Part 1 (1/2)
Norse Code.
Greg van Eekhout.
To Lisa.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.
It's often said that writing is a lonely profession, but I enjoyed so much a.s.sistance, support, friends.h.i.+p, and camaraderie during the making of this book that it didn't seem lonely at all.
My thanks go first to my best friend and best companion, Lisa Will.
For keen editorial and business guidance, I thank my agent, Caitlin Blasdell, and thanks also to my editor, Juliet Ulman, who turned a big shload of words into a book better than the one I initially sent her. Thanks as well to David Pomerico and the crew at Bantam for their care and professionalism.
I am deeply indebted to Sandra McDonald and Sarah Prineas, founders of the Harmed Fan Club, for constant encouragement, commiseration, ridiculousness, and friends.h.i.+p.
The members of the Blue Heaven novel workshop shared Brandy Alexanders with me on a snake-infested island and twice provided invaluable feedback on my ma.n.u.script, then t.i.tled ”Greg's d.a.m.ned Norse Novel.” For that, my thanks to Paolo Bacigalupi, Tobias Buckell, Rae Carson, Brenda Cooper, C. C. Finlay, Sandra McDonald, Holly McDowell, Paul Melko, Chance Morrison, Tim Pratt, Sarah Prineas, Heather Shaw, William Shunn, Ian Tregillis, and Mary Turzillo.
Tim Pratt and Heather Shaw have been particularly kind to me through a Ragnarok or two, and their young nephew, Aleister Seiflein, provided me with the line ”hole made of wolf” during a backyard cookout that involved watching a bee fly away with a chunk of meat, a sight that seemed plenty apocalyptic to me.
Thanks to Mike Jasper, David Moles, and Jenn Reese for providing helpful critiques of embryonic attempts at this story, some of which made it to the final draft. And thanks to Patrick Nielsen Hayden, who published my story ”Wolves Till the World Goes Down,” which got me started on wayward G.o.ds and nosy ravens.
I owe much grat.i.tude to the ranks of additional friends and family who've boosted me in so many ways: Amy Creamer, Kirsten Hageleit, Karen Meisner, Robert Mitch.e.l.l, Brian Tatosky, Aaron Vanek, Mom and Dad, Mike, Vicki, Sage, Mom Will, Dennis, Anita, Ashley, Amy, Renee, and the many awesome folks who have kept me company by leaving thousands of funny and lovely comments on my silly blog.
I'd go to war or dinner with this crew anytime.
ON THE LAST true day of spring the nine worlds will ever know, my brother and I fly recon through the land of the G.o.ds. From this high up, Asgard s.h.i.+mmers. The s.h.i.+elds that roof the timber halls glimmer like golden fish scales. It's all green gra.s.s and fluffy white sheep and fresh red blood. A very pretty scene.
”One, two, sixteen, seven hundred and eighty-three,” my brother intones as we fly over the wall where the heads of giants sit atop stakes, dripping blood. ”Four thousand and eight.”
”What are you doing?”
”Counting,” he says, angling his wings to swoop down for a closer look.
”Counting what?” I ask, following.
”Everything. Five million and six.”
My brother is good with questions of what and when and how much, and he remembers it all. His name is Munin, or Memory, and he annoys me.
As for myself, I'm better with questions of why and how and what next and what goes on in the minds of G.o.ds and men. I can see what happens in their skulls better than an electroencephalogram. I am Hugin, or Reason, or Thought, and we are the ravens of Odin. Every morning he sends us out to fly through the worlds, and every evening we return to perch on his shoulder and tell him what we've seen and heard. Sometimes I even tell him what I think.
We have been following one of Odin's sons today, the one called Hermod, who is coming home for the first time in several dozen years. Tall and thin, wincing as though the brilliance of Asgard gives him a headache, he approaches the gates of the city. He has walked far today. This morning he woke up on the sh.o.r.e of a white-sand beach in Midgard, the world of men, enjoying warmth and solitude. It's not that Hermod doesn't like people and G.o.ds; he just likes them better from a distance. For this reason, he spends a great deal of time in Midgard, for man at this time hasn't yet built his great cities and highways and shopping malls. He hasn't yet invented plastic and television. On the continent that will later be known as North America, humans are just starting to establish a toehold, chasing game across the Bering land bridge. Hermod is much more likely to encounter a woolly mammoth in Midgard than a human being.
Nothing makes Hermod happier than wandering with the broad sky above his head and stalks of wild wheat brus.h.i.+ng his knees. Some consider his restlessness a fault. But before this day is done and a stake is driven through the heart of the Aesir's paradise, Hermod's gifts will be called upon.
So why has he come home? He's not sure himself. He felt something today, when he was lazing on that beach. Something changed. Something enormous, though Hermod can't quite put his finger on it. It's just a feeling, as though every particle in the universe suddenly changed state. And, strangely, he had a strong desire to see his brother Baldr. So he started walking. And he kept walking until he found a swirling arch of light, the rainbow bridge Bifrost. Now he approaches the city of his birth with dread.
”One hundred forty-six thousand, three hundred and two,” says Munin.
”What's that now?”
”The number of hairs on Hermod's head.”
Hours later, night has fallen, and Odin's hall of Valhalla is lit like a forge. Whirlwinds of embers spiral up to the rafters. Odin sits on his high seat, clutching his spear. His one eye glows like a fired coal. The hole where his other eye used to be is a dark chasm that knows no bottom. Beside him sits his wife, Frigg, soft and lovely and soothing as bread from the oven.
The hall is in a state of full-scale revelry. G.o.ds and warriors drink tankard after tankard of the mead that squirts from the teats of a goat the size of a Midgard mastodon. They eat from an equally monstrous boar, who squeals piteously as meat is sliced from his flanks. Tables and chairs sail across the room. Cups smash together in toast. It is a good time. The party is not in honor of Hermod, who stands against the wall in shadow, trying and failing to stay sober. Instead, it is in honor of Hermod's brother Baldr.
Baldr, so handsome and fair he gives off a glow, sits at a table and indulgently drinks whatever his admirers put in his hands. Unlike Hermod, he can handle the strong drink of Asgard, and he will not disappoint those who have come to celebrate his life. If Thor is all the raging weather of earth compressed into bodily form, and if Njord holds the might of the seas in his eyes, then Baldr is all that is good and right and hopeful in the world.
Long ago a sibyl told Odin that Baldr's death would be the first link in a long chain of events culminating in the end of the G.o.ds and the destruction of the nine worlds. And then, earlier this week, Baldr had a dream in which he died. So there's been some nervousness in Asgard.
But as soon as she heard of the dream, Frigg, Odin's wife and Baldr's mother, had taken care of things. She exacted an oath from every creature living or inert, every animal, insect, fish, bird, every rock and chunk of metal-she took an oath from everything-that no harm would come to Baldr.
Well, she did leave out one thing. A small thing. Just a sprig of mistletoe growing on the outskirts of the city.
Too insignificant to be worth worrying about.
Which brings us back to Hermod.
REACHING OUT to grab an ale from a pa.s.sing servant girl, Hermod slouched against the wall, watching the festivities from the shadows. He had entered the hall hours ago but hadn't yet paid his respects to his parents, and every moment that went by was making things worse. Maybe the best thing to do was slip out now, get back on the road, walk until his shoes wore out, and then walk some more and try to forget the murky anger brewing ever since he'd learned of Frigg's oath enchantment. Hermod hadn't needed a spell cast on him to get him to pledge no harm to Baldr. Why would he want to hurt Baldr? n.o.body wanted to hurt Baldr.
He drained his cup and looked to the high seats where Odin and Frigg sat. Odin had many guises-mad poet-magician, gray wanderer-but tonight he was the great warlord, powerful, grim, and inscrutable. His wolf lay at his feet, and his two insufferable raven spies perched on his shoulders. Hermod couldn't even begin to guess what was going on in his father's mind as he watched over the proceedings.
Meanwhile, Frigg was in conference with some hunchbacked old crone, her face serious and intent as the old woman whispered in her ear. What was the crone doing in the hallowed hall of Valhalla? Who knew? In any case, his parents were clearly busy, and it would be rude to interrupt them. Good time to hit the road.
”You've returned!” Baldr was suddenly pulling him into a warm embrace, clapping him on the back and laughing in his good-natured way. ”Please tell me you'll be staying in Asgard awhile, brother. We have missed you.”
”Well, I ... Yes, I'll be staying. Of course.” And Hermod was surprised to find he actually meant it. It had been years since he'd entered his own hall, longer still since he'd sat in counsel with his Aesir kin, and perhaps it was time to settle down, at least for a little while, and reacquaint himself with Asgard.
And why had his thoughts on this matter changed so suddenly? he wondered.
”It is good to see you, Baldr. I trust there've been no more dreams?”
Baldr smiled, embarra.s.sed. ”Ah, yes, my dreams. I fear a lot of fuss has been made over nothing.”
”Mother doesn't make fusses over nothing. That was a powerful piece of enchantment she worked on the worlds.”
”And wholly unnecessary. But, then, she and Odin have been frightened by the idea of Ragnarok for some time.”
Baldr almost, but not quite, rolled his eyes.
”Isn't the end of the worlds worth fearing?” Hermod said. For some reason, he found himself suddenly wanting to put a protective arm around his brother, but he resisted.
Baldr took two tankards from a serving girl and replaced Hermod's empty cup with one of them. ”The final days are a very, very long way off, I think.”