That would do you no good, Midgarders, the voice sounded in Wendell’s head. “Midgarder,” Wendell vaguely remembered the term “Midgarder” from Norse myth. He did not know much about Norse myth having studied Classical in college. The snake released its hold on the tree’s root and turned toward them. I could snatch you before you could take a single step.
“He’s talking in my head!” Simpson said.
Yes, Midgarder, the snake said. I am talking in your head. And you are talking with your mouth, a rather crude and noisy way of talking but all you Midgarders are capable of. The snake reared up until its head was almost lost to sight in the fog then lunged toward them, stopping with its mouth a few feet above their heads. Its fangs, though small for the size of that head, were nevertheless longer than one of Wendell’s arms. At least these fangs did not drip venom.
And now, Midgarder, is there any telling you can tell for why I should not swallow you, small though you are?
“Who are you?” Wendell said.
I? I amNidhogg, the World Serpent. Nidhogg withdrew slightly. I am the one who crawls at the base of the World Ash Yggdrassil and gnaws of its root, filling it with venom that will sicken the tree and bring about Fimbulwinter in the End Times. I am the death of the nine worlds. Although Surtr, the fire giant, is fated to bring about the final burning, he could not, save for my work here. The snake pulled back still farther. So it is to be the game of questions? Very well. If I win, I shall devour you. If you win, what shall be my forfeit?
Simpson broke in, “We just want to get out of here.”
Then so be it, Nidhogg said. If you win the game of questions, I shall provide you with a guide who will show you the paths out of Niffelheim and to the worlds above.
Since you have asked first, I shall ask now. Who are you?
Wendell looked at Simpson, who shrugged and motioned to Wendell to answer. Wendell thought for a moment. Nidhogg’s answer had had a poetic tone to it. Very well, poetry and allegory it would be. He would do his father proud. “Wendell is my name. I am the reader of law and the lawgiver. I came from the preserver of life and became a giver of death. I spoke with few and spoke for many. I fought to preserve the law and fought to change the law. I slew men with balls and three times the ball passed through me. I went into death and came out alive.”
Well answered Midgarder, Nidhogg said. And now, your question.
Wendell rubbed at his mustache as he thought.
Come, come, Midgarder. Your question, please.
“Very well, serpent,” Wendell said. “Long ago a sailor sailed to the west, seeking the East but found instead a new West. Name him.”
Ah, you think to trick me, Midgarder. Nidhogg swayed above them. You are not the first New Dead to come before me and, like Wotan gained wisdom from Mirmir’s Well, so too do I gain the wisdom of those I devour. His name was Bearer of the Slain God. And Dove was his name.
Wendell had to think about the answer for a bit. The Slain God would be Christ. Bearer of Christ. And Dove, in Latin, was Colombanus. Nidhogg had simply translated the name. “That is correct, Serpent. Your turn.”
Very well, answer me well, if your wisdom avails, who is it that rules over the nine worlds, from his throne on high?
Simpson spoke before Wendell could form his reply, “The Almighty God.”
Such a simple answer?
“The Almighty God,” Wendell said. “The father of men. The bearer of burdens. The most wise. The Lord of all the Earth. The Lord, protector of the faithful. The Most High. The One and the Three. The answerer of prayers. The mover of the stars. The ruler of heaven. The Slain God.”
Oh, Wonderful, Midgarder! Nidhogg pulled back farther and laid his head down on the ground next to them. This did not reassure Wendell, as it merely emphasized how truly enormous Nidhogg was. All kennings of Wotan and yet also names for the God of so many of the New Dead. Very clever.
Wendell caught his breath. That had not been his intention. He did not know what “kennings” were, let alone how they might apply to Wotan. He had simply been using terms for God in ways that seemed to fit what he was coming to understand were the rules of this contest. He supposed most beliefs of a supreme deity would be described in similar terms but he had been lucky. He must be more careful in the future. Luck was something on which he could not rely, not here, not in hell.
“Tell me, Serpent, if you know the answer, who brings despair to the damned in hell.”
A tricky question, Nidhogg said. Some believe this and some believe that. But all their beliefs fall short of the truth. One of plagues shall come down. Seven weapons shall he wield. Lightning death will he deal and bright blue will his lightning burn.
Wendell hesitated. That did not sound good at all. He had heard of nothing like that, yet he suspected that to question it and yet have it prove true would be to lose the contest. “Very well, snake. Your question.”
Wendell lost track of how long the contest continued. With each question Nidhogg asked, Wendell found it more difficult to form a meaningful answer. From the expression on Simpson’s face he could see that Wendell was beginning to panic.
Well, enough, Midgarder, Nidhogg said at last. Although I fear our contest shall soon draw to a close. Ask your next question.
Simpson spoke up, “What have I got in my pockets?”
Nidhogg reared up. What question is this?
Simpson placed his hands on his hips and looked up at Nidhogg. “You heard me. What have I got in my pockets?”
Three guesses, Nidhogg said. You must permit three guesses.
“So you accept the question,” Simpson said. “So be it. Three guesses it is.”
“What are you doing?” Wendell whispered in an aside.
“I met a writer shortly after I got here,” Simpson whispered back. “He had a similar game in one of his books. I remembered how it was won.”
“But….”
“We were losing, Holmes,” Simpson said. “Don’t deny it. I figured it was worth a shot.”
What do you have in your pockets? Nidhogg said. Hands.
“Nope,” Simpson said holding his hands out to the side.
I know the track you have been laying so I will say ‘rocks.’
“Wrong again. I used the last of those back that way.”
Perhaps you thought to be tricky, Nidhogg stretched forward, his tongue flicking out and the barest tip touching Simpson on the head. Very well, I say you have nothing in your pockets.
“And, wrong, a third time,” Simpson said. Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a single Diablo coin. “I believe that means we win.”
Nidhogg pulled back yet more and settled his head to the ground once more. So it does, Midgarder. So it does. Very well, you shall have your guide, a guide to show you the ways out of Niffelhel and further out of Niffelheim. Remain here. Nidhogg turned and disappeared into the mist.
“Should we leave now, before he gets back?” Simpson said.
“I don’t think so,” Wendell said. “If he wanted to kill us, he could have done so easily enough. A lot of these old religions hold things like this contest as sacred. He may try to twist the meaning, hold to the letter while twisting the spirit, but I don’t think he’ll out-and-out cheat.”
*
Their guide was almost as disturbing as Nidhogg himself. Of roughly human appearance the guide stood twelve feet high at the shoulder. The shoulder was the highest point on him because his neck had been severed, and the giant carried his head in his arms.
This is Vafthruthnir, Nidhogg said. He will show you the path out of Niffelhel and further to the bridge across the Gjöll, the river which borders Niffelheim, beyond which are the caverns that lead to the upper world.
“These are Midgarders,” said the head in the giant’s arms. “I am to help such as these?”
You are to show them the paths, Nidhogg said. See that they reach the bridge safely. Your duty ends there.
“But….”
Challenge
me not on this, Nidhogg said. There are far worse fates one can face than having to carry one’s head until the coming of Ragnarok.
Vafthruthnir seemed to sag. “As you wish, Noble Serpent, the Death of the World. As you wish.”
“What did he say?” Simpson asked Wendell. “You understand them, right?”
Wendell nodded. “The giant – his name’s Vafth– vafthtroo–”
Vafthruthnir, Nidhogg said.
Wendell looked up at the snake then back to Simpson. “The giant doesn’t want to help us. The snake insisted.”
“A concise enough summary,” Vafthruthnir said. He turned to face Wendell and Simpson. “Come, Midgarders. We have far to go.”
Wendell started to nod then stopped. The giant wavered in front of him. A moment later, he found himself sitting on the ground, his arm and ribs throbbing in time with his pulse.
“Holmes?” Simpson’s voice seemed to come from far away. “Holmes? Oliver! Look at me!”
Wendell looked up. There were two of Simpson. He giggled. Simpson was beside himself. One Simpson. And another Simpson next to it. Beside himself. Wendell giggled again.
“Snake!” Simpson shouted. “Is there anything…?”
This is your problem, Midgarder, Nidhogg said. I have my own task to attend to.
“Useless serpent,” Simpson said. “How about you, giant? Can you help my companion…?”
Vafthruthnir did not respond.
“Of course. He doesn’t speak English.” Simpson turned back to Wendell. “Focus, Oliver. Stay with me.”
“Wendell,” he said.
“What?”
“I go by Wendell. Oliver’s my father.”
“Okay, Wendell,” Simpson said with a slight smile. “Stay with me. Focus.”
Wendell nodded. The two Simpsons slowly merged into one.
“I should have expected this,” Simpson said. “A forced march on top of your injuries. You must be one tough bastard to have lasted this long.” He slid around until he was on Wendell’s uninjured side. “If I help you, do you think you can stand up?”
“I’ll try.”
Simpson nodded and pulled Wendell’s arm across his shoulder, holding it at the wrist with one hand while reaching across Wendell’s back with the other to grasp his belt. Wendell grunted as the movement jostled his broken arm.
“Sorry about that,” Simpson said, “but this is going to hurt.”
“I’ll … manage.”
“Forget what I said about Yankee Chills. On three?”
Wendell nodded.
*
The travelers took a break at the top of a small hill. A cluster of men, dressed in shaggy furs, retreated before them at their approach and huddled at the far end of the hilltop, staring fearfully at the giant. They had picked up large stones and held them in their hands, prepared to throw, pitiful weapons indeed against a giant of Vafthruthir’s size.
Wendell sat shivering on the ground, drawing breath in ragged gasps while his arm throbbed in time with his pulse.
“Your companion should kill you and move on,” Vafthruthir said. “You will not live to reach the ice fields, let alone cross them. And neither of you will cross them alive dressed as you are.”
“What did he say?” Simpson crouched next to him.
“Kill me. Won’t live long anyway.”
“Much as I’d like to, how will I understand the giant without you, or him me?”
Wendell snorted. “Not sure if you’re joking.”
“When you figure it out,” Simpson said, “you tell me.”
“There’s more. Ice fields. Said we won’t survive them dressed as we are.”
Simpson looked across to where the other occupants of this hilltop were huddled. “Not dressed as we are, huh?”
“What are you thinking?”
“We need warmer clothes. They have warmer clothes.”
“You can’t. For one thing, they outnumber us and….”
“Relax, Holmes.” Simpson stood up. “I’m not like your General Sherman. I plan to trade for some of their furs. But first we’ve got to get you strengthened up and that means getting you fed.”
Wendell suppressed a laugh. “Have you seen anything to eat around here?”
Simpson laughed. “Not only a Yankee, but a city boy. You just wait right here.” He stopped to gather up some rocks then walked down the hill, disappearing in the mist.
“Where does your friend go?” Vafthruthnir asked.
“He said he’s going to get food,” Wendell said.
The group at the other end of the hilltop started whispering together. One of them took a few steps in their direction. “You have food? Please, can you give us some?”
“Go away, Midgarder,” Vafthruthnir said. “We have nothing for you.”
Wendell faded in and out of consciousness several times before Simpson returned and squatted next to him. “Can you sit up, Holmes?”
Wendell struggled upright.
“There’s no fire, so you’ll have to eat it raw, but here.” Simpson held out several cuts of meat roughly cylindrical in shape, about an inch to an inch and a half across and about six inches long.
“What’s that?”
Simpson said nothing, simply held out the meat.
“Snake!” Wendell said after a moment. “You can’t eat that. Those things are poisonous!”
Simpson sighed. “City boy. The snakes make their poison in the head. As long as you don’t eat that they’re fine. You Yankees had better supplies than we did in the war. A lot of my boys would catch snakes and eat ’em, because that’s all they had. Now we need to get your strength back up. So eat.”
Wendell took a piece in his good arm and tentatively bit into it. The meat was stringy and had a somewhat fishy taste. Before he’d half realized it, he had gobbled the meat from the bones and was reaching for another piece.
After Wendell finished the second piece, Simpson held up a hand. “That’s enough for now. Feeling better?”
“A bit,” Wendell said.
Simpson nodded. “As I remember, you said that first fellow wanted food? Well, these look just as hungry.” Simpson stood and held down a hand to Wendell. Wendell took it and, with Simpson’s help, rose to his feet. “It’s time to do some bartering, I think.”
*
Wendell knew that eventually he would regret the food he’d eaten. In the meantime, the meat, along with the furs for which Simpson had traded more pieces of snake, renewed his strength. His ribs and arm still ached but his vision no longer had the disturbing tendency to go double.
Simpson had traded snake meat not only for furs, but also for a pair of woolen breaches that he had converted into a crude backpack, the legs serving as straps. He had stuffed additional snake meat into the pack.
“Time to take a break,” Simpson said when at last the three travelers returned to the stream. He shrugged out of the pack and set it on the ground, then pointed at Wendell. “You, sit. Rest.”
“Yes, sir, Colonel,” Wendell saluted.
“I’ll be back shortly,” Simpson said.
“Shouldn’t you rest too?”
“I’m not injured. I’ll rest a bit when I get back.” With that, Simpson walked upstream until he vanished into the mist.
“Your friend is a strange one, Midgarder.” Vafthruthnir said.
“Strange? Maybe.” Wendell squirmed where he sat, trying to find a comfortable position. “And he’s not exactly a friend. We’re more like old enemies.”
“Old enemies, you say?”
“Different sides of a war. His side lost.”
“So both of you were warriors?”
“Soldiers,” Wendell said. “Lawyers. Judges. Different sorts of politicians.” He shook his head. “‘The player on the other side….’”
The giant sat next to Wendell. With his head in his lap he was almost at a comfortably conversational distance. “What do you mean, ‘player on the other side’?”
“It’s from an ess
ay by an old professor, Thomas Huxley. ‘The player on the other side is hidden from us. We know that his play is always fair, just and patient. But also we know, to our cost, that he never overlooks a mistake, or makes the smallest allowance for ignorance. To the man who plays well, the highest stakes are paid, with that sort of overflowing generosity with which the strong shows delight in strength. And one who plays ill is checkmated – without haste, but without remorse.’ We made our share of mistakes in that war, but in the end, it was Simpson’s side who lost. In the end, they didn’t have the industry, or the manpower to win.”
“But they had valor?”
“Oh, yes,” Wendell said. “Valor they had, in plenty.”
“Then he should remain here, as should you,” Vafthruthnir said.
“What? Why?”
“Ragnarok, the Fate of the Gods, is coming, Midgarder. Whether soon or late, no one knows, but its coming is certain. The hosts will set sail from Niffelheim on Naglfar, the Ship of the Dead, and join with the sons of Surtr and with my giant kin, the Jötuns, and we shall march on the abode of the Gods, Asgard, and Asgard will fall. And a new day shall dawn for all that is goodly and beautiful in the gold-thatched hall of Gimle.” Vafthruthnir sighed. “And yet for many years few have come to swell our ranks. Two doughty warriors would be a welcome addition.” He raised his hands and spread them out. “This place of mists and darkness, Niffelhel, is not the whole of Niffelheim. While we do not have the pleasures of Valhöl, one can wait in peace for the coming of Ragnarok.”
Wendell thought better of saying what he thought, that he had no intention of staying in this place. “You have given me much to think about.”
*
Simpson returned with an armload of dead snakes, which he immediately set about skinning, gutting, and cutting into pieces about six inches long. Once done, he packed the snake pieces into his makeshift backpack and shouldered it. “Trade goods,” he said in response to Wendell’s questioning look. “We may need them. Ready to proceed?”
Wendell nodded and got to his feet.
“This way,” Vafthruthnir said, and proceeded downstream along the bank.
After three more breaks, at each of which Simpson killed more snakes to add to their store of meat, the stream they had been following joined a large river.
Lawyers in Hell Page 32
