others, it’s wisdom gained, new adventures, or seeing the patterns in life that make one happy.

July is a reminder that I share my life with someone who knows me better than anyone else ever will. (And someone who has helped keep this show going behind the scenes, despite her own creative pursuits.)

September is the annual reminder that, since childhood, I’ve always written. I may have wanted to be an artist before anything…and along the way I entertained becoming a wildlife biologist or a professional juggler, but I have always loved the stillness that comes with working through thoughts, getting them down in some tangible way, and leaving behind a glimpse of how I view the world.

November’s new year is a reminder that I made a decision to get back to writing short fiction—and the way I knew I’d do it regularly is putting it out there for others. It’s a simple moment in the seconds of my life when I add a new year to the Quick List of stories on the Not About Lumberjacks website, but it always feels so big to me.

And, of course, there’s seeing the constants that come with each calendar year. I might look back and think, “I wish I had done this or that last year…” but I choose to acknowledge the things I did do.

I would have loved moving more miles on my feet last year, but it was the first full year in a newish job. Despite that, some of the miles I did put in on my feet (and in a canoe) were in warmer weather that usually wrecks me. I could choose to berate myself for not moving as much as I liked, or…I can look at progress made in weather I hate that encourages me to maybe not hate the sun as much in 2023!

* * *

There’s a scene in the movie, City Slickers, in which Billy Crystal’s character is talking to Curly, the grizzled old cowboy played by Jack Palance. They ride along on horses as Crystal’s character tries finding out what makes Curly tick.

They stop, and Curly says, “Do you know what the secret of life is?”

Crystal’s character doesn’t know.

Curly holds up a single finger. “This. One thing. Just one thing. You stick to that and everything else don’t mean shit.”

Crystal’s character says, “That’s great, but what’s the one thing?”

Curly replies: “That’s what you gotta figure out.”

Obviously, most of us live for more than one thing, but it’s a good thought exercise. While I live for many things, I suppose my one thing is being as true to myself as I can be in a world that doesn’t always make that easy.

I’d love to write fiction full time, but that’s not my reality. Obviously, I work toward it becoming a reality with each new story I release, but it’s possible to work harder and smarter than most people and still not see one’s biggest dreams come true. But by acknowledging all these little “new years” I celebrate in each calendar year, the things that mean the most to me never fully slip my mind.

* * *

Working in corporate America, I’ve worked for decades with people who work during their time off. They work weekends. They are always busy, and each turn of a calendar year, they resolve to change everything.

But that’s not how it works.

In the end, the two biggest regrets people have at the ends of  their lives are:

• I wish I had been more true to myself and not lived my life by the demands of others.

And…

• I wish I hadn’t worked so much.

It might seem strange to some that I acknowledge so many little new years each 365 days, but seeing the things that make me happiest (or feeling fulfilled) as constants in my life ensure those are the things I fight for. Granted, it’s usually easier said than done, and many of us are bound by certain realities that don’t always make that possible.

As Anders says near the end of this year’s Christmas episode, “We all trade for something.”

* * *

A more [supposedly] rational person might look at Not About Lumberjacks and say, “You spend 40-60 hours on each episode, and until this past year, you’ve done it for free. Even now, you don’t make much money for your efforts.”

I’d be lying if I said there have not been times in my life I wished I were wired to just give myself to a job and reap the rewards of perceived security, but that’s not being true to myself.

In the rush of life, the things I’ve traded for might leave me thinking, “Ya know…this is a foolish endeavor, and my time would probably be better spent pursuing things more likely to ‘succeed.’”

But I see Not About Lumberjacks—and other things I do in life—as successful. They are constants that bring me happiness in a world that makes me sad. They might not be Curly’s “One Thing,” but if I trace back why the constants in my life are important, it leads back to something at least resembling a single thing.

* * *

It’s natural to get a bit reflective at the close of one year and the opening of another. It’s natural to say, “Next year, I will do all these things!”

I’m no different than anyone else in that regard.

But by stopping along the way in the year to appreciate little accomplishments—not waiting until the very end—I regularly pause and reflect upon the things that matter most to me.

At the time of writing this, the latest Christmas episode has passed the 50 listens mark I shoot for in a story’s first week. It made it, I believe, faster than any other story I’ve released.

Not great numbers for a podcast…especially one that requires so much time and effort.

But this show is a constant in my life I can depend on more than many other things. It makes me happy.

That it makes others happy is not something I take lightly, and I hope the stories I write, record, and share in 2023 somehow make your life a bit brighter.

Thank you for caring about what I write…and…

* * *

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks and Behind the Cut. Theme music for Behind the Cut is a tune called “Reaper” by Razen. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the music, the episodes, and voice talent.

Also, for as little as a dollar a month, you can have access to a bigger behind-the-scenes look at Not About Lumberjacks on Patreon. Check out patreon.com/cgronlund if that sounds like you’re kinda thing.

I mentioned not knowing what story February will bring. Like I said, I wrote this commentary the day after Christmas and I’m recording it on New Year’s Eve Day. So, I now know what story I’ll share in a couple months; in fact, I’ve had a bit of time off to even get it started.

“Rock Biters,” is the first science-fiction story I’ve ever written. It’s about dwarves in a mining colony…in space. I’m having a blast with it, and can’t wait to share it in February.

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!