Another moment of silence, like they were processing it. Then someone clapped. Someone else joined in. Finally, a cheer went up. It didn’t matter if they thought Matt was too young—the runes called him the champion, so that’s what he was. However ridiculous it seemed.
Matt looked around. People were turning and smiling, and his mother was pulling him into a hug, whispering how proud she was. Josh shot him a grin and a thumbs-up. Jake’s glower said Matt didn’t deserve the honor and he’d better not mess this up.
So Ragnarök was coming? And he was the Champion of Thor? The chosen one? The superspecial kid?
I’m dreaming. I must be.
Once he figured that out, he recovered from the shock and hugged his mother and let his dad embrace him and returned Josh’s thumbs-up; then he smiled and nodded at all the congratulations. He might as well enjoy the fantasy. Too bad it wasn’t real, because if he did defeat the Midgard Serpent, he was pretty sure he could get a dirt bike out of the deal. He laughed to himself as he settled back into his seat. Yeah, if he fought and killed a monstrous snake, Mom really couldn’t argue that a dirt bike was too dangerous.
He looked around as everyone continued congratulating him.
It had to be a dream. Anything else was just… crazy. Sure, Matt believed in Ragnarök, sort of. He’d never thought much about it. That’s just how he was raised, like some kids were raised to believe an old guy named Noah put two of every animal on one boat. You didn’t think much about it—it just was. So Ragnarök must be real, even if it sounded…
He looked around. No, everyone else believed it, so it must be true.
Maybe it wasn’t an actual serpent. Maybe it was a… what did they call it? A metaphor. That’s it. Not an actual snake, but some snake-like guy who had to be killed or he’d unleash nuclear war or something.
Except that wasn’t what Granddad was talking about. He meant the Midgard Serpent. Like in the picture. An actual serpent.
That’s the story, Matt. Don’t you believe it? You’ve always believed it.
His head began to throb, and he squeezed his eyes shut.
Let Granddad handle it. Just do what you need to do.
Do what? Be their champion? No. He’d make a mess of it. He always did.
The Thing ended, and every Thorsen lined up to shake Matt’s hand. He was awake, and he was the chosen one—and he was going to fight the Midgard Serpent and save the world. First, though, he was going to throw up.
Every time someone shook his hand, he felt his stomach quiver, too, and he thought, I’m going to do it. I’m going to barf. Right on their shoes. The only way he could stop it was to clamp his jaw shut and keep nodding and smiling his fake smile and hope that the next person who pounded him on the back didn’t knock dinner right out of him.
After the others left, his grandfather talked to him. It wasn’t a long discussion, which was good, because Matt barely heard any of it. All he could think was They’ve made a mistake. They’ve made a really, really big mistake. He even tried to say that, but his grandfather just kept talking about how Matt shouldn’t worry, everything would be fine—the runes wouldn’t choose him if he wasn’t the champion.
Check again. That’s what he wanted to say. If a kid has to fight this… whatever, it should be Jake, or even Josh. Not me.
Granddad said they’d talk more later, then he slipped off with the Elders into a private meeting, and Matt was left alone with his parents. They told him a few more times that everything would be fine. Then Dad thumped him on the back and said Matt should go enjoy the fair, not worry about curfew, they’d pick him up whenever he was ready.
“Here’s a little extra,” Dad said, pulling out his wallet. “It’s a big night for you, bud, and you deserve to celebrate.”
When he held out a bill, Matt stared. It was a hundred.
“Uh, that’s—” Matt began.
“Oh. Sorry.” His dad put the hundred back, counted out five twenties instead, and put them in Matt’s hand. “Carnies won’t appreciate having to cash a hundred, will they?” Another slap on Matt’s back. “Now go and have fun.”
Matt wandered through the fair, sneakers kicking up sawdust. He didn’t see the flashing lights. Didn’t hear the carnies hustling him over. Didn’t smell the hot dogs and caramel corn. He told himself he was looking for his friends, but he wasn’t really. His mind was still back in the rec hall, his gaze still fixed on that mosaic, his ears still ringing with the Seer’s words.
Our champion is Matthew Thorsen.
Champion. Really? No, really? I’m not even in high school yet, and they expect me to fight some giant serpent and save the world?
This isn’t just some boxing tournament. It’s the world.
Matt didn’t quite get how that worked. Kill the serpent; save the world. That’s how it was supposed to go. In the myth of Ragnarök, the gods faced off against the monsters. If they defeated the monsters, the world would continue as it was. If the monsters won, they’d take over. If both sides died—as they did in the myths predicting Ragnarök—the world would be plunged into an ice age.
What if the stories weren’t real?
But if the stories aren’t real, then Thor isn’t real. That amulet around your neck isn’t real. Your power isn’t real.
Except it obviously was. Which meant…
Even thinking about that made Matt’s stomach churn and his head hurt and his feet ache to run home. Just race home and jump in bed and pull up the covers and hide. Puke and hide: the strategy of champions.
Matt thought of his parents catching him, and his heart pounded as he struggled to breathe. They expected him to do this, just like they expected him to walk home after practice and make his own science fair project. They expected him to be a Thorsen.
Something tickled his chest, and he reached to swat off a bug. Only it wasn’t a bug. It was his amulet. Vibrating.
Um, no, that would be your heart, racing like a runaway train.
The tickling continued, and he swiped the amulet aside as he scratched the spot. Only it wasn’t his heart—it really was the pendant. When he held it between his fingers, he could feel the vibrations.
Weird. It had never done that before.
“You are looking for Odin,” said a voice behind him.
Matt wheeled. There was no one there.
“You are looking for Odin,” the voice said again, and he followed it down to a girl, no more than seven. She had pale blond braids and bright blue eyes. She wore a blue sundress and no shoes. In this weather? She must be freezing. Where were her parents?
“Hey,” he said, smiling as he crouched. “Do you need help? I can help, but we should probably find your parents first.”
The girl shook her head, braids swinging. “I do not need your help, Matthew Thorsen. You need mine.”
Strange way for a kid to talk. Formal, like someone out of an old movie. And the way she was looking at him, so calmly. He didn’t recognize her, but in Blackwell, there were so many little blond kids that it was impossible to keep them all straight.
“Okay, then,” he said. “You can help me find your parents.”
“No, you must find Odin. He will help.”
“Help what?”
She frowned, confused. “I do not know. That is to come. That is not now. I know only what is now, and now you must hear.”
“Hear what?”
She took off into the crowd.
Matt bolted upright. “Wait!”
The girl turned. She looked at him, her blue eyes steady. Then she mouthed something, and he understood her, like she was standing right there, whispering in his ear: You must hear.
She turned and ran again. Matt hesitated, but only for a second. As safe as Blackwell was, no kid her age should be wandering around alone.
He raced after her.
SIX
LAURIE
“OWEN”
At the parade, Laurie had seen that the shield was missing, and she’d known that Fen must have g
one back for it. She wasn’t sure if that’s where he got the black eye, and he wouldn’t tell her what had happened. All she got out of him was that he was “handling it,” but he looked like whatever it was had handled him.
Her temper wasn’t often horrible, but as she waded through the carnival games and crowds of people standing in lines to buy food or tickets to the rides, she was shaking mad. Even the smells of popcorn, funnel cake, and cotton candy didn’t distract her. Admittedly, she still kept looking at all the games of chance that were set up to convince people to spend all their money on games with pretty lame prizes. She won at those. She had a weird luck with carnival games and had toted home enough stuffed bunnies and creepy dolls over the past few years that her mother had taken a trunkful to the kids at the hospital. Maybe if Laurie wasn’t so mad she could stop and play just one, but she was mad. If Fen got caught with the shield, he would put them both at risk. If her mom weren’t so adamant that Fen wasn’t welcome, or if her dad was around, or if Matt weren’t the sheriff’s kid, or if… well, if Fen weren’t being so stupid, things would be better, but none of the ifs were truths. The worst possibility was that Matt told the sheriff and she and Fen were both arrested. The best case was that Fen would get in trouble—and she’d lose him. So, even the best case was horrible.
Unless Matt doesn’t tell.
Even before this, Laurie had needed to talk to Fen about the weird fish dream, but she hadn’t been able to get him alone since the other night at the longship. Even at the science fair, he wasn’t available. He’d actually invited his friend Hunter to join them. She wasn’t going to be ignored any longer. She’d talk to him whether he wanted to hear it or not. Maybe if they turned the shield in, Matt would keep their secret.
As she walked around the festival, she kept a lookout for Fen. She stopped at the Ferris wheel, the Tilt-A-Whirl, and the teacup ride. No Fen. She wandered through the petting-zoo area. No Fen.
“Where are you?” she muttered. She’d call him, but he didn’t have a cell phone.
“Hello.” A boy a few years older than her stepped up beside her. “I wondered where you were.”
“What?” She paused.
He looked like he belonged… well, anywhere but Blackwell. He wore a pair of black-and-blue tennis shoes, black trousers that hung low, a blue shirt that looked silky, and slightly longish hair that was dyed blue. Odder still, the boy had on jewelry that was almost girly: a pair of tiny black bird earrings in one ear and a twisted metal ring on his finger.
“Are you looking for me yet?” he asked.
“No.” She scowled. “I don’t know you. Why would I look for you?”
“I’m Odin.”
“Uh-huh. Odin.” She did laugh then. Anyone who grew up in Blackwell knew the basics of their mythology. Between school, parents, plays, a well-stocked myth section in the library, and some pretty terrible videos in every grade, it was impossible to completely avoid myth in Blackwell. That didn’t mean it was real.
“So, Odin, I guess there’s another play this year?” She hadn’t picked up any activities listing for the fair, but even if she had, she wasn’t so much up for watching another play on some battle or other. Some people in Blackwell took their Scandinavian heritage far too seriously.
“Would you like to play a game?” Odin looked around for a moment and then pointed to a booth where some sort of gambling game was set up. “You’d be good at that one.”
It was supposed to be a game of luck, but she’d been banned from it the year before when she won every time. The man running it insisted she was cheating somehow; she hadn’t been. This year, she was staying out of trouble—no games of luck for her. This boy obviously had heard about the ugly scene last year when she’d had to give up every dollar she’d won and the money she’d paid to play.
“Very funny,” she said.
Odin gave her a weird little smile, but didn’t reply. He just stood there waiting. It seemed odd, but she didn’t have the time or interest to waste on some blue-haired boy. She shook her head and turned away.
“You’re leaving already?” he asked.
“I need to find someone.”
“Not me?” He sounded sad.
She looked back at him. “No.”
“Oh. I must be early then.” The boy calling himself Odin frowned. “They won’t like me, unfortunately.”
Laurie stepped a little farther away from him. He was starting to make her nervous, and she wasn’t used to talking to boys without Fen showing up to snarl at them anyhow. Her whole family was overprotective in one way or another, and talking to Odin made her think maybe they were right. “I think I’m going to go now. Good luck with your play or whatever.”
“It’s real, you know,” Odin said. “That’s why you’re good at those games. I know. You don’t cheat, but you win.”
At that, Laurie didn’t know what to say, so she gave up. “I’m not allowed to play gambling games. My cousin will probably be a jerk to you if he sees you talking to me, and even if he doesn’t, I’m not looking for you, so please just go away.”
He studied her for a moment. “I expected you to be less of a rule follower, but I guess we’re still becoming.”
“Becoming what? What does that even mean?” She looked around for Fen—or even Hunter at this point. All she could see was the crush of people milling around the sawdust-covered paths of the festival. Blackwell itself wasn’t that big, but the festival always drew in people from outside the area. It made sense, she supposed. The fair might celebrate Scandinavian heritage, but it still had the trappings of a lot of festivals. There were wooden booths where volunteers manned games of chance and skill; there were all kinds of good foods, and usually there were bands and fireworks and whatever else the committee felt would add to the overall excitement and appeal.
As Laurie looked, she saw a few of the odd acrobats who were running through the festival, doing tricks that made her think of the extreme sports games Fen liked to watch. They didn’t have bikes or skateboards, but they did handstands, weird half jumps, and crazy flips as they ran.
“Becoming more than we are,” Odin said.
“Okaaaay, Odin, I’m not in your play or whatever, so I’m going to go now,” she said.
“You can call me Owen, if you’d feel better,” he offered. “I’d rather you call me my true name, but you’re not ready. Maybe next time I see you.”
She stared at him and said, “I don’t need to call you Owen or Odin or whatever other name you want to use. I won’t be talking to you. Now or later. Go away before my friends show up.”
“They would misunderstand.” The boy nodded to himself. “I just wanted to see you. You’re the one who will understand me. I hoped… I hoped you’d be ready. Soon, though, we can talk as we are meant to.”
He turned and disappeared into the crowd.
She watched him go; his blue hair made him stand out enough that it was easy. The acrobat kids seemed to be following him, but not with him. It was weird. They trailed him, and he walked as if he were alone. For a moment, she had a flash of worry for him. What if they aren’t with him? What if he’s in trouble? But they didn’t seem to be trying to hurt him, and he didn’t act like he was worried. And it’s not my problem. Still, she watched them as they headed toward the exit.
Owen was barely out of view when another, more important person caught her eye. “Fen!”
She pushed through the crowd, not caring that she was drawing attention or being rude. She shoved between him and the ever-present Hunter and grabbed Fen’s wrist. “I need to talk to you alone….” Her words died. Fen had flinched from her touch. She let go of his arm and said softly, “Please, Fen?”
He looked directly at her.
And she said the magic words, the words that they’d both used over the years: “I need your help with something.”
Her cousin opened his mouth, but before he could ask, she spoke. “I need to talk to Fen alone. If you could—”
“Go away, Hu
nter,” Fen finished for her. Then, he started through the crowd away from Hunter. He was pulling her with him as he had on who-knew-how-many adventures over the years, and she felt such relief that she almost hugged him. Everything would be okay now. She had Fen at her side again.
By the time they’d reached the edge of the festival, behind a row of booths where the tangled wires for the strands of temporary lights were stretched, Laurie was bursting with the words she’d been waiting to say. The music over the loudspeakers made it impossible for anyone in the booths to hear them, but that didn’t mean they wanted witnesses. They both knew that if the other one said “I need your help” that meant they also needed privacy.
After he confirmed that no one was watching, Fen let go of her and tucked his hands in the pockets of the torn jacket he was wearing. He looked around to make sure no one was nearby. “What happened?”
She didn’t want to start by accusing him—that never went well—so she started with her other worry. “I thought I was a fish,” she blurted.
“Okay.” Fen nodded, and then he paused, blinked, and said, “What?”
“A fish,” she whispered.
He stepped closer to her and said, “Say that again.”
“I woke up in the middle of the night, and I was a fish and I couldn’t breathe and you weren’t there.” She sounded crazy even to herself. “I know it was just a dream, but it was so real, and all I could think about was telling you.”
Fen stared at her.
“Say something,” she half begged.
“Maybe you should keep a bucket of water by your bed, because Aunt Janey isn’t going to let me stay with you unless Uncle Stig is around.” Fen folded his arms over his chest.
Laurie stared at him.
The music on the loudspeaker was interrupted by some sort of squeal that caused them both to jump. After a minute, Fen said, “What I mean is maybe you really were a fish.”
“It was a dream; it had to be,” Laurie said.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Fen shrugged. “There’s weirder stuff out there.”
Loki's Wolves Page 5
