Hljóður Skógarköttur enjoys something like contentment in his eighth life. He is short on words, long on remembrance. Curled on his roving bed, he dreams of ancestors in Norvegr who pulled Freyja’s chariot, the icy black waters he sailed, and the great hunting feasts of his younger lives.

An old woman shares her hearth if he keeps mice out of the barn. She makes him warm woolens, protective talismans, and pouches to carry his plunder. He tolerates her affections, even though she calls him ‘mjalder’, two-leg for white whale. This is highly insulting, but not as humiliating as his third life cut short to be the lining of Ingólfur Arnarson’s gloves. He learned then to keep his opinions to himself. Irritatingly, Hljóður’s tail has yet to return.

Scrap wool knitting, daydream thinking.