Odin’s wife, Frigga, patted her husband’s arm lovingly. “Eat your eggs,” she said.
Freyja smiled at Frigga and Odin. She still enjoyed being the goddess of love and spent her day walking around amongst the humans, interceding at her whim and enjoying the passion that permeated this culture. Sometimes, though, she just forgot to turn it off.
The kitchen staff started feeling amorous not long after the Norse arrival. Bonita the waitress, hoping to catch the cute new cook named Jamie unaware, had pinned a little sprig of mistletoe in her hair, a none too subtle hint that she was available for a little smooching activity. She had already brushed off Pimply Jim, Mr. Hands, and Hank the Tongue before finally catching Jamie alone cranking up a batch of pancakes. “Whoa, Bonita,” he said looking up at her. “In the Christmas spirit, I see.”
She latched onto him like a boss piglet on the best teat. Not romantic, but accurate.
After they both reached the point of asphyxiation and had to separate, Bonita patted him on the cheek and sashayed off, quite pleased with herself. A hot boy kissed and the big tippers with the Norwegian accents in her section. What could ruin a perfect morning like this?
She didn’t notice any of the missing leaves from her mistletoe hair bow, and Jamie the Cook didn’t notice anything odd or green as he ladled out pancake batter onto the grill. Such was the spell of Freyja.
Bonita retrieved her gum from behind her ear and blew a bubble.
Baldur enjoyed the first bite of his blueberry pancakes. It was also his last bite of blueberry pancakes. Ever. But he didn’t know that, as he was dead before his face smacked the plate.
The Norse Gods jumped up, chairs tumbling over and food flying. Eir put her fingers on Baldur’s neck, feeling for what she knew was a non-existent pulse. She looked at Odin with teary eyes and shook her head. “Gone,” she mouthed.
Thor screamed his greatest battle cry, eggs, and pieces of bacon flying from his red beard. “Mjolnir!” he cried, the short-handled war hammer appearing in his hand. He wildly swung it around at the stunned patrons. “Who will die for Baldur?” he cried. “You? You? You?” There were no takers.
Odin’s mind raced like his eight-legged horse Sleipner once had. Baldur, his son, was dead. He picked up the pancake and spotted a piece of the green leaf. He extracted it and shook his head in disbelief. He showed it to Frigga, whose eyes widened in horror. Small and insignificant, a plant not worthy of a second glance in the Old World, but a ridiculous Christmas tradition in this hodgepodge of a society that they now lived among.
Now Baldur was dead. The prophecy flashed in Odin’s mind.
Tyr had physically restrained Thor, and the string of curses had finally stopped. The restaurant had emptied out, and Odin heard sirens in the distance. The Aesir looked at each other in dismay. They knew what this meant. After all these years, they had believed it was long forgotten, a failed prophecy with no meaning. Now, there it was, hanging in the air in front of them, flashing on and off like a cheap neon sign.
“Ragnarok,” Frigga whispered. “Ragnarok.”
Chapter 27[27]
When he heard the door to the apartment burst open, Lucifer took another slug of tequila. He was halfway through another bottle and St. Augustine’s City of God. One was much more mind numbing than the other. He still couldn’t decide for sure which one though.
“Lucifer!” shouted Odin. Lucifer jumped up, spilling tequila all over and knocking his lottery tickets onto the floor. He went to the Main Hall. Actually, it was the living room, but you can take the Norse God out of Valhalla, but not the Valhalla out of the Norse God.
Stretched out peacefully on the dining room table was Baldur. Serenity oozed from the God Of Light and Lucifer felt the calm wash over, in direct contrast to the harsh glare erupting eyes of the panic-stricken Norse. They were speaking rapidly in ancient tongues, and Lucifer picked up a word or two, mostly expletives. Colorful bunch, he thought.
Odin walked up to Lucifer and uncomfortably gave him a bear hug. He could almost feel his eyes dimming from the compression and Odin’s hot tears dripped down Lucifer’s SpongeBob Squarepants t-shirt.
“He’s gone,” cried Odin, and his kinsmen wailed.
“He’s right there,” Lucifer countered, pointing. “On the table.”
“No, you moron. He’s dead. Killed by the leaf of the mistletoe!”
Way too much mead, Lucifer thought. All of them. He touched Baldur’s skin. “Oops, my mistake,” he said.
Thor grasped him by the shoulders, lifting him up high, banging his head on the chandelier. “We must retrieve him, Devil-man. We must find the gates of Hell and bring him back!”
“Whoa,” Lucifer said. “Norse guys, listen. I’d love to help, but I spent a long time there and have no desire to return. I mean, I’ve told you after my ex-wife and all.”
All the male Gods nodded in total understanding.
“Who wishes for my favor!” shouted Frigga. “Who will ride into the bowels of Hell and offer a ransom to its master for Baldur’s return?”
Eyes downcast, the Norse Gods looked at their boots. A few checked their watches.
“What has happened to you all?” Frigga shouted tearfully. She turned to Lucifer. “You! You were once the Master of the Underworld. You can deal with its new Master.”
“Uh, no,” Lucifer said. “My ex-wife Lilith is not the understanding kind. Baldur is probably neck deep in camel offal by now.” He looked at the group. “I know death can be quite a shock, especially for you immortal types. Trust me; I’ve dealt with my share of dead Gods. It was Baldur’s time. You must grieve him, sure, but it’s not as if it’s the end of the world. Right?”
The silence was sudden and total, complete with wide-eyed stares from all members of the Aesir. All directed at Lucifer.
“What?” he asked.
Chapter 28[28]
“Where did you come up with this malarkey?” Lucifer asked. “Snorri Sturluson? He sounds like an infielder for the Reykjavik Reds.”
Odin snatched the text from Lucifer’s hand. “You can criticize,” he said, “whenever you actually write something yourself.” Before Lucifer could respond, Odin put up his hand. “A self-published edition of ‘The Devil’s Limericks’ does not count.”
The bound vellum edition of “On Being a Norse God” was Odin’s pride and joy. He had scoured the ancient texts, the Codex Regius, the Hawkslook manuscripts, menus from his favorite Oslo restaurants. Favorite quotes from the Gods, condensed version stories of Bragi’s long-winded ramblings.
However, the central core, the guts of the book was the Prophecy of the Seeress. Not Stufluson’s version, which was crammed full of Christian wishful thinking and spelling errors. Odin included the original blow-by-blow transcript that he had written after the address.
Frigga and he had been fighting and Odin knew it was mostly his fault. As Chief God, however, it was difficult to make such an admission. Once he had been gone for nine days, hung from the Yggdrasill, the Tree of Life, pierced with his own spear and left for dead, just to get the runes of wisdom. Fortunately, the knot finally slipped, and he had grabbed the runes and run. Frigga, when shown the runes, snorted and said. “Odin, for a man of many excuses, you should be able to do much better than this.”
Odin had stormed off in what he felt was righteous anger, but in reality he felt like a heel. Frigga was a good wife, and he should treat her better. Therefore, he resolved to work on his relationship with her. To celebrate his newfound resolve, he had a few dozen cups of mead and decided to visit his favorite dining establishment in Iceland.
He got lost on the way. His ravens, Thought and Memory, who never felt like they got enough credit for circling the world every damned day and bringing back the happenings of the world, were on a symbolic strike, and were spending a week in the Bahamas. Without them, Odin was loathe to admit, he pretty much had no sense of direction.
He ended up in Scotland and immediately fell in with some warriors and did a lot of
killing and maiming, which made him feel a little bit better. He chopped off a king’s head, one of those long weird Scottish names, Mac Bethad mac Findlaich. No consequence, he thought. The Scots should adapt shorter names that are easier to remember.
He sat on a cliff of Shetland, one of his new favorite hangouts. It was foggy, cold, and drizzly and made a fantastic place for somber reflection. Short horses as well. The North Sea was noisy and his mead-sadness touched the heavens, his immortal souls pleading and whining into the astral plane.
Something smacked him on the back of the head, knocking his golden helmet down over his eyes. He stood and whirled quickly and caught a knee in the groin. He clutched himself and doubled over.
“And I thought being dead would get you off my back.”
Odin looked up, catching his breath. “Sybil?”
“In the non-flesh,” Sybil answered. “Conjured from the land of Hell by Mr. I’m-So-Full-Of-Angst. I was in the midst of a great conversation with a man named Augustine of Hippo. I’m actually learning some Latin. Can you believe it? He is so cute. Did you ever think I would be dating a Catholic, you old pagan warhorse?”
Odin sighed profusely. He had known Sybil for a period of time when Frigga had kicked him out for a series of unfortunate incidents that were so obviously of his doing that he couldn’t even work up the beginnings of a good lie. He had lived in a place over a pub for a while and had met the delicious Sybil, barmaid and prophetess. Fast Sybil.
“I didn’t mean to call you up,” Odin said. “It must have been the mead.”
“Save that for your wife, asshole,” Sybil said. “Remember her? The goddess of marriage? Well, after you unexpectedly left and went back to her after what I thought had the makings of a serious long-term relationship, a couple of her thug handmaids showed up and gave me an underwater tour of the fjords, you know, the one where my feet are tied to an anchor?”
Odin scrunched up his eyes. “Sorry. I guess you didn’t see that coming, huh?” He stopped short as gave him another well-placed kick into his rapidly swelling testicles.
“Okay, okay,” Odin said as he sunk to his knees, holding up his hand in defeat. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please stop.”
Sybil scoffed. “You deserve more, but I’m short on time. Because of your great pain and all, I was given a special dispensation to come here.” She waved a hand over the gloomy desolate skies and the scrubby land. “Boy, the weather sure sucks here. 72 degrees in Hell, and sunny.”
Odin struggled to his feet, hands on knees, taking deep breaths. Sybil was tapping her foot impatiently, arms crossed. She was wearing a long blowing skirt and a wool scarf. He started to picture her naked. This did not help his already fragile nether regions. Think of something, yes, baseball, knattleikr, mother-in-law, he thought.
“I won’t ask your thoughts,” Sybil continued, “although I understand that my being dead does nothing to dampen your ardor.” She pulled a piece of paper from inside her top. “Here’s how your inquiry came to me.” She rattled the paper at him. “Focus. Now, according to this, you, Odin, despite your total inebriation at the time, expressed a sincere, though mead-laden, desires to know what life had in store for you and the ones you love.” She folded and ripped up the paper and tossed it into the air, the cold zephyrs catching it and scattering it high into the air where each piece burst into a tiny flame and scattered like fireflies.
“Nicely done,” Odin said.
Sybil nodded. “I have been in touch with the ethereal plane and have received the following prophecies. Keep in mind, this is unfiltered direct from the top. You might want to sit down. It’s ugly.”
Sybil spoke to Odin as the early morning sun tried to peek through the leaden clouds, and continued to prophesize as the afternoon sun tried to peek through the leaden clouds. The sun at dusk, however, did not attempt to peek through the leaden clouds, leaving an appropriate backdrop for Sybil’s final prophecy.
Ragnarok.
She hit Odin with it straight up. No chaser. Bleak. Stark. Pessimistic.
“We’re going to lose?” Odin said incredulously. “No chance? Zero?” He was thunderstruck. “So all of this, it’s for nothing. Destiny?”
“Well, you still have to go through it, but the ultimate outcome is already determined. Auggie calls it predestination. He’s really changing my outlook on everything. Did I mention he was cute?”
“Yes, you did. Several times.”
“Okay,” Sybil said. “I have to head back now. Any other questions?”
Odin was still mulling it over as she walked off.
“So,” Lucifer said. “You’re basically riding the train and none of you can change the final destination?”
Odin and his mates nodded. They were sitting in the Great Hall, a respectful distance away from the rapidly cooling Baldur. Ctelmoth was serving up some French roast coffee. Most of them were aching for a taste of mead. Okay, let’s not kid around. They were aching to get total zonkered. Collectively, however, they realized the need for sobriety until they could figure something out.
Lucifer had no need for a drink either, even with his beloved mistress tequila. A plan was beginning to come together; the seed of an idea that had been lying fallow in the barren soil of his life may have just gotten a sudden shot of compost.
He could jump on this train with the Norse Gods, but he had an advantage. He had an idea on how to steer.
“I have a thought,” Lucifer said. “What if I told you that there’s a way to fix this?”
“Fight destiny?” Thor asked. “How does one fight destiny?
“Your idea of retrieving him,” Lucifer said. “I think that may be able to work.”
Frigga said, “But the only way to get to Hell is to die, isn’t it?” She looked at the Norsemen. “And we don’t have any volunteers.”
“It may not be necessary to die first,” Lucifer smiled.
“How could this be?” Odin asked.
“I could say that the devil is in the details, but that would be a little trite,” Lucifer answered. “Accurate, but trite.”
Chapter 29[29]
Eve hid in the closet.
She could hear Jehovah outside pecking on the windows and calling out for her. She hadn’t seen him since her ejection from the Garden of Eden and his presence could mean only one thing.
It was time for her to die.
She understood what death entailed. Abel, his head smashed by his beloved brother Cain. The animals that Adam had so carefully named, slaughtered for their meat and skins to help them survive. The change of the seasons and the plants dying but returning the next spring.
After she died, would she be like the perennial plants and return, or be like the hapless rabbits she had killed. Alive, then dead in the blink of an eye, never to rise again?
The door came off the hinges in a splintering crash.
Jehovah stepped into the house. It was neat and comfortable. Adam and Eve had done well, but that doesn’t forgive their betrayal of him. After the incident in the Garden, Jehovah had promised the first couple that death would come for them, but he had never told Adam and Eve when and how death would happen. These were two of his earliest creations, constructed to live forever. Only their Creator had the power to destroy them.
The golden blade of the massive sword was smeared with the blood and hair of Adam. Jehovah had been merciful and sliced the First Man’s head off without giving Adam a chance to see his killer. Adam’s sin was partially Jehovah’s fault; though the Creator was loathe to admit it. His woman creation brought out a weakness in men and he should have realized that when she was being assembled. Jehovah still had a notion that somehow, Lucifer had been involved with the entire debacle, but he just couldn’t fathom how. “It must be Lucifer’s fault,” the Creator had always told himself. “That angel was a traitor from the start.”
Jehovah heard movement in the closet and smiled grimly. Good. Even if Lucifer had done something to woman, that didn’t change how she had acted.
Eve had single-handedly turned the Mankind Project into a huge fiasco, and it might take him ages to fix the situation, if he could repair it at all. Punishment for Eve is only just.
Using the sword, Jehovah pried open the closet door. Eve cowered in the back, hoping the darkness would hide her. The sword glowed, exposing Eve. All is lost, they both thought. Scrambling to her hands and knees, Eve quickly crawled around Jehovah’s legs. He caught her by the hair and Eve collapsed to the floor.
“On your knees before me!” he commanded.
Eve slowly obeyed, her head down, tears streaming down sunburned cheeks.
“Eve,” Jehovah boomed. “It was your sin that brought about the Fall of Man. Because of you, Mankind must live the life they’ve been dealt by your treachery, as opposed to the life of worship and love that I intended.” He held the sword in front of Eve’s eyes. “Do you see the blood that has been shed for your transgressions?”
“Adam!” Eve screamed.
Jehovah lifted the sword over his head and chopped downward. There was a sudden feeling of confusion as the deity felt something smash into his side, sending him tumbling over a wooden chair, the sword flying through the air and burying itself in the wall of the house. He eased to his feet and looked around.
A tall blonde woman was brushing Eve’s hair away from the first woman’s tear-stained face, whispering and comforting her. Jehovah’s eyes blazed with sudden fury.
“Who dares interfere with my justice?” he said.
The woman looked at him serenely.
He scrutinized her closely and realized with huge surprise that this was not a daughter of Mankind and it was not a creature of his own making. Impossible.
The woman smiled and dipped her head down slightly, searching the floor as if she had dropped something. Jehovah tried to track what she was looking for when she bolted for the sword.
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