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 Jötunheim 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 gold. 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 Harold, 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 Thjalfi 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 labors. 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 Thjalfi’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 back. 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 land 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 humor, 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 Havámal:
/>
“ ‘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 toward him, grinning. “Hai, Turnip Harold! Let us be merry!” Shea smiled uncertainly. Manner and voice were friendly, but might conceal some new malicious trick. Uncle Fox continued airily: “Be merry while you can. These hill giants are uncertain of humor 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 Harold; 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 Harold, 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 head 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 own 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 the 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 flavor. When I get back, he thought, I must look up some 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, gray 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.”
“There is also cleverness, Wielder of Mjöllnir,” said Loki. “Even your hammer blows would be worthless if you did not know where to strike; and it may be that this outlander can show us some new thing. Now I propose a contest, we two and the warlock. The first of us to make the fire light shall have a blow at either of the others.”
“Hey!” said Shea. “If Thor takes a swat at me, you’ll have to get a new warlock.”
“That will not be difficult.” Loki grinned and rubbed his hands together. Though Shea decided the sly god would find something funny about his mother’s funeral, for once he was not caught. He grinned back, and thought he detected a flicker of approval in Uncle Fox’s eyes.
Shea and Thjalfi tramped through the slush to the clump of spruces. As he pulled out his supposedly rust-proof knife, Shea was dismayed to observe that the blade had developed a number of dull-red freckles. He worked manfully hacking down a number of trees and branches. They were piled on a spot from which the snow had disappeared, although the ground was still sopping.
“Who’s going to try first?” asked Shea.
“Don’t be more foolish than ye have to,” murmured Thjalfi. “Red-beard, of course.”
Thor walked up to the pile of brush and extended his hands. There was a blue glow of corona discharge around them, and a piercing crack as bright electric sparks leaped from his fingertips to the wood. The brush stirred a little and a few puffs of water vapor rose from it. Thor frowned in concentration, again the sparks crackled, but no fire resulted.
“Too damp is the wood,” growled Thor. “Now you shall make the attempt, Sly One.”
Loki extended his hands and muttered something too low for Shea to hear. A rosy-violet glow shone from his hands and danced among the brush. In the twilight the strange illumination lit up Loki’s sandy red goatee, high cheekbones, and slanting brows with startling effect. His lips moved almost silently. The spruce steamed gently, but did not light.
Loki stepped back. The magenta glow died out. “A night’s work,” said he. “Let us see what our warlock can do.”
Shea had been assembling a few small twigs, rubbing them to dryness on his clothes and arranging them like an Indian tépée. They were still dampish, but he supposed spruce would contain enough resin to light.
“Now,” he said with a trace of swagger. “Let everybody watch. This is strong magic.”
He felt around in the little container that held his matches until he found some of the nonsafety kitchen type. His three companions held their breaths as he took out a match and struck it against the box.
Nothing happened.
He tried again. Still no result. He threw the match away and essayed another, again without success. He tried another, and another, and another. He tried two at once. He put away the kitchen matches and got out a box of safety matches. The result was no better. There was no visible reason. The matches simply would not light.
He stood up. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but something has gone wrong. If you’ll just wait a minute, I’ll look it up in my book of magic formulas.”
There was just enough light left to read by. Shea got out his Boy Scout Manual. Surely it would tell him what to do—if not with failing matches, at least it would instruct him in t
he art of rubbing sticks.
He opened it at random and peered, blinked his eyes, shook his head, and peered again. The light was good enough. But the black marks on the page, which presumably were printed sentences, were utterly meaningless. A few letters looked vaguely familiar, but he could make nothing of the words. He leafed rapidly through the book; it was the same senseless jumble of hen tracks everywhere. Even the few diagrams meant nothing without the text.
Harold Shea stood with his mouth open and not the faintest idea of what to do next. “Well,” rumbled Thor, “where is our warlock fire?”
In the background Loki tittered. “He perhaps prefers to eat his turnips uncooked.”
“I . . . I’m sorry, sir,” babbled Shea. “I’m afraid it won’t work.”
Thor lifted his massive fist. “It is time,” he said, “to put an end to this lying and feeble child of man who raises our hopes and then condemns us to a dinner of cold salmon.”
“No, Slayer of Giants,” said Loki. “Hold your hand. He furnishes us something to laugh at, which is always good in this melancholy country. I may be able to use him where we are going.”
Thor slowly lowered his arm. “Yours be the responsibility. I am not unfriendly to the children of men; but for liars I have no sympathy. What I say I can do, and that will I do.”
Thjalfi spoke. “If ye please, sir, there’s a dark something up yonder.” He pointed toward the head of the valley. “Maybe we can find shelter.”
Thor growled an assent; they got back into the chariot and drove up toward the dark mass. Shea was silent, with the blackest of thoughts. He would leave his position as researcher at the Garaden Institute to go after adventure with a capital A, would he? And as an escape from a position where he felt himself inferior and inclosed. Well, he told himself bitterly, he had landed in another still more inclosed and inferior. Yet why was it his preparations had so utterly failed? There was no reason for the matches’ not lighting or the book’s turning into gibberish—or for that matter the failure of the flashlight on the night before.
The Complete Compleat Enchanter Page 5
