Mjolnir

by B. C. James

  The ride to the bar was quiet and uneventful. Thor slipped into the type of single-minded concentration that being behind the wheel of 1969 GTO can bring on and Baldr kept scanning the skies. This occupied the bulk of his attention. His fascination with the sky made sense. Baldr had spent a very long time in Hel. No sky, no birds, no stars. It was the place of the dead, located deep in an underground realm. While it was not the sort of hell that is described in the Bible, a place of eternal torment, Hel was still a long way off from being a destination vacation. It was not a place where anybody would willingly visit, let alone stay. Freedom had to feel good to Baldr, but his furrowed brow as he stared off into the sky hinted at the possibility that there was more to this stargazing than an effort to become reacquainted with the constellations.

  “Orion is in the other direction,” Thor said sarcastically, pointing to the part of sky that was opposite to where Baldr was looking. “So, are you watching for anything in particular? You have that same intense focus that kids on weed usually get during their first ‘Laser Floyd’ experience.”

  “Hela is not known for her gentle, forgiving nature,” Baldr said blankly. “Nobody has ever escaped from her before, and she is the type who will probably take someone’s desire for freedom as a personal insult. I’m looking for any unpleasant surprises that may silhouette themselves against the stars.”

  “What makes you think that an attack will come from the sky?”

  “When Hela’s mad, she is like a Red Bull and PMS rage monster. This makes her really unpleasant to deal with but also really predictable. Once she realizes I’m gone, she will take the quickest, easiest route to getting me back. Which will be to send the Valkyrie after me. This has probably already happened. I’m sure their orders are to bring me and anyone I’m with back to Hel, preferably in a number of very small pieces.”

  Thor thought about this for a moment and looked to the sky. Over the past several centuries, he had learned that the attack most likely to come was the one you are least prepared for. Thor was the God of the Sky. This meant that everything from wind and rain to lighting and St. Elmo’s fire could be controlled by him.

  Enemies planning on dropping down on them from the heavens were just handing home field advantage to Thor. There was almost no chance that this would work out well for the attackers. A surface attack was more likely. Unless he or Baldr spontaneously became the God of the M1 Abrams tank, enemies coming at them from the ground made a heck of a lot more sense.

  “I think you’re worrying about the wrong problem. Yes, Hela is irrational and petty to a fault, but she also isn’t stupid. If she sent a surly band of Valkyries after us, chances are the attack would be more subtle. They wouldn’t just openly attack us with blades flashing and the hooves of their horses flailing away. There would be some stealth to it. Maybe following us and drugging our food or a sneak attack from under some sort of cover. I can see just about anything coming from them except an open confrontation.”

  “Thor, how long have we known the Valkyrie? Popping out from behind the shrubs really isn’t their style.”

  “This is true,” said Thor, “but if they took that approach, they would probably get a lot fewer hassles from their victims. If somebody who looked like Jessica Rabbit jumped out at a guy from behind a potted plant and declared they were her prisoner, most men wouldn’t think twice about following her wherever she cared to lead them.”

  Baldr took a little time to ponder this before making his response. “As good a point as that is, Valkyries have always had a flair for the dramatics. Those drama queens like the idea of swooping down on their victims with those damned winged horses and playing a game of ‘rodeo clown’ with the mortals. I don’t see them changing strategy just for us.”

  Thor gave up the conversation. The years in Hel had made Baldr paranoid, which seemed to be a perfectly reasonable reaction to life in Hel. Apparently, the paranoia was contagious because he was finding it difficult not to glance up into the night sky himself. While Thor tried to suppress this urge, he allowed his eyes to slide skyward when he was sure Baldr wasn’t looking.

  As they drove on, both of them loosened up a bit. Soon, they were discussing people they knew and laughing about the sort of folks who actually got constellations named after them. Eventually, they arrived at Thor’s favorite bar in the city of Oakland. It was below street level and located under a bistro that was trying desperately to convince the world that they were an upscale restaurant. The bar located below them was doing nothing to help with this image.

  The Ratskeller had started off as a proper German pub. While it was true that Oakland was not exactly a hotbed of ex-patriots from the Fatherland, it was a violent and quick-tempered city that was easily offended. Strictly speaking, this was just sort of place where a German bar would fit right in.

  The main clientele of this tavern were generally members of the city’s many biker gangs, although these days they preferred to be called Motorcycle Clubs. These men reminded him of the Vikings of old and were the sort of people that Thor could relate to. He always felt at home when he visited the Ratskeller.

  Baldr looked around like he had just been transported back to the underworld. “You actually come here for fun?”

  “It has a certain understated charm to it,” Thor said as it didn’t escape his notice that Baldr wiped off the seat of the chair before sitting in it. Baldr was always a bit of a dandy. Apparently a few thousand years in Hel hadn’t changed that.

  Before Thor’s rear could even touch the seat he was hit hard in the chest by something that nearly took him off his feet. Baldr dropped into a fighting stance as his brain registered that the “something” that slammed into his brother looked like a bleach blonde heat seeking missile. Complete with red and blue highlighted contrails.

  Baldr’s fist was back, ready to launch at what he thought might be a Valkyrie, when Thor looked at him and gave an almost imperceptible head shake that told the God of Light to back off. Baldr unclenched his fist and put his hand awkwardly in his pocket, not knowing what else to do with it at the moment.

  “How’s it going big guy!” The tiny woman wrapped her arms around the huge man as far as they would stretch.

  Callista Rowan was a waitress at the Ratskeller and Thor was her favorite regular. This relationship was established the first time he visited the bar. Before taking his order she opened a bottle Red Dog beer that was sitting somewhere in the bowels of the establishment, collecting dust, and poured it in a circle around him. After she had performed this ritual he asked her what the hell she thought she was doing. She smiled at him and replied that she was marking her territory. From that day forward nobody but Callista ever waited on Thor.

  “I can’t complain,” Thor replied, “but what’s with the outfit?”

  Callista took a few steps back and spun in a circle. “You like? It’s Cosplay night and I’m Harley Quinn.”

  Thor mulled this over for a moment. “I’ve been coming her for a while and you guys don’t have a cosplay night.”

  “We do once I realized that I get twice as many tips when I dress like this. Law school’s expensive and those loans won’t pay themselves off. So boom, tonight I’m Harley Quinn. Come back tomorrow night and you’ll see me as Leeloo from the Fifth Element.”

  “Cosplay Stevie Nicks and I’ll pay off your loans myself,” he said dropping down into a chair.

  Thor was only half joking. Upon her graduation, Callista would be surprised to find out that her loans had all been anonymously paid in full. If she somehow ever found out that it was Thor who paid for her schooling, he planned on just saying he was putting her on retainer early.

  Callista looked from Thor to Baldr and for a split second lost control of her knees. “Aw, not you too Cal?” Thor said, noticing that his brother’s boyband good looks had made yet another woman weak in the knees.

  Before Callista could answer, Baldr took this opportunity to do what brothers do best, embarrass their siblings.

&
nbsp; “I’ll take an Appletini,” Baldr said putting as much lisp into his voice as he could, “and my burly partner here will have a Smirnoff Ice.”

  It wasn’t clear how long Baldr had been out of Hel, but it was obviously long enough to know exactly what sort of drinks shouldn’t be ordered in a biker bar. He also said this loud enough so that everyone for a six-table radius could hear him. Baldr was sure to put a special emphasis on the word “partner.” The sigh of exasperation from his brother combined with the snickers from the other tables made it clear that the joke had gone off exactly as he had expected it to.

  Cal laughed, kissed Thor on the forehead and went off to get their drinks.

  “Bravo, brother,” Thor said with a half-smile.

  “Don’t blame me, Thor. It’s a middle child thing. I’m not responsible for my actions…or my words…or my drink orders…or the occasional lisp I use in front of comely waitresses. Anyway, it wasn’t all a joke. There is a reason for the Smirnoff Ice. I need some semi-clear liquid so that I can show you something.”

  Cal came back with their drinks. She had not taken the original drink order seriously and was well aware of what Thor liked. She brought each of them a Guinness but also brought a Smirnoff Ice, just for fun. As soon as she left Baldr peeled the label off the vodka drink, checked to make sure the bottle cap was still tight, and tipped it on its side. He motioned to Thor, directing him to look at the images that had started to form in the bottle. Baldr was manipulating the light that passed through the clear liquid and treated his brother to a very small holographic show. The star of this program was Baldr and he was using the images to show Thor his life and escape from Hel.

  They sat close and hunched over the drink. It almost looked like they were admiring a model ship in a bottle. The scene before them showed an ashen-colored Baldr just lying on a rock. Looking like an unhappy lizard trying to bask in a sun that was barely there.

  “I know it doesn’t look like I’m doing much at that point, but what you’re seeing is the very moment that I decided that Hel wasn’t my cup of tea and that it was time to get out. Funny thing about Hel, as soon as you get there it’s clear that this is not the sort of place you want to stay but even with that instant revelation the despair weighs so heavy upon you that most people can’t muster the will to do anything about it. Fortunately, I am not most people. Even so, fighting the depression was a constant battle. Every step came with the desire to just lie down, surrender, and accept my lot in the afterlife. I willed myself to keep going, always heading toward that light in the west that acted like a dim red sun in the underworld’s sky.”

  They watched as the image of Baldr began his westward trudge. The landscape of Hel would have inspired the most passionate artists to pluck out their eyes and declare that God was dead. It was like looking at a sepia photograph of Death Valley. While it resembled a muted version of the famous desert, with its barren flats and rocky hills, it lacked the oppressive heat that was the hallmark of that particular wasteland. Nobody was likely to collapse from heat stroke while walking in Hel, but the palpable, almost malevolent silence was enough to unnerve even the most fearless mortals. It was the sort of disturbing quiet that made one feel as though they were being stalked.

  As he walked in the direction of the dim red glow, he found himself going against the tide of a steady stream of the dead. As they trudged towards the heart of Hela’s realm, Baldr took notice of the looks on their faces. The facial expressions ranged from surprise and disbelief, to anger and abject terror. One man who was dressed in a frock coat and top hat kept slapping himself in the face and saying, “Wake up, wake up!”

  The slaps became closed fist blows to his own cheek as he refused to accept the reality that this was not a dream. Some people actually looked relieved that the long drudgery of life was over, and they could settle down to a relatively calm eternity in Hel.

  The first souls Baldr encountered were dressed in a fashion Thor recognized. Most of them wore the dirty and damaged working clothes of peasant farmers. Sometimes, there were those who were dressed in the finery of the ruling class, but most looked poor. There were also very few soldiers. This was because those who die bravely in battle went to Valhalla. Cowards found themselves in Múspellsheimr, where they were tortured alongside murders, rapists, ACLU lawyers, and three generations of St. Louis Blues owners. While Hel was tame by comparison to Múspellsheimr, it seemed unfair to Thor that the people, including Baldr, whose only crime was dying in a less than heroic manner, came here instead of going to Valhalla. Maybe life was about more than how one died. He was certain Baldr was always bitter about going to Hel, and not only did he yearn for escape, but he kept alive a flame deep inside himself that cried out for justice. It probably was this dual motivation that kept him moving forward.

  The parade of the dead seemed endless. Their fashion hinted at the era in which they lived. Men in powdered wigs and silk stockings were passed on the road. Watching Baldr walk past billions of dead people gave Thor a window into the type of tedium that his brother must have faced while in the underworld. The Thunder God managed to stay awake through the Welsh dandies, Southern belles, and flirtatious flappers. By the time waves of plaid-clad slackers in Pearl Jam T-shirts came through the realm like an ill-tempered army of invading lumberjacks, Thor’s head was on the table and he was beginning to snore.

  “Wake up!” Baldr yelled as he nearly pushed Thor off his chair. “I’m sorry, am I boring you?” he added with as much sarcasm as the FCC could legally allow in one statement.

  “As a matter of fact, you are. All this walking is like watching Lord of the Rings without the cool CGI Orcs and talking trees. Is there any more to this escape then going for a really long stroll?” Thor yawned.

  “I am just trying to set up the context of what my escape was like and how much time it really took. Since I’ve been back, I’ve heard people say things like ‘in heaven, a day is like a thousand years and a thousand years like a day.’ Well, I don’t know about that, but in Hel a day is simply a day. Believe me when I say you feel every one of them. I spent centuries walking with nobody to talk to but a bunch of stiffs, literally, and they didn’t have anything interesting to say. All I could really do was walk along with them and hope there was an exit somewhere near the ‘sun.’”

  Thor was a tad annoyed when his brother used air quotes with the word “sun.” This mild irritation powered him through the emo-era zombies and helped keep him fully awake as they watched the holographic story play itself out in the clear liquid. Finally, for the first time since the bottle watching began, he saw a bit of a disturbance in the endless herd of souls. Women were dragging a few selected souls away, kicking and screaming.

  Thor stared, almost slack jawed into the bottle. “I’m not sure if I am appalled by the Valkyrie assaulting the recently departed or impressed! These people haven’t even had time to get their heads around the fact that they’re dead before somebody in a metal teddy is kicking their ass. It seems wrong…kinda funny, but wrong.”

  Baldr nodded in agreement. “The Valkyries seem to have changed, and I don’t know why. For the past couple of centuries, they have been absolutely vicious.”

  “I remember them being much more fun.” Thor smiled as he took a moment to savor a private memory of his interactions with the Valkyries.

  “Yeah, Thor, I’m sure we both have very fond memories of the sort of playful teases these gals used to be. Verrrrry fond memories.” Baldr fidgeted in his chair for a moment as the recollections began to make him a little flushed in the cheeks. “How many times would we be drinking mead with them at a hall in Asgard when, by the end of the evening, you would need to go outside and shovel snow into your pants just to get the feeling back down there?”

  “Heh, heh…yeah, any night where you’re picking ice out your drawers at the end of it is a good night. Had Sif known about any of that she would have had my genitals on a pike in front of our home as a warning to future husbands,” Thor said. “She use
d to sniff my hair after I came home from a night out to see if she could pick up the scent of some foreign perfume. It doesn’t matter now, but it was a fun game of adulterous cat and mouse. Dabbling with the Valkyrie aside, we had a good thing going. Sif was special and I haven’t met anyone like her before or since Odin sent her on a half-assed errand to negotiate with Surt.”

  Thor’s expression softened when he spoke of his wife but hardened into a mask of hatred when he mentioned his father.

  “That goes a bit beyond me brother,” Baldr said, “I was still in Hel at that point. Agreeing to go talk to Surt was, of course, an act of suicide, but think of it this way, it had to be a noble death, so you will see her again in Valhalla.”

  “Gods don’t always go to Heaven, Baldr. You should know that better than anyone.”

  “True, but thanks to Loki, I died playing stupid party games with one of our brothers, hardly a hero’s end. That got me on the fast track to Hel. That probably won’t happen to you. There is very little chance you will shuffle off this mortal coil in anything but a historic blaze of glory,” Baldr said, raising his bottle of beer to his brother in salute and then downing the entire drink. “Tasty stuff this Guinness, but weak…really, really weak.”

  “Try a glass of ‘Sink the Bismarck.’ That stuff’ll put some hair on your back. Anyway, it doesn’t matter where I go after I die, Baldr; she isn’t in Valhalla. I have talked to every creature that can move between the lands of the living and the dead. They all agree that she never arrived there. I was about to ask you if you had seen her in Hel.”

  “Sorry, no. Contrary to what Snorri Sturluson or Stan Lee may have written about Hel, it is not the sort of place where you get together with your friends and hoist a few. If she is there, I didn’t see her. Of course, a goddess coming to Hel would be a rare occurrence, so I am sure I would have at least heard about it if she had.”