The Last One

My name is Gudmund and I am the last one. When I was a boy several dozen people still lived in this village, which we called Haldvanstead. There were other villages and other clans then, too. I am not a warrior nor a clever man. I am a simple fisherman. My father was a fisherman, too. His father was also a fisherman. Farther back than that, I cannot say for sure.

I am standing in front of a slab of stone. I believe the stone is bedrock transported from the mountains to the northeast. I am not sure. My grandmother knew the rock types well, but I know mostly fish. There aren’t a lot of fish left now. I am hungry, and I am cold. Before I pass into the next world, I wish to imprint my memories upon this stone, which bears the sign of the ocean. In years past I spoke to other stones as well, and prayed to each. I found the sign of the Sun, and begged it for warmth, but it did not answer. I found the sign of the Bear and asked it to bring beasts back into the frozen woods so that my people could hunt, but beasts did not come. Only the encroaching frost came.

All of the other people here are dead, and I am too weary to travel in search for more. No merchant or traveler has been through here in six cycles of the seasons or more. It has been three since my brother Ivald died. I confess I ate his flesh, and am aware that this is a sin. I am not an honorable man. I will not die a warrior’s death and I will not find entry into the Sovn Tradgard. I fear for my soul. I don’t know if anyone else is left alive. I prayed at this water stone once, last year, after Ivald succumbed. I prayed for fish, or horkers to sustain me. The Stones don’t answer any more. They only listen. My father said that once, long ago, this land had green summers and many people living in it. He said it was called Elder Wood and people always had plenty to eat.

Many families lived along the coasts in villages, and cities containing massive shipyards. Many of my people traveled south, on beautiful wooden boats. Some returned, but many stayed to live in some distant land across the water. I would follow them if I knew how. There aren’t any seaworthy boats left, and I am not skilled in carpentry. Most of the trees here are dead or dying, anyway. They say even the gods left here, at long last, and only the most proud and stubborn families stayed behind. They tell me the cold seeped in from the North, little by little, generation by generation. I cannot tell you if this is true. These are the stories I was told as a boy, before I was the last one. My brother is dead. My sisters are dead. My cousins are dead. I ate their flesh and I fear for my soul. If you find this rock and hear my words, know that his place is dead. There will be no more green summers here. I wanted to be a good person, but I failed. I ate their flesh and I am sorry. I fear for my soul. My name is Gudmund and I am the last one. I was a fisherman, and this was my home. If you find my body, please place stones over me, and sea shells if you find any, and please pray for my soul.