The Alchemy Press Book of Urban Mythic 2

by Unknown

  ‘Njord? The sea-god?’

  ‘Sea-god, beach-bum, whatever you want to call it. He’s over there, by the way. The one with the tan and the shaggy hair hanging down in his eyes.’

  ‘He’s kind of cute,’ Skadi said, as much to irk Loki as anything else.

  ‘If you’re into mussel-shell jewellery and herring, maybe, I guess. Once, I caught an otter that had just caught a salmon. Two meals for the price of one. Let’s see … who else is here? You saw Frigg, and Tyr, making sure nobody has too much fun. Did you hear about the time he stuck his hand in a wolf’s mouth?’

  ‘Was that your doing, as well?’

  ‘Only indirectly,’ Loki said. ‘In a round-about kind of way.’

  ‘Right. What about that girl?’

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘That one, there, the one who keeps staring at me.’

  He grinned again. ‘Not narrowing it down much, snow-bunny. You were getting a lot of attention before the word started going around. It’d be easier to spot who isn’t staring at you.’

  ‘Glaring, then.’

  ‘Glaring?’ He slid a subtle, scan of the room this way and that. ‘Who, her? What’s-her-name? Sigyn? Don’t worry. She glares at everyone.’

  But the girl named Sigyn, Skadi noticed, did anything but glare when her gaze fell upon the handsome, wicked bad-boy. Then it went wistful and suffering, and Skadi understood.

  She might as well have had the truth writ large on her face. I (HEART) LOKI, just as the fans had waved banners for Sigurd. Hers was the desperate hope that, some day, he’d notice her; and the glum soul’s certainty that of course he never would.

  To all of which, Loki passed in utter obliviousness or unconcern.

  ‘Now, if you look to your right,’ he said, adopting a tour-guide tone, ‘you’ll see more of the Asgard Nerd Squad … the blind-as-a-bat kid with the glasses is Hod, the one with the big stupid orthopaedic boot is Vidr, those three busybody know-it-all told-you-so gossips are the Norn sisters, and...’

  Skadi caught her breath. ‘Never mind them; who’s he?’

  Without even looking, Loki said dryly, ‘He must be Baldr the Beautiful, and don’t get your hopes up, snow-bunny. He’s out of your league. He’s out of everyone’s league.’

  ‘I heard that,’ Baldr said.

  And he was beautiful, that was for certain. Male-model handsome. Flawless skin, perfect white teeth, better-dressed than anyone else in attendance but carrying himself in a way that conveyed comfortable assurance and ease. Skadi felt her wits freeze, then give way in the inexorable grandeur and slow-motion manner of glacial ice calving off to crash into the cold northern sea.

  ‘Baldr! Buddy! Hi!’ Loki said brightly, flashing his own teeth. They were as white, if not nearly as perfect, as Baldr’s … and quite a bit sharper. ‘Any adventures under the mistletoe lately?’

  ‘You’d be wise to watch your mouth, Loki. I’m still mad at you.’

  ‘From the Yule festival? I swear, it was an accident.’

  ‘Accident? You nearly got me killed, putting poor Hod up to throw that dart at me.’

  ‘Total fluke. Lucky shot. One in a million. He shouldn’t have been able to hit the broad side of Midgard; there was no way I could’ve known. Besides, it didn’t turn out all bad. You totally could have scored with that Goth chick.’

  ‘Hel?’ Baldr’s perfect, beautiful eyebrows made perfect, beautiful arches on his perfect, beautiful forehead. ‘She’s hardly my type.’

  ‘I’m just saying.’

  ‘You’re always just saying, and always just saying too much. Which is what I was just saying. Watch your mouth. It’s going to get you in trouble.’

  ‘From you? Pfah.’ Loki scoffed. ‘What, and risk mussing your hair? Sure thing, pretty boy. I’ll keep that in mind.’

  ‘Hi…’ Skadi belatedly managed to say.

  By then, however, Baldr had turned away with a sigh of impatience and disdain.

  Loki gave her a smirk. ‘Told you that you were out of his league.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘But, if you’re looking.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

  ‘I always flatter myself. It’s part of my charm.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go out with you if we were the only survivors of Ragnarok. I’d sooner hang a snake over my head while I slept. Or, better yet, over yours.’

  Loki drew back a step, feigning shock. ‘What did I do? Did I ask you out? Was I hitting on you? Ski-jumping to some conclusions, there, aren’t you?’

  ‘What did … you … my father … why I’m even here … ugh! You really don’t take anything seriously!’

  The black-haired freshman youths appeared beside them so suddenly it was as if the pair materialised out of thin air. ‘Odin would like to speak with you again, Skadi,’ Huginn said.

  ‘Indeed, to everyone,’ said Muninn.

  Just then, the Skalds ended their current number with a shriek of instruments that sounded like the scraping clash-clangor of many sword-blades. Bragi, with the microphone, requested the attention of the entire party, bidding them be summoned at once to the main hall.

  It was soon done. The Asgardians gathered, some Vikings and Valkyries yet dripping from their frolics in the pool, others with their mouths grease-smeared from feasting or attempting to refasten their disarranged garments. Idunn stood with Frigg and gave Skadi a silent look of remorse for her unwitting part in the previous events. Freyr and Freya were there, though the underclassman Skirnir was not; presumably, Freyr had consented to loan him the car.

  Odin, resplendent in his wolf-logo polo shirt and neck-knotted sweater of grey cashmere, took the stage. He held high a commanding hand. His lone eye held a stern, flinty shine. Coached by Bragi and Kvasir, who were both good with words, and advised by Tyr’s law-lore and Frigg’s social counsel, he spoke.

  He told the assembly of what had happened on that ill-fated road-trip, how the bounds of fair hospitality had been disregarded. He told them how Thjazi had been misused, abused, wronged and maligned.

  ‘This is not a shame that we want staining our honour and school pride,’ Odin said. ‘We must make amends to Thjazi. I say that we shall hold a fund-raiser, the proceeds to go toward rebuilding, repairing and restoring his business. And that, furthermore, we lend our own volunteer efforts to the cause.’

  The declaration was met with much acclaim and approval. Idunn offered to host a bake-sale of her prize-winning apple pies, and Bragi said on behalf of the Skalds they could conduct a benefit concert, and several other such suggestions were put forth.

  ‘Will this satisfy your grievance, Skadi Thjazisdottir?’ asked Odin.

  ‘If you also let the truth be far-known,’ she said. ‘I would have my father’s name cleared, and his reputation.’

  ‘It is only fair, right, and just,’ said Tyr. ‘I agree.’

  ‘Then let it be settled, unless any among us have further amendment to make.’

  Loki’s arm shot immediately straight up over his head. ‘I think we owe Skadi a token of esteem and apology as well. She did a bold thing in coming here to speak for her father.’

  ‘What are you up to?’ Skadi asked him, eyes narrowing.

  ‘She did do that,’ Odin said. ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Well, she’s looking for a boyfriend.’

  Skadi gaped, gasped and sputtered. Mingled reactions, mostly of amusement and some of outrage or astonishment, swept the hall.

  ‘Or maybe just a date,’ Loki went on. ‘The Idavoll dance is coming up, and I know plenty of guys here who don’t have dates yet either. I say, we gather our most eligible bachelors and let her take her pick.’

  ‘Whatever you’re playing at,’ Skadi began, still sputtering.

  ‘No, sincerely,’ he said. ‘It’s the least we can do. The Idavoll is the best dance of the year.’

  ‘He speaks the truth about that,’ said Frigg. ‘We’d be delighted to welcome you, and I’m sure you would have a wonderful
time.’

  ‘And I’m just supposed to go to your dance with…’ She waved her hand in an arc. ‘Someone here? Whoever I want?’

  ‘As long as they’re single,’ Brunhilde said, entwining Sigurd’s arm in both of hers. Other Valkyries murmured in agreement.

  ‘And as long as they’re willing to stand forth in the first place,’ Sif said.

  Freya purred a laugh. ‘For a date with fair Skadi? Look at her. I daresay we’ll have no dearth of participants.’

  Odin glanced at Tyr, who shrugged in a helpless way that said it was well out of their hands now … the girls had seized eagerly upon Loki’s idea and seemed ready to run with it.

  ‘All right,’ said Asgard’s BMOC. ‘How?’

  ‘How,’ Loki cut in, ‘about we make it a little more interesting? They all stand behind a drape, with nothing showing but their...’

  ‘Loki,’ Frigg warned.

  ‘...feet, I was going to say feet anyway!’ His sharp teeth flashed in their wide, wicked grin. ‘And then she must choose based only on what she can see.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Skadi. She jabbed a finger at him. ‘But you won’t be among them, sly one.’

  He folded his hands to his chest. ‘Oh, Skadi. After all we’ve been through together, all we’ve meant to each other.’

  ‘I could satisfy the rest of my grievance by demanding you do your party piece with the nanny-goat and the string!’

  Loki winced. ‘Fair enough. I will not set myself, nor my feet, nor any other body parts, to this contest.’

  Freyr likewise begged off, for how would it look if Skirnir’s errand to chat up Gerdr on his behalf was successful, only to have him then promised to go to the dance with someone else? Thor was spoken for, as were Odin and Bragi, and many of the Viking football players by their Valkyrie cheerleaders.

  In the end, however, a group of unattached Asgardians were duly collected, while Skadi accompanied some of the girls to the restroom to powder their noses and chat. By the time they returned, benches had been set along the wall with a drape hung in front so that it fell to the ankles of those who stood bare-foot upon this makeshift platform.

  Loki had not, Skadi saw, pulled some mischief of deceit. She supposed Sigyn, lurking near him with her sad, soulful eyes, would have found a way to interfere or make protest if he had. Or done something to assure Skadi chose anyone but him.

  Not that Skadi would have had any intentions of doing so. She knew full well whose feet she wanted to select from those on display. Maybe Loki had thought he’d have a nice joke at her expense, throwing in that last-minute condition to make it a challenge. But he was not so crafty as he believed.

  Those feet there, for example, could only belong to Vidr; they were mis-matched, one smaller and slightly twisted, looking weak and lop-sided without the built-up heel and sole of his special boot. And those, painstakingly neat and groomed but in other ways unremarkable, must be Tyr’s. The pair with toes inward-turned and a nervous quaver, she guessed were the feet of Hod or Heimdall.

  Some of the feet were, to be sure, quite well-formed and handsome. She might have had a difficult time deciding among them, did not one pair surpass even the rest.

  Why, Baldr could not help but have feet as beautiful as the rest of him. Flawless feet and perfect, without blemish; free of any scar and smooth of any callus; strong toes and supple; the nails like polished crescents of moon-ivory. Lovely feet that might have been sculpted with all the best skill of a craftmaster’s art.

  ‘I choose these,’ she said, indicating the most beautiful pair of feet. ‘They look like they can dance.’

  Odin gestured. Huginn and Muninn drew back the drape. Skadi first saw that she’d been correct about Vidr and Tyr. She then saw that she had not been correct about Baldr.

  His feet were handsome, yes, but not the most beautiful of all. Those, those belonged to another. Those belonged to fit, golden-tanned Njord.

  ‘Congratulations!’ Loki said, clapping Skadi cheerily on the back. ‘You two should make quite the couple. And now, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I want another drink. Let’s have some music! This party’s only getting started.’

  ‘Music!’ called Odin. ‘Mead and wine!’

  Bragi sprang again to the stage, swung his electric harp into position, and raked his fingers over the glittering strings. He launched into an edgy rock version of Heimskringl. Kegs were tapped. The bonfire was rekindled so that flames leaped high, Valkyries and Vikings celebrating around it. Thor scooped up Sif and tried to throw her in the pool; she held on and toppled him in with her, sending up a great splash.

  Amid it all, left to their own devices and largely unobserved, Skadi and Njord looked at each other.

  ‘Hey,’ said Njord.

  ‘Hey,’ Skadi replied.

  There was a pause.

  ‘You surf?’ he asked.

  ‘Ski.’

  ‘Water?’

  ‘Downhill, slalom, cross-country.’

  There was another pause.

  ‘How about wind-surfing? Sailing? Snorkelling?’

  ‘Hiking, skating, ice-climbing.’

  ‘My family’s got a beach house.’

  ‘Mine has a mountain lodge.’

  Yet another pause passed.

  Njord exhaled a slow breath. ‘This isn’t gonna work, is it?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Want to give it a try anyway?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Skadi, smiling. ‘Might as well.’

  She held out her hand to him, and Njord took it.

  And so began the saga of the snow-bunny and the surf-bum.

  Paradise Walk

  By Andrew Coulthard

  Evening light lay in rhomboids on the bare concrete walls; the air rank with urine and rot. From the darkness occasional skittering and scrabbling could be heard. Rats, probably.

  Adam cleared his throat and moved closer to a broken window, feet brushing against mounds of plaster and rubbish. Outside shadows lay across the concrete and tarmac quadrangle with its island of vandalised swings and the battered sandpit containing more broken bottles and dog muck than sand.

  ‘Paradise Walk,’ he said to himself, eyes narrowed. The square was hemmed in by shabby apartment blocks, their facades covered in graffiti. He found it hard to imagine anywhere less like paradise.

  This wasn’t his turf, of course. He lived up the road from here; not far away and not much better, but at least not here. He and the other brothers wanted to expand their operations, however, and for that to happen they needed to branch out to new neighbourhoods and make changes in the order of things.

  Like the denizens of Paradise Walk, Adam was an outlander or rather his father was. He and his sister had been born in the city, but regardless of such technicalities his family’s arrival in the country was still too recent for him to escape the immigrant stigma or the clutches of bottom rung neigh-bourhoods. One day though…

  There was movement in the gathering gloom. A girl stepped into view heading across the quad. Adam felt his gut tighten; one of the locals! Everything about her screamed foreign origins, the hue of her skin, her dark hair and the way it had been braided. What sort was she? He couldn’t remember what they called themselves, but he and the brothers knew them as the Ronnaz. They were from the old world, just like the Vätts and all the other freaks and weirdos living hereabouts.

  The girl was in the middle of the quad now, walking purposefully, her back straight, glossy curls bouncing. The clothes she wore were so typical of Ronnaz: long, prim voluminous grey skirt, green blouse and black cardigan. Her hair had been tied with the white ribbons their women often wore, decorated with forest-green embroideries. He clenched his teeth, swallowing hard. Their very existence was an insult to him.

  In a world that always kicked downward, those at the bottom of the heap had to clamber over each other to get anywhere, sometimes just to survive. And when the weight of all those above was too much to bear it was always easier to put the boot into
the pathetic souls floundering below.

  Adam knew this and he knew the score. Life was without fairness or pity. Only the determined could hope for success or respect. That was simply how things worked.

  *

  Råhanna brushed a strand of silver hair from her eyes and sighed. Her hollow back was stiff and her shoulders sore. She shifted position and grunted in pain; today it was her knees that hurt the most. She was standing behind net curtains her rheumy eyes following the receding figure of her granddaughter Ronda with a mixture of love and sorrow.

  Råhanna didn’t like Ronda going out in the evenings, but there was going to be a school trip tomorrow and the girl had forgotten she needed a packed lunch. Apparently it had been mentioned in the newsletter, but Råhanna couldn’t read Swedish well and Ronda had forgotten to tell her. Luckily Mahmoud’s Store was open for another hour, so she’d given Ronda a little money and sent her to buy a drink and the things to make favourite sandwiches.

  While the old woman’s eyes were trained on the girl thoughts of the old country swirled through her as they so often did in the long summer evenings. She still recalled how life had been before she and her people were forced to move into the cities. If the land hadn’t been poisoned; if the men hadn’t come to cut down the trees and spray the fields, polluting the waterways and the earth. But they had and she and the others had been left with no choice but to abandon their old lives.

  Råhanna had done her best to adapt, they all had. But she’d never fully been able to fit into to this new world. Instead she lived a half-life of sorts, mastering a smattering of their language and a handful of their ways. They’d all been forced to give up so much just to survive and secure some sort of future for their children. Yet somehow they’d managed with varying degrees of success.

  Soon after her arrival she’d met a local man, Emil. He was a good person and one of the few who didn’t care what she was, but loved her for who she was. Their son had still been very much one of the old people to look at, but he did well at school and managed to go places in the city. He married Ronda’s mother, a human from the other side of town, and then moved away from Paradise Walk. She’d been so proud of him.