Confusion clouds his darting eyes as I set the bottle aside. The bafflement drains into fear when I take the pillow from under his head. If the brave fisherman had but a fraction of his fabled strength, he would hurl me across the room. As it is, his one hand paws at mine like a weak kitten. I throw my weight against the pillow to stifle him, but still he thrashes. The stump of his severed arm wiggles up and down like a puppy dog’s tail. His body twists and flails, the bandages coming undone. Blood and worms spill over the bed sheet. I hear him mewling through the pillow. Is he calling out for Agnet or for his first wife, Isolde?

Smothering the life out of him takes a long time. My arms are limp from the effort of it when it is finally over. I lift the pillow away. His mouth gapes open, the eyes bald and bloodshot. If terror has a face, here it is.

“Who’s the hero now, Gunther?”

I want to feel exultant over this, but that is not to be. I feel nothing, in fact. Neither remorse nor triumph. I have despised Gunther with everything I have, but now that he is dead, that anger dissipates like smoke. I tell myself that I have been merciful by putting the harpooner out of his misery. I have freed Agnet from a life of grovelling poverty caring for half a husband. I want to feel like a hero from the old sagas, but what have I really accomplished here? I have smothered a cripple. It is no more heroic an act than drowning a kitten.

I draw the curtain, so I do not have to look at him. Settling into a chair, I place the brandy on the table and wait. When Agnet returns, I will break the unfortunate news to her. I will tell her how I had brought the brandy to ease her husband’s pain, only to find that I was too late. Poor Gunther has expired in his sickbed. She will be shocked, and she will cry. I will pour Agnet a dram of the brandy to settle her. My arms will hold her, my words will console her in her grief.

When the shock ebbs away, Agnet will dry her eyes and be relieved. She will even be grateful for my shoulder to cry on. I will take her gentle face in my hands and tell her that I will always be hers, that I have never stopped loving her and will cherish her until the day I die.

My knack for phantasy and woolgathering has always been a problem. My father often scolds me for daydreaming the hours away, my work neglected and undone. There are two worlds: the real one and the other that lives inside my head. If only I could stitch one to the other.