by Tom Holt
The Rhinedaughter circled for a few minutes under the surface, then slowly paddled upstream to a deep pool where she knew she could not be seen. It had been pointless trying to turn the woman into a frog, the daughters of Wotan are not so lightly transformed. At least she had given the Valkyrie notice that she had a fight on her hands.
It was all very well saying that, but Flosshilde had no stomach for a fight. It was inconceivable that Malcolm didn’t know who she was or what she was likely to be after, and if he was so much in love that he was prepared to take the risk . . . After all, he had apparently been prepared to take a similar risk with her before the Valkyrie showed up, and obviously he had not been in love then, just lonely. And any fool could see that Ortlinde was completely smitten, so it seemed likely that she too had given up hope of getting the Ring. After all, Malcolm was in a unique position to know what was going on inside her head. So he could take care of himself.
Vanity, said Flosshilde to herself, and wounded pride, that was all it was. That anyone could prefer a stuffy old Valkyrie to her was naturally hard for her to believe, but Malcolm obviously did, and that was all there was to it.
From the cover of a small boulder, she peered out. The Young Couple were kissing each other rather awkwardly under the shade of an oak tree. Flosshilde shrugged her shoulders and slid back into the water, as graceful as an otter. Beside her, she was aware of her sisters, swimming lazily in the gentle current.
‘Told you so,’ said Wellgunde.
‘I couldn’t care less,’ said Flosshilde. ‘And if you say one word about the Ring, I’ll break your silly neck.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, would we?’ replied Wellgunde smugly.
‘I’m bored with England,’ said Flosshilde suddenly, as they reached the head of the Tone. ‘Why don’t we go back home?’
‘What a good idea,’ said Woglinde. ‘Let’s do that.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
At Valhalla the Wednesday afternoon General Meeting of the Aesir, or Company of Gods, is presided over by Wotan himself. At these meetings, the lesser divinities-thunderspirits, river-spirits, cloud-shepherds, Valkyries, Norns, nixies, powers, thrones, ettins and fetches - have an opportunity to bring to Wotan’s attention any matters which they feel require action on his part, and receive their instructions for the next seven days. There is also a general discussion on future strategy and a long-range weather forecast.
Loge, as secretary to the Company, had the unenviable task of keeping the minutes of each meeting and presenting the agenda. At the meeting that immediately followed the Ring-Bearer’s entrapment by the Valkyrie Ortlinde, he found himself having to reorganise the entire programme to give enough time for a thorough discussion, only to find that the discussion that followed was over much sooner than he had anticipated. There were votes of thanks from the Company to Ortlinde and Wotan, which were duly entered in the records, and Waltraute inquired how long Ortlinde was likely to be away and who was supposed to do her share of the housework while she was absent. Loge was then compelled to proceed to Any Other Business with well over an hour of the scheduled time still to go.
‘I would like to bring to the Chairman’s attention the fact that the light-bulb on the third-floor landing of the main staircase of Valhalla has gone again, and I would request him to replace it immediately,’ said Schwertleite, ‘before someone trips over and breaks their neck.’
‘That’s not nearly as dangerous as the carpet on the back stairs,’ said Grimgerde. ‘I’ve asked you hundreds of times to nail it down properly, but nobody ever listens to a word I say.’
Loge was writing furiously. All the minutes of meetings had to be made in runes, which cannot be written quickly.
‘May I suggest,’ said Wotan, grimly attempting to make himself heard, ‘that this is neither the time nor the place . . .’
‘Next time you stub your toe in the dark because you couldn’t be bothered to replace a light-bulb . . .’
Wotan put his hands in front of his one eye and groaned audibly. ‘We were discussing the Ring,’ he muttered.
‘And please don’t put your elbows on the table,’ interrupted the Valkyrie Helmwige. ‘I spent the whole morning trying to get it looking respectable after you spilt coffee all over it.’
Wotan made a vague snarling noise at the back of his throat. ‘This is a meeting of the Aesir,’ he growled, ‘and I would ask you to behave in an appropriate manner.’
‘While we’re on the subject,’ retorted his daughter, the Driver of the Spoil, ‘you might try dressing in an appropriate manner. Why you insist on wearing the same shirt three days in a row . . . How am I expected to get the collars clean?’
‘Any other business,’ Wotan said, but his growl was more like a whimper.
‘You’ve got whole drawers full of shirts you never wear,’ said Grimgerde, with a world of reproach in the deep pools of her blue eyes. She hadn’t had a new shirt, or a new anything, for four hundred and twenty years, but she didn’t complain. She never went anywhere anyway.
‘I shall wear what the hell I like when I like,’ said Wotan, and what had intended to be authority when the words passed his vocal cords was definitely petulance when the sounds emerged through the gate of his teeth. ‘Now, can we please . . .’
A general baying of Valkyries drowned out the voice of the Sky-God, and Loge stopped trying to keep the minutes of the meeting. Over the centuries, he had evolved his own shorthand for the inevitable collapse into chaos that rounded off each Wednesday afternoon in the Great Hall. He sketched in a succession of squiggles under the last intelligible remark he had been able to record and began drawing sea-serpents.
The discussion had moved on to the topic of leaving the tops off jars when a rock-troll, who had been thoroughly enjoying the conflicts of his betters, noticed something out of the corner of one of his eyes. He nudged the middle-aged Norn with mouse-blond hair who was knitting beside him, and they turned and stared at the doorway of the Hall. One by one, the minor deities, then the Vanir, then the High Gods themselves abandoned the debate and gazed in astonishment at the three rather pretty girls who had wandered in through the Gates of Gylfi.
It was at least a thousand years since the Rhinedaughters, who were responsible for the noblest river in Europe, had attended a Wednesday afternoon meeting. No-one except Wotan and Loge could remember exactly why they had stopped coming. Some said that they had been expelled for flirting with the cloud-shepherds at the time of the Great Flood. Others put it down to the girls’ natural frivolity and apathy. Wotan and Loge knew that the river-spirits had walked out in tears after the stormy debate that followed the theft of the Ring from Alberich and had not been back since, although both Gods correctly attributed this continued absence to forgetfulness rather than actual principle.
‘Well I never!’ whispered the Norn to the rock-troll. ‘Look who it is!’
The rock-troll nodded his head. Since he had been created out of solid granite at the dawn of time, this manoeuvre required considerable effort on his part, but he felt it was worth it. ‘It’s the Girls,’ he hissed through his adamantine teeth.
It was Wotan himself who broke the silence. ‘What the hell do you want?’ he snapped.
‘We just thought we’d pop our heads round and say hello,’ said Wellgunde sweetly. ‘It’s been simply ages.’
The silence gave way to a hubbub of voices, as each immortal greeted the long-lost members of their Company. Most vociferous were a group of cloud-shepherds who, several centuries before, had arranged to meet the Rhinedaughters for a picnic at the place which has since become Manchester, and who had been waiting there ever since. Only the Valkyries and their father seemed less than delighted to see the Rhinedaughters back again. Wotan suspected that he knew the reason for their visit, while his daughters felt sure that the river-spirits hadn’t wiped their feet before coming into the Hall.
‘So,’ said Wotan, when the noise had subsided, ‘what have you been doing all these years?’
> ‘Sunbathing, mostly,’ said Woglinde truthfully. ‘Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun?’
‘It’s all right for some,’ whispered the Norn to the troll. But the troll seemed uneasy. ‘Something’s going to happen,’ he said, and he sniffed loudly, as if trying to identify some unfamiliar smell.
‘Is that all?’ laughed Wotan, nervously jovial. ‘Or have you been doing any work?’
‘Depends on what you call work,’ replied Wellgunde. ‘The river sort of runs itself really. But we have been looking at other rivers to see if we can pick up any hints.’
‘Sort of an exchange visit,’ said Woglinde, helpfully.
‘For example,’ continued Wellgunde, ‘we visited a river called the Tone in England. Not very helpful, I’m afraid.’
‘But guess who we bumped into while we were over there,’ cooed Woglinde. ‘Go on, guess.’
‘I hate guessing,’ said Wotan irritably, and he picked up a document and began to study it diligently. Since he was to all intents and purposes omnipotent, it was not surprising that he could read a sheet of paper that was palpably the wrong way up.
‘Ortlinde, that’s who,’ said Flosshilde, who had not spoken before. Wotan made no reply, being obviously engrossed in his document. Suddenly, Flosshilde smiled at the papers in his hand, which turned into a small dragon. Wotan dropped it with a start, and it crawled away under the table. ‘Now what on earth was she doing there?’
The Norn had covered her eyes. She was fond of the Rhinedaughters, with whom she had spent many hours exchanging gossip, and Flosshilde’s conjuring trick, performed in front of so many witnesses, was as clear a case of treasonable assault on the King of the Gods as one could hope to find. The penalty for this offence was instant metamorphosis, usually into a bush of some kind, and it was common knowledge that Wotan had been desperate for some pretext for getting rid of the Rhinedaughters ever since they had first emerged from the waters of their native river. Slowly, the Norn lowered her hands. The Girls were still there, still in human shape.
‘I’ll tell you, shall I?’ continued Flosshilde. ‘She was there trying to get the Ring-Bearer to give her our Ring, which you should have given back to us a thousand years ago. So will you please tell her to stop it and go away?’
The Norn covered her eyes again, but she need not have bothered. Wotan simply looked away and threw a piece of cheese to the small dragon, which had curled up on his lap.
‘If you don’t,’ said Flosshilde, clear without being shrill, ‘we’ll tell him who she is. Are you listening?’
There was a terrible silence. Never before had anyone, mortal or immortal, dared to threaten the Lord of Tempests in the Hall of his stronghold. Even the rock-troll held his breath, and the beating of his basalt heart was the only audible sound in the whole assembly. Wotan sat motionless for a moment, then rose sharply to his feet, sending the small dragon scampering for the safety of a coffee-table. He looked the Rhinedaughter in the eye, and the Norn held her breath. Then Wotan shook his head in disbelief, and marched out of the Hall.
‘Not across the floor I’ve spent all morning polishing,’ wailed the Valkyrie Gerhilde, but her father took no notice. The meeting broke up in disorder, and the troll and the Norn hurried off to the Mortals’ Bar for a much-needed drink.
‘I dunno,’ said the rock-troll. ‘I’ve never seen the like.’
‘He just sat there,’ said the Norn.
‘Who did?’
‘Wotan. When Flossie turned that paper into a dragon. It’s Kew Gardens for her, I thought, but he just sat there. Didn’t do a thing.’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ said the rock-troll. ‘I meant the other thing.’
The Norn wasn’t listening. ‘What I want to know is,’ she continued, ‘who is bluffing who? Is it the Girls bluffing Wotan, or Wotan bluffing the Girls, or are they all at it?’
The troll frowned and scratched his head, producing a sound like two millstones. ‘What are you on about?’ he asked.
‘You are a slowcoach, aren’t you? If the Girls wanted to stop Ortlinde from nobbling the Ring-Bearer, why didn’t they just tell him who she was, instead of coming here and making threats to Wotan?’
The troll thought about this for a moment, then nodded his head. He was not so grey as he was granite-looking, and he could see that there was indeed an inconsistency.
‘What I think,’ said the Norn excitedly, ‘is that the Ring-Bearer already knows who Ortlinde is, and he couldn’t care less. They’ve tried telling him, and he doesn’t want to know.’
‘How do you make that out?’ asked the troll.
‘Simple,’ said the Norn, smugly. ‘They’ve tried telling him, like I said, and he isn’t interested. But they know that Wotan doesn’t know that the Ring-Bearer knows who Ortlinde really is. So they threaten to tell the Ring-Bearer, hoping that the threat will make Wotan tell Ortlinde to chuck it and come home.’
The troll stared at the bottom of his glass, trying to unravel the Norn’s sentence. The Norn took this silence to mean that the troll was not yet convinced, and elaborated her point.
‘You see, if Wotan doesn’t know that the Ring-Bearer knows, then he’ll be afraid in case the Girls tell the Ring-Bearer, and the Girls will try and get him to make some sort of a deal. The Girls can’t make the Ring-Bearer chuck Ortlinde, because the Ring-Bearer presumably knows already - I mean he must know, mustn’t he? But they can get Wotan to tell Ortlinde to chuck it if they can make him think that the Ring-Bearer doesn’t know. Do you see what I mean?’
‘Did you think all that up for yourself?’ said the troll, full of admiration. The Norn blushed.
‘That’s very clever, that is,’ said the troll. ‘But what about the other thing?’
‘What other thing?’
‘You know.’ The troll made a vague gesture with his huge paw. ‘The other thing. I smelt it when the Girls walked in.’
It was the Norn’s turn to look puzzled. The troll made a great effort and thought hard.
‘Why was it,’ he said at last, ‘that old Wotan didn’t turn the Girls into something when they gave him all that lip? You answer me that.’
‘He tried to,’ said the Norn. ‘Just before he stomped off.’
‘Exactly,’ said the troll. ‘He tried to, but he couldn’t. There was something stopping him.’
‘What?’ cried the Norn, enthralled.
‘I dunno, do I? But they brought it in with them. I smelt it. There was something looking after them, or at least it was looking after Miss Flosshilde. Didn’t you smell it too?’
‘I’m no good at smells,’ confessed the Norn, who lived on a bleak, wet fell and had a permanent cold as a result. ‘Was it some sort of Power, do you think?’
The troll had done enough thinking for one day. His mind was made of sandstone and, besides, he had other things on it. He looked at the Norn for a moment and for the first time in his life attempted a smile.
‘You’re very clever, you are,’ he said. ‘Do you come here often?’
The Norn blushed prettily. She noticed that the troll had very nice eyes, and if one of them happened to be in the middle of his forehead, who cared? The conversation veered away from the Ring-Bearer and the strange-smelling Power, which was ironic in a way; for the change of subject and the emotions that had prompted it were largely due to their influence.
The Norn had been right up to a point. Malcolm had discovered who the girl he loved really was, but not from the Rhinedaughters, or even Alberich, who had rushed back from Germany to tell him. He had heard and finally believed the news only when a sparrow had perched on his shoulder in Bond Street and chirped the information into his ear. By that time, of course, Malcolm was engaged to the girl, which made things all the more difficult . . .
It had only taken thirty-six hours for Malcolm and the girl who had come to catalogue his library to become engaged to be married. Malcolm was not quite sure why he had felt such an urgent need to get official recognition for this strange
and unexpected outbreak of love in Middle Somerset. But it seemed the right thing to do, like getting a contract or a receipt. To his utter astonishment, his proposal had been accepted. The girl had simply looked at her shoes for a moment, smiled at him sadly, and said, ‘If you’re sure . . .’ Malcolm had said that he was sure, and the girl had said something along the lines of Yes.
One is meant to do something wildly demonstrative on such occasions, but Malcolm felt too drained to waste energy in running about or shouting. In fact, he realised, he felt rather depressed, although he could not imagine why. For her part, the girl was even more taciturn than usual. The pretty scene had taken place beside the river in the grounds of the Hall, and they had sat in total silence for a while before getting to their feet and walking back to the house. At the door, the girl turned and looked at him for a moment, then muttered something about getting on with the catalogue.
‘Catalogue?’ Was she thinking about wedding presents already? ‘What catalogue?’
‘Of the library.’
‘You don’t want to bother with that, surely? I mean . . .’
‘Oh, but I must.’ The girl looked at him again, not as one would expect a girl to look at her future husband. Nor was it an ‘Oh God what have I gone and done’ look; just a look, that was all. Then she went up to the library.
Malcolm sat down on the stairs and put his hands over his ears. He felt confused, and no thoughts would come into his mind. With a tremendous effort, he called up the aspects of the situation that required his immediate attention, and tried to review them in the detail that they seemed to warrant.
Unlikely as it seemed, he had just succeeded in getting himself organised for perhaps the first time in his life. He had fallen in love, and for a change the girl at the other end felt the same way. Instead of letting this chance slip through his fingers, he had got everything sorted out, and that was all there was to it. There was no earthly reason why he shouldn’t get married; he had a house and money, which was what a married man was supposed to need, along with a wife. If there had been anything wrong with the idea, then the girl wouldn’t have said Yes. She was obviously happy with the arrangement, and it went without saying that it was what he wanted most of all in the whole wide world. Was it? Yes, he concluded, it probably was. Mind you, it did seem a terribly grown-up thing to be doing, but then again, it would be, wouldn’t it? So far as he could see, he was Happy. He lacked nothing, and had all sorts of nice things to look forward to.