by Kevin Hearne
Freyja had cut off my right arm.
turns out you can actually be sick with worry. I always thought it was just an expression, being worried sick. But I’m so stressed and fearful for Atticus as the duel begins that I throw up a little bit. Because without the earth’s power at his call, he’s so slow compared to Freyja. He doesn’t have a chance and he’s well aware and fighting anyway, and I’m sure that she’s going to kill him, especially after that first blow—that’s when I toss my cookies. But then she beats him down, hacks off his arm, kicks it away, and all I can think is that he’s going to bleed to death because there’s no way he can heal. I mean, apart from the fact that there is no power to draw upon, his healing triskele is now separated from his command. And so are his bound animal forms and his ability to shift planes.
I lunge forward and open my mouth to shout, “That’s enough,” but Freyja backs away and turns to the Norse, making it unnecessary. “It is done!” she crows, apparently agreeing that she has meted out sufficient justice. She spreads her arms wide, sword dripping Atticus’s blood, enjoying the approval of the assembled deities and Valkyries, and I rush to his side and kneel next to him. His eyes are unfocused in shock already. I have a little bit of Gaia’s energy remaining in the silver reservoir of Scáthmhaide, and I use it to close off those pumping arteries and prevent him from bleeding to death.
“Do the Olympians bear witness?” Freyja says, and it’s such a strange question that I look up to see the Apollos nod, and then Athena and Minerva also.
Minerva’s cool rich voice says, “I will tell Diana and Bacchus it is done.”
Athena chimes in, “Artemis will be pleased.”
Minerva adds, “Of course, Diana wishes to have her trophy.”
“By all means. It is yours.”
I don’t know what kind of trophy they’re expecting and I tense when Minerva comes forward, wondering if she’s going to want his heart or something, but the goddess merely picks up Atticus’s severed arm from the ground.
“Mercury was supposed to deliver this message,” she says to Atticus, “but as he’s not here I will deliver it in his stead. Diana and Bacchus now consider their grievances with you satisfactorily concluded. You need not fear anything from them so long as you do nothing else to awaken their wrath. I imagine it is the same with Artemis?” She looks up at Athena, and her counterpart nods.
“It is.”
Minerva returns her gaze to Atticus. “Have you anything you wish me to say to them?”
Atticus shakes his head, his lips pressed tightly together as he takes deep breaths through his nose.
“Then fare thee well, Druid,” she says, and walks off with his arm, leaving Atticus no chance of reattaching it.
I crane my head around to see how Brighid’s taking this, and she is standing like an exhibit in the Hall of Armor at the Metropolitan Museum.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I ask her.
“I said plenty to both the Norse and the Olympians earlier. They were not allowed, under any circumstances, to kill him.”
“You allowed this?”
“I could hardly prevent it, Granuaile. They had serious grievances. Winning his life was the best victory I could expect.”
Gods, these gods. Making decisions about our lives without our consent—they just kept doing it.
“Am I to suffer some kind of judgment and sentence too?”
“No, you’re free to go,” Brighid says. “In fact, you need to go.”
“What? Why?” I turn back to where the Olympians had been standing and see that they’ve mounted the winged horses of some Valkyries, and they hold on as the Choosers of the Slain lift them above the hordes of draugar.
Freyja answers me as she wipes Atticus’s blood off her sword using some rags she had in her chariot. “We have some words to trade with him in private. He will come to no further harm.”
I have words I’d like to trade with her, but I bite them back. “Give me a moment, then?”
I get a scant nod, and then I turn to Atticus and try to pitch my words as low as possible, though it’s probably a futile effort when one is surrounded by deities.
“I’m so sorry about your arm. Relieved you’re still alive, though.”
He only nods at me, says nothing. I think he’s doing some stoic thing or simply trying to deny the Norse any satisfaction at hearing him in pain, and he’s scared that if he makes any sound right now it’ll come out as a scream. I know how that feels.
“We need to talk more,” I tell him, “but this is not the time or place. I will go home and fetch whatever you need, because you can’t shift—speaking of which, we need to get you out of here. Hold on.” I rise to my feet and find the Allfather, calling out to him, “Odin, may I strike a bargain? My winnings to you—all the Girl Scout Cookies I’m owed—in return for taking Atticus wherever he wants to go on Bifrost and then bringing his hounds to him there directly afterward.”
“Done!” Odin says, much quicker than I’d anticipated. He didn’t even have to think about it. He might have been intending to grant that favor anyway. Or he had an unhealthy obsession for Girl Scout Cookies—Frigg’s scowl at this development seemed to imply as much.
I squat down next to Atticus and lay a hand on his chest. “I will see you soon.” He nods twice, teeth clenched against pain, and then I rise again and sweep my staff around, pointing to all the deities and reminding them of what Freyja said. “No further harm.”
And then I run out of that circle of scheming immortals, race for the bound tree to the south, and let the tears I’d been holding back flow out and blur my vision. I counted that as a victory too: I had shed nothing—neither blood nor tears—in front of those inhuman creatures.
it’s perfectly natural to scream when one loses an arm at the edge of a blade, but beyond the first cry of surprise and pain, I shunted all the screaming I wanted to do into a different headspace, because giving voice to it would only give the Norse pleasure. Since there was very little else I could deny them, I would at least deny them that. But there was plenty of woe going on in that space as I realized that removing my arm had been Freyja’s goal all along. It wasn’t just my sword arm: It was also my ability to heal, to shift planes, and to take animal forms. I’d still be able to perform free-form bindings and would retain the rest of my skills, but my effectiveness as a champion for Gaia was much reduced. And my life as I’d lived it for more than two millennia was over. I’d never fly as an owl or run as a hound again. I’d never be able to travel the globe as I used to.
Granuaile came over to administer what was probably lifesaving first aid, but then she requested that Odin bring my hounds to me wheresoever I chose to be deposited, as if I would never choose to go home to the cabin in Oregon. I might be thick about a great many things, but even I could tell what that meant. My day of judgment would soon grow worse, for it was pretty clear that in my love’s eyes I had been found wanting.
I understood, finally, what Jesus meant when he warned me against going to Asgard, when he said I’d suffer pain like I’d never felt before. Because everything I felt right then—the great gnawing absence that nibbled at the edges of my will to live—wouldn’t heal up after a few weeks of convalescence. The physical pain would fade with time, but the emotions associated with the loss would stay sharp and prick me anew each day. Every time I wanted to slip into a river and play around as an otter or take wing as a great horned owl, I’d have to remain awkwardly human and remember I had only myself to blame. Oh, there was plenty of anguish bubbling away in that headspace. But I brought Old Norse to the fore as Freyja approached. She picked up Fragarach from the ground and took a knee next to me.
“This sword will be my trophy. I personally think you should have been killed, because I am not persuaded that you have come close to balancing the scales, but Brighid and some others lobbied in your favor.�
� She leaned closer. “I have to go clean up your mess now, because the draugar are entering Skoghall.”
I flick my eyes to the mass of bodies streaming past us and realize it’s the Einherjar and dwarfs, in pursuit of the draugar. “Wherever you choose to go after this, Druid, make sure it’s far from here. You are not welcome in the lands of the Norse from this day forward. So long as you respect that condition, you have nothing to fear from us now.”
I give her a nod and nothing more.
“I hope you forget that after some time passes,” she murmured, low and menacing. “I hope you trespass and give me an excuse to finish this. Please do.” She leaves, taking Fragarach with her, and Brighid comes over, her helmet off now that danger has passed.
“Ireland is safe and thus is Tír na nÓg. I know you do not feel it now and may resent my part in this, Siodhachan, but know this: I believe you have done much good today. If I may grant you a boon in the future, call on me.” I saw her hesitate, on the verge of saying more, but she decided against it with a tiny shake of her head and said farewell.
With her exit I was left in a circle of Norse, and they simply stared at me. I rolled to my left and levered myself up to my feet. I felt a bit light-headed, and I paused a moment for the spinning in my head to subside before taking careful steps over to Thor and Odin. I nodded at them and they returned the gesture, waiting for me to say something. I started with the red-bearded thunder god.
“You’re Thor?”
“Yes.”
“So who was it that Leif Helgarson killed with Moralltach?”
Thor snorted in amusement. “Oh, that was me.” He grinned briefly, and then it melted away, replaced by chagrin at the memory. “That was the old me, who had been bound by the prophecy of the Norns regarding Ragnarok. I lost my way while they lived; over the centuries I became corrupted, thinking that there would be no consequences for my behavior, until the day I met Jörmungandr. That is the true poison of prophecy and destiny, the implication that you are somehow not responsible for your actions. But I was wrong, for there were consequences, weren’t there? Indeed, I was justly brought to account by those I had wronged. And do you know what is miraculous about that? I am glad. I am grateful. I am manifest again thanks to those who still worship me, and I find it is a new age of humanity, more hopeful than before. I’m remembering what it means to be good. I have this same hope for you, Druid. For now you are being brought to account, and it may serve to refresh your perspective.”
“Or turn me bitter and vengeful.”
Thor wagged his head, admitting the possibility, then chucked his chin at the still form of Loki. “He was bitter and vengeful.”
“Point taken. What about Heimdall and Freyr and the others?”
“There is hope that they will receive enough worship to manifest again, but at present they remain memories. And for my part, I bear you no ill will. Odin does not agree, but I think you did me a favor. Perhaps in time you will see we have done you one.”
“Perhaps.”
“I’m glad we could talk. But there is still much for me to do, so if you will excuse me.” He strode to his chariot and took off to the north after the draugar, leaving me with Odin and Frigg and the Valkyries. Odin watched him go and then his eye fixed on me.
“I am not of Thor’s mind, Druid. I still bear you plenty of ill will. I rather hoped you would die in battle.”
“Yes, you mentioned such a hope to me before.” Frigg said nothing, but the expression on her face communicated plenty. She agreed with Odin.
“I will content myself with knowing that you are miserable. And hopefully far away from here. Where is it you wish to go?”
“The eastern coast of Tasmania, if you wouldn’t mind, to the east of a town called Triabunna. Oakhampton Bay. I’d like my hounds brought to me there—Oberon and Starbuck.”
“By all means. Let us go, for I have other work to do, but I want those cookies. You joined the pool, did you not?”
I ground my teeth. “I did.”
“Excellent. I will let you know where to send the cookies here on Midgard. I want Samoas.”
“Of course. I’ll see to it.”
We don’t speak as I trail behind him and Frigg to the nearest piece of unspoiled land. They will need that to summon Bifrost. They were mounted but didn’t offer me a ride. I saw Valkyries off to the right, capturing a wounded Garm in a net. He survived, then. Good.
Part of the golf course had withered and died from the drain of the portal, and I had to trudge across it.
“Is the portal to Hel still open?” I asked them, since I couldn’t feel the earth’s energy under my feet.
“No,” Odin replied. “It closed once Loki died.”
Perhaps Granuaile would see to mending the land. She would have to see to quite a bit, I supposed, without my help.
The reconnection of Gaia underneath my heel was all too brief, because Odin summoned Bifrost immediately, and then we traveled in a starry furred space between planes until Odin delivered me to the northern beach of Oakhampton Bay. I gave him instructions on how to find my cabin and which hounds were the ones to bring me, and then I was alone in the darkness. It was that oddly timeless time between midnight and dawn in Tasmania, when the absence of light and activity suggests that the world may have stopped moving.
I remained standing but reconnected with the Tasmanian elemental and asked for his aid in healing my stump. Granuaile had stopped the bleeding, but the wound was still open and susceptible to infection besides being quite painful. Relief washed over me in one sense, but in another the pain only increased as I felt the accelerated growth of new skin smoothing over the place where my arm used to be. I felt so off balance and unmoored. Alive, but unable to think what I should do next.
We seldom recognize where the chapters of our lives begin and end until we are gifted the benediction of hindsight. Our loves, our triumphs, our tragedies—they do not exist unless we endure long enough to label them so. I am not sure if I have accomplished much else, but I have at least survived long enough to exult and mourn, to cherish my victories and regret my mistakes.
Both are legion.
I think surviving Ragnarok and getting the gods to leave me alone should be counted somehow as a victory. It just doesn’t feel like one right now, because by losing a large part of my connection to Gaia I’ve lost…well, too much.
Maybe that will change with time, but time has a way of passing slowly when you’re suffering. I spent an uncounted span in the darkness, listening to the waves lap against the beach, and thought perhaps the night would never end, until the sky grayed with the approaching dawn. That’s when the light of Bifrost returned and two dogs bounded off it to land on the beach. Odin did not descend to chat, which suited me fine.
“Most of me made it, yeah,” I said. “Careful, now, don’t jump on me; my balance isn’t so good yet.”
“It’s gone,” I told him. “But the world is safe.” At least for a little while. At least from Loki. There were still literal fires to put out, no doubt, and there would be plenty of questions asked by most of humanity and no satisfactory answers for them. They would have to learn to live with the mystery and rebuild what was destroyed, while I would have to solve the mystery of how to rebuild my life.
“Right. Except from squirrels. That threat continues to hang over us all.”
I sighed. “Would it be all right if I shared that with you later? I have a lot to process and…I think I want to write it all down. With my left hand, which should be an adventure.”
“I think I’d like to have something to eat and drink.”
“Come on, then. Town’s to the west. We live here now, even though we don’t have a place to live yet and we need to get ourselves situated. But first, as a matter of principle: breakfast.”
“Indeed they are. I think it’s past time for me to examine mine, but ‘breakfast first,’ at least, is rock solid. Let’s go.”
Dogs, I think, might be more important than principles. They provide love and loyalty when you need them the most.
with the help of the Tasmanian elemental, I find Atticus at a teahouse in Triabunna, painted yellow with green trim and potted flowers all about the porch. He and the hounds are on that porch, though he’s sitting on the edge of it with his bare feet resting in the dirt rather than sitting in their wicker outdoor seating. He still has plenty of healing to do and he looks rough. He’s discarded the cuirass he’d scavenged from the field, but the shirt he wore underneath is torn and bloodstained down his right side. He’s still wearing an armor skirt of hardened leather strips, though, and I’m sure he looks less than sane to modern eyes. I’m surprised the teahouse served him like that. He looks tired and miserable as I approach, and his face offers no smile of relief or welcome, but the hounds wag their tails.
I let the duffel bag I’m carrying slip off my shoulder. “Hi. I brought you some fresh clothes and things. New prepaid phone, your ID and credit cards, Aussie cash, that kind of thing.”