The Entirely True Story of the Unbelievable FIB

by Adam Shaughnessy

  “All stories are written in stone,” the woman said. Her voice was grim.

  “We didn’t do anything wrong, you know,” Pru said to their escort, turning her attention from the building’s architecture. “The door wasn’t locked.”

  “Are we in trouble?” ABE asked.

  “Mr. Grimnir has been expecting you,” Hilde repeated. She sounded a little like Pru’s aunt who lived in Minnesota. “Whether you are in trouble remains to be seen.”

  “But that doesn’t even make any sense,” Pru said. “How could he be expecting us? We didn’t even know we were coming here.”

  “Mr. Grimnir does not trouble himself with all the many things that other people do not know.”

  Hilde led Pru and ABE to a large rectangular room on the main floor of the house. A long wooden table ran the length of the room, with benches to either side. A fire burned in a hearth at the far end, and someone had placed a high-­backed chair before the fire. The chair was big and wooden. Even at a distance, Pru could see that it was elaborately carved. It reminded her of a throne. The chair faced the fire, so Pru could not see for sure if there was anyone seated in it.

  “Go on. He doesn’t like waiting,” Hilde said, gesturing to the chair.

  Pru began walking toward the chair and ABE followed behind her, so close he stepped on her heel a time or two. As they rounded the table and walked along the far wall, they passed a series of long, pointed windows like Pru had seen in pictures of castles. Outside, rolls of thunder crashed against the walls of the stone mansion like waves against a rocky shore.

  Glancing through one window, Pru saw that the clouds in the sky seemed to be darkest above the mansion, almost as black as night. The fire offered the room’s only light, so even though it was daytime, the room remained dark.

  Stepping close to the chair, Pru noticed a wide-­brimmed hat hanging over its back. In a nearby corner stood a tall walking stick, knotted and worn.

  “You’ve finally arrived, I see.”

  The voice that came from behind the chair was old and deep, and sounded like rocks rolling down a mountainside.

  Pru cleared her throat. She didn’t understand why Old Man Grimnir didn’t sound mad that they’d been caught in his house, but Pru wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. She also didn’t understand why everyone kept acting like Pru and ABE had been expected. Maybe the old man was crazy? Pru figured that could be a help. It would make it easier for her to talk their way out of this. It would be like trying to talk her way out of trouble with Mrs. Edleman, something with which she’d had lots of practice (if not as much success as she’d have liked).

  “Hi. Old Man . . . um, I mean, Mr. Grimnir.” Pru had to clear her throat again. She didn’t like how shaky her voice sounded. “Look, we’re sorry we came into your house. It was an accident. You should lock your doors, you know. We weren’t trying to cause any trouble, or anything.”

  “No? Well, that’s a comfort. One mischief-­maker is enough to deal with.” A snort of laughter followed the old man’s comment.

  Pru edged forward just a bit more until she could make out some of Mr. Grimnir’s profile from where she stood. She saw thick white hair, a full beard, and a hooked nose that looked like it had been broken in some past scuffle. His skin had the fine sort of wrinkles you would find on a once-­rolled bit of tinfoil that someone had tried to flatten smooth again but couldn’t quite.

  “What brought you to my home?” Old Man Grimnir said. “And speak truthfully. I’ve dealt with far better liars in my day than either of you could hope to be.”

  “We were looking for recyclables,” Pru said.

  The old man was silent.

  “Also, we, ah, came to see the Middleton Stone,” she added.

  “I see. Well, you are not the first ones to find the stone interesting. Others before you have sought the treasure it points to. Tell me, do you know the story of the Eye of Odin?”

  “No,” ABE said. Pru could hear the enthusiasm in his voice. He was probably hoping Old Man Grimnir would give him a book about it or something.

  “Not many do. It is an old story. Listen.” The firelight showed red on the old man’s beard and cheek as he settled deeper into his chair.

  Pru couldn’t believe their luck. Were they really going to get let off with just a story?

  “The tale begins in the hall of Valaskjalf—” he pronounced it Val-­ask-­chalv—“Odin’s home in high Asgard. From Valaskjalf, Odin saw all that happened in the three worlds.”

  Pru remembered the three worlds mentioned in Ratatosk’s exhibit. Asgard had been the home of the gods, if she remembered right.

  “Odin sat with his son, Thor. Thor could see that his father was troubled. When Thor asked about the reason for his father’s unhappiness, Odin answered that he thirsted for knowledge.

  “Thor himself rarely bothered with thinking,” Old Man Grimnir said with contempt. “So he could not understand his father’s desire. He reminded his father that from his high seat, he could see everything. Odin knew all that happened as it happened. It was enough knowledge for anyone, Thor insisted.

  “Odin replied it was not enough.

  “And so Thor reminded his father that he had two ravens, Thought and Memory. They whispered in his ear each night of all they had seen that day, and all they remembered of days gone by. So Odin knew all that happened as it happened, and he knew all that had happened in times past. It was enough, Thor insisted.

  “Odin replied that it was not enough.”

  “What else is there?” Pru asked.

  “Thor asked Odin the very same question. That is when Odin told Thor of Mimir, who guards the Well of Wisdom. One sip from the well would give Odin the power to see the future. He would see all that would happen in all the days to come.”

  Old Man Grimnir paused for a moment in his telling. As he did, a shade of darker black broke from the charcoal sky outside Winterhaven House and hurled itself against the glass of a nearby window with a terrible ca-­caaaww. Pru jumped as a raven clamored against the window in a riot of beating wings and scratching talons.

  “Begone, blood-­swan pest!” Old Man Grimnir shouted. “And I’ll hear nothing from you, either.”

  Pru blinked, thinking the old man was speaking to ABE and her. Then a soft flutter of wings from above alerted Pru to the presence of another raven, twin to the first, perched in the beams overhead.

  Two ravens.

  Pru tried to catch ABE’s eye, but he appeared intent on Old Man Grimnir and the story.

  “Where was I?” Old Man Grimnir grumbled.

  “You were talking about Mimir, the guardian of the Well of Wisdom,” ABE said in hushed tones.

  “Ah, yes. Thor did not take his father’s words well. He knew of Mimir and he knew Mimir took his role as guardian seriously. Thor reminded Odin that Mimir challenged anyone who tried to drink from the well to a battle of wits. Each contestant had to wager something most would not gamble with.”

  “What did they have to wager?” Pru asked.

  “His own head,” Old Man Grimnir said. ABE gulped as the old man continued. “But Odin would not be denied. He set off for the Well of Wisdom. He left behind his golden helm and spear and his eight-­legged steed, Sleipnir. He went in the guise of a humble mortal traveler, taking only a walking stick and a wide-­brimmed hat to cover his face, and Mimir did not know him.”

  “Mimir couldn’t have been too great a guardian if he got tricked by such an easy disguise,” Pru said.

  “Do you think not? Mimir was farseeing. Next time you are at a beach, look out and try to see every grain of sand at once. Odin’s disguise was enough to discourage Mimir’s focus, and so he welcomed the traveler. When Odin asked for a sip from Mimir’s spring, the guardian told Odin of the contest he must win in order to drink. Each would ask the other three questions. If either one failed to answer a question, his head would be forfeit. Odin agreed.”

  Warmed by the flickering firelight, Pru found herself wra
pped in Old Man Grimnir’s story and carried off into his other world of warrior gods and magical springs.

  “Mimir asked his questions, each one more difficult than the last. But Odin had seen much, and all that the gods knew, he knew. He answered first one question, then the next, then the next. Only then did Mimir know the traveler for who he was, for no one but Odin was wise enough to best the guardian. Mimir welcomed Odin as Allfather, and invited him to ask his three questions.

  “But wise Odin had just one.”

  Old Man Grimnir paused again and stared into the fire. When the silence stretched longer than Pru could take, she asked, “What? What was Odin’s question?”

  As if he had been waiting for the prompt, Old Man Grimnir exhaled in a long, slow breath.

  “Odin knew all things had their price. So he asked the only question that mattered: ‘What price would you accept for a drink from your spring?’ ”

  Beside her, Pru heard ABE let out a slow breath. Old Man Grimnir must have heard, too, because he paused yet again.

  “What?” Pru asked.

  “Odin’s question,” ABE said. “It was really smart. If Mimir didn’t answer it, he’d lose his head. So Odin was sure to get what he wanted.”

  “So it was. Mimir knew he had been tricked and beaten. But he would take his payment. The price he claimed was sight for sight. For a drink from the Well of Wisdom, he would take Odin’s right eye.”

  “Wait! You mean he had to take out his own eye?” Pru tried to imagine what that would be like. Her body shivered involuntarily. She couldn’t think of anything that would be worth that.

  Old Man Grimnir ignored the question. “Odin would not be discouraged. He feared nothing, so he took his prize. He drank from the Well of Wisdom and watched as images of days to come filled his mind. He watched until he could no longer tell whether the images in his head were visions of the future or memories of the past. Then Odin saw the most terrible of sights.”

  Outside, the raven in the window let out a cry. Old Man Grimnir dug his nails into the wooden arms of his chair.

  “Odin saw Ragnarok,” he continued. “He saw that one day there would be a great war between the gods of Asgard and the giants of Jotunheim. That war, which would be called Ragnarok, would destroy both races and leave all in ruin.

  “It was too much to see, too much to know, even for the Allfather. He tore his right eye from his head in payment and hurled it into the spring, closing his one remaining eye. He stood there, longing for blindness, for uncounted days. In time, the other gods sought out Odin and begged him to return to Asgard. Only sly Loki held his tongue, his attention caught by a small round object that looked up at him from the bottom of the Well of Wisdom.”

  “He saw the Eye?” Pru asked.

  “He did. The Eye of Odin lay almost forgotten at the bottom of the well, where Mimir had left it. But Odin knew it would not stay forgotten.”

  “Why?” Pru asked. “Who would want a torn-­out eye?”

  “The eyes of gods are not like the eyes of men,” Old Man Grimnir answered. “Though Odin could no longer see from it, the Eye was not blind. It still held all the visions Odin had seen. Do you understand?”

  “Are you saying that anyone who looked into the Eye of Odin would see the future?” ABE asked.

  “Just so. Understanding the burden such knowledge held, Odin bargained with Mimir so that the Allfather could hide the Eye from mortal and god alike. Mimir agreed—he had no care for the Eye itself. He had only taken it to spite the Allfather. So Odin took the Eye and hid it. Then Odin wrote its secret location on a great rune stone. He hid the stone somewhere in the three worlds and returned home, there to wait through the long days until Ragnarok, his thirst for knowledge quenched at last.”

  “Wait,” Pru said after a moment, frowning. “That ending doesn’t make sense. If Odin didn’t want anyone to find the Eye, why would he write down where he hid it?”

  At first, Old Man Grimnir did not reply. Then, ever so slowly, he turned his head just enough so that the line of shadow shifted across his face and gave Pru her first full look at their host.

  Her breath caught and she took a startled step back.

  “Who can say?” Old Man Grimnir answered. “Perhaps Odin had foreseen a day when the Eye would be needed. Who can know the mind of a god?”

  Pru didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Shock silenced her. Because when the owner of Winterhaven House turned around, Pru saw something astonishing.

  Old Man Grimnir was missing one eye.

  CHAPTER

  10

  AS SOON AS HILDE ESCORTED PRU AND ABE FROM Winterhaven House, Pru began running. She ran until her sides ached and her breath came in short, ragged bursts expelled from between reddened cheeks. ABE ran alongside her. They’d traveled half the distance down the main road that connected Middleton and Winterhaven House when they finally stopped.

  “Pru! His eye! Did you see?” ABE said between gasps.

  Pru placed her hands on her hips and leaned her head back to catch her breath.

  “I saw. It was kind of hard to miss.”

  “He had one eye. And two ravens!”

  “I noticed that, too.” What did it mean? Pru was glad when ABE fell silent for a moment. She needed a second to gather her thoughts and catch her breath. ABE’s next question robbed her of both, though.

  “Pru?” ABE’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What . . . what did you see in the woods that day?”

  Pru looked at ABE. His head was ducked, but he was looking at her from beneath his lowered brow. She didn’t have to ask what day he was talking about. Above them, the dark clouds rolled like the surface of a sea that linked them to some distant, unknown shore. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  They’d never actually talked about what happened in the woods and what they’d seen, not really. They’d talked about the squirrel a bit because squirrels seemed harmless—even talking ones.

  But the other thing in the woods? The thing that had chased them? That hadn’t felt harmless. So they’d talked around it instead of about it. They’d used words like “something” and “big.” But it hadn’t just been something big.

  “It was a giant,” Pru said. “That’s what I saw. I mean, it couldn’t have been. I know it couldn’t have been. It had to be an illusion, you know? Like when you think you see a face in a tree. But in the woods that day, I thought I saw a giant.”

  Pru wrapped her arms about herself as a cool breeze blew through, carrying with it the scent of the ocean.

  “That’s what I saw, too,” ABE said.

  They stood together a moment in the silence of shared discovery and disbelief.

  “Pru,” ABE finally said, “how come your town has talking squirrels and old men with one eye and two ravens and . . . and giants?”

  “I don’t know, ABE. I really don’t. But I think we both know who might be able to answer your question.”

  “Mister Fox,” ABE said.

  He did not sound happy.

  Sitting at her dining room table that night, Pru thought about talking squirrels, things in the woods, old men with just one eye, and strangers with mischievous grins. She tried to find a place for all those things in the world she knew and understood, only they just wouldn’t fit.

  It was a little exciting.

  It was also scary.

  The familiar sounds of her mother in the kitchen comforted Pru. She allowed herself to be soothed by the opening of doors and the rattling of dishes as the dinner plates were returned to the cabinet.

  On a whim, Pru pulled out the mysterious envelope and the even more mysterious card that lay inside. Everything strange that had happened had begun with the envelope’s arrival. It had appeared in her room like . . . Pru couldn’t ignore the word that came to mind. It had appeared in her room like magic.

  Of course, it suddenly struck Pru that it was possible her mother had put the card in her room. Pru hadn’t considered (or hadn’t wanted to consider) that possibility at fir
st because she had wanted to think that the card was special. Now, after everything else that had happened, she wasn’t sure what she wanted to think.

  “Mom?” she called, and a moment later her mother appeared in the doorway. Pru didn’t say anything about the dish towel draped over her mother’s shoulder. “Mom, I wanted to show you an envelope I got.”

  “Pru! Not another letter from school. You said you were going to try harder. You promised there would be no more investigations or wandering off. You promised me!” Her mother paused to put her hand over her face for a moment, stretching her forefinger and thumb to massage each of her temples. She took a deep breath.

  “No, it’s not like that!” Pru interrupted. She held the envelope in the air between them. “This has nothing to do with stupid school or anything like that. Did you put this in my room?”

  Pru’s mother blinked.

  “Did I put what in your room, sweetie?”

  Pru’s eyes narrowed as she looked from her mother to the envelope and back again. “This!” she said, waving the envelope in the air. Pru frowned at the vacant expression on her mother’s face. Her eyes had strayed to a corner of the room. She’d barely looked at the envelope.

  “Hmm? Oh yes, that’s very nice, honey. Very nice.” Her eyes focused on the envelope briefly, then she appeared to lose interest. She turned and headed back to the kitchen and called to Pru, cheerful but distracted, “The important thing is that it’s not another note from school. I know Mrs. Edleman isn’t your favorite teacher, but you’re stuck with her for the year, so you’d best make the most of it, kiddo.”

  Pru stared after her mother as she left. She didn’t think her mother was lying to her about not knowing about the envelope. It wasn’t that Pru didn’t think her mother was capable of lying—she knew better than that. But her mother had seemed baffled by the envelope.

  No. That wasn’t right.

  Her mother had seemed baffled but not by the envelope. She hadn’t even wanted to look at that. As Pru returned the ever-­more-­mysterious envelope and its contents to her bag, she found herself thinking once more about who might have sent it—and what it had to do with everything that was happening in Middleton.