Odin Blew Up My TV!

by Robert J. Harris

  15. ISLAND OF LOST SOULS

  Hiking across the wild landscape of Vanaheim beside Sigurda, Susie was reminded of last year’s Spinetti family holiday on the island of Mull. She and her older sister Toni (short for Antonia) had gone tramping through the heather and over rocky hills until they found a small loch, where they had dived in for a swim. Toni was working in America now. She had posted spectacular photos of the Grand Canyon on Facebook. Susie wondered if she would ever be able to tell Toni – or anyone – about her adventures in Vanaheim.

  “Susie,” said Sigurda, interrupting her reverie, “I can almost hear the thoughts buzzing in your head like bees in a hive.”

  “I was just thinking, Sigurda,” said Susie, “that if I tell anybody about the adventures I’ve had, like when Thor came to St Andrews a few months back, or now here with you, they’d think I was cracked in the head. There’s no way I can tell Father O’Dwyer at our church that I’ve met Thor and Loki.”

  “One was well met, I’ll wager,” said Sigurda, “the other not so.”

  “Yes, about that,” said Susie. “How could you, you know, hang out with Loki? I mean, he’s kind of a sleazeball, isn’t he?”

  “He is a rogue, that is certain,” said Sigurda, “yet even a rogue may have his charms. In that long ago age I found him fair of face and sharp of wit, with always a merry jest upon his lips to lighten a weary heart.”

  “So you’re saying he made you laugh.”

  “Yes, as when amid a storm of woe the clouds part and a shaft of golden sunlight gladdens the spirit. He was not like the others gods of Asgard, who are fixed in their ways. With him one always found the unexpected.”

  “Greg’s like that too,” said Susie. “He’s kind of a goof, but next to him everybody else is boring. I mean, you don’t ask for vanilla ice cream when there’s chocolate-chip rum-and-raisin on the menu.”

  “Over time,” Sigurda continued, “Loki was corrupted by ambition, growing both vain and selfish. His jests became bitter and cruel.”

  “So he went from being a clown to being a serious pain in the neck,” said Susie sympathetically.

  “I bade him depart my presence or feel the keen edge of my blade,” Sigurda recalled. “And still, these many years later, he speaks as though some bond of caring yet exists between us.”

  “Guys, eh?” said Susie, rolling her eyes. “What are they like?”

  They halted at the edge of a dark lake with a tree-covered island in the centre. Susie could see the stone towers of a castle poking up above the treetops.

  “The ring’s still nagging at me to go that way,” she said, pointing across the lake. “Do you think we’re supposed to go for a swim?”

  “To do so would mean abandoning my weapons and armour here on the shore,” said Sigurda ruefully, drumming her fingers on the hilt of her sword. “There must be some other means of crossing.”

  Even as she spoke, a splashing of oars caught their attention. A small boat was making its way towards them from the direction of the island. The boatman rowed steadily with his back to them, occasionally casting a disgruntled glance over his shoulder.

  “It’s a bit like phoning a taxi, isn’t it?” said Susie. “You just think about how you need a boat, and zing, one shows up.”

  “It is Skarabeg the Boatman,” said Sigurda. “Whenever a traveller in urgent need requires passage across water, Skarabeg and his boat appear, whether it be on a river, a lake or the tumultuous waves of the storm-tossed sea. That is the curse laid upon him.”

  “A curse?” said Susie. “How did that happen?”

  “Once when Odin was walking the Earth in the guise of a very old man…” Sigurda began.

  “In an age long past, I’ll bet,” Susie guessed.

  “Indeed, in an age long past…” Sigurda agreed seriously. “Odin came to a great river where he begged passage of Skarabeg the Boatman. Skarabeg demanded payment in gold from the ragged old man.

  “Odin protested that he had no wealth to share, but if Skarabeg gave him passage, he would pray to the gods to send him good fortune. Skarabeg laughed harshly and declared that prayers were of no value to him, whether they be to Odin or any other god.

  “Angered by these arrogant words, Odin threw off his cloak and revealed his true identity as king of the gods. To punish the boatman for his selfish arrogance, he laid this curse on him. He and his boat would appear on lakes, rivers or at sea, wherever a traveller in need required passage. Skarabeg would be compelled to serve without payment, and so do penance for insulting the gods.”

  When the boat bumped up against the shore Susie saw that Skarabeg was a small, hunched figure with a round turnip of a face. His arms were thick and muscular from years of pulling on the oars.

  “Hail, Skarabeg the Boatman,” Sigurda greeted him. “We demand passage in accordance with the decree of Odin.”

  “Right, so you know me,” Skarabeg retorted ungraciously. “Get in if you’re coming.”

  Susie and Sigurda had barely settled into the boat when Skarabeg pulled abruptly away from the shore with a powerful heave on the oars.

  “Hey!” cried Susie, grabbing the edge to steady herself. “I nearly went over there.”

  “I’m a busy man,” Skarabeg informed her. “I can’t wait around all day for you to make yourself comfortable.”

  Susie turned to Sigurda. “Cursing him doesn’t seem to have improved his personality.”

  “Skarabeg, who dwells in yon island castle?” Sigurda asked the disgruntled man.

  “Odin’s curse forces me to give you passage,” Skarabeg sneered, “but I’m not your travel guide. Find out for yourself.”

  A long shape passed under the boat, undulating through the murky water.

  Susie peered over the side and wrinkled her nose. “There’s all sorts of things squiggling about down there,” she observed. “I don’t suppose there’s any point asking old Skarabeg what they are.”

  “I hope one of them jumps into the boat and bites you,” Skarabeg snapped.

  “You know, my cousin George is a taxi driver,” said Susie, “and he’s a lot nicer than you.”

  Skarabeg ignored her and carried on rowing.

  “We went across Loch Ness in a boat once,” said Susie. “I spent the whole time looking for the monster but never spotted it.”

  They struck the island shore with a jolt that almost threw Susie out of her seat.

  “Thanks for the friendly chat,” she said to Skarabeg as they climbed out, “and the soft landing.”

  The boatman hunched over his oars and a nasty smirk passed across his thin lips. “I’ll wait here for you,” he said. “Only for an hour, mind. If you’re not back by then, you won’t be coming back.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Susie asked him sharply.

  Skarabeg shrugged. “I’m just saying; that’s all.”

  “Waste no more time with him,” said Sigurda. “We must be about our business.”

  A path of flat, crooked stones led through the trees. They followed it to the centre of the island where a craggy grey castle rose up. Its crumbling towers soared upward, like rocky fingers stabbing at the sky. Ivy crawled over the walls and wound itself around the battlements, as though trying to drag the whole structure down into the earth.

  “This was definitely built in an age long past,” said Susie. “I doubt anybody lives here now.”

  A pair of wooden doors, broken loose from their hinges and pitted with holes, hung askew in the arched entrance. As she passed between them, Sigurda drew her sword. “We must be prepared for any danger,” she said.

  “I wish I had my hockey stick,” said Susie, following her inside.

  “Hockey stick?” Sigurda repeated.

  “I use it for ice hockey,” said Susie, “when I’m playing for my team the Fife Flames.”

  “Ah, in a contest of skill and courage,” said Sigurda.

  “That’s right,” Susie enthused. “It’s a Bearlander carbon and fibreglass AX3 with a super-
low kick-point. It’s a beaut.”

  From ahead came an eerie sound, like many voices moaning. They entered a great hall where sunlight filtered through the long, crumbling windows.

  The place smelled of mildew and dust. Scattered about were tables and chairs, all broken and rotted with age. A wooden shield studded with rusted metal was fixed to one wall. Facing it on the other was the horned skull of some massive beast.

  The flagstones had burst apart down the centre of the floor to expose a gaping fracture in the earth, from which emanated a sickly white light.

  Susie felt a chill at the sight of it, as if somebody had opened a giant fridge right in front of her.

  Suddenly a figure appeared out of the crack in the ground. It twisted up from the light, like a sheet blowing about in a gale. Susie saw it had arms and legs and a ghastly face with huge eyes. Its great gash of a mouth opened wide to let out a miserable howl. Then it turned and swooped off through one of the open doorways in the far wall.

  “What was that?” Susie gasped. “What’s going on?”

  Sigurda’s clenched her sword hilt tightly. “A crack has opened in the earth leading down to Niflheim, the land of the dead,” she said. “Some of the ghosts have escaped.”

  “Ghosts?” Susie echoed unhappily. “Really? Ghosts?”

  “The unquiet spirits of those who died without honour,” Sigurda explained. “The brave who die in battle are carried to Valhalla, to dwell in joy and celebration, but those who flee danger are dragged down into Niflheim, the cold and misty land of death. Some of them accept their lot and pass their days in the bleak silence of the shadow realm. Others harbour bitterness against the living and escape to spread terror and torment.”

  “Look,” Susie said nervously, “there’s not much that scares me. But ghosts. Well, even when I didn’t believe in them, they creeped me out. So now, well…” She shuddered.

  “We must keep clear of that baleful light,” said Sigurda, indicating the glowing crack with the point of her sword. “Which way are we bound?”

  Susie felt the tug of the ring and pointed to a wide stone stairway ahead. “That way,” she said. Her throat had gone so dry she could barely get the words out.

  Sigurda started forward and Susie forced her feet to follow.

  “Ghosts!” she muttered. “Why did it have to be ghosts? Why couldn’t it be snakes or something?”

  16. MATCH OF THE DAY

  The pig clearly had no intention of being caught. It rushed this way and that, darting between the legs of its pursuers, while they crashed into each other and splashed down in the mud.

  “I’ll bet that pig’s been specially trained,” said Greg as he and Lewis wound their way through the chaos, avoiding rocks, potholes and trolls.

  “If you were being chased by a mob of big ugly trolls,” said Lewis, “you wouldn’t need to be trained to run away.”

  “Good point, Lewis. And if it’s not trained, we should be able to outsmart it.”

  “Pigs are actually quite intelligent animals,” said Lewis.

  “You mean like the one that built a house out of bricks so the wolf couldn’t blow it down?” said Greg scornfully. “That was just a story.” Greg ran off, whooping, and swerved round a troll who tripped and fell right in front of him.

  Lewis lost track of Greg as the troll rolled between them. He jumped on top of a flat stone and tried to catch his breath. Surveying the field, he saw the pig racing about, squeaking excitedly and trailing a posse of thundering trolls in its wake. He wondered if there was any way he and Greg could tilt this daft game in favour of their blue team. If there was any strategy to this sport, it wasn’t obvious.

  The trolls crashed into each other at random, flattening their teammates as often as their opponents. Their only hope of victory seemed to be falling on top of the pig by sheer luck. Whenever they did try to pounce on it, the pig dodged and left the hunters rolling in the muck.

  The Very Old Troll stamped about the field waving his fist in the air and cheering on both teams. An air of authority seemed to surround him like an invisible shield, protecting him from the collisions going on all around him.

  Lewis had no such protection, but being so much smaller than the trolls, they barely noticed him as he wove his way around the pitch. Even so, he took a few bruising knocks along the way. Desperate to escape the madness, he spotted a hollow log in the centre of the field and made straight for it. He dived inside and lay there, panting for breath.

  A few moments of relief followed and Lewis considered hiding out there until the game was over. “If Susie were here, she’d catch that pig quick as a flash,” he grumbled to himself. “Instead it’s me tripping over my own feet and falling in the mud.”

  Then Greg’s face appeared, peering into the log.

  “Come on, Lewis! We’ll never get our hands on the red team’s flag this way.”

  “Couldn’t we just steal it and run away?” Lewis suggested feebly.

  “I’ll bet the penalty for cheating is pretty severe,” said Greg, “like being chucked into a pit of crocodiles or something. We’d better win it fair and square.”

  Lewis sighed. Much as he wanted to stay in hiding, he knew that Susie and Sigurda were counting on them. The fate of St Andrews and everyone in it depended on them getting the staff and freeing Odin.

  He scrambled out to join his brother and wished he hadn’t. The field was like a stormy sea rising and falling, with gangs of trolls crashing to the ground then jumping up again for a fresh round of mayhem.

  Greg grabbed Lewis by the arm and hauled him along. “Look, there’s the pig running around that bush,” he said. “You stay here and I’ll chase it towards you.”

  “What am I supposed to do when it gets here?” Lewis asked.

  “Grab it round the neck and wrestle it to the ground, obviously,” Greg replied.

  “Obviously,” Lewis muttered glumly as his brother raced off.

  Greg caught up with the pig, waving his arms and yelling to drive it back to his brother. When Lewis saw the animal rushing towards him, he took a step backwards and fell right into a big, muddy hole.

  “Yuggh!” he howled as his backside sank into the mud. “This is the worst!”

  He was struggling to his feet when the pig came flying off the edge of the hole and landed right on top of him. Lewis was flattened as it walloped the breath out of him.

  “Oh, you stupid beast!” he gasped, trying to push it off.

  Suddenly he was aware that the pig was poking its snout into his pocket and snuffling excitedly.

  “Here, get off!” Lewis exclaimed.

  He shoved it back with one hand and reached the other into his pocket. He pulled out the apple from Idunna’s orchard. With a delighted squeal, the pig jumped at it and took a bite.

  “Now you cut that out!” Lewis warned, shoving the apple behind his back out of reach.

  The pig guzzled down its piece of fruit then tried to get around Lewis for another bite.

  Greg appeared, standing over the hole with a big grin on his face. “Great plan, Lewis!” said Greg. “You’ve got him hooked like a fish!”

  “Get me out of here!” said Lewis, wriggling out from under the snuffling pig. Greg pulled him out of the hole and the pig scrambled up after him, trying desperately for another bite of apple. Lewis kept it out of reach, realising the chance they now had.

  “We can win this!” he told Greg. “Where’s the flag?”

  “That way,” said Greg. He pointed and ran for the circle at the end of the field.

  Lewis raced after, waving the apple above his head. He was aware of the tingling from his ring getting stronger the closer he came to the flag. “Come on, piggy! Come and get it!” he called.

  The pig’s eyes lit up as it dashed after him, snorting greedily. With the hungry animal in hot pursuit, the brothers wove their way through the bedlam.

  A pair of trolls were wrestling on the ground right in their path. Greg leapt over them and Lewis swerved ar
ound them with the pig on his heels.

  As soon as he reached the end of the field, Lewis threw himself down inside the circle of stones. The pig jumped on top of him. It pressed its snout into his hand and forced the apple loose.

  Greg bounded onto the pig’s back and pulled the apple loose of its eager jaws. With an angry snort the pig reared up and threw him to the ground.

  “Don’t let it have the apple,” Lewis gasped, scrambling to his feet.

  “I won’t,” said Greg with determination. “As long as we’ve got the apple he’ll stay inside the circle.”

  The pig jumped on top of Greg and made a fresh assault on the delicious fruit.

  Suddenly Lewis saw one of the red team thundering towards them, his arms outstretched to sweep up the pig. Before the opposing player could grab it, Gruklob came flying out of nowhere. He shoulder-charged the red troll and sent him sprawling face first into a pool of mud.

  “The flag, Lewis!” Greg gasped as the pig managed to clamp its jaws around the apple. “Get the flag!”

  Lewis scrambled to his feet, grabbed the flag, and pulled it out of the ground. As he waved it above his head, the entire blue team gathered around him and let out a raucous cheer.

  The pig burped and squatted on the grass with a blissful smile on its snout.

  “Hey, it’s scoffed the whole thing!” Lewis moaned.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” said Greg, clambering to his feet. He laid a congratulatory hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We won. You won!”

  “Yes, I did, didn’t I,” said Lewis. He couldn’t help feeling a glow of triumph. Maybe sports weren’t so bad after all.

  The rain shower had passed and the sun came out, as if to celebrate.

  The Very Old Troll patted both boys on the back hard enough to leave a bruise. “Punies win for blue!” he declared, to a huge cheer from all the trolls, who seemed to have forgotten they were on opposite teams only a minute ago.

  Barrels of ale were rolled out and tankards made from rams’ horns were passed around. The trolls filled their tankards and toasted each other, then they toasted the white-haired referee, then the pig, then Greg and Lewis, then the trees, and even the mud. Spudlug poured some ale into a bowl and set it down in front of the pig, which guzzled it down thirstily.