Classics Mutilated

by John Shirley

  HEMLOCK PYNE

  I know I have felt something like this before, but the shortness of the season sharpens this sense of giving. I have the words now. They have given them to me. I owe the Pokkypets everything I have. Everything. And I owe them completely. I would die for these creatures. I would die for these creatures. I would die for these creatures.

  VERNOR HERTZWIG

  We still have no idea what he means.

  © Property of Digito of America

  Twilight of the Gods

  By Chris Ryall

  “Lie to a liar, for lies are his coin; Steal from a thief, for that is easy; lay a trap for a trickster and catch him at first attempt, but beware of an honest (wo)man”

  Arab proverb

  PREFACE

  I’d never given much thought to how I would die … because I never had to. My fate was written by any number of foolish scribes who put pig’s blood to parchment to tell of the coming of Ragnarok that we gods will soon face.

  For those of you mortals who haven’t yet sat around a campfire and heard those tales, Ragnarok means "the twilight of the gods.” As in, the day the sun ceases to shine on us and you humans are forced to find some other—lesser—group of deities upon whom to cast your prayers.

  That said, it tends to make you rethink what you know about your impending fate when you unexpectedly find yourself staring down the business end of a sword, as I now was.

  She pulled me close, her blade poking a bloody kiss into the underside of my jaw. She stared at me with those cold eyes of hers. It appeared likely to me now that my time would come sooner than was written. I suppose, all things considered, it’s better at this point in my life to perish in the arms of a passionate woman than it is to do so in the flaming conflagration those annoying poets go on about.

  Still, had I known then what I know now, I never would’ve come here to Jotunheim in the first place.

  Oh, who am I kidding? I always knew it would go down exactly this way. I made sure of it, in fact. Your dreams are what you make of them, after all, and my foolish dream of finding love was always going to lead me to this.

  The huntress drew back her sword, its perfectly honed blade reflecting a silvery line across its intended target—my neck. I suppressed a yawn so as not to embarrass her. Death can be so tedious. And not much is worse in the eyes of Loki than tedium.

  1. THIRD WINTER

  Before I get to that sordid business, let me back up a bit. My father offered to drive me there in his chariot. It wasn’t so much that he wanted to personally escort me out of town as much as he just needed me to leave Asgard proper under my own power while that was still an option.

  It was to the frigid wasteland of Jotunheim that I was now being exiled—an action that he assumed brought with it feelings of great horror for me.

  I loved the golden spires of Asgard, but my presence here was no longer working for me, or for the general populace. They wished me politely removed for a time, as my father explained.

  “Loki,” my father said to me, “I must spirit you away from Asgard in the darkness of nightfall. For if brave, all-hearing Heimdall becomes aware that you still reside within these walls, he will pull your entrails from your body, tie them to my ravens’ wings and send them a-soar. And I shan’t blame him in the least.”

  That was why my father was the leader of all Asgard—his ability to put a positive spin on dire events.

  My father stared at me. His one remaining eye was likely looking me up and down, filled with its usual mix of pity and remorse-tinged loathing. This time, I didn’t notice, because it was the ocular cavity where his other eye used to occupy space that was truly troubling me. My father once plucked out that offending eye in what I consider to be a misguided quest for knowledge. After all, I venture to say that the knowledge he received upon removing the orb was something along the lines of "don’t pull your own eye out, fool; it hurts like hell!”

  My one-eyed father had his other son, my half-brother, constantly by his side, so what need had he for me now? We don’t look alike, my father and I, and not just because I have two good eyes with which to see. We’re not blood relations, he and I. Heimdall, the miserable oaf, Asgard’s sentry, liked to spread vile stories that I am actually descended from two malicious frost giants, and ended up in Odin’s care after he slew my real parents in battle.

  In addition to Heimdall, who seems to have taken it upon himself to report my misdeeds to my father, my lunkheaded step-brother Thor also seeks to curry favor with Odin. And since he is the fruit of my father’s well-traveled loins—I have been feeling like naught but an unwanted burden.

  My dear father, king of the gods tho' he may be, likes to feel needed, and it’s Thor who truly needs the supervision and help. Thor would likely forget to eat were not my father there to provide sustenance. This is not a smart lad I’m speaking of. Whereas I am an entity unto myself, dependent on no man or god. But still….

  “I’ve been wanting to leave for a while, father.” I had practiced this speech since the recent incident that really turned opinion against me, and I was starting to believe it myself. “It’s my dog who raises my concern—I don’t want to leave him here. He needs me, that pup. Can I—”

  “It is no longer a question of your wants, child. Remaining within these walls will result in your immediate death and dismemberment, and I’d prefer that not happen under my auspices.”

  “Dismemberment, too? Why is everyone so mad, father?”

  “My son, need you ask? The brightest of us has been extinguished through your misdeeds.”

  My father had a way of cutting to the quick.

  “You must go. But I will watch over you from afar,” he said. “Be it as a hawk, or a bear or—”

  “Or a rutting pig, my father? Or … no, I forget myself, mother is doing her dutiful best to finally curb your rutting, isn’t she?”

  I could suddenly see enough distaste for me in his one eye to be glad that its mate was no longer perched on the other side of his nose.

  We departed that evening. Forgoing his sky-chariot, my father chose instead to spirit me away in the guise of a snow owl, and he clutched me, now transfigured into a common rat (not my choice of animal, mind you), in his talons. (Also, this was not my preferred way to travel, let me tell you.)

  As we traversed the night sky, my father remained silent. I noticed the temperature dropping considerably. In the sky, I mean. My father’s own temperature was already matching the frigid air before we even took flight.

  “Father, might we stop for some warmth? My teeth are chattering, and this rat-body isn’t equipped for….”

  “Your teeth chatter like the rodent you have become, my son. Now remain quiet.”

  Quiet wasn’t in my nature whether I was rat or god, however.

  “Father? The cold … it persists beyond the norm, doesn’t it? We should be basking in a warm spring evening for this flight, should we not?”

  “Aye, Loki, that we should.” He squeezed my rat-form a little tighter. Perhaps unconsciously. But likely not. “It would indeed be a renewed spring world for us all, had your machinations not led us to this point.

  “You, my son, have brought on Fimbul Winter. Ragnarok cannot be far away now.”

  Fimbul Winter. That is, winter lasting for three seasons in a row, without break. Winter so cold, it threatens to crack the nine worlds in half. The ever-winter. The end-storm. The—

  “Loki, are you listening?”

  “Of course, father. Cold, snow, Armageddon. Got it.” I think he kept talking but really, with the cold numbing my tiny ears and still more talk of our pre-ordained fates, who could be expected to properly listen?

  “I was saying, Loki, that if you gaze across the horizon, you will see the world-tree, Yggdrasil. Its branches extend into the heavens and across this world, as well as others. Perhaps soon you will sit under its all-encompassing coverage and reflect upon what you have done. Perhaps there, you will learn what I seem unable to teach
you.”

  “Possibly, father. Or perhaps I will instead become a beaver and eat through its braaaaaanches—!”

  My father released me from his talons suddenly, his wings never beating any slower as he did so. I dropped down in the night sky, the heavy clouds through which I fell coating me with a layer of ice that only helped increase my speed.

  My father the one-eyed owl was already out of sight when I struck the ground, and hit it hard, I did. But at least the impact jarred loose all the ice and soot stuck to my ratty fur.

  Before changing back to now-bruised human form, I lay on the ground, letting my bones and muscles stitch themselves back together. My flattened lungs gasped for deep breaths of air. I was a rat, I was bruised and dirty, and I was alone in the cold, dark night.

  So it was that Loki the trickster-god came to Jotunheim. Just in time for the new school year to begin.

  This frozen area of the eternal realm was where I was now stuck—an action that I took to with equal parts horror and anticipation.

  I enjoyed living in Asgard, the grandeur and pomposity of it all. I was enamored with the extreme seriousness with which most of my godly cohorts went about their day. I loved deflating those pompous balloons. But I also felt alone inside its stately walls.

  “Loki,” my father spoke to me through one of his ravens, which now took perch upon my shoulder—abandoned by him though I had been, he couldn’t just sever the golden string entirely and loose me on snowy Jotunheim without parting words—“though you be not born of my blood, still are you my son. Still will I care for you from afar.”

  “Still will you use your bird to make sure I don’t pull a fast one and leave this frozen wasteland, father. I know well how you work.”

  “Dearest Loki,” the raven said again in its best bird-like approximation of my father’s stentorian tones, “I helped you avoid the reckoning that you were due. But the forces you have set in motion cloud the mood here every day, even as the doom-clouds gather in the sky.”

  “Yes, yes.” Now he had birds trying to make me feel guilty?

  “You misunderstand. My message is two-tiered. The first thing I want to impart is that I need the time you spend in Jotunheim’s school system to be productive; you need to learn humility, honor, and respect.”

  “I hope those classes are offered here, All-Father.”

  “And the second thing I need you to know is that there may not be an Asgard for you to return to when your lessons are done.”

  Well, this was an interesting tactic to take. “Packing up and moving where I can’t cause any more mischief, father?”

  Have you ever heard a raven emit an exasperated sigh? I just did. “The forces in fiery Muspelheim are gathering, Loki. Fimbul Winter is but the beginning.”

  “From there, I’d expect the cold of this never-ending winter to dampen even the spirits of Muspelheim fire-demons, my father.”

  “Always levity from you when gravity is needed. I could no longer protect you from retribution were you to remain in Asgard, and now, I must devote my energy toward preventing the impending conflagration. In short, I cannot keep watch over you. You will be alone, my son.”

  We said our goodbyes. The bird resisted my attempts to kiss it on its lips, in part perhaps because it possessed no such lips. As it flew off, my father’s bird-words rang in my head—I was alone. Again, as it ever was.

  Well, my dog would join me soon. Hopefully under nicer transport from Asgard than I had myself.

  I took refuge in a nearby barn and pondered my situation. The surrounding meadow and its wild horses grazing nearby would suit my dog just fine once he was sent along to me.

  Removed as I was from Asgard now, away from the familiar faces and regular opportunities to scheme against those windbags, I began to feel more alone than I ever had before. And one never wants to enter a new school fully alone, not even the great trickster-god himself.

  Jotunheim High School had a total of three hundred and thirty-six—now thirty-seven—students; the number of Asgardian schoolchildren upon whom I could visit my many pranks had numbered into the thousands. Also, I knew those children; I knew their parents. I likely out-schemed generations of the same family. Here, however, I knew not what to expect. I would be the outsider to these students. If I was lucky, that is. Worse still would be for my reputation—and my recent misdeed, which so many in Asgard found unforgivable—to follow me here.

  I knew from my earliest days of consciousness that I would never fit in amongst the Asgardians. Physically, I could alter my form to adopt the typically bulky form of your average god-son. But mentally, it was apparent I’d never be one of them. Instead, I took comfort in the goat-meadows; as a fish in the lakes and streams; in my time soaring the heavens and excreting upon the heads of the self-important gods in my midst. But among others my age who dwelled within the realm eternal—I always felt removed from them. I certainly never befriended anyone there.

  Walking around my new surroundings, I happened upon a frozen patch that reflected my own haunted visage back to me. I looked sallow, pale. So no problems there, anyway. But my heart—the very organ that many … okay, most … accuse me of not possessing—beat with a certain ache I’d not noticed before.

  Add to that the nagging feeling in my head that the idea of an outsider such as me ever knowing true love was nothing but folly, and it becomes clear why a single tear escaped my eye that night, rolled down my cheek, and froze there (damned Fimbul Winter). The hollow ache in my heart persisted all night.

  And the pain was just beginning.

  I arrived at the school early the next morning. This is because the hours I keep are my own, and I refuse to be told when to arrive anywhere. Which occasionally leads to awkward moments where I arrive too early, or even worse, on time, without aiming to do so.

  I went to the school’s administration office, where a heavyset woman with a braid the thickness of my forearm looked me up and down.

  “I don’t recognize you. New one, then, yah?”

  “Yes, yes,” I said, taking sudden interest in my boots as I felt her eyes looking me up and down.

  She handed my class assignments to me and I walked off, paying no heed to her parting platitudes and empty words about how I should do my best to fit in. Were I not trying to keep away the attention of the Asgardians who wanted my head, I might well have fit my sword in her back. Had I been able to keep my sword, that is. She confiscated it from me before I headed off, telling me that weaponry was allowed only in the hands of the teaching staff, not the students. Already this school’s rules were proving tough to take. Perhaps I would have been better served to follow my original plan of disguising myself as a fish and swimming in streams to avoid the vengeful eyes of Heimdall and his ilk back home.

  My first class was Olde English. The teacher spat out my name with distrust as she read it upon my class assignment. “Loki Odinson.” I felt all eyes from the other students on me. O, for the ability to use my magicks so that I might transform their eyes to stones, that I might then cast each and every one into the river.

  Our reading assignments in the class were handed out. As I exited the class, I assumed that the minor trickery required for me to turn it to smoldering ash in my palm would raise no suspicions.

  A voice surprised me as I brushed the ashes from my hand. “Hey, the teacher called you ‘Loki Odinson,’ right? Hi, Loki Odinson, I’m Eilif!”

  Gods help me. Upon turning to face this intrusive wretch, I saw that he had to be a departed soul who resided in Valhalla, the land where dead warriors were welcomed upon their passing. Eilif was obviously here as part of the school’s exchange-student program. His face and hands were disfigured from burns he no doubt suffered in his final battle upon this plane. In Valhalla, such a visage would appear healed, for the warrior’s shade was returned to its most beautiful upon acceptance into the hall of the dead. But here, in this school, his appearance was distracting and rather repulsive.

  “Just ‘Loki,’” I sa
id, doing my best to avert my eyes from his scarred countenance. “Although I’d prefer you not only not call me by name but also forget my name and countenance altogether.”

  “Hah! Good one. Anyway, I’m Eilif!”

  “Yes, so it would seem, you are.”

  “They sometimes call me Eilif the Lost, but I’m not that bad with directions. I mean, the fire I walked into seemed like it sprung up out of nowhere. Lots of fires have sprung up lately. Seems like ever since beautiful Balder the Brave was killed by recent treachery that fire and pain have been around every corner. Well, maybe not fire here, since it’s so cold and snowy and cloudy but still, wow, yeah.”

  If Eilif’s previous utterance were to be transcribed, let me just tell you that there is no way a scribe could portray the speed with which one word followed another. Eilif needed to earn his nickname and get lost ere I pluck his tongue from his charred face and feed it to a toad of nondiscriminating palette.

  The droning timber of his voice quickly became naught but an unintelligible buzzing in my head as it soon was apparent that he required neither response nor acknowledgment in order to keep merrily prattling on.