Expecting Someone Taller Tom Holt

by Expecting Someone Taller (lit)

  "So at home they really let fly. Not that we have long, earnest conversations about the state of our tortured personalities, thank God. No, they've decided that they can't talk to me, I'm delighted to say, and so what they do is they sublimate it all—I think that's the right word, isn't it?—into endless domestic trivia, like who had the Sellotape last and how can you expect me to find things if you will insist on moving them. But put them down in the outside world, and they turn into fluffy little bunnies, wouldn't say boo to a goose, you know the sort of thing. I don't know which is worse, actually. At least they keep the place clean. Anyway, no self confidence is the root of it all, so if our Ring-Bearer can convince Ortlinde that he's serious about her and that somebody really loves her in spite of everything, he'll need a crowbar to get her off him. Serve the idiot right, that would."

  "But if she hates you so much, what makes you think she'll get the Ring for you? Won't she just go off with her Redeemer and leave you to get on with it?"

  "That was worrying me, I must admit, but when I thought it over, I saw just how clever I'd been," said Wotan smugly. "The fact that she really does love him in her own, unique, screwed-up way means she can't fail. You see, the last thing my daughter wants is to be happy. She'd hate it. No, what she wants is to be finally, definitively unhappy, and for it all to be my fault. It'd finally confirm all her dearest illusions about how her life has been ruined. People like that would far rather be right than happy. No, she'll get that Ring if it kills her."

  Loge wiped his forehead with his hand, and wished that he could go away and do something less stressful for a change, such as drive the chariot of the Sun or make the crops grow. But that was out of the question.

  "The only thing that could go wrong is if he finds out who she really is," Wotan said, pouring himself another drink. "But my guess is that he won't want to find out, so unless somebody tells him, he won't work it out for himself. I think he's just as bad as she is. In fact, they're perfectly suited to each other. Who knows, they may even stick together after she's got the Ring off him, and I'll never have to see her ever again. Wouldn't that be perfect? Then there would only be seven of them, one for every day of the week. But it's unlikely," he added sadly. "Like I said, she'd go mad if she were happy."

  The rain had stopped, and Loge deduced that Wotan was in a good mood for once. That removed the immediate threat of transformation, but he still felt uneasy. Over the last few thousand years, Loge had found that Wotan's good moods always tended to come before periods of universal misery.

  "So what do we do now?" he asked.

  "Leave her to it," said Wotan, leaning back in his seat. "I always knew she'd come in useful one day."

  * * *

  Love, the songwriter says, is the sweetest thing, and too many sweet things can make you feel slightly sick. But Malcolm had got through the endearments and sweet nothings stage quite safely, and had finally got the girl to tell him all about herself. She had not wanted to, and as he listened to the story that eventually came pouring out, he could quite understand why. Not that he was bored; but an overdose of tragedy can cause roughly the same symptoms as boredom, such as a strong desire to change the subject. That, however, would not be tactful. He only hoped that he would not be called upon to give an equally full account of himself, which might call for more inventiveness than he felt himself capable of.

  "You see," said the girl, "none of us could ever really talk to my father, and my father could never really talk to us, so that in the end I found I couldn't even talk to my sisters. We all just bottled it all up inside ourselves, really, until we wanted to hit out at each other. But we couldn't, because of not being able to talk. Do you see what I'm getting at?"

  "Sort of."

  "And it was obvious that my father was absolutely heartbroken when my mother left him. He tried to put a brave face on it, of course, but we all knew that she had let him down as well as letting us down, and that somehow we had let him down as well. And, of course, he feels that he's let us down, and so now we can't communicate at all."

  "That's dreadful," Malcolm said, wishing he hadn't raised the subject in the first place. It was obviously very painful for her to talk about her problems like this, and he hoped that she would stop and not upset herself further. But no such luck.

  "And we could all see how much of a disappointment we were to him. He wanted us to have careers and achieve something in the world, but we knew we couldn't leave him like that after my mother had left him, because he would feel left out and that would be awful."

  "But you've got a career," said Malcolm, brightly.

  The girl looked startled, as if she had made a mistake. "Well, sort of," she said. "But it's not a proper one."

  "But you don't live in the family house any more, do you?"

  "Yes. No. Well, sort of. I share this flat, but I go home a lot too."

  The girl stopped talking and stared at her shoes. They were sensible shoes and had seen many seasons, like her sensible tweed skirt and her honest cream pullover. Her mother had probably bought them for her, Malcolm thought, just before she left.

  "Well," he said, trying to sound cheerful, "you've got me to look after you now."

  They sat down on a bench and looked out over the park. It was a beautiful morning, although there had been one brief shower, and as soon as all the tragic stories had been got over with, it would all be perfect.

  "What do you like doing?" Malcolm asked. "Oh, I don't know really." She thought about it for a long time. "Walking, I suppose. And 1 quite like my work. Well, no, I don't really, but it's better than nothing."

  "Let's go for a stroll by the river," Malcolm said firmly. They walked in silence for a while, and stopped to admire the view of Farmer Ayres' prodigious crop of assorted flowers. In the distance, a BBC camera crew were unrolling miles of flex, so it would probably all be on the 9 O'clock News that evening. Malcolm wanted to tell her that he had laid the flowers on for her benefit, to show how much he loved her, but he could not think of a way of explaining it all.

  "Who's that girl on the river bank waving at you?" Malcolm followed her finger and recognised Flosshilde. His heart fell. "That's just a friend of mine," he said. "No-one important."

  "I think she wants to say something to you... Oh." Malcolm could have sworn that she had recognised Flosshilde, but that was obviously impossible, so he did not even bother to check her thoughts. He wanted to walk away and pretend he hadn't seen the Rhinedaughter, for he could not be bothered with her just now. After all, she was a very pretty girl, and Linda might jump to quite the wrong conclusions. Unfortunately, it was too late now. He put his arm around Linda's shoulders rather as a Roman legionary might have raised his shield before facing an enemy, as Flosshilde ran across to join them.

  "Hello," said the Rhinedaughter, and there was something very strange about her manner. "Hope you don't mind, but I've been for a swim in your river."

  Nervously, Malcolm introduced her to the girl. Flosshilde looked at Malcolm for a moment, then turned and smiled radiantly at the girl, so that for an instant Malcolm was convinced that something terrible was going to happen. But nothing did, and Malcolm reassured himself that he must have been imagining it. For her part, Flosshilde looked very slightly disappointed, although Malcolm could not think why.

  "Don't I know you from somewhere?" Flosshilde asked. "Your face is very familiar."

  "I don't think so," said the girl, nervously. She was obviously very shy.

  "Must be my imagination, then. Well, I must be going. Oh, and I won't be able to make lunch tomorrow. Sorry."

  "Some other time, then," said Malcolm. "See you."

  "I expect so," said the Rhinedaughter. "Have fun."

  She ran lightly down to the river and dived in. For some reason, the girl did not seem surprised by this, and Malcolm was relieved that he would not have to try and find some explanation. He dismissed Flosshilde from his mind.

  * * *

  The Rhinedaughter circled for a few
minutes under the surface, then slowly paddled upstream to a deep pool where she knew she could not be seen. It had been pointless trying to turn the woman into a frog; the daughters of Wotan are not so lightly transformed. At least she had given the Valkyrie notice that she had a fight on her hands.

  It was all very well saying that, but Flosshilde had no stomach for a fight. It was inconceivable that Malcolm didn't know who she was or what she was likely to be after, and if he was so much in love that he was prepared to take the risk... After all, he had apparently been prepared to take a similar risk with her before the Valkyrie showed up, and obviously he had not been in love then, just lonely. And any fool could see that Ortlinde was completely smitten, so it seemed likely that she too had given up hope of getting the Ring. After all, Malcolm was in a unique position to know what was going on inside her head. So he could take care of himself.

  Vanity, said Flosshilde to herself, and wounded pride, that was all it was. That anyone could prefer a stuffy old Valkyrie to her was naturally hard for her to believe, but Malcolm obviously did, and that was all there was to it.

  From the cover of a small boulder, she peered out. The Young Couple were kissing each other rather awkwardly under the shade of an oak tree. Flosshilde shrugged her shoulders and slid back into the water, as graceful as an otter. Beside her, she was aware of her sisters, swimming lazily in the gentle current.

  "Told you so," said Wellgunde.

  "I couldn't care less," said Flosshilde. "And if you say one word about the Ring, I'll break your silly neck."

  "Wouldn't dream of it, would we?" replied Wellgunde smugly.

  "I'm bored with England," said Flosshilde suddenly, as they reached the head of the Tone. "Why don't we go back home?"

  "What a good idea," said Woglinde. "Let's do that."

  11.

  AT VALHALLA THE Wednesday afternoon General Meeting of the Aesir, or Company of Gods, is presided over by Wotan himself. At these meetings, the lesser divinities—thunder-spirits, river-spirits, cloud-shepherds, Valkyries, Norns, nixies, powers, thrones, ettins and fetches—have an opportunity to bring to Wotan's attention any matters which they feel require action on his part, and receive their instructions for the next seven days. There is also a general discussion on future strategy and a long-range weather forecast.

  Loge, as secretary to the Company, had the unenviable task of keeping the minutes of each meeting and presenting the agenda. At the meeting that immediately followed the Ring-Bearer's entrapment by the Valkyrie Ortlinde, he found himself having to reorganise the entire programme to give enough time for a thorough discussion, only to find that the discussion that followed was over much sooner than he had anticipated. There were votes of thanks from the Company to Ortlinde and Wotan, which were duly entered in the records, and Waltraute inquired how long Ortlinde was likely to be away and who was supposed to do her share of the housework while she was absent. Loge was then compelled to proceed to Any Other Business with well over an hour of the scheduled time still to go.

  "I would like to bring to the Chairman's attention the fact that the light-bulb on the third-floor landing of the main staircase of Valhalla has gone again, and I would request him to replace it immediately," said Schwertleite, "before someone trips over and breaks their neck."

  "That's not nearly as dangerous as the carpet on the back stairs," said Grimgerde. "I've asked you hundreds of times to nail it down properly, but nobody ever listens to a word I say."

  Loge was writing furiously. All the minutes of meetings had to be made in runes, which cannot be written quickly.

  "May I suggest," said Wotan, grimly attempting to make himself heard, "that this is neither the time nor the place..."

  "Next time you stub your toe in the dark because you couldn't be bothered to replace a light-bulb..."

  Wotan put his hands in front of his one eye and groaned audibly. "We were discussing the Ring," he muttered.

  "And please don't put your elbows on the table," interrupted the Valkyrie Helmwige. "I spent the whole morning trying to get it looking respectable after you spilt coffee all over it."

  Wotan made a vague snarling noise at the back of his throat; "This is a meeting of the Aesir," he growled, "and I would ask you to behave in an appropriate manner."

  "While we're on the subject," retorted his daughter, the Driver of the Spoil, "you might try dressing in an appropriate manner. Why you insist on wearing the same shirt three days in a row... How am I expected to get the collars clean?"

  "Any other business," Wotan said, but his growl was more like a whimper.

  "You've got whole drawers full of shirts you never wear," said Grimgerde, with a world of reproach in the deep pools of her blue eyes. She hadn't had a new shirt, or a new anything, for four hundred and twenty years, but she didn't complain. She never went anywhere anyway.

  "I shall wear what the hell I like when I like," said Wotan, and what had intended to be authority when the words passed his vocal cords was definitely petulance when the sounds emerged through the gate of his teeth. "Now, can we please..."

  A general baying of Valkyries drowned out the voice of the Sky-God, and Loge stopped trying to keep the minutes of the meeting. Over the centuries, he had evolved his own shorthand for the inevitable collapse into chaos that rounded off each Wednesday afternoon in the Great Hall. He sketched in a succession of squiggles under the last intelligible remark he had been able to record and began drawing sea-serpents.

  The discussion had moved on to the topic of leaving the tops off jars when a rock-troll, who had been thoroughly enjoying the conflicts of his betters, noticed something out of the comer of one of his eyes. He nudged the middle-aged Norn with mouse-blond hair who was knitting beside him, and they turned and stared at the doorway of the Hall. One by one, the minor deities, then the Vanir, then the High Gods themselves abandoned the debate and gazed in astonishment at the three rather pretty girls who had wandered in through the Gates of Gylfi.

  It was at least a thousand years since the Rhinedaughters, who were responsible for the noblest river in Europe, had attended a Wednesday afternoon meeting. No-one except Wotan and Loge could remember exactly why they had stopped coming. Some said that they had been expelled for flirting with the cloud-shepherds at the time of the Great Flood. Others put it down to the girls' natural frivolity and apathy. Wotan and Loge knew that the river-spirits had walked out in tears after the stormy debate that followed the theft of the Ring from Alberich and had not been back since, although both Gods correctly attributed this continued absence to forgetfulness rather than actual principle.

  "Well I never!" whispered the Norn to the rock-troll. "Look who it is!"

  The rock-troll nodded his head. Since he had been created out of solid granite at the dawn of time, this manoeuvre required considerable effort on his part, but he felt it was worth it. "It's the Girls," he hissed through his adamantine teeth.

  It was Wotan himself who broke the silence. "What the hell do you want?" he snapped.

  "We just thought we'd pop our heads round and say hello," said Wellgunde sweetly. "It's been simply ages."

  The silence gave way to a hubbub of voices, as each immortal greeted the long-lost members of their Company. Most vociferous were a group of cloud-shepherds who, several centuries before, had arranged to meet the Rhinedaughters for a picnic at the place which has since become Manchester, and who had been waiting there ever since. Only the Valkyries and their father seemed less than delighted to see the Rhinedaughters back again. Wotan suspected that he knew the reason for their visit, while his daughters felt sure that the river-spirits hadn't wiped their feet before coming into the Hall.

  "So," said Wotan, when the noise had subsided, "what have you been doing all these years?"

  "Sunbathing, mostly," said Woglinde truthfully. "Doesn't time fly when you're having fun?"

  "It's all right for some," whispered the Norn to the troll. But the troll seemed uneasy. "Something's going to happen," he said, and he sniffed
loudly, as if trying to identify some unfamiliar smell.

  "Is that all?" laughed Wotan, nervously jovial. "Or have you been doing any work?"

  "Depends on what you call work," replied Wellgunde. "The river sort of runs itself really. But we have been looking at other rivers to see if we can pick up any hints."

  "Sort of an exchange visit," said Woglinde, helpfully.

  "For example," continued Wellgunde, "we visited a river called the Tone in England. Not very helpful, I'm afraid."

  "But guess who we bumped into while we were over there," cooed Woglinde. "Go on, guess."

  "I hate guessing," said Wotan irritably, and he picked up a document and began to study it diligently. Since he was to all intents and purposes omnipotent, it was not surprising that he could read a sheet of paper that was palpably the wrong way up.

  "Ortlinde, that's who," said Flosshilde, who had not spoken before. Wotan made no reply, being obviously engrossed in his document. Suddenly, Flosshilde smiled at the papers in his hand, which turned into a small dragon. Wotan dropped it with a start, and it crawled away under the table. "Now what on earth was she doing there?"

  The Norn had covered her eyes. She was fond of the Rhinedaughters, with whom she had spent many hours exchanging gossip, and Flosshilde's conjuring trick, performed in front of so many witnesses, was as clear a case of treasonable assault on the King of the Gods as one could hope to find. The penalty for this offence was instant metamorphosis, usually into a bush of some kind, and it was common knowledge that Wotan had been desperate for some pretext for getting rid of the Rhinedaughters ever since they had first emerged from the waters of their native river. Slowly, the Norn lowered her hands. The Girls were still there, still in human shape.

  "I'll tell you, shall I?" continued Flosshilde. "She was there trying to get the Ring-Bearer to give her our Ring, which you should have given back to us a thousand years ago. So will you please tell her to stop it and go away?"