by C. Gockel
He failed. His world is gone. Blackness overtakes him.
Loki hears a voice, like a child’s, say, “Zd`rastvuyte,” and then, “`Kak `Vas za`vut?”
He opens his eyes. Loki has the gift for tongues, but it takes him a moment to recognize the language. A very powerful magical something is saying, “Hello. What’s your name?” far too cheerfully in Russian. He looks around — he’s in a forest on Earth. Instead of Russia, the stars overhead suggest the continent of North America. There is magic in a thick red glow around him like a mist. Whatever it is, the magic is very powerful. But there are no magical creatures on Midgard anymore, just beasts and humans, with their one, very weak, though intriguing, magical trick.
“Loki,” he says. Whatever the Russian speaking mist is, he doesn’t want to annoy it.
“You hear me, Comrade!” says the thing, still in Russian. Its voice fades; the mist dissipates.
Loki is alone on the ground. He is too filled with despair to worry about the magical Russian-speaking creature. Sitting up, he pulls up his knees, leans forward and buries his face in his hands. He sees Sigyn slumped in the chariot, he sees his sons’ terror-stricken faces in the Void flash before his eyes. He remembers the way they clung together, Valli clasping his hands to Nari’s scabbard.
...The scabbard! Nari’s scabbard. Long ago Loki gave it to him as a gift. Nari is an anglophile and the scabbard comes from that isle. It is enchanted to protect the bearer from harm. Is it powerful enough to save its bearer in the Void? Perhaps it could suspend them in time, just as Odin did to the crowd with Gungnir?
It is such a slim hope that Loki drops his hands and laughs. But he has to believe it. Not because it’s likely, but because he must believe it or he might stay here, in this spot, in this forest for a millennium.
He swallows and assesses his situation. Physically he is unharmed, but he’s very hungry. Using magic always makes him famished, and resisting whatever Odin did with his staff drained Loki tremendously.
He opens the knapsack quickly and pulls out the grenades. When he stole the grenades he also stole C-rations for their novelty. He scowls. The C-rations aren’t there. Belatedly he remembers discarding them decades ago. But there is something else, something wonderful. A small book, bound in white leather, the size of his palm. It is the Journal of Lothur. Hoenir must have packed it. Loki presses the book to his forehead and squeezes his eyes shut. More than a journal, it is a book of magic with maps of many of the secret back road branches of the World Tree. Having it is a small miracle.
Not that he can open space-time to travel any of those branches now. He is famished, and exhausted.
He sees a far off glow in the distance. Perhaps it is a human habitation where he can steal food. Climbing to his feet, he starts trudging towards the glow. There is the cry of a raven above his head, and for a moment he panics. But when he looks up at the shadows of the trees he sees only common ravens, not Odin’s messengers.
He hears a roar not far away. He hasn’t been here since the 1940’s, but he recognizes it as the sound of a roadway. It will be far easier to travel if he walks along it. That thought is just through his mind when he trips over something. Nearly falling to the ground, he curses, and a spurt of flame rises from his hand to the treetops. In the flame’s orange glow he sees an outcropping of stone rising at his feet.
His flame dissipates, and he does his best to walk around the rocks in the dark.
His brain, as it is wont to do, starts to scheme. After he gets to the human village and eats his fill, then what? How will he find Valli and Nari in the Void? No, not the Void, they disappeared before he did. To what realm? He’ll have to search them all.
Swallowing, he tries not to let the enormity of the task overwhelm him. He is rather good at achieving impossible things. Even Odin will give him that. Scowling at the thought of the would-be executioner of his sons, he feels his body go hot.
From up ahead he hears the sound of tires screeching and some loud noises he can’t identify. He’s too hungry to be curious. He just steps onto the gravel on the side of the road. Concentrating, he creates an illusion of the attire that was popular the last time he was on this planet. His armor is still on. If anyone touches him they will feel it, but he will look like he belongs. With a deep breath he starts walking towards the lights of human habitation.
An automobile approaches him. It has a shape he’s never seen before, trapezoidish, large and boxy. Thinking perhaps that the driver will give him a lift, he raises his hand. It slows for a moment, and Loki sees a flash of white hair, but then it speeds away. Loki scowls and keeps going, every step dragging more than the last.
Far up ahead the boxy, trapezoidish automobile slows and stops. Loki hears a voice in the distance and something that sounds like a growl and maybe a yelp.
A few minutes later he feels something. Something that makes every hair on the back of his neck stand on end. It’s something he has not felt in centuries, the one, small, intriguing human magical trick: A prayer.
Someone, anyone, help me.
Chapter 2
Amy lies on the ground, one side of her face pressed in the dirt, the other side with the cold end of a gun to her cheek. She can hear her breath in her ears, or is that his breath? The guy’s knee is on her back. He’s silent. The hand is trembling. In fear...or...she swallows...or excitement.
Closing her eyes, she tries to remember her self defense courses she took with Grandma. The first rule was to verify that your attacker’s weapon is genuine.
Licking her lips, she says, “Is that a...a...real gun?”
He laughs. “You want me to take it away from your cheek, don’t you? Don’t you?”
He pushes the muzzle more tightly against her, and Amy screws her eyes shut.
From the grass towards the road there is the sound of a high-pitched growl punctuated by occasional whimpering.
Fenrir! Screwing her eyes tighter, Amy desperately thinks, Fenrir, please, just distract him...
From the direction of the man’s van comes another voice. “Fenrir?” Amy’s heart stops. There are two guys? Oh, no.
“Who’s there?” shouts the man that’s holding her down. The trembling of the gun’s muzzle stops and steadies.
Amy hears the snap of a twig close to her and Fenrir’s pathetic growl and tiny yips a little further off.
“I’m not moving this gun from her face!” the man says.
The whimpering disappears. The high-pitched growl changes and deepens.
“What the...” her captor stutters and pulls the gun away. Amy darts into the car, rolls over and tries to yank her keychain out of the ignition, but it’s jammed. Fumbling, she manages to detach the pepper spray.
She hears the sound of gunshots and the man cursing. Looking out the window, she sees an enormous wolf the size of a small pony, muzzle white with foam, crouching as though about to spring. The bullets seem to have no effect on it, and Amy draws back further into her overturned car.
And then there is a shadow over the window, a dull thudding noise over and over again, and then the sound of a crack. The deep growling is gone. There is just Fenrir’s pathetic whimpering.
The shadow moves away and Amy blinks in confusion. And there, just visible in the indirect light of her headlights, is the man who was attacking her. He’s face down on the ground. The white hair on his head appears slick, black and shiny. Just beyond him is Fenrir, licking her tiny jaws, and wiggling forward on her belly.
A new face pops too suddenly into the window, younger, clean shaven, with sharp features. He’s wearing a fedora. “It’s going to be all right — .”
It’s the fedora that freaks her out. Amy fires the pepper spray. In slow motion it arcs towards him in a long stream.
The stranger throws up a hand just before it reaches his face. He blinks and then screams. “Aaauuuggghhhhhh!!!!”
Jumping back from the window, he shouts, “That stings!”
Unable to bear the sound of Fenrir’s
whimpering, Amy scoots forward and out of the car. The man is shaking his hand. He seems to be shimmering. It looks like he’s wearing a fedora, a white shirt and dark, well-tailored pants that are sort of retro looking. And it also looks like he’s wearing a suit of weird armor, a sword waving at his hip.
Shaking his hand, he turns to her, “That’s how you reward someone, anyone, who saves your life? Firing snake venom at them?”
He slumps to the ground, still shaking his hand. The fedora, white shirt, and black pants seem to solidify around him. “I don’t know why I bothered.”
A shape wriggles towards him on the ground, whimpering and wagging its body.
“Fenrir!” Amy says.
Looking in the little dog’s direction, the man says, “Fenrir,” his voice sounding a little far off. Still shaking his one hand, he holds his other out to Amy’s dog. Fenrir tries to lick it.
Running forward, Amy holds up the pepper spray. “Don’t you dare hurt her!”
The look he gives her. It is such a look of what-are-you-some-kind-of-idiot that it actually makes Amy think he really won’t hurt Fenrir — or her. Also, Fenrir is licking his hand. Fenrir doesn’t lick men’s hands.
Fenrir is limping, actually almost crawling. Forgetting all about the stranger, Amy goes into full diagnostic mode. The angle of her leg, the way her hip is jutting...“Fenrir,” she says, “You’ve dislocated your hip. Oh, poor Baby.”
Fenrir turns to Amy and pants. She was trying to save Amy a few minutes ago...with a dislocated hip. Sitting down next to her, Amy says, “You are the best doggie in the world, thank you, thank you, thank you.” Fenrir wags her body and whimpers again.
“I am so sorry about this,” Amy says to Fenrir. She looks at Strange Man. “She likes you. Would you hold her front steady?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to thank me?”
“Hold her,” says Amy, her brain going into fix-the-injured-little-creature mode.
Sighing, the man wraps his hands around Fenrir’s torso.
“I’m so sorry about this, Fenrir,” Amy says. “She may bite you,” she says to the stranger.
Before he can withdraw his hand, Amy’s already got her hands on the dislocated joint. It takes only seconds to relocate Fenrir’s hip. The dog yelps pitifully, but amazingly doesn’t bite. As soon as Amy’s done, she wiggles and jumps into Amy’s arms.
“That was well done,” says the stranger.
“Thank you,” says Amy. Her eyes fall on the man lying prone in front of her overturned car. The enormity of what has happened suddenly catches up to her. Looking down, she says, “And thank you.”
“Do you have any food?” the man asks. “That would be thanks enough.”
Clutching Fenrir to her chest and rubbing her sore neck, Amy looks towards her car. She has a cooler in the back seat if she can get it out, but... Her eyes fall to the man on the ground.
“I don’t think you have to worry about him,” the stranger says.
Amy’s eyes widen and she squeezes Fenrir a little tighter.
The stranger is silent. Somewhere an owl hoots.
“Your first time to see a corpse,” says the stranger softly. Amy looks quickly at him. “No,” she says, “I’ve seen plenty in the anatomy lab.”
He stares at her for a moment. His face is young, he can’t be much older than she is, but his expression is weary. “Do you have food in your automobile?” he says.
Amy blinks at the non-sequitur. “Yes, in the back seat. In the cooler.”
“Cooler?” he says.
Nodding her head towards the car, she says, “Just the cheap Styrofoam white box you get at the convenience mart...”
The stranger stands up quickly and goes to her car. Amy’s not really paying attention to what he’s doing. She thinks she hears a car on the road. Running up out of the ditch she just catches sight of a car’s retreating rear lights. She almost swears. They didn’t even stop!
Putting Fenrir down, she goes back to her car and crawls through the window. The stranger is already pulling the cooler out of the backseat. It takes a while, but Amy finds her iPhone.
She tries to dial 911 but gets the no-service message.
Scowling in frustration, she stares at the man on the ground. She doesn’t want to stay here, not with the dead or dying man — oh, God, should she check if he’s dead? Will she be charged with manslaughter if she doesn’t? Will Strange Guy be charged with murder?
Crawling out of her car, she feels for a pulse. She can’t find anything and is both relieved and disgusted by the fact that she is relieved.
She has to get out of here. She begins frantically patting down the dead man’s body.
“What are you looking for?” Strange Guy says.
Amy glances up to see him sitting on the bank of the ditch, a box of Life cereal between his knees, Fenrir sitting in front of him. He throws a handful into his mouth and tosses a piece to her dog.
He looks so much calmer than she feels, and it’s not fair. She begins patting down the man again.
Not finding what she’s looking for, she murmurs, “They’re not here.”
“What?” Strange Guy says.
Amy looks up at the minivan. Getting up from the ground she runs around the corpse and out of the ditch. She lifts the latch on the passenger side door. It’s open. Maybe his keys are in here. She can drive the minivan to find help.
Stranger’s voice comes from close behind her. “I don’t think you should go into that man’s automobile.”
Ignoring him, Amy opens the glove box. There’s a narrow folio in there, long and leather bound.
“Don’t,” says Stranger, and his hand is suddenly coming from behind to grab it from her. But it’s too late. Amy’s already opening it, and pictures are spilling out. There are pictures of women in there, but mostly of children. For an instant the pictures shake in Amy’s bloody knuckles, and then she screams.
The man behind her says something, a curse or a swear or an exclamation. Whatever, he sounds shocked and horrified and the photo album bursts into flame.
Amy drops it, and the man says, “I’m sorry...I didn’t...”
Some sense finally coming back to her, Amy begins to stamp out the fire with her foot. The people in the pictures...their families will need to know.
When the last of the flames are out she backs up — right into Stranger Guy’s chest. He feels weird, too hard. She’s in shock. Obviously. He brings a hand to her shoulder; it is warm and comforting and normal.
In the distance she hears sirens — maybe the car that drove off didn’t belong to an ass after all. Stranger starts to pull his hand away. “Don’t,” she says, turning to him and looking up. He is really tall, maybe 6’ 3” or 6’ 4”. She’s not afraid of him anymore. She presses his hand more tightly and wills him not to go.
His jaw goes tight. And then he says, “All right, I won’t.”
When the man had a gun on her, she was terrified. But now, after seeing the pictures and what she almost did not escape... Her whole body trembles. The sirens in the distance get louder. Clutching Stranger’s hand to her face, she begins to cry. She’s safe now, she knows it. The words, “I am so afraid,” are on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn’t say them.
“I know. I know,” the Stranger says. And in the pit of Amy’s stomach she can feel it. He does understand. He does know.
Loki is about eleven years old. He is in Asgard. Odin is off on a campaign in the realm of the dwarfs and Loki’s snuck off to play with Hoenir — Odin discourages Loki’s visits to Hoenir’s hut when he is home. Odin claims he doesn’t want Loki disturbing Hoenir while he works. Hoenir never seems to be disturbed by Loki. In fact, Hoenir always seems happy to drop whatever he is doing when Loki comes about.
At the moment Loki and Hoenir are squatting in the grass outside Hoenir’s hut. The hut is in a meadow between a copse of trees so high they completely shield the rest of Asgard from view. The trees are a gift from Frigga, Odin’s wife
and Loki’s adoptive mother. She calls Hoenir’s hut an eyesore.
Unlike all the other dwellings, buildings, and monuments in Asgard, Hoenir’s hut isn’t touched by any illusions that would make it conform to the current fashion for Egyptian architecture from the Old Kingdom. It looks as it always has. Made of rough wood, it leans slightly to one side. The chimney is made of natural stone and is crumbling slightly. The roof is thatch, and there are always little creatures peering out from the straw. Sometimes the creatures are recognizable, sometimes they are Hoenir’s own invention — squirrels with bird beaks and peacock tails, snakes with butterfly wings, and birds with cat faces. These creatures are real, unlike the illusions created by Loki and Odin.
The hut normally has a glow about it, golden white, the color of Hoenir’s magic. All magical beings have a color to their magic, but one can never see one’s own color. Loki’s been told, though, that his own magic is white, blue, orange and red — like a flame Mimir says. Or, as Odin says, because Loki is too fickle to pick a shade.
Loki isn’t thinking about magical color, or paying attention to the denizens of the thatch. He is peering over Hoenir’s shoulder and through a magnifying glass, a magical device Hoenir is holding over a small twig.
Hoenir, like Odin, doesn’t look particularly youthful. He is balding and is a little round around the waist. Next to Hoenir is the severed head of Mimir the giant, propped up on top of an overturned crate. Like Loki, Mimir is wearing a wide brimmed hat to shield him from the sun.
Since Hoenir is mute, Mimir speaks for him. “Now you see, Loki, the magnifying glass captures and concentrates sunlight and turns it into heat.”
Loki bends closer to the ground. He can see the concentrated beam of light Mimir speaks of. He waves his hand through the beam but only feels a disappointingly faint amount of warmth. The normal yellow golden glow of Hoenir’s magic isn’t present though, which means the glass needs none of Hoenir’s magic to work. That is something, Loki supposes.
