9 HMV: Accessions at Arendalsgata
"Så hvis du vil...Bli med meg, eg vil vær' din venn/Når du feiler/Føler at du faller/Reis deg igjen"
Translation: "So if you want to ...Join me, I want to be your friend/When you fail/Feeling you are falling/Get up again"
–Stina Talling, song "BlimE (Mer Enn God Nok)"
Noon, Week 4, Tunco, Torggata 16, 0183, Oslo, Norway
Macy and Harry surveyed the modern, clean-cut exterior polished wooden walls of the food court's restaurant; various menu items were listed in white-colored font, followed by the pricing structure. According to a pamphlet Harry read (and from Jordan's recommendation earlier, before Harry and Macy left Vera Manor), every time one ate at Tunco, a meal was given to a child in need in the tiny village of Mikindani, Kenya, through the restaurant's partner organization, Star of Hope, so children there received two meals a day, keeping them enrolled in school and improving their attendance rates.
A most worthy cause, thought Harry to himself, as he and his wife examined the menu. There were so many items to choose from—Indonesian fusion satay, Vietnamese noodles, vegan five-spice tempeh rice noodles, Thai red curry, or the rather intriguing "Surprise Me" entrée. After a few minutes, Macy stepped forward and ordered "The Vegan," a tantalizing rice noodle meal with tofu, coriander, lime, and "Red Curry Wipeout sauce;" Harry went for the Indonesian "Mentawai" consisting of chicken, egg, rice noodles, peanuts, fresh coriander, and "Satays-faction" sauce, which amused his inner professor self greatly.
12:10 pm, Tunco, Torggata 16, 0183, Oslo, Norway
Their noodle dishes arrived in sleek brown carry-out containers, and they began slurping away. "Scrumptious," said Harry to Macy. "How's yours?" pointing to her own meal.
"A little…spicy," Macy responded, coughing as her cheeks began turning slightly red. "Can you grab me a cup of water?"
"Sure, love, will do—" Harry returned moments later with matching recyclable plastic cups nearly filled to the brim; Macy took one and drank. "Better?"
Macy nodded. "Intense," she said. "Before we got here, I used to think Oslo would be all about preserved lutefisk or whatever—I didn't expect the city to have such a variety of food, and for awesome causes too," she remarked, taking a bite of her snow peas.
Harry chuckled. "This city is certainly full of surprises." Indeed it was; they had just come from the most recent INTHE4113 "Medical Anthropology" session held at University of Oslo, covering a people-centric approach to health, medicine, society, and culture. Drs. Jakob and Sofie Henrik had invited them to sit in after Macy's lecture awhile earlier, and they had taken them up on the offer to see what it was like to attend graduate school in Norway, and perhaps learn a new thing or two about medical sociology. It was fascinating examining the social concept of disease and the body in the lenses of Africa, Asia, and Norway, and it was interesting learning more about the globalization of biomedical technologies.
The course itself could be taken by any of the university's students, though Harry noticed that students enrolled in the M. Phil masters of philosophy program received first priority; he wondered to himself how his own son Henry was doing, off at his very own writing retreat among the densely-wooded forests and trees of Vermont. He hoped his son was being productive in his studies, and not at all distracted by either of his sisters. Henry, like himself, often wished to be of assistance, offering advice whenever asked, though Harry found much to his own consternation that Henry tended to lose sight of his educational studies in the process, whether it was in the form of taking a teary call from Matilda at 4 am the morning before an Aristotelian exam, or proofreading Maya's modeling bio at 6 pm when he was supposed to be at study group instead.
Macy observed in her read-through of the course that external applicants were welcome too, though of course there were minimal requirements to be met (a Bachelor's degree, a minimum C average on a Norwegian GPA scale, an English language test, and a major in health or social sciences). What would a C in Norway equate to in America? Macy couldn't help but wonder, given all she had learned of Norway's extremely rigorous educational system when they had first dined with the Drs. Henrik. She dug out her phone from her purse and decided to investigate, and quickly found a comparison table online. She cringed—a C in Norway was the same as a B- in America! And a C in America was the equivalent of a D in Norway! "Shit," she muttered, shoving the screen at Harry, who placed his fork down and reviewed. "I'm starting to feel inadequate."
"But why, love?" asked Harry, genuinely perplexed. "You've already given a lecture on Hypnos, and the professors loved you so much they wanted you to sit in on the rest of the series anddo an AMA Reddit thread to share your knowledge. I would think you'd be quite proud."
"I am," answered Macy. "But—I had no idea the two systems were so different—it's kind of…" she searched for the word, "…scary." She searched for an analogy. "See, Harry, it's like, when you live in a tiny remote village, and you're valedictorian—top of the class—then you leave for a big city and find out that everyone else was too, except they're more prepared because they had more resources. So in currency or inflation or whatever, your perfect A+'s are really Bs. And any B-'s you get are nearly D's. And suddenly, we're all falling behind and none of us realize it. Somehow, it doesn't really seem fair."
"No it doesn't, does it?" Harry mused, as he wound another morsel of rice noodles around his fork and raised it to his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Though, I might hasten to add, according to the University of Oslo's website, a C is considered "good" where there is a "reasonable degree of judgment and independent thinking." So it's not as bad as you think, love."
"True," reflected Macy, as she sliced a piece of dense, nutty tempeh with her spoon. "Speaking of things requiring independent thinking, what's next on our bookshop search list?"
"Thought you'd never ask—" Harry pulled his own pen and paper out from his jacket pocket. "The next one is Litteraturhuset, right behind the Royal Palace. Apparently, it provides free office space for authors, and hosts literary events with famous writers."
"Any I've heard of?" Macy asked, as they cleaned their table and tossed their empty lunch cartons in the trash.
"As a matter of fact—yes." Harry turned to her. "Does the name 'Zadie Smith' ring a bell?"
"Oooooh, yes," exclaimed Macy, recognizing the name of the author of the book "Swing Time," about two African British ballerinas who take divergent life paths as adults. "Seriously?" Harry nodded.
"Though we should probably get going sooner rather than later," he replied.
"Why's that?"
"The place is 22 minutes' walk away from here," answered Harry, "and I've rather grown accustomed to taking the scenic route." Macy grinned and kissed his cheek, as they walked out of the restaurant, hand-in-hand.
1 pm, Tunco to Litteraturhuset, Oslo, Norway
The pair exited Tunco and walked in a southwesterly direction down Torggata, making a turn onto Hammersborggata. They veered right to avoid a major four-lane road, crossing Grubbegata, where they took a set of stairs that led them toward Akersgata, where they turned right. Continuing onward, they made a left onto Keysers gate, followed by a right onto Pilestredet/Rv162, continuing onto St. Olavs Gate/Fv168. Macy noticed a Chinese restaurant and a Filipino church to its left, along with Treider College, and what appeared to be a set of student accommodations.
After some time, they made a right onto Wergelandsveien/Fv168, walking along Slottsparken, a gargantuan tree-filled park surrounding the Royal Palace. Macy noticed bushels of long-stemmed flowers with bright pink petals and magenta centers, which reminded her of a unique variant of black-eyed Susan blossoms, along with a sculpture of a woman that read "Maud Norges Dronning," surrounded by butter-yellow tulips. Further on, Harry pointed out a whimsical fox sculpture that was rather angular, giving it a pixelated, origami-esque appearance. The second sculpture, a cartoon-like rabbit's head sticking out of the grassy earth, startled Harry so much he accidentally stepped on Macy's foot. Whoops. Sorry love.
They walked through a sandy dirt path encircled on both sides by a thirty-foot-high grove of oak trees, observing the inner palatial grounds from a distance, its boxwood bushes ornately cut into cubic arrangements. For all the world knew, Macy thought to herself, they could have been mere tourists, out for a weekend afternoon stroll on the town.
They soon found themselves face-to-face with the Litteraturhuset on the right, directly across from a small palace garden fountain, separated from the street by a thin barrier of trees. Macy couldn't help but feel as though she were within a storybook; every bit of scenery seemed so…Instagrammable.
1:50 pm, Litteraturhuset, Wergelandsveien 29, 0167 Oslo, Norway
The pair entered the bookshop, unsure of what to expect. According to the map alongside the wall, there were several rooms available to explore: the "Kjelleren" basement, the first floor room "Kverneland," the upstairs rooms "Nedjma" and its larger counterpart, "Amalie Skram," and the coffee shop, Kafe Oslo. "How about you take the basement and first floor, and I take the upstairs rooms—then meet at Kafe Oslo after? At, say, 2:30?" Macy proposed, and Harry agreed, taking the stairs to Kjelleren.
2 pm, Nedjma Room, Litteraturhuset, Wergelandsveien 29, 0167 Oslo, Norway
Macy found herself in an airy medium-sized room on the second floor, light streaming in through the glass-paned floor-to-ceiling eight-paneled windows. The room was large enough to fit up to ninety people, with a small stage, projector, and sound system, appropriate for small dinners and book launches. According to a nearby placard, Litteraturhuset had inherited author Tron Øgrim's science fiction collection in 2011, which explained the shelves upon shelves of now-dusty tomes. The place looked clean, but was there a secret hideaway where Morgana could sleep at night, then leave during the day? She hunted all around, touching the minimalistic pillared white walls, running her fingers over the bookshelves, hoping to find a secret compartment or storage area of some sort. No such luck.
2:45 pm, Kafe Oslo, Litteraturhuset, Wergelandsveien 29, 0167 Oslo, Norway
Macy sat across from Harry in what resembled a 1950s communal automat restaurant, with wood chairs, vinyl tablefronts, napkins and silverware at each location, with amber fabric cylindrical light sconces with a hole down the middle, all surrounded by a combination of eight-paneled windows and a series of white bookshelves with various decorative pieces of literature that reminded her of a 1980s-style library. "Any luck?" she asked Harry, who shook his head. "Me neither. I thought maybe Morgana would have found a hidden doorway or something, or a room beneath a bookshelf, but nothing. What's next on our list?"
Harry pulled out his pen and paper. "Bislet Bok," he read aloud, "a one-room bookshop in Bislett, with books overflowing to outside."
"Hmm…" Macy thought aloud. "That sounds more Morgana's style, but a bookshop overflowing with only one room doesn't sound spacious enough. For the sake of time—what's the next shop after that?"
"Sagene Bok og Papir," recited Harry, "which directly translates to "Book and Paper." How very quaint." He reviewed his notes from earlier. "It's just north of city center, opened circa 1936, and is run by a Miss Angelique and Signe. It's cozy with plenty of travel literature. Thirty-seven minutes away—or, we could…" he trailed off.
"Orb, Harry. Let's orb," Macy said finally, and Harry beamed.
"Thought you'd never ask!" he said gleefully as they walked out onto the adjoining sidewalk, crossed the street, and made for the nearest Royal Palace five-foot shrubbery to avoid being seen.
2:50 pm, Sagene Bok og Papir, Arendalsgata 12, 0463 Oslo, Norway
They landed with a muffled thump behind a large tree and, after dusting themselves off, crossed the street to the bookshop, which upon entering, immediately reminded Macy of a stationery store she had visited awhile ago in a different city…what was it called? Paper Sword? Paper Purse? She couldn't remember, as she spotted cute little triangle-cut pastel-hued banner flags fluttering, taped to the insides of the storefront window.
Harry walked toward a 1,000-piece puzzle set atop a crowded table, and Macy stopped to look at the greeting cards to Harry's left, touching the recycled paper to determine whether magic had been used in the location lately. She gasped as a handful of rainbow sparks emanated from the greeting card she held, and Harry gaped, transfixed by the strange and beautiful display. Macy whirled around and spotted flaming copper curls, attached to a rather dewy young woman, who yelped in surprise and fled to the back of the store, slamming the door shut behind her. The pair gave chase, yanking the door open and sprinting to the only lit room in the corridor—the windowed stockroom, with its coffee table, stacks of books, and brocaded bell-shaped lampshades scattered throughout.
"Morgana!" Harry yelled, banging on the stockroom door, not caring who saw him.
"Morgana, we know it's you!" Macy cried aloud. "We're not mad—we just need to know what happened—"
With that, the stockroom door suddenly swung open, causing the pair to tumble to the ground at Morgana's feet.
3:20 pm, Stockroom, Sagene Bok og Papir, Arendalsgata 12, 0463 Oslo, Norway
Macy and Harry sipped their coffee, unable to fully believe they were seated across from Morgana herself, the woman they had been searching for, for weeks—as more of a welfare check than anything else, as they already knew she was alive at this point. As a precaution, Harry inserted a droplet of coffee onto his keychain medallion to check for possible contamination or substances that would put themselves in a stupor—one line for contaminated, two lines if safe. Two lines. They were in the clear.
"Morgana, we know you received a succubus bite that made you younger, assuming you stayed in Norway, but do help us fill in the missing pieces—please?" Harry began, as he and Macy regarded the woman, whose freckles stood out even more as her pallor waned.
Morgana stared at her own cup of coffee. In true Nordic tradition, the coffee pot contained lightly-brewed, low acidity kokekaffe, by boiling water and steeping the coffee; this made for a lower caffeine content (much to Macy's silent dismay), but meant that the average Norwegian imbibed 4-5 cups in what likely would have been a silent, contemplative manner. Or so Harry imagined. Brits and Norwegians really aren't so different after all, he mused to himself.
"I helped a young succubus single mother bear her child without pain medication—" Morgana began, as Macy and Harry visibly winced. "There was no time, you see," she added hurriedly, "and all I had was a towel, so I asked her to bite it to 'cut the pain'—the towel shifted during one of her contractions"
"—And you were bitten?" Macy asked, and Morgana nodded. "I didn't notice the marks at first, nor the blood—there was so much, everywhere. I'd just assumed it was hers. Only after the newborn was placed in her arms and they rested in another room, did I finally experience the pain."
3:50 pm, Stockroom, Sagene Bok og Papir, Arendalsgata 12, 0463 Oslo, Norway
The conversation continued. "So where did you go after that?" Macy asked. "Why didn't you ask any of us to help you? Harry could've orbed—"
"All in good time," Morgana answered. "I was lightheaded and delirious from blood loss, but once I cleaned myself up and applied bandages, the bleeding stopped. The woman and baby were set up with ample pre-prepared meals I had made in advance to last a month, not to mention formula just in case. After my week there was up, I walked outside to the Royal Palace Park for fresh air, to clear my mind. I noticed that my mind was sharper than of late, my eyesight had dramatically improved, and the collagen hanging from my upper arms had smoothened itself practically overnight. It was then I knew—"
"That you were becoming…younger?" finished Harry in a low voice.
"Precisely. This was the start of week 2. My centuries-plus outer lining became ninety, eighty, sixty-years-old, then fifty, and finally tapering off around thirty or forty years of age. It was then I knew I had to find a job—a way to make a living—and figure out what to make of the mess I'd gotten myself into. I happened to walk across the street to a cozy bookstore that reminded me of an earlier, bygone era, and instantly felt at home in this faraway, distant land." Morgana took a sip of her coffee, and so did Harry and Macy, from their own cups as well. "They were advertising for a seasonal bookseller, and once they found out I spoke several languages and could help with the influx of tourists, they practically hired me on the spot."
"Impressive," murmured Macy, despite herself. "But where've you been living all this time? I'm surprised we hadn't seen you out and about till now."
"Upstairs in the spare bedroom, earning my keep," Morgana replied simply.
"When are you coming home?" Harry bluntly asked and for this Macy was glad, as she hadn't the courage to ask herself, for fear of familial rejection. It was hard enough losing Marisol for decades; her heart couldn't handle losing another.
"I was going to come home after the second week, but truth be told, I did so well with the bookstore that Angelique proposed extending my contract indefinitely. And, well," she said, gesturing all about her, "here I am. My bones feel so much more youthful, my mind is less burdened, my arthritis has vanished, and it feels amazing to be retired, even if it meant pulling a Merlin—"
"I beg your pardon?" Harry asked quizzically. "Pulling a Merlin?"
"Disappearing, Harry—she means disappearing," interjected Macy.
"Right you are, Macy. I always knew you were the smart one," Morgana remarked, as Macy hid a smile and Harry was unsure of whether to be proud of his wife or insulted on his own behalf.
"Besides," said Morgana, her finger drawing an invisible infinity symbol on the side of her cup, "your children are all grown—they don't need my help anymore."
"What about Matias?" asked Macy then. "Doesn't he need you?"
"He's a big boy," Morgana airily responded. "In case you hadn't noticed, he's more than capable of caring for himself."
"What about Matilda?" asked Macy.
"What about her?" Morgana responded. "What, has something happened to my poppet?" Macy noticed a flicker of concern behind those emerald eyes of hers and realized that she could perhaps use this to her and Harry's advantage.
"You might say that…" Harry glanced at Macy, his voice trailing off. How much do we tell her? Harry's eyes seemed to ask. As much we need to convince Morgana to come home, Macy wordlessly indicated.
"A drunk grabbed her from behind while she was at her night shift at Tessera—" Macy began and Morgana gasped. "No, don't worry, she's ok!" added Macy hurriedly. "Problem is, she lost her temper, and accidentally set fire to the place."
"Juvenile delinquent," Harry coughed under his breath, as Macy poked him in the ribs.
"Oh. Oh my," gasped Morgana, momentarily at a loss for words. "What spirit!" she exclaimed, then observed their faces and backtracked. "I…I mean…the damages. Awful, simply awful. She removed her earrings, didn't she?" They nodded in tandem. "Oh, dear. What's to become of the lass?" Morgana never played favorites outwardly, as much as she could help it, but Matilda was a girl after her own heart, with similarly crimson hair and an equally stubborn personality to boot.
"She's in New Zealand—" Harry started.
"New Zealand!" Morgana gasped. "You sent her away? The poor child!"
"Don't feel so sorry for her, Morgana," Macy responded drily. "Matilda's doing mandatory community service at Camp Wanaka, a camp for magical children. She'll be back to Vera Manor and Epicenter Pico No, 23 in four weeks. But if you must know, she's really missed you and could use a talking-to, in my opinion."
A pregnant pause ensued for the next few moments, as Harry, Macy, and Morgana gave furtive glances toward each other, then sipped the remainder of their respective coffee.
"Fine," Morgana said at last.
"Fine…?" inquired Macy.
"I'll go back for her," stated Morgana matter-of-factly. "But give me the next weeks to enjoy myself before the succubus bite wears out—no idea when that'll be—could be never. I've felt so burnt out and haven't had a decent vacation in a century. And I have a list of demands."
Macy and Harry looked at each other in alarm. They hadn't bargained for this. "Er…demands?" Harry asked uncertainly.
"Two in particular. One: I want retirement," Morgana stated firmly. "No if's, and's, or but's. I'm done being an obstetrician, and I finally want to enjoy the gardening and market shopping Matias has been on my case about. Which means I'll need to hire a replacement."
"And the second?" Macy asked.
"I want someone from this family to contact me at least once a week—preferably in person or by phone, but if not, email or text will do. I'd like to know I have a family every now and then."
"Shouldn't be too difficult, right, love?" murmured Harry to Macy, who silently agreed. This seemed feasible enough. "Do we have a deal, Morgana?" The red-haired lady nodded, and the three shook hands—and hugged.
"We've missed you so much, Morgana," whispered Macy, as she embraced the woman. Breaking away, they regarded each other carefully. "Please come home soon?" she asked, her eyes pleading.
Morgana smiled enigmatically. "When I'm ready. Trust me?"
"We do," answered Harry this time, as he motioned for Macy and himself to depart, walking down the darkened corridor to the main bookstore area. Macy looked back to see the curly-haired woman waving at them both before the stockroom closed once more.
5 pm, Outside Sagene Bok og Papir, Arendalsgata 12, 0463 Oslo, Norway
Macy reached for her phone and sent a group text to Maggie, Mel, and Matilda (Henry was busy at a writer's retreat, and Maya was preoccupied with a fashion shoot and a neuroscience presentation that afternoon):
We found Morgana, alive and well.