At the middle of the bench two pillars of black wood rose from floor to ceiling, heavily carved, and so near the table that they almost cut off one seat. It was now occupied by the grey-bearded, one-eyed man Shea had followed in from the road. His floppy hat was on the table before him, and he was half leaning around one of the pillars to talk to another big blond man — a stout chap whose face bore an expression of permanent good nature, overlaid with worry. Leaning against the table at his side was an empty scabbard that could have held a sword as large as the one Shea had noticed on the wall.
The explorer's eye, roving along the table, caught and was held by that of the slim young man. The latter nodded, then rose and came round the table, grinning bashfully.
"WouId ye like a seat companion?" he asked. "You know how it is, as Hávamál says:
Care eats the heart If you cannot speak
To another all your thought."
He half-chanted the lines, accenting the alliteration in a way that made the rhymeless verse curiously attractive. He went on: "It would help me a lot with the Time coming, to talk to a plain human being. I don't mind saying I'm scared. My name's Thjalfi."
"Mine's Harald," said Shea, pronouncing it as Sverre had done.
"You came with the Wanderer, didn't ye? Are ye one of those outland warlocks?"
It was the second time Shea had been accused of that. "I don't know what a warlock is, honest," said he, "and I didn't come with the Wanderer. I just got lost and followed him here, and ever since I've been trying to find out where I am."
Thjalfi laughed, then took a long drink of mead. As Shea wondered what there was to laugh at, the young man said; "No offence, friend Harald. Only it does seem mighty funny for man to say he's lost at Crossroads of the World. Ha, ha, I never did hear the like."
"The where did you say?"
"Sure, the Crossroads of the World. You must come from seven miles beyond the moon not to know that. Hai! You picked a queer time to come, with all of Them here" — he jerked his finger towards the four bearded men. "Well, I'd keep quiet about not having the power, if I was you. Ye know what the Hávamál says:
To the silent and sage Does care seldom come
When he goes to a house as guest.
Ye're likely to be in a jam when the trouble starts if ye don't have protection from one of Them, but as long as They think ye're a warlock, Uncle Fox will help you out."
He jabbed a finger to indicate the small, sharp-featured man among the four, then went on quickly: "Or are ye a hero? If ye are, I can get Redbeard to take ye into his service when the Time comes."
"What time? Tell me what this is all—" began Shea, but at that moment Aud and another girl appeared with wooden platters loaded with food.
"Hai, sis!" called Thjalfi cheerfully, and tried to grab a chop from the platter carried by the second, a girl Shea had not previously seen. The girl kicked him neatly on the shin and set it before the late-comer.
The meal consisted of various meats, with beside them a big slab of bread, looking as though it had been cut from a quilt. There was no sign of knife, fork, or any vegetable element. Of course, they would not have table silver, Shea assured himself. he broke off a piece of the bread and bit into it. It was better than it looked. The meat that he picked up rather gingerly was apparently a boiled pork chop, well-cooked and well-seasoned. But as he was taking the second bite, he noted that the shield girl, Aud, was still standing beside him.
As he looked round Aud made a curtsy and said rapidly: "Lord, with this meal as with all things, your wishes are our law. Is there aught else that you desire?"
Shea hesitated for a moment, realizing it was a formula required by politeness and that he should make some remark praising the food. But he had had a long drink of potent mead on an empty stomach. The normal food habits of an American urged him to action.
"Would it be too much to ask whether you have any vegetables?" he said.
For one brief second both the girl and Thjalfi stared at him. Then both burst into shrieks of laughter, Aud staggering back towards the wall, Thjalfi rolling his head forward on his arms. Shea sat staring, red with embarrassment, the halfeaten chop in his hand. He hardly noticed that the four men at the other side of the table were looking at him till the big red-headed man boomed out:
"Good is the wit when men's children laugh before the Æsir! Now, Thjalfi, you shall tell us what brings this lightness of heart."
Thjalfi, making no effort to control himself, managed to gasp out: "The . . . the warlock Harald wants to eat a turnip!" His renewed burst of laughter was drowned in the roar from Redbeard, who leaned back, bellowing: "Oh, ho, ho, ho, ho! Turnip Harald, ha, ha ha!" His merriment was like a gale with the other three adding their part, even the bluecloaked Wanderer.
When they had quieted down a little, Shea turned to Thjalfi. "What did I do?" he asked. "After all—"
"Ye named yourself Turnip Harald! I'm afeared ye spoiled your chance of standing under Rcdbeard's banner at the Time. Who'd want a hero that ate turnips? In Asgard we use them to fatten hogs."
"But —"
"Ye didn't know better. Well, now your only chance is Uncle Fox. Ye can thank me for saying ye're a warlock. Besides, he loves a good joke; the only humorist in the lot of them, I always say. But eating turnips — ha, ha, that's the funniest thing I've heard since the giant tried to marry the Hammer Thrower!"
Shea, a trifle angry and now completely mystified, turned to ask explanations. Before he could frame the words there was a pounding at the door. Sverre admitted a tall man, pale, blond and beardless, with a proud, stately face and a huge golden horn slung over his back. "There's another of Them," whispered Thjalfi. "That's Heimdall. I wonder if all twelve of Them are meeting here."
"Who the devil are They?"
"Sh!"
* * *
The four bearded men nodded welcome to the newcomer. He took his place beside the Wanderer with lithe grace and immediately began to say something to the older man, who nodded in rapt attention. Shea caught a few of the words: "— fire horses, but no use telling you with the Bearer of Bad Tidings present." He nodded contemptuously towards Uncle Fox.
"It is often seen," said the latter, raising his voice a trifle but addressing the red-bearded man as though continuing a conversation begun before, "that liars tell few lies when those are present who can see the truth."
"Or it may be that I have that to tell which I do not wish to have repeated to our enemies by the Evil Companion," said Heimdall, looking straight at Uncle Fox.
"There are even those," continued the latter evenly, still paying Heimdall no attention, "who, having no character of their own, wish to destroy all character by assassinating the reputations of others."
"Liar and thief!" cried Heimdall angrily, bringing his fist down on the table and almost snarling. Shea saw that his front teeth were, surprisingly, of gold.
"Here," rumbled the large redhead, judicially. "Let there be an allaying of the anger of the Æsir, in the presence of mortals."
"Let there also," snapped the small man, "be an allaying of insults in the mouth of —"
"All insults are untrue," said Heimdall. "I state facts."
"Facts! Few are the facts that come from that long wagging chin. Facts like the tale of having nine mothers, or the boast of that horn and the great noise it will make — Beware lest mice nest in it and it fail to give a squeak."
"You shall hear my trumpet at the Time, Father of Lies. And you will not like the sound."
"Some would say that called for the sword."
"Try it. Here is the blade that will carve your stinking carcass."
"Why you—" Foxy-face and Heimdall were on their feet and bellowing at each other. Their voices had a volume that made Shea wince. The other three bearded men rose and began shouting also. Above their heads the two black birds who had been the Wanderer's companions fled round and round with excited cries.
Just as it looked as though the two original disputants were
certain to fling themselves at each other's throat, the bigger redhead grabbed the smaller one by the shoulders and forced him down. "Sit down!" he thundered. The Wanderer, his sonorous voice full of outraged dignity, shouted; "This is disgraceful! We shall have no respect left. I command you to be quiet, both of you!"
"But —" yelled Heimdall.
The Wanderer silenced him with a gesture. "Nothing you can say will be heard. If either of you speaks to the other before bedtime, he shall have nothing less than my gravest displeasure."
Heimdall subsided and went over to a far corner to sit and glare at Fox-face, who returned the glare. Thjalfi whispered to the awed Shea: "It's like this every time three or four of Them get together. They're supposed to set us a good example, but the first thing ye know they're at it like a gang of drunken berserks."
"I'd still like to know who They are," said Shea.
"Do you mean ye really don't know?" Thjalfi stared at him with eyes full of honest rustic perplexity. "Don't that beat all, now? I wouldn't have believed it if ye hadn't asked for those turnips. Well, the one that was scrapping with Heimdall is Loki. The big red-bearded one next to him is Thor. The old man, the Wanderer, is Odinn, and the fat one is Frey. Have ye got them straight now?"
Shea looked hard at Thjalfi, but there was nothing in the latter's face but the most transparent seriousness. Either he had stepped through the formula into some downright dream, or he was being kidded, or the five were local Scandinavian chieftains who for some reason had named themselves after the gods of the old Norse pantheon. The remaining possibility — that these were actually gods — was too wildly improbable for consideration. Yet, those birds — the glance he had received from Odinn — and he knew that Odinn was always represented as one-eyed — The big redhead called Thor got up and went over to the pair whom Thjalfi had identified as Odinn and Frey. For a few minutes they muttered, heads together. At the conclusion of the conference Odinn got up, clapped his floppy hat on his head, whirled his blue cloak around him, look a last gulp of mead and strode out the door.
As the door banged behind him, Loki and Heimdall half rose to their feet. Immediately Thor and Frey jumped up, with the former rumbling: "No more! Save your blows, Sons of Asgard, for the Time. Or if you must deal buffets, exchange them with me." He lifted a fist the size of a small ham, and both subsided. "It is time for bed, in any case. Come along, Loki. You, too, Thjalfi."
Thjalf, rose reluctantly. "I'll speak a word for ye to Uncle Fox in the morning," he murmured in farewell. Working for these Æsir is no fun. They're an ornery lot, but I suppose we're better off with 'em than without 'em, what with the Time coming. Ye know what Ulf, the poet says:
Bare is the breast Without banner before it
When heroes bear weapons To the wrack of the world.
"Good night."
Shea was not at all sure he wanted to work for Loki as a warlock, whatever that was. There was something sly about the man, uncomfortable The graceful and forthright Heimdall had impressed him more in spite of the latter's lack of a sense of humour, he mused.
A small noise at the door was Sverre, putting his head in for a look around and then vanishing again. Of the buxom young women nothing had been seen since they took up the wooden platters. Though the house was obviously going to bed, Shea found himself not in the least sleepy. It could hardly be much after nine o'clock. But in a world without artificial light other than that of torches, people would rise and set with the sun. Shea wondered whether he, too, would come around to that dismal habit. Probably, unless he succeeded in getting back to his own world. That was a rather upsetting thought. But, hell, he had taken the risk with his eyes open. Even if this was not the world he had expected to land in, it was still one in which his twentieth-century appliances should give him certain advantages. It would be time enough to worry when —
"Hai, turnip man," said Heimdall suddenly from his corner. "Fill a couple of mugs and bring them hither, will you?"
Shea felt his temper rise at this dictatorial manner. But whatever or whoever Heimdall was, he looked fully capable of enforcing authority. And though the words were peremptory, the tone of voice was evidently meant for kindness. He obeyed.
"Sit down," said Heimdall. "You have been called Harald. Is that correct?"
"Yes, I was told you are Heimdall."
"Nothing less than the truth. I am also known as the Watcher, the Son of Nine Mothers, the Child of Fury, and the Golden. I prefer the titles."
"Well, look here, Heimdall, what's all this —"
"Children of men use the titles or call me sir," said Heimdall severely and rather pompously.
"Sorry, sir."
Heimdall Looked down his long nose and condescended a smile that showed the gold teeth. "To me this familiarity is not unpleasant, for I have also been called the Friend of Men. But the Lord of Asgard disapproves."
"You mean Odinn?"
"None other."
"The old guy — pardon me, I mean the elderly one-eyed gentleman?"
"You are a well of knowledge."
"I ran into him out on the moor yesterday and followed him here."
"That is not hidden. I saw you."
"You did? Where were you?"
"Many miles eastaway. I also heard your remarks to him. Lucky you were not to have been struck dead."
Shea almost said, "Aw, don't try to kid me." Just in time he remembered the piercing, icy glance Odinn had given him and held his tongue. It wouldn't do to take chances till he knew more about what chances he was taking, what system of natural laws governed this world into which he had fallen. Heimdall was watching him with a slightly amused smile.
"I also heard you tell Thjalfi that you are no warlock, but you know not what it means. You must be from far. However" — he smiled again at Shea's expression of consternation — "few are sorry for that. I'll keep your secret A joke on the Master of Deception — ho, ho ho!"
He drank. "And now, child of an ignorant mother," he went on, "it is yet to be seen that you have knowledge of strange things. I propose that we amuse ourselves with the game of questions. Each shalt ask of the other seven questions, and he who answers best shall be adjudged the winner. Ask, mortal!"
Seven questions. Shea considered a moment how he could make them yield him the most information. "Where has Odinn gone?" he asked finally.
"One," said Heimdall. "He has gone to the gates of Hell to summon from her grave a woman centuries dead."
"Did you say Hell, honest?" asked Shea.
"It is not to be doubted."
"Well, well, you don't say so." Shea was covering his own incredulity and confusion. This man — god — individual was more difficult than any psychopathic he had ever questioned. He gathered his mental forces for the next try.
"What is Odinn doing that for?"
"Two," replied Heimdall. "The Time is coming. Balder dies, and the Æsir need advice. The Wanderer believes that the spae-wife buried at the gates of Hell can tell us what we need to know."
The vaguely ominous statements about the Time were beginning to get on Shea's nerves, He asked, "What is meant by the statement, 'the Time is coming'?"
"Three. Ragnarök, as all men know. All men but you alone, dewy-eyed innocent."
"What's Ragnarök?"
"Four. The end of the world, babe in a man's body."
Shea's temper stirred. He didn't like this elaborate ridicule, and he didn't think it fair of Heimdall to count his last question, which had been merely a request to explain an unfamiliar word in the previous answer. But he had met irritatingly irrelevant replies at the Garaden Institute and managed to keep himself under control.
"When will all this happen?"
"Five. Not men, or gods, or Vanir, or even the dwarfs know, but it will be soon. Already the Fimbulwinter, the winter in summer that precedes Ragnarök, is upon us."
"They will say there's going to be a battle. Who will win?" Shea was proud of himself for that question. It covered both the participants and t
he result.
"Six. Gods and men were glad to have the answer to that, youngling, since we shall stand together against the giant folk. But for the present there is this to be said: our chances are far from good. There are four weapons of great power among us: Odinn's spear, Gungnir; the Hammer of Thor that is called Mjollnir; Frey's sword, the magic blade Hundingsbana; and my own good sword which bears the name of Head." He slapped the hilt of the sword that hung by his side. "But some of the giants, we do not know how or who, have stolen both the great Hammer and Frey's sword. Unless they are recovered it may be that gods and men will drink of death together."
Shea realized with panic that the world whose destruction Heimdall was so calmly discussing was the one in which he, Harold Shea, was physically living. He was at the mercy of a system of events he could not escape.
The Compleat Enchanter: The Magical Misadventures of Harold Shea Page 4
