Unikum 09 November Web

my companion.
‘Hi, Jeg heter Rahul, Hva
heter du?’
The old man perked up
on hearing this and let
loose with a whole torrent
of Norsk. It was as if I had
lobbed one small pebble
from a catapult and been
answered with a machine
gun volley. I did make out
that however, that he was
heter’ed Váfuðr and was myself
forced to admit that ‘Beklager,
jeg snakker ikke Norsk.’ At this the
old man looked visibly disappointed as he
peered at my face with his one remaining good eye.
For some reason, this intense stare made me really
uncomfortable, and so to ease the tension, I offered
him some chicken McNuggets with a cheery ‘Jeg har
mat, ligger du chicken McNuggets?’
Judging from the resulting confusion, I realised
I had made some mistake and so pointing to the
mouth, I bade him understand that I was offering
him food and gave him one of the packets. He looked
extremely doubtful as he fished out one of those dry,
cold nuggets and hesitantly put it in his mouth. It
seemed as if he had never had a Chicken McNuggets
in his life.
Be that as it may, however, his reaction was both
instantaneous and joyful. A beatific smile lit up his
face, he tilted his head just like Mark Wiens does and
a very contented ‘aaah…’ escaped from his lips. He
followed this up with a very excited set of gesticulations
to let me know he loved it, and then in a matter of
seconds polished off the remaining nuggets. Then
with a big smile, he looked at me as if to ask, any
more? I handed him the second packet with the very
same result.
I couldn’t believe that anyone could possibly like those
pieces of very, very dead, cold and dry chicken and so
I also had a bite to confirm that no one had switched
the chicken nuggets for something better. Nope, it was
the very same piece of completely flavourless, mystery
meat that I had always known. But I was intrigued –
how could a possibly homeless guy and an imbiber of
drugs not know about Chicken McNuggets?
Anyways, he gobbled up the second packet and so
with a sigh, I offered him the remaining packet. It
vanished in a trice, and now my friend let out a deep
sigh, closed his eyes and leaned back against the tree
trunk with a very contented air.
As Váfuðr ruminated about his latest gastronomical
experience, I was left to reflect upon my situation; I
had a thesis proposal and a Unikum article to submit,
I had to revise for a Norwegian mid-term exam AND
I had work over the next three days. I was lagging
behind in the Norwegian class, had no idea what
to write for the article and I was already behind on
the thesis proposal deadline. On top of all that, I was
caught here in the middle of this storm of the century.
Panic rose within me as I thought of all the hours I
had wasted and what would happen on the morrow.
Presently, as I was thinking these gloomy thoughts,
my companion stirred from his rest, opened his
bundle and took out an antique-looking earthen jar
along with two cups, and filling up a cup, he offered
it to me. I didn’t much like the look of it, but he was
insistent and I felt scared to refuse, so I drank and
downed it all in one big gulp. It was warm and sweet
and honey-like, evidently alcoholic for it burned as
it went down.
Dear reader, I do not know what was in that drink,
but evidently it was just what I needed. As the drink
burned its way to my stomach, an incandescent white
flash went off in my brain and a burst of energy ran
through my veins. Such a feeling of energy and power
pulsated through my body that sitting still seemed
almost unbearable. I felt an almost uncontrollable
urge to move, to run and to shout. I felt like I could
do anything in the world, even fly. Whatever it was I
had just drunk, it had gone to my head.
I talked animatedly to my new friend, laughed loudly
and boisterously thumped him on his back, chided
him for being a sissy when he refused to join me in a
rain dance, and basically, made an ass of myself. I
do not remember much of what happened after that,
except a few scenes here and there. I remember a
flash of me hugging the tree as if my life depended
upon it and another of me lying in some bushes in
the rain and insisting to Váfuðr that I wanted to
sleep out there ‘in the open’. I do not remember when
and how the storm abated, or where Váfuðr went or
how I found my way back home. All I know is that I
have been writing on this story since the moment I
got back home. It is now 3AM and I have many other
pressing deadlines, I am tired and hungry but I am
still writing like a madman, for I have tasted the
mead of poetry.
This short story is being republished
because of a technical error in the October
edition. We apologise to the writer.
NOVEMBER 2022 UNIKUM NR 9 31