“Are they then some form of crab-fish?”
“No. They pinch you for moving too fast, wheres a crab pinches you for moving too slowly.”
“Still they are sea gods, I perceive, like my brother Ægir. What is their power?”
Shea fought a losing battle against another yawn. “I’m sorry I seem to be sleepy,” he said. “Aren’t you going to bed soon, Golden?”
“Me? Ho, ho! Seldom has such ignorance been seen at the Crossroads of the World. I am the Watcher of the Gods, and never sleep. Sleepless One is, indeed, another of my titles. But it is to be seen that it is otherwise with you, youngling, and since I have won the game of questions you may go to bed.”
An angry retort rose to Shea’s lips at this calm assumption of victory, but he remembered that icy glare in time. Helmdall, however, seemed able to read his mind. “What! You would argue with me? Off to bed — and remember our little plot against the Bringer of Discord. Henceforth you are Turnip Harald, the bold and crafty warlock.”
Shea risked just one more question. “What is a warlock, please, sir?”
“Ho, ho! Child from another world, your ignorance is higher than a mountain and deeper than a well. A warlock is a wizard, an enchanter, a weaver of spells, a raiser of spirits. Good-night, Turnip Harald.”
The bedroom proved to have a sliding door. Shea found it no bigger than a Pullman section and utterly without ventilation. The bed was straw-stuffed and jabbed him. He could not find comfort. After an hour or so of tossing, he had the experience, not uncommon on the heels of a day of excitements, of finding himself more wide-awake than in the beginning.
For a time his thoughts floated aimlessly; then he told himself that, since this was an experiment, he might as well spend the sleepless hours trying to assemble results. What were they?
Well, firstly that there had been an error either in the equations or his use of them, and he had been pitched into a world of Scandinavian mythology — or else Scandinavian history. He was almost prepared to accept the former view.
These people talked with great conviction about their Ragnarök. He was enough of a psychologist to recognize their sincerity. And that icy stare he had felt from Odinn and then Heimdall was something, so far as he knew, outside ordinary human experience. It might be a form of hypnosis, but he doubted whether the technique, or even the idea of hypnotism, would be known to ancient viking chiefs. No, there was something definitely more than human about them.
Yet they had human enough attributes as well. It ought not to be beyond the powers of an experimental psychologist to guide his conduct by analysing them a little and making use of the results. Odinn? Well, he was off to the gates of Hell, whither Shea had no desire to follow him. Not much to be made of him, anyway, save a sense of authority.
What about Loki? A devastatingly sharp tongue that indicated a keen mind at work, Also a certain amount of malice. Uncle Fox, Thjatfi had called him, and said he was fond of jokes. Shea told himself he would not be surprised to find the jokes were often of a painful order. Working for him might be difficult, but Shea smiled to himself as he thought how he could surprise the god with so simple an object as a match.
Frey he had hardly noticed. Thor apparently was no more than a big, good-natured bruiser, and Thjalfi, the kind of rustic one would find in any country town, quoting Eddic lays instead of the Bible.
Heimdall, however, was a more complex character, certainly lacking in Loki’s sense of humour. And he quite evidently felt he had a position of dignity to maintain with relation to the common herd — as witness his insistence on titles. But equally evidently, he was prepared to accept the responsibilities of that position, throw himself heart and soul and with quite a good mind into the right side of the scales — as Loki was not. Perhaps that was why he hated Loki. And Heimdall, underneath the shell of dignity, had a streak of genuine kindness. One felt one could count on him — and deciding he liked Heimdall the best of the lot, Shea turned over and went to sleep.
Chapter Four
SHEA AWOKE WITH a set of fur-bearing teeth and a headache that resembled the establishment of a drop-forging plant inside his brain — whether from the mead or the effect of those two piercing glances he had received from Heimdall and Odinn he could not tell. It was severe enough to stir him to a morning-after resolution to avoid all three in the future.
When the panel of his bedroom slid back he could hear voices from the hall. Thor, Loki. and Thjalfi were at breakfast as he came in, tearing away with knives and fingers at steaks the size of unabridged dictionaries. The foxy-faced Loki greeted him cheerfully: “Hail, hero of the turnip fields! Will your lordship do us the honour of breakfasting with us?”
He shoved a wooden platter with a hunk of meat on it towards Shea and passed along one of a collection of filled mugs- Shea’s mouth was dry, but he almost gagged when a pull at the mug showed it contained beer and sour beer at that.
Loki laughed. “Ridiculous it is,” he said, “to see the children of men, who have no fixed customs, grow uneasy when customs about them change. Harald of the Turnips, I am told you are a notable warlock.”
Shea looked at his plate. “I know one or two tricks,” he admitted.
“It was only to be expected that a hero of such unusual powers would be modest. Now there is this to be said: a man fares ill at Ragnarök unless he have his place. Would you be one of my band at the Time?”
Shea gulped. He was still unconvinced about this story of a battle and the end of the world, but he might as well ride with the current till he could master it. “Yes, sir, and thank you.”
“The worm consents to ride on the eagle’s wings. Thank you, most gracious worm. Then I will tell you what you must do; you must go with us to Jötunheim, and that will be a hard journey.”
Shea remembered his conversation with Heimdall the night before. “Isn’t that where some of the giants live?”
“The frost giants to be exact. That lying Sleepless One claims to have heard Thor’s hammer humming somewhere in their castle; and for all of us it will be well to find that weapon. But we shall need whatever we possess of strength and magic in the task — unless, Lord Turnip Eater, you think you can recover it without our help.”
Shea gulped again. Should he go with them? He had come looking for adventure, but enough was enough. “What is adventure?” he remembered reading somewhere, with the answer, “Somebody else having a hell of a tough time a thousand miles away.” Only —
Thjalfi had come round the table, and said in a low voice:
“Look. My sister Röskva is staying here at the Crossroads, because the Giant Killer don’t think Jötunhejm would be any place for a woman. That leaves me all alone with these Æsir and an awful lot of giants. I’d be mighty obliged if ye could see your way to keep me company.”
“I’ll do it,” said Shea aloud. Then he realized that his impulsiveness had let him in for something. If Loki and Thor were not sure they could recover the hammer without help, it was likely to be an enterprise of some difficulty. Still, neither Æsir nor giants knew about matches — or the revolver. They would do for magic till something better came along.
“I’ve already spoken to the Lord of the Goat Chariot,” Thjalfi was saying. “He’d be glad to have ye come, but he says ye mustn’t disgrace him by asking to eat turnips. Ye’d best do something about those clothes. They’re more than light for this climate. Sverre-bonder will lend you some others.”
Sverre was glad to take the inadequate polo coat and riding breeches as security for the loan of some baggy Norse garments. Shea, newly dressed in accordance with his surroundings, went outside. A low, cheerless sun shone on the blinding white of new snow. As the biting cold nipped his nose Shea was thankful for the yards of coarse wool in which he was swathed.
The goat chariot was waiting. It was as big as a Conestoga wagon, notwithstanding that there were only two wheels. A line of incised runic letters was etched in black around the gold rim; the body was boldly painted red and go
ld. But the goats constituted the most remarkable feature. One was black, the other white, and they were as big as horses.
“This here’s Tooth Gnasher,” said Thjalfi, indicating the nigh goat, “and that there’s Tooth Gritter,” waving at the off goat, the black one. “Say, friend Harald, I’d be mighty obliged if ye’d help me tote the stuff out.”
Shea, ignorant of what the “stuff” was, followed Thjalfi into the bonder’s house, where the latter pointed to a big oak chest. This, he explained, held the Æsir’s belongings. Thjalfi hoisted one end by its bronze handle. Shea took hold of the other, expecting it to come up easily. The chest did not move. He looked at Thjalfi, but the latter merely stood, holding his end off the floor without apparent effort. So Shea took his handle in both hands and gave a mighty heave. He got his end up, but the thing seemed packed with ingots of lead. The pair went through the door, Thjalfi leading, Shea staggering and straining along in the rear. He almost yelled to Thjalfi to hurry and ease the horrible strain on his arms, but this would involve so much loss of face that he stuck it out. When they reached the chariot Shea dropped his end into the snow and almost collapsed across the chest. The icy air hurt his lungs as he drew great gasps of breath.
“All right,” said Thialfi calmly, “you catch hold here, and we’ll shove her aboard.” Shea forced his unwilling body to obey. They manhandled one end of the chest onto the tail of the chariot and somehow got the whole thing aboard. Shea was uncomfortably aware that Thjalfi had done three-quarters of the work, but the rustic seemed not to notice.
With the load in, Shea leaned against one of the shafts, waiting for his heart to slow down and for the aches in his arms and chest to subside. “Now it is to be seen,” said a voice, “that Thjalfi has persuaded another mortal to share his labours. Convenient is this for Thjalfi.”
It was the foxy-faced Loki, with the usual note of mockery in his voice. Once more Shea’s temper began to rise. Thjalfi was all right — but it did look as though he had talked Shea into coming along for the dirty work. If — Whoa! Shea suddenly remembered Loki’s title — “Bringer of Discord,” and Thjajfi’s warning about his jokes. Uncle Fox would doubtless think it very funny to get the two mortals into a quarrel, and for the sake of his own credit he didn’t dare let the god succeed.
Just then came a tug at his cloak. He whirled round; Tooth Gritter had seized the lower edge of the garment in his teeth and was trying to drag it off him. “Hey!” cried Shea, and dragged back. The giant goat shook its head and held on while Loki stood with hands on hips, laughing a deep, rich belly-laugh. He made not the slightest move to help Shea. Thjalfi came running round and added his strength to Shea’s. The cloak came loose with a rip; the two mortals tumbled backward. Tooth Gritter calmly munched the fragment he had torn from the cloak and swallowed it.
Shea got up scowling and faced a Loki purple with amusement. “Say, you,” he began belligerently, “what the hell’s so damn funny —” At that instant Thjalfi seized him from behind and whirled him away as though he were a child. “Shut up, ye nitwit!” he flung into Shea’s ear. “Don’t ye know he could burn ye to a cinder just by looking at ye?”
“But —”
“But nothing! Them’s gods! No matter what they do ye dassn’t say boo, or they’ll do something worse. That’s how things be!”
“Okay,” grumbled Shea, reflecting that rustics the world over were a little too ready to accept “that’s how things be,” and that when the opportunity came he would get back some of his own from Loki.
“Ye want to be careful around them goats,” continued Thjalfi. “They’re mean, and they eat most anything. I remember a funny thing as happened a fortnight hack. We found five men that had frozen to death on the moor. I says we ought to take them in so their folks could give ’em burial. Thor says all right, take ’em in. When we got to the house we was going to stay at, the bonder didn’t see as how there was any point in bringing ’em inside, ’cause when they got thawed out, they’d get kind of strong. So we stacked ’em in the yard, like firewood. Next morning, would ye believe it, those goats had gotten at ’em and et ’em up. Everything but their buckles!” Thjalfi chuckled to himself.
As Shea was digesting this example of Norse humour, there came a shout of “Come on, mortals!” from Thor, who had climbed into the chariot. He clucked to the goats, who leaned forward. The chariot wheels screeched and turned.
“Hurry!” cried Thjalfi and ran for the chariot. He had reached it and jumped aboard with a single huge bound before Shea even started. The latter ran behind the now rapidly moving vehicle and tried to hoist himself up, His fingers, again numbed with cold, slipped, and he went sprawling on his face in the snow. He heard Loki’s infuriating laugh. As he pulled himself to his feet he remembered bitterly that he had made this “journey” to escape the feeling of insignificance and maladjustment that his former life had given him.
There was nothing to do but run after the chariot again. Thjalfi pulled him over the tail and slapped the snow from his clothes. “Next time,” he advised, “ye better get a good grip before ye try to jump. Ye know what it says in Hávamál:
“It is better to live
Than to Lie a corpse;
The quick man catches the cart.”
Thor, at the front of the chariot, said something to the goats. They broke from a trot to a gallop. Shea, clutching the side of the vehicle, became aware that it had no springs. He found he could take the jolting best by flexing his legs and yielding to the jerks.
Loki leaned towards him, grinning. “Hai, Turnip Harald! Let us be merry!” Shea smiled uncertainly. Manner and voice were friendly, but might conceal some new malicious trick. Uncle Fox contained airily: “Be merry while you can. These hill giants are uncertain of humour where we go. He, he, I remember a warlock named Birger. He put a spell on one of the hill giants so he married a goat instead of a girl. The giant cut Birger open, tied one end of his entrails to a tree, and chased him around it. He, he!”
The anecdote was not appetizing and the chariot was bounding on at the same furious pace, throwing its passengers into the air every time it hit a bump. Up — down — bang — up — down — bang. Shea began to regret his breakfast.
Thjalfi said; “Ye look poorly, friend Harald; sort of goose-green. Shall I get something to eat?”
Shea had been fighting his stomach in desperate dread of losing further prestige. But the word “eat” ended the battle. He leaned far over the side of the chariot.
Loki laughed. Thor turned at the sound, and drowned Loki’s laughter in a roar of his own. “Haw, haw, haw! If you foul up my chariot, Turnip Harald, I’ll make you clean it.” There was a kind of good-natured contempt in the tone, more galling than Uncle Fox’s amusement.
Shea’s stomach finally ceased its convulsions and he sat down on the chest wishing he were dead, Perhaps it was the discomfort of the seat, but he soon stood up again, forcing himself to grin. “I’ll be all right now. I’m just not used to such a pace.”
Thor turned his bead again and rumbled. “You think this fast, springling? You have in no wise any experience of speed. Watch.” He whistled to the goats, who stretched their heads forward and really opened out. The chariot seemed to spend most of the time in the air; at intervals, it would hit a ridge in the road with a thunderous bang and then take off again. Shea clung for dear life to the side, estimating their speed at something between sixty and seventy miles an hour. This is not much in a modern automobile on a concrete road, but something quite different in a two-wheeled springless cart on a rutted track.
“Wow! Wow! Wow!” yelled Thor, carried away by his awn enjoyment. “Hang on; here’s a curve!” Instead of slackening speed the goats fairly leaped, banking inward on the turn. The chariot lurched in the opposite direction. Shea clung with eyes closed and one arm over the side. “Yoooeee!” bellowed Thor.
It went on for ten minutes more before Thjalfi suggested lunch. Shea found himself actually hungry again. But his appetite quailed at th
e sight of some slabs that looked Like scorched leather.
“Ulp — what’s that?”
“Smoked salmon,” said Thjalfi. “Ye put one end in your mouth, like this. Then ye bite. Then ye swallow. Ye have sense enough to swallow, I suppose?”
Shea tried it. He was amazed that any fish could be so tough. But as he gnawed he became aware of a delicious flavour. When I get back, he thought, I must look up sonic of this stuff. Rather, if I get back.
The temperature rose during the afternoon, and toward evening the wheels were throwing out fans of slush. Thor roared “Whoa!” and the goats stopped. They were in a hollow between low hills, grey save where the snow had melted to show dark patches of grass. In the hollow itself a few discouraged-looking spruces showed black in the twilight.
“Here we camp,” said Thor. “Goat steak would be our feasting had we but fire.”
“What does he mean?” Shea whispered to Thjalfi.
“It’s one of the Thunderer’s magic tricks. He slaughters Tooth Gnasher or Tooth Gritter and we can eat all but the hide and bones. He magics them back to life.”
Loki was saying to Thor “Uncertain is it, Enemy of the Worm, whether my fire spell will be effective here. In this hill-giant land there are spells against spells. Your lightning flash?”
“It can shiver and slay but not kindle in this damp,” growled Thor. “You have a new warlock there. Why not make him work?”
Shea had been feeling for his matches. They were there and dry. This was his chance. “That’ll be easy,” he said lightly. “I can make your fire as easy as snapping my fingers. Honest.”
Thor glared at him with suspicion “Few are the weaklings equal to any works,” he said heavily. “For my part I always hold that strength and courage are the first requirements of a man. But I will not gainsay that occasionally my brothers feel otherwise, and it may be that you can do as you say.”
The Incompleat Enchanter Page 5
