Urban Mythic: Thirteen Novels of Adventure and Romance, featuring Norse and Greek Gods, Demons and Djinn, Angels, Fairies, Vampires, and Werewolves in the Modern World

by C. Gockel

  And then it almost does. The light in the living room flickers and goes out, and there is an instant of darkness. But then, all at once, every single candle on the mantle lights up. Amy jumps, as her hair nearly catches fire.

  “Oh, candles! Lovely!” says Beatrice.

  Thor smiles at Amy. “Thanks for lighting those!”

  Amy decides not to say anything. Aren’t hallucinations part of sleep deprivation?

  As the music winds down, she just follows her giggling grandmother and Thor back into the kitchen.

  Breathing a little heavily, Beatrice sits down and smoothes her hair.

  Thor slides into the seat across from her and starts helping himself to the last of the boiled potatoes and sausage.

  “You are too much fun to be Thor!” Beatrice declares.

  Thor’s body stills, a spoon full of potatoes hanging in the air. “Oh?” he says. His voice has just the barest hint of an edge to it, and Amy tenses. “Who am I then?”

  Something mischievous enters Beatrice’s eyes. “I’d say you’re more a friend to Hoenir than you are a Thor.”

  Thor puts the potatoes down. “Friend to Hoenir...”

  Winking, Beatrice says, “It’s a kenning, young man. You can Google it later.”

  “Google?” says Thor.

  “I’m a very tech savvy Grandma!” says Beatrice. “I email my granddaughter every day! It’s so wonderful.”

  “Email...” says Thor.

  “Kenning?” says Amy.

  Looking at Amy, Thor says, “A kenning is a conventional poetic phrase used in place of the name of a person or thing. For instance, storm-of-swords means battle.”

  Beatrice blinks, “Very good! How about whale-road?”

  Putting a potato in his mouth — the whole thing, but it really isn’t that big a mouthful for him, Thor smiles, chews a moment, swallows, and then says, “The sea!”

  The next half hour or so consists of Beatrice throwing kennings at Thor. Thor gets all the old obscure ones, like gore-cradle for battlefield, and battle-flame for the light on a sword, but he misses the new ones, like beer-goggles. When Amy explains it he laughs heartily. He doesn’t get surfing-the-net either; when Amy tries to explain that one, he only looks befuddled.

  Thor’s cleaning up the last of everything on the table when Beatrice says, “Well, I think I’ll offer you dessert and then call it a night.” She looks at Thor’s plate. “Unless, of course, you still would like more meat and potatoes...”

  She’s just being polite, of course; anyone can see it.

  But Thor nods vigorously. “I could eat more meat and potatoes if you’ve got them.”

  Beatrice blinks at him. “Well...I do have a cold smoked ham in the fridge I was thinking of serving my church group...”

  Smacking his lips, Thor says, “That sounds delicious! I love ham!”

  Beatrice stares at him, then shaking her head, gets up and says, “I forget how much young men can eat!”

  Amy helps her grandmother put a huge ham on a serving plate in the middle of the table. Beatrice hands Thor a carving knife — and a loaf of bread for good measure, and then excuses herself. As she is leaving, she turns and says, “Friends of Hoenir are always welcome in this house.”

  Thor smiles. “Well, Hoenir is a lovely man. I’m sure any friend of his is exceptional.”

  Beatrice laughs. “Hoenir’s friend did put the gods in their place on more than one occasion,” and Thor looks absolutely befuddled again.

  Beatrice leaves the room, the old floorboards, and then the stairs, creaking as she goes up to her room.

  An awkward silence settles on the table. Thor rips off a piece of bread, looks down at his plate and says, “Friend of Hoenir...”

  Amy whips out her iPhone and Googles it. She sits up straighter. “It’s Loki,” she says. She swears the lights flicker just a bit. At her feet, Fenrir makes the same noise she makes when she spies a rabbit.

  She looks up and sees Thor staring at her, as though gauging her reaction.

  Amy doesn’t move. She feels like pieces of a puzzle in her brain are falling into place, but the picture that is forming is too weird and too impossible to be real.

  He looks down at his plate. “Hoenir was a good friend. From the beginning...even willing to risk his life...” Thor stirs the food on his plate, but says no more.

  Loki is 12 years old. A mist is settling over the gardens outside the palace in Asgard. It is early evening, and he runs as fast as his legs can carry him down dark garden paths, his breathing loud in his ears.

  He doesn’t stop until he gets to Hoenir’s hut. As he bangs at the door, a little gray mouse with eight black insect legs and no tail drops down from the eaves on a silvery trail of spider silk. Loki loves spiders. Ordinarily he’d pet the little creature, but now he’s too flustered to even raise a finger to it.

  The door opens and golden light spills out. Hoenir is wearing an apron and gloves of the kind falconers wear. He steps silently aside and Loki bolts in.

  Loki never knows what he’ll find when he comes into the hut. On the outside, it looks like a single room just a few paces wide, but on the inside it has many rooms, and is much larger than it looks from the garden. He never knows which room he’ll step into. Sometimes it’s a sitting room with comfy chairs and a roaring fire, sometimes an enormous library grander even than Odin’s, sometimes a kitchen, or sometimes, like tonight, he enters a workshop. There is a long workbench as high as Loki’s chest and some tall chairs next to it. From the ceiling hangs a large lamp-like thing that glows orange and nearly touches the bench top.

  Mimir is standing on his neck by the lamp. “Ah, Loki, we were just about to do a hatching. Would you like to select an egg for us?”

  Hoenir gestures towards an enormous basket, as big as Loki, filled with eggs, all rather long and oblong instead of the regular shape of a bird egg. Loki finds one that is about twice the length of his outstretched hands and about half as wide. It is leathery and soft.

  “Excellent,” says Mimir. “Why don’t you bring it here and set it beneath the lamp.”

  Hoenir leads Loki to a tall chair close to Mimir and the lamp. Loki climbs up on it and puts the egg beneath the light. The lamp gives off a lot of heat.

  The three of them sit staring at it for a long time. At last Mimir says, “So, Loki. What brings you to our hut at this time of night?”

  Loki shrugs.

  For a few moments Mimir says nothing, and then he says, “So have you seen baby Baldur? I’m not such a fan of babies myself, but Odin and Frigga’s child...why I’ve never seen such golden curls on a newborn. And even his cries sound musical.”

  Loki scowls. “His curls aren’t golden. His hair is thin and black and straight. And his cries sound just like every other baby’s cry. They’re loud and I wish he’d shut up.”

  “Now, now,” says Mimir. “I’ve seen Baldur, and he most definitely has golden curls, and rosy cheeks and...”

  “No,” says Loki, staring at the egg. He thinks he sees it moving. “His hair is black. And his skin is pale and nearly blue...like mine. He looks more Jotunn than Aesir. And there’s magic all around him...gray magic, so dark it’s nearly black.”

  What Loki doesn’t say is how just being around Baldur makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. How he feels a chill just being near the baby.

  “Did you tell Odin what you see?” Mimir asks quietly.

  Loki can only swallow.

  “Oh, dear,” says Mimir, and Loki glances up to see Mimir looking at Hoenir. Hoenir looks very distraught.

  “I’m afraid to ask...” says Mimir.

  Loki stares as the surface of the egg rips apart and a tiny hole appears. “Odin told me to leave the palace and never come back.”

  It was the only time Odin has ever screamed at him — usually there have been maids and governesses for that. Loki has taken his designation as “God of Mischief” rather seriously. Mimir and Odin have stressed the Aesir aren’t really g
ods — more gardeners of the World Tree, but Loki likes his moniker. It’s great fun to make an illusion of a snake in a laundry basket and then explain it to Odin as his “sacred duty.” Such things never fail to make Odin chortle.

  But telling Odin what Baldur looked like to him...that had not gone so well.

  Beside him he hears Hoenir scoot back in his chair. The egg starts to shake.

  “What sort of creature’s in the egg?” Loki asks. He doesn’t want to talk about Odin or his exile from the palace.

  “A hadrosaur,” says Mimir, his voice soft.

  “One of Hoenir’s creations?” asks Loki.

  Mimir raises his eyebrows, “No, well, only distantly. It was created by evolution.”

  Loki wonders who Evolution is but asks the more pressing question. “What is a hadrosaur?”

  “It is a sort of herbivorous dragon,” says Mimir.

  Loki puts his hands down on the counter and rests his head on them. The egg starts to shake some more; a tiny hole splits into a tear.

  The tear splits down the side of the egg, and then a tiny dark green head peeks out. The creature has eyes set in the side of its head; its mouth is slightly agape. Its teeth look strangely sharp for a herbivore — maybe they’re just baby teeth, sharp for splitting the egg’s leathery shell?

  “Wait a minute...” says Mimir.

  Loki and Hoenir lean closer.

  Blinking hawk like yellow eyes, the head emerges on a long ungainly neck, followed by two tiny little arms with little hands and long sharp claws. Powerful hind limbs follow and a long thick tail.

  “That isn’t a hadrosaur,” says Mimir.

  The little creature tilts its head towards Mimir, then catches Loki’s eye. Seemingly changing its mind, it looks back to Hoenir.

  “No!” Mimir screams.

  Hoenir backs up, but too late. The creature springs from the counter and sinks its claws and teeth into Hoenir’s arm. Hoenir stares at it wide-eyed as though in shock.

  “Loki! Stop it! Stop it! ” Mimir shrieks.

  Jumping forward, Loki grabs it by the neck like he would a snake. He pinches its jaws on either side, pushing the gums into the creature’s own sharp teeth. It releases Hoenir with a hiss and thrashes in Loki’s hands.

  Mimir sighs. Loki holds it at arm’s length. “What should I do with it?”

  Putting a hand on his chin, Hoenir looks around the workshop, seemingly unconcerned with the blood dripping from his arm.

  Loki readjusts his grip so one hand is on the neck and the other is wrapped around the creature’s writhing torso. It really is quite interesting. He squints to get a better view of its tiny, razor teeth when the door to the hut bursts open.

  Odin stands in the door frame for an instant. Then he walks over to Loki with quick strides that leave Loki paralyzed with fear.

  Ripping the little dragon from Loki’s hands, he wrings its neck and throws the lifeless body across the room. Hoenir’s eyes open in horror. When Odin speaks, the hut’s windows rattle. “A velociraptor! I thought we discussed this. Never. Again!”

  “We thought it was a harmless hadrosaur,” Mimir says. “We were hatching it for the elves — ”

  Odin grabs Loki by the collar and shakes him so hard his teeth rattle “It’s your fault,” he says. Heaving Loki against a wall, Odin says, “What did you expect, Hoenir, inviting this little agent of chaos into your workshop? He should never come here!”

  Loki can only gasp for breath. With a sneer Odin tosses him to the side.

  “He can’t help what he saw!” Mimir shouts as Loki falls to the floor.

  Hoenir runs between Loki and Odin, and Mimir says, “You can’t kill Loki, Odin. Not really. Not without killing Hoenir, too.”

  With a cry, Odin tips over the workbench. Mimir’s head lands with a crack and then goes rolling across the floor. Laughing maniacally, Mimir says, “Oh, come now, don’t be paranoid of Hoenir and Loki’s friendship! They can’t help it.”

  “Shut up, Mimir!” Odin roars.

  “I won’t shut up! We don’t agree with how you treat him! Calling him the God of Mischief! You trivialize him!”

  “I’m trying to give him a childhood! Doesn’t he deserve that?” Odin yells.

  “You’re trying to control him!” Mimir shouts. “But as soon as he sees something you don’t like...”

  Odin goes stomping in Mimir’s direction. Next to Loki, Hoenir meets Loki’s eyes and then looks towards the door. Loki nods. As Hoenir runs between Mimir and Odin, Loki darts out into the night.

  The last thing he hears as darkness falls upon him is Mimir saying, “It’s not just chaos that gives birth to monsters.”

  Hours later Hoenir comes for him. In one hand he carries a lantern with a flame that he holds aloft. In the other hand he has a lantern hanging at his side, but where the flame should be is Mimir’s head.

  “Come with us,” Mimir says. “Odin will recover, but you’ll be staying with us for a while.”

  Loki scampers up from where he’d been huddled on the ground. He’s relieved, terrified, and confused. He says nothing that night. But a few days later, when he is sitting in Hoenir’s kitchen, he says to Mimir, “What did you mean, Odin trivializes me?”

  Mimir sighs. “Nothing, Loki. I said it in anger. Odin is very good at what he does...tending the branches of the World Tree, and keeping things running smoothly. I should not have questioned him in that way.”

  “I like being the God of Mischief,” Loki says. He does. There is a freedom in being a mischief maker; he can skirt rules and expectations. Sometimes he does it for fun, but sometimes he does it because it feels right. Like when a group of boys were saying cruel things to Sigyn, a girl Loki fancies. He sidled up beside her and made it appear as though both he and Sigyn were Valkyries with wings and flaming spears. To most male Aesir pretending to be female, even a Valkyrie, would be shameful. But it was so much fun as the boys ran away to shout, “What’s wrong! Afraid of girls?”

  Mimir says nothing for a few moments. But then he says, “Loki, about Baldur...It is alright for a man to be enchanted by his newborn baby.” Sighing, Mimir says, “And...Odin grieves for him.”

  “But he’s not dead,” says Loki.

  Mimir does not respond.

  “I don’t remember doing anything for Hoenir except causing trouble,” Thor says, the words tumbling out suddenly after a long silence. His eyes flick up quickly to hers.

  “You don’t remember doing anything...” Amy blinks. The puzzle pieces that fit together in her head, they’re just crazy. He isn’t Loki. The police let him go, he has a clean record, he’s got a social security number that checks out, for heaven’s sake. They’re obviously playing a little game here. She can play along. Raising an eyebrow, she says, “You’re Loki now, not Thor?”

  He shrugs nonchalantly, but his eyes are glued to hers and there is a wicked glint there. “So you say,” he says.

  Shifting her eyes back down to the iPhone she says, “Here it mentions you saving Hoenir while he was held captive by some dwarfs.”

  “That never happened — it was Lopt who rescued Hoenir,” he says, too forcefully to be funny.

  Tapping her screen with her thumb she says, “According to Wikipedia — ”

  “Wikipedia?”

  Amy feels a chill go down her spine. “How can you know what a kenning is and theriogenology and not know what Google or Wikipedia are?” She shakes her head. He is really good at this game. She blinks.

  Or wait. Maybe he was raised by one of those fundamentalist religious groups that home school and don’t allow modern technology? She remembers how shy and polite he was at the police station. Even his awkward clothes. Yep. Rural religious fundamentalist home school escapee. It all makes sense.

  Smirking at her he takes another bite of ham. “We don’t have Google or Wikipedia in Asgard,” he says.

  Okay, now the game is funny again. “Uh-huh,” she says.

  “So really,” he says leaning toward her from a
cross the table. “What are they?”

  Amy smiles. “Wikipedia is an online encyclopedia that everyone can contribute to.”

  His eyes widen and a happy smile plays on his face, as though he’s just worked out something monumental. “Online means the internets?”

  She does not snort. But it is a near call. “Yeah, the internets.”

  Brow furrowing, he says, “If anyone can contribute, doesn’t that put the authenticity of the information in question?”

  She smiles and looks down at a picture captioned, Loki as depicted on an 18th century Icelandic manuscript. “Yeah, you wouldn’t believe how unflattering the first picture of you is.” It really is hideous.

  With a scowl he holds out a hand.

  She passes over her iPhone.

  His scowl deepens and he says, “The artist makes me look like a dwarf!” His irritation seems so genuine, she almost laughs aloud.

  “And they gave you such a big nose.”

  He pushes the iPhone back to her. Without taking it she says, “The picture of you and Sigyn isn’t so bad.” It isn’t a good likeness of the guy in front of her, but at least it isn’t ugly.

  He stares down at the iPhone.

  “Scroll with your finger,” she says.

  He blinks. “Is any sort of special concentration needed?”

  It takes her brain a little while to comprehend the randomness of the question.

  Leaning forward, he says, “It’s like magic, isn’t it? Don’t I have to picture what I am doing in my mind?”

  She purses her lips. “No,” she says softly. “You just have to move your finger.”

  Swallowing, he gingerly puts his finger on the surface of her iPhone and then drags it down. Smiling, he says, “It works!”

  His joy seems so real, it makes Amy’s eyes widen.

  And then his smile vanishes. “Ah,” he says. “My 200 year imprisonment. It wasn’t as bad as depicted here. There was snake venom, but no snake, and I was shackled but could walk around a bit.” Squinting at her phone he says, “This looks nothing like me. Nice likeness of Sigyn, though...although I don’t remember the Bible-esque robes being in fashion then...”