by Tom Holt
The dwarf fell silent and drank some milk. Malcolm could think of no answer to the case as Alberich had presented it, although he felt sure that there was a flaw in it somewhere. Alberich wiped his moustache and continued.
‘And so you give this irregularity in your minds a name of its own. You call it Love, which is meant to make everything all right. Rather than try and sort it out or find a vaccine, you go out of your way to glorify it. I mentioned your art and your poetry just now. What are your favourite themes? Love and War. The two things that any species can do, and which most species do so much more sensibly than you lot - screwing and killing - are the things you humans single out to make a song and dance about. Literally,’ said Alberich, who above all else detested musicals. ‘Now be fair,’ he continued, ‘can you honestly say that a member of a species with this ancestral fallibility should be allowed to rule the universe?’
‘But isn’t everybody the same? Don’t the Gods and Goddesses ever fall in love? And didn’t you once try and chat up the Rhinedaughters?’
Alberich winced. ‘It is true that the High Gods do occasionally fall in love. You have, as a matter of fact, singled out the one race nuttier than your own. We Elementals have a far better record. The spirits of wood and stone have been known to make idiots of themselves, and I myself did go through a bad patch, I will confess. The spirits of wind and water - the Rhinedaughters, to take an excellent example - have so far proved entirely bulletproof. But even when we do go haywire, we get over it very quickly and very easily. We see how stupid it is, and we pull ourselves together. Look at me. And your lesser Gods, your phenomena and abstractions and so on, have no trouble at all. Seriously, I should consider giving it best and handing the Ring on to a more suitable keeper.’
‘Such as?’
‘Modesty forbids.’
Malcolm shook his head sadly. ‘It’s not that I don’t accept what you’ve told me,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a point, I’m sure. But I can’t give you the Ring, much as I’d like to. I’ve promised to give it to her.’
‘But surely . . .’ Alberich rose to his feet, and then sat down again, a hand pressed to his abdomen. ‘Don’t say I’m getting an ulcer,’ he moaned, ‘not on top of everything else.’
‘You see,’ Malcolm went on, ‘the Ring isn’t about all that any more. It’s the only way I can prove to her that I really do love her. Don’t you see how important that makes it?’
At times, Alberich said to himself, there are worse things even than dyspepsia. ‘You haven’t been listening,’ he said.
‘Yes, I have. But she’s the most important thing in the world.’
‘If you weren’t bigger than me,’ said Alberich, ‘I’d break your silly neck. Make yourself shorter and say that again.’
Malcolm wanted to explain, but that would clearly be pointless. The Nibelung, he could see, had no soul. He offered his guest another glass of milk, but the offer was curtly refused, and Alberich left in a huff.
Having filled himself with the conviction that what he was doing was right, Malcolm went down to the library to seek confirmation.
‘Hello,’ said the girl.
‘Hello, Ortlinde,’ he replied. ‘Funny, isn’t it, the way all the people I talk to nowadays have German names?’
‘You’ve got a German name.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘My name’s Malcolm.’
‘They didn’t tell me that,’ said the girl. ‘I think it’s a nice name.’
‘So is Ortlinde.’
‘Thank you. It means Place of the Lime Tree.’
‘I know.’
Malcolm remained standing where he was, feeling rather uncomfortable. The girl hadn’t moved either, and Malcolm was put in mind of a boxing match he had once seen where both fighters had refused to leave their corners at the start of the first round.
‘Are you really cataloguing the library?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ replied the girl, who sounded rather offended.
‘Sorry. Did you really train as a librarian, then?’
‘No,’ said the girl, ‘I never had an opportunity to have a career. But we’ve got millions of books at home, and my father never puts them back where he got them from. He’s very untidy.’
‘How old are you?’ Malcolm asked suddenly.
‘One thousand, two hundred and thirty-six.’
‘I’m twenty-five,’ said Malcolm, and he made some sort of a joke about having always preferred older women. Ortlinde smiled wanly.
‘There’s no point, is there?’ she said.
‘No point in what?’
‘In going on like this,’ she said. ‘It’s not your fault, really. It’s my fault.’
She was looking down at her sensible shoes again; Malcolm wished that she might learn some sense from them. ‘I lied to you,’ she continued, ‘I was sent to do something and I haven’t even managed to do that. It’s just that nobody’s ever loved me before, and I haven’t loved anyone before. But you’ll be all right, I know you will. You’ll meet someone else, and . . .’
‘I don’t want to meet anyone else,’ Malcolm shouted. ‘Ever again. I’m going to give you the Ring as soon as . . . as I’ve sorted everything out,’ he finished lamely.
‘But you can’t. If you did, you would know I’ve let you down, and I would know that too, and you wouldn’t be able to communicate with me and I wouldn’t be able to communicate with you and this terrible resentment would build up and neither of us would be able to talk to each other . . .’
She talked, Malcolm thought, in the same way as a rabbit runs; terribly fast for a short burst, then a long, long pause, then another breathless sprint; and every few words, a little nervous smile that made him feel as if someone were crushing his heart like a cider-apple. Unless he found some way of cheering her up, life with her would be intolerable. On the other hand, life without her would be equally intolerable or even worse, so what could he do?
‘Of course we’ll be able to talk to each other,’ he said firmly. ‘All I have to do is give you the Ring, and I’ll give it to you because I want to, because it’ll show you that I love you more than anyone else or anything else in the whole world.’
‘No, you don’t. You can’t. You mustn’t.’
Malcolm felt as if someone had asked him his name and then contradicted him when he answered. ‘Why not?’ he asked.
‘Because I’m not a nice person at all,’ replied the girl, gazing tragically at her shoelaces. ‘I’m nasty, really.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘No, you’re not.’
She’s probably never been to a pantomine, Malcolm reflected, so she wouldn’t know. ‘Really, you’re a wonderful person, and I love you, and you love me, and it’s all so bloody simple that any bloody fool could get it right. Don’t you understand?’
Malcolm was shouting now, and the girl had gone all brittle, like a rose dipped in liquid oxygen. ‘Come on,’ he said, lowering his voice with an effort, ‘we had it all sorted out a few hours ago. Don’t you want to be happy?’
There was a long silence; not a pause for thought, but an unwillingness to communicate. It was like trying to argue with a small child.
‘Well, don’t you? Look at me when I’m shouting at you.’
‘I don’t know,’ said the girl, looking even further away.
‘Then . . .’ Malcolm did not know what to say. Words were bouncing off her like bullets off a tank. ‘Then you’ll just have to trust me,’ he said. He had no idea what that remark was supposed to mean, but it sounded marvellous. He put his arm nervously round her shoulder; there was no resistance, but it felt like touching a corpse, which was strange. Up to now, she had been the warmest person he had ever known.
He left the library and wandered out into the drive. A small white Citroën was drawing up; it was the English Rose, back from her holiday. Malcolm groaned, and felt a totally unreasonable surge of resentment towards her. He knew that it had not really been his secr
etary who had invited the girl down to catalogue the library and so messed up his life. But on another level it had been, and that level suited Malcolm perfectly. He had found someone to blame for all his troubles.
‘That bloody librarian you hired,’ he started.
‘Pardon me?’ said the Rose. ‘I engaged no librarian.’
‘Yes, you bloody did. Linda Walker, Lime Place, Bristol.’
The Rose looked mystified. ‘To catalogue the library? But Herr Finger, you refused categorically to permit me to arrange for any such operation to be performed. I obeyed your instructions on that point to the letter. The person you referred to is unknown to me.’
‘Oh,’ said Malcolm. ‘Then I’m sorry.’
The Rose looked at him curiously through her spectacles.
‘Is there a person of that name - Linda Walker of Lime Place - currently engaged in the work you described?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ Malcolm suddenly realised that he couldn’t explain. ‘Well, now she’s here she’d better get on with it, I suppose.’
But the Rose seemed intrigued. ‘Would she by any chance be a young person?’
‘Yes, I think so.’ One thousand, two hundred and thirty-six. Well, you’re as young as you feel.
‘Excuse me one moment.’
Before he could stop her, the Rose scuttled into the house. Malcolm followed, but his secretary proved surprisingly fleet of foot. She had reached the library door before Malcolm caught up with her, and she threw it open.
‘For Chrissakes, Lindsy,’ she wailed, ‘what are you doing here?’
‘Hello, Mother,’ said the girl.
‘Believe me,’ said the Rose, ‘it was none of my doing. I came here specifically to prevent any such occurrence.’
The three of them were assembled in the drawing-room: Malcolm slumped in an armchair, which threatened to swallow him whole, the Rose perched on the arm of the sofa, and the Valkyrie Ortlinde, the Chooser of the Slain, sitting on a straight-backed chair staring rigidly at a spot on the carpet. The English Rose had sent for tea; it had arrived, and was going cold.
‘Who exactly are you, then?’ Malcolm forced himself to ask.
‘I am Erda,’ said the Rose, ‘also known as Mother Earth.’
‘But you’re American.’
‘That is so; but only by adoption, so to speak. I went to the United States - long before there were any States, united or otherwise - to be as far away as possible from my ex-husband, the God Wotan. Since he refused to allow me access to my daughters, I could see no point in remaining in Europe.’
‘You’re Mother Earth,’ Malcolm said dumbly. He wanted to argue this point. For a start, she was much too thin to be Mother Earth, but that line of argument would probably cause offence. He could see no reason to disbelieve the claim. Its very improbability made it plausible enough.
‘And this,’ continued the Goddess with a sigh, ‘is my daughter Ortlinde. I need not ask what she is doing here.’
The girl said nothing, which was entirely as Malcolm had expected. ‘Will someone please explain all this to me?’ he asked pitifully. ‘I’m only human, after all.’
‘Certainly,’ said Mother Earth. ‘When I perceived that you had obtained the so-called Nibelung’s Ring, I took it upon myself . . .’
‘How did you find out?’
‘I heard it from a nightingale who was present at the scene of the incident. I took it upon myself to place myself in a position where I could take an observer’s role, and so masqueraded as your secretary.’
‘But they said you’d been here for years.’
‘I am not without influence with the local minor deities,’ said the Rose loftily. ‘I am afraid you were misled.’
‘You mean the auctioneer and the estate agent and all those people were gods of some sort?’
‘Certainly not. Only the previous owner, Colonel Booth. He is the spirit of the small trout-stream that runs through the grounds of the house. It was through his co-operation that I was able to secure the use of this house, which I knew you had always wanted to live in.’
‘And he’s a god?’
‘Only a very minor one. Many people are, you know; about one person in two thousand is a god or a spirit of some sort. Of course, most of these are mortal and wholly oblivious of their divine status. We prefer to keep it that way. It’s like your English system of appointing laymen as Justices of the Peace.’
‘And where’s Colonel Booth living now?’ Malcolm asked, expecting the man to appear from the stream at the bottom of the garden.
‘I obtained a transfer for him to a tributary of the Indus. His family had served in India for generations, and he was most keen to keep up the tradition.’
Malcolm rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, but it did no good. The Rose continued.
‘I assumed this watching brief with the express intention of making sure that my ex-husband did not try the so-called Brunnhilde option on you. In the past, as you are no doubt aware, it met with some degree of success in the case of your predecessor Siegfried, and I felt sure that if other options failed him Wotan would not hesitate to use it again. I had thought, however, that he had given up for the time being, and so took my annual holiday in Stroud.’
‘Why Stroud?’
‘I am very fond of Stroud. Apparently, as soon as my back was turned, Wotan implemented this strategy.’ The Rose paused, and looked sternly at her daughter. ‘Perhaps you would care to leave us, Lindsy.’ The girl got up and wandered sadly away.
‘I must state,’ continued the Rose, ‘that I have only the best interests of the world at heart, and so my daughter’s personal feelings must not influence my actions at all. Nor must they influence yours.’
‘You’re fired.’
‘Mr Fisher, you do not seem to appreciate the gravity of the situation in which you find yourself. The situation as of now is extremely serious, and global security is at stake. To date, you have acted in a highly responsible manner towards the inhabitants of the world, and I felt confident that you could continue with this work without any undue interference from me.’
‘Hold it,’ said Malcolm. ‘You arranged that damned gymkhana thing, didn’t you?’
‘Correct.’
‘You must have known I’d have wanted to get my own back on Philip Wilcox. There was nearly an air disaster because of that.’
‘It was a risk I had to take. Had you continued to remain enamoured of Elizabeth Ayres, serious repercussions would have ensued on an international scale. I had to ensure that such an occurrence would not take place. Similarly it is of the utmost importance that I dissuade you from continuing in a state of love with regard to my daughter Ortlinde. The love syndrome is a condition which no Ring-Bearer should be in for any prolonged period of time.’
‘I know, I know,’ Malcolm muttered. ‘I’ve heard all that.’
‘Then,’ continued the Goddess, ‘you will be aware that the termination of this unfortunate situation must be expedited. It is as simple as that, Mr Fisher.’
Malcolm laughed loudly for rather longer than the remark justified.
‘Your natural reaction, I know, is to protest that the matter is not in your control,’ said the Rose. ‘This is self-deception on your part.’
‘Is it really?’ Malcolm turned away and counted to ten. ‘Why is it,’ he said at last, ‘that everyone I meet these days turns out to be a Goddess? You’re a Goddess, she’s a Goddess, the housekeeper is probably a Goddess.’
‘Incorrect,’ said the Rose.
‘Oh, good. Look, I don’t care, I just want to be left alone.’
The Rose continued with the same measured intonation, rather like the Speaking Clock. ‘Correct me if I am mistaken, but you were primarily attracted to my daughter simply because you believed that she was not a Goddess but a normal, ordinary mortal. A somewhat counter-intuitive reaction for a human being, if I may say so; it seems to be a commonplace of human love that the lover believes his beloved to be in some
way divine.’
This, Malcolm realised with a shudder, was the Rose’s idea of a joke. After a pause for laughter, which was not rewarded by the expected reaction, she continued.
‘Now that it transpires that she is not a mortal but merely a Goddess, your affection for her should logically cease. You may argue that she loves you . . .’
‘You noticed that, did you?’
‘Indeed. But her feelings towards you are simply the result of unclear thinking and underlying emotional problems, which I fear have now reached a point where the most competent analyst would be unable to help her. By extending reciprocal affection towards her, you will only cause her emotional situation to deteriorate; so, Mr Fisher, if I may be counter-factual for a moment, if you care about my daughter, you must stop loving her. It would likewise be in your own interest to desist, since you are doing considerable harm to your own emotional state which, I hardly need tell you, is by no means satisfactory.’
For the first time, Malcolm felt pity for Wotan. This sort of thing all day long would try the patience of any God.
‘My husband was a similarly unbalanced person,’ continued the Rose. ‘His case should provide you with a most graphic illustration of the dangers of embarking on a serious relationship when the balance of the mind is, so to speak, disturbed. In short, Mr Fisher, it is imperative that you abandon your intention of giving the Ring to my daughter. You must set your personal feelings on one side entirely.’
‘Get knotted,’ said Malcolm violently. It was no way to talk to a Goddess, but he was past caring.
‘Should you fail to do so, I regret to have to inform you that you may well be directly responsible for global cataclysm. If my ex-husband were to resume control of the Ring, the consequences for the future of humanity would be at the very least severe, and quite probably grave. You yourself would undoubtedly fail to find the happiness you misguidedly believe would result from a relationship with my daughter; added to which, you would certainly be involved along with the rest of humanity in any potential Armageddon-type scenario that might arise as a result of my ex-husband’s ownership of the Ring. In short . . .’