Runed

by Kendall Grey

  He stares at me, blank-faced for a long moment. Then he looks up at the rectangle. “You’re telling me you’re a Norse god, reincarnated as a woman.”

  “Yes,” I say. “Exactly that. I think. Yes.”

  He points at the rectangle. “This guy playing Loki on a TV show is more of a god than you are. When I found you in the snow, I thought you were lost or had been hurt. I took a chance and helped you. What do I get for it? A line of bullshit about you being a god. Are you trying to swindle me? I’m just a poor college student from Atlanta with thousands of dollars of student loan debt. I have nothing of value.”

  I sail past all his garbled words that make no sense to get to the marrow. I gesture to the rectangle. “What did you say about him? He’s playing me?”

  Gunnar Magnusson huffs. “Not you. Loki. The god of mischief. It’s made up. Fiction. Not real.”

  Anger flares within my chest as I watch this other Loki. He’s nothing like me. Dressed like a fool, he prances around the other “gods,” speaking with a high-pitched, sniveling voice. His hair’s all wrong. Mine was red before—I look down at myself—this.

  “That’s a very poor imitation of me,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “Okay, first you tell me you hit your head and have amnesia. Then you say you’re an archaeologist. Now you’re Loki, the trickster god preserved in ice after Ragnarok, transformed into a woman, and put here by Odin or Mímir’s head or—insert whatever deity you like.”

  “Yes,” I say, picking up my knife and stabbing a hunk of bread. “You’ve finally got it.”

  He laughs bitterly. “You want to act like a crazy person? Fine. I’ll treat you like a crazy person, Loki.”

  “Excellent. I’m glad we got that unpleasantness out of the way.” I shovel the mound into my mouth and chew. The outside is bread, but inside is chicken, methinks. Better than any chicken I’ve ever eaten before. It’s wrapped in some other meat and spices that give it an extra savory flavor. I moan. This place is truly a phenomenon.

  Gunnar Magnusson remains quiet as he watches me devour the meal in a few bites. Still chewing, I pass the empty dish to him. “More,” I mumble around my mouthful.

  He arches an irritated brow.

  “Please?” I smile, teeth decorated in chicken bits and bread crumbs.

  He sighs and stands, shoulders slumped.

  Nobody can resist Loki’s charms, whether he comes dressed as a god or a goddess.

  Despite this new body—or maybe because of it—I’ve still got the power of persuasion.

  Chapter Six

  I down four helpings of what Gunnar Magnusson calls “Icelandic chicken.” I would devour four more if there was any left. Gunnar Magnusson says he’s never seen a woman eat so much in his life, and he comes from a long line of female Viking transplants. Whatever that means.

  I always did have a hearty appetite. If only I had some decent mead. I drink my “beer” despite it tasting like piss. After a couple glasses, it’s not so bad, though.

  Once dinner is finished, I ask Gunnar Magnusson about the “television.” And the “microwave” that reheated our meal. And the lights over our heads that burn without a wick or paraffin. He says these things work because of “electricity,” which powers the modern world. Similar to lightning, with which I’m quite familiar thanks to Thor, electricity is a form of energy that makes things go. Gunnar Magnusson illustrates this concept by walking me through the house and pointing out electrical “appliances” and their “outlets.” He pulls the “plug” from a “coffee pot” in the “kitchen.”

  Yes, I’m learning all kinds of modern vocabulary.

  “If the appliance isn’t plugged in, it won’t work.” He pushes a button. Nothing happens. Then he sticks the end of the cord back in, pushes the button again, and a red light comes on. Moments later, hissing sounds emerge and a black substance trickles into the pot below.

  I. Am. Awed.

  The smell rising from it makes my stomach growl, despite four helpings of Icelandic chicken. I inspect the socket in the wall and aim my fingernail at it. Gunnar Magnusson shouts “NO!” but it’s too late.

  The instant the tip connects with the hole, a burst of pain shoots up my finger. I yank it back, cursing. “Odin’s gnarly nut beard!”

  I suck on the zapped appendage, but it doesn’t soothe the pain.

  This human body is definitely going to be a problem.

  Gunnar Magnusson takes my hand and rubs the spot. His anger from before seems to have dissipated, and I’ll admit, I don’t mind him touching me like this. It feels kind of nice.

  “Maybe you should stick to the television,” he says gently. “Come on, let’s watch the Asgard Awakening marathon. When you get tired, you can go to bed. You’ll be free of me tomorrow.”

  What he means is he’ll be free of me tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll be glad, though I can’t exactly say the same about him.

  And no, I’m not softening under the weight of my newfound femininity. I can assure you, Loki is as hard as ever. But Gunnar Magnusson could be a useful tool for helping me get my runes back. He speaks modern Icelandic perfectly, and he hasn’t dumped me yet.

  So, the two of us settle onto the “couch” and watch Asgard Awakening. Gunnar Magnusson translates the parts I don’t understand.

  The “show” is about the Æsir, giants, and dwarves from my time. The “episodes” chronicle a loose version of true events starting in the personified abyss known as Ginnungagap that stretches between the land of ice and the land of fire, my home. When the fire and ice converge in Ginnungagap, Ymir the hermaphroditic giant is born out of the collision. From there, the Æsir—the most notable of whom is Odin—come into being. Odin dismembers Ginnungagap and creates the world out of his bits: blood flows into ocean, skin transforms into dirt, trees become hair, and his skull serves as the dome of the sky, held up by four dwarves.

  The actor who plays Odin has an intensity about him that harkens back to the real deal. The stodginess, the arrogance, the bloodthirsty desire to command everything is on point.

  The other gods are portrayed fairly genuinely. Except for me, of course. I am made out to be a dithering fool, slow and dull and wholly uninteresting. Gunnar Magnusson often laughs when Loki gets caught up in his own messes, especially when the other gods pay him back at the end of each episode. If I still had balls, they’d be sweating from the fury streaming off me.

  “The writers of this travesty should be strung up by their ankle tendons by shrieking Valkyries and left on the snowy plains of battle to be devoured by carrion birds,” I declare, shaking a girlish fist at the television. “And this so-called ‘actor’ who plays me could use a lesson or three from the master. Look how weak his eyes are. They’re a child’s eyes, pitiful and lost.”

  Gunnar Magnusson glances sideways at me. “Well, you are lost.”

  I stiffen, crossing my arms with a grunt. “I may be now, but it wasn’t always so.”

  “No?” he asks. “So, when Loki put innocent, blind Hodur up to shooting Baldur with a mistletoe arrow after Frigg, prompted by a prophecy she saw but never shared, wandered the realms of man, naming each and every thing she encountered—with the exception of mistletoe, which she thought was too inconsequential to harm anyone—in order to protect her child from dangers of the world, he wasn’t lashing out at his own loneliness after being evicted from his home in Chaos? Loki never fit in fully with the Æsir, and the longer he remained in Asgard, the more its inhabitants grew to hate him. Isn’t that the very definition of ‘lost’?”

  Well … Bugger buggery bugger flies. This man is more perceptive than I realized.

  “No,” I stammer. “That is the definition of jealous arseholes who wish they could be as clever as Loki.”

  Gunnar Magnusson hides his victorious smile behind another draught of beer, but I see it. Oh, do I ever.

  The flames of anger fan within me as the Chaos that has been suppressed since my reawakening deepens its roots.

  I tur
n on him. “You believe this drivel?”

  “I believe you believe you’re Loki, and therefore, you’re looking for any excuse to be angry about a silly TV program that has no bearing on your life whatsoever.”

  “Oh, so now I’m an emotional woman? Is that what you’re saying?”

  With a twinkle in his eye, he shrugs slowly. Noncommittally.

  That’s exactly what he’s saying.

  “Go to bed, Gunnar Magnusson. When you wake up tomorrow, your world will be better because poor little ‘lost’ Loki will no longer be in it. You can celebrate on your precious ‘plane ride’ home to Atlanta or whatever the Hel you call that stupid thing.”

  Wow. Maybe I am an emotional woman.

  I look past my breasts to my groin swaddled in tight blue “jeans.” How do I turn this girly junk clogging my badass receptors off?

  Gunnar Magnusson’s mischievous twinkle downshifts back into its usual open kindness. For having a face so rough like many hardened Vikings I’ve watched do battle, he sure is a softie.

  “Don’t be that way, Loki. I won’t be celebrating.” He opens his mouth to say something else, shakes his head, closes it, and glances away.

  The “credits” roll at the end of another episode of Asgard Awakening as Gunnar Magnusson stands and picks up the empty beer glasses. While he tidies up the kitchen, I curl my lip at Thor and Odin and the rest appearing in the short segment at the very end.

  The characters stand around a table in Asgard, mulling over strategy for their upcoming meeting with the frost giants. The glitzy palace decorated with gold and fine silks and soft pillows looks nothing like the actual grand hall did. “Hollywood,” whatever you are, I hate you already.

  The man playing Odin lifts his head, his one eye gleaming with unnatural magical light, and stares straight into the “camera.” His sharp gaze penetrates my skin and wriggles into the muscle below, nicking the outermost surface of my soul. He seems to be channeling the real Odin, berating me with an intense, cold glare I know well. It feels like a warning.

  “I’m watching you, Loki,” he says. “I know what you’re looking for. You can’t have it.”

  My racing heart rockets upward, slamming the base of my throat. I swallow over the ensuing choke.

  He spoke the words in Old Norse.

  My language. His language. The language of Asgard.

  The show fades to black. The “marathon” is over.

  Good thing too. The delicious meal I ate is threatening to perform an encore appearance.

  The man on the screen might not have been Odin, but his message is clear. Odin is alive, and he knows I’ve lost my runes.

  I try to explain my concerns to Gunnar Magnusson, but clearly his human brain is too small to comprehend the depth and breadth of my perilous situation. I’ve brought up the subject of Odin and his penchant for vengeance several times since the television was switched off, but Gunnar Magnusson will entertain none of my complaints.

  “It’s just a TV show,” he says. “Those are actors playing characters with a made-up script. Stop worrying about it.”

  “But I am worried. You don’t understand. Odin said he’s watching me, and he knows I’ve lost my … my … well, my special things I need. Hel, he might even have them in his possession. I have to get them back, Gunnar Magnusson! It’s a matter of life and death.”

  He scoffs, shaking his head and laughing—laughing at me—as he gently nudges me toward the bedroom.

  “It’s not real,” he soothes. “What happens on that screen is all fake. It’s engineered to seem real.”

  “But you didn’t see the look in his lonely eye. I’ve been the target of that treacherous eye for centuries. It was his. He was Odin.”

  “That glitter?” he says, pointing to his own beautiful blue iris. “It’s called CGI, computer generated imagery. I promise you, it’s fake.”

  “Forget about ‘glitter.’” I ball my hands into fists and pin them to Gunnar Magnusson’s chest.

  I don’t know what “glitter” is. Or “computer.” Or “animation.” But none of that matters.

  “If you won’t listen to me, take me to someone who will,” I beg.

  He flings his arms out to the sides. “And who would that be? Where will I find this magical friend who can sort out your mental issues for you?”

  I stomp my foot. “I don’t have mental issues.”

  He sighs, exasperated, and grabs my hands. His skin is so warm. The beating pulse beneath it sings me a lullaby in a language I don’t understand. It would be so easy to succumb to his everything-will-be-okay promises and just go to sleep, hoping I’ll wake up tomorrow in a different body, a different time, a different place.

  But none of that will happen. I’m a god from the past trapped as a mortal woman in a future I don’t understand. As sure as my breasts are perky and my booty brings the thunder, I can’t get complacent now. My new life is just getting started.

  “Loki, you need the kind of help I can’t give you.” His voice is as soft as his eyes, but the words are tough. “I’m just a student of Scandinavian Studies doing a semester abroad alone. Tomorrow, I have to get on a plane and go home. If I had money, I’d give you some for a ticket to wherever you want to go. I’d take you anywhere if I could. I’m just a student.”

  The way he repeats that last line sounds like defeat. Like a loser. A lost loser.

  I know how that feels.

  But I’m not a loser anymore. I’ve been granted a new shot at life, so I’m going to take it, despite the insurmountable odds against me. I refuse to let Odin best me. If I have to flash my boobs or give up some nookie to secure transport to the west where my runes are, boobs will be flashed, nookie will be negotiated. I’ve never had an ounce of shame before, and I sure as frost giant shite ain’t gonna grow any now.

  “You just take me to the ‘airport.’ I’ll handle it from there,” I say, staring up into his sea-blue eyes. In this moment, standing so close, I could drown in them. I shake my head and gulp some air.

  He purses his pouty lips from behind the bushy scraggle of face fur and nods. “Let’s go to bed.” He winces. “I mean, it’s time for bed. I have two beds. One for you, and one for me. We’re going to our own beds.”

  “You’re cute when you blush.” I point at his red cheeks and grin. He blushes harder.

  I’ll miss that shyness. So unlike the warrior men I’ve known.

  Odin, Thor, and the others prided themselves on their strength and manliness, but perhaps a little softness around the edges isn’t so bad. Old Me would never have treated New Me with such kindness or respect. Imagine how differently things might’ve turned out if I had.

  The world has changed in the thousand years since I last walked Ginnungagap’s skin, drank its blood. Maybe it’s time I changed too.

  Ha! Did you actually fall for that sappy line? I was just messing with you.

  Chapter Seven

  Early the next morning, Gunnar Magnusson drives us in Sleipnir to Reykjavík. It’s a six-hour-long ride, so we talk about many things along the way. I learn more about television and moving pictures called “movies,” and I add several commonly used American expressions and slang terms to my repertoire. Those crazy Americans are a hot mess! He teaches me about “idioms,” which are right up my alley (see what I did there?). I do love word play with a good twist.

  Gunnar Magnusson tells me fantastic beasts await us at the airport. They’re called planes, which are like cars and tour buses and Viking longships, except they fly through the air at dizzying speeds.

  Not land. Not water. Air.

  Unbelievable!

  In order to understand what I’m up against once Gunnar Magnusson leaves me, I ask countless questions about this process of traveling by air. I like to educate myself before planning the perfect grift. And make no mistake, finding my runes will require cunning. Odin is both a formidable ally and enemy.

  “How big is the plane?” I ask.

  “Thirty feet longer than
the largest Viking longship.”

  “How many passengers?”

  “About 250.”

  “How long is a flight to America?”

  “A little more than six hours to New York.”

  “Is that where you’re going?” I ask. “New York?”

  “I have a layover there, so yes. Then I’ll fly home to Atlanta,” Gunnar Magnusson says as he tugs Sleipnir’s great wheel-reins to the left.

  Reykjavík. New York. Atlanta. So many new places to map.

  I watch the dizzying white blur of Iceland through the window. Hot springs dot the landscape. My guts twist at the thought of leaving them. Though the people of this time are unfamiliar, the place stokes memories from the ashes of my mind. Frost giants in Jotunheim. Hard-won wars fought on fields of ice in Midgard. Journeys to other realms with Odin, traveling like brothers, even though we are nothing close to that anymore.

  The old goat hasn’t always been a bore. He had his moments of mischief when his battle-ax of a wife Frigg let him out to roam. Thankfully, my wife Sigyn never questioned my exploits. She was the picture of submission. I kind of miss her sheepish doting.

  But I’ll never forgive Odin for tying me up with my own son Narfi’s entrails to that rock and letting the viper’s fangs drip their venom over me for years. I’ll never forget the tremors of agony that racked me down to my bones. My twisting and writhing were so violent, I caused the earth itself to shake.

  Why humans adore Odin and Thor so much is beyond me.

  I shift my angry thoughts to the present. The present is where I’ll get my revenge.

  “Once this plane lands in New York, then what will you do?” I ask. “Tell me everything.”

  “As soon as I clear customs, I’ll find my friend, who will pick me up. I’ll spend the night in the city,” Gunnar Magnusson says. “The next morning, I’ll go back to the airport and fly home to Atlanta.”

  “What is this ‘customs’? And is your friend a woman?” I slip that last question in fast and look out the window at the fascinating melting landscape.