by Libba Bray
“And what’s that?”
“I don’t know,” he says, sounding weary. “But I can tell you what it isn’t. It isn’t standing in somebody else’s yard, smiling and rosy-cheeked while the dogs sniff you for a crap post. It isn’t having teenagers steal you in the night and take you on vacations where they snap your photo in front of the Matterhorn or Old Faithful or a KOA campground just for grins. It isn’t the mailman giving you a kick for fun. It isn’t this.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve never spent a party talking to a yard gnome. In fact, I’m not convinced you’re not a hallucination.”
“I give you my word that I am as real as you are. You asked my name.” His voice gets deeper, majestic. “I am Balder, son of Odin, brother of Höðr, friend to all.”
“Balder, wasn’t he a Norse god?” I say, remembering all my mother’s bedtime stories.
“Indeed.” He sounds pleased. “I am. Or I was. Once, in another time, another world. But Loki, the trickster, cursed me,” he growls. “And I found myself in this false form, forced to travel endlessly the nine worlds of Yggdrasil in the possession of others until I could find one who could understand, who had the sight to see through to my true nature. You are that soul, and now you will guide me to Ringhorn.”
This whole thing is starting to make me wonder if maybe I should get on some serious meds pronto.
“Ringhorn is my ship, which waits for me. If I can make it to the sea, to Ringhorn, the curse shall be lifted and I shall be free. At last, I feel the winds of luck have shifted—thank the gods.”
A dog comes sniffing through the grass. It gives Balder a quick once-over, lifts its leg, and lets go all over him before trotting away.
“Could you turn on the hose, please?” he asks with a heavy sigh.
I find the knob for the hose, crank it to medium flow, and follow the green rubber snake of it back to Balder. With my finger over the nozzle so it sprays like a real shower, I give him a good dousing. Finally, he sputters that it’s enough and I turn it off.
“Hold on,” I say, running toward the house. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“You’re quite the wit,” he grumbles.
In the kitchen, a couple of guys are fighting near some half-dressed girls. Carbine’s shouting, “Break it up! Break it up, dudes!” and pulling them off each other. No one sees me as I grab the roll of paper towels and sprint back outside.
“Here,” I say, blotting him dry. I can’t believe I’m toweling off a yard gnome. He’s still damp but better than he was.
“Thank you,” he says. “You’re most kind.”
No one has ever called me kind. Selfish. Weird. Unreliable. Frustrating. But not kind. I’m not sure what to say.
“You’re welcome.”
A handful of guys push through the screen door and congregate by the window air conditioner unit, where I know they can’t hear us.
“How have you come to be here in this place? What trick of fate has allowed our meeting?” Balder asks.
I shrug. “Somebody invited me to a party. Now I don’t know how to get back to the motel.”
“You have money?”
“Not much,” I say.
“Hmmm. Well, I wouldn’t ordinarily advocate stealing,” he muses. “But the idiot who lives here keeps his drug money in a jar under his bed.”
“I don’t know. Carbine looks like he could kill me without even breathing heavy. I don’t think I want to tangle with him.”
“I’ll do it,” the gnome says.
“I’m not trying to insult you, but how exactly can you do that?”
“I am bound to the one who owns me, taking whatever form they deem necessary. If you take ownership, I am pledged to you. You can grant me the use of all my faculties.”
“Okay,” I say. “What do I do?”
“Place your hand over my heart, and say what words form in your own.”
I put my hand on his chest. It’s cold, wet, and ceramic, and I feel like an A-1 asshole. “I, Cameron Smith, do grant this yard gnome slash possible misplaced Viking god, Balder, use of all his faculties to use as he sees fit. And stuff.”
Immediately, there’s a thump against my hand, followed by another, a clear heartbeat growing stronger, and Balder’s chest warms. The painted coating bubbles up, dissolves, and is sucked into his pores. Sun-bronzed flesh emerges in its place. His beard softens; tendrils of it touch the collar of his chain mail, making him look like an eccentric guitarist for some Texas blues band. His cheeks blaze red, and his painted-on smile morphs into a very real, very wide smile. Those gray-blue eyes twinkle with wonder, and two thin streams of tears trickle down his red cheeks and disappear into his thick beard. The yard gnome is as alive as I am.
“Holy freakin’ Ragnarok!” I gasp.
“Noble Cameron, I am forever indebted to you,” he says with a little stiff bow. He wipes his face dry. Mischief glints in his eyes. “Now, to help you. Carbine’s bedroom window is around the side of the house to my right. If you will give me what you call a boost, I shall crawl in, plunder, and return with the money. It would be best if you were to carry me past the others, allowing me to ‘play dead,’ so as not to arouse their suspicions. Let us make haste.”
As a kid, I imagined lots of different scenarios for my life. I would be an astronaut. Maybe a cartoonist. A famous explorer or rock star. Never once did I see myself standing under the window of a house belonging to some druggie named Carbine, waiting for his yard gnome to steal his stash so I could get a cab back to a cheap motel where my friend, a neurotic, death-obsessed dwarf, was waiting for me so we could get on the road to an undefined place and a mysterious Dr. X, who would cure me of mad cow disease and stop a band of dark energy from destroying the universe.
Five minutes after I’ve helped him in, the gnome appears at the window again, a big wad of crumpled bills in his hand. “I’m afraid I’m a bit rusty yet. Grab my legs!” he whisper-shouts. I pull him to safety and he presses the bills into my hand. “I took the whole of it, three thousand dollars, just to be sure.”
“Whoa.” I can’t stop staring at all that green.
“Quickly,” Balder admonishes.
I shove the bills deep into my pockets. “I feel kind of bad taking this.”
“Don’t,” the gnome says. He wobbles on shaky legs toward the yard. “His wealth is ill-gotten. And once he dressed me as a ‘Hootchie Mama’ and posted Internet pictures on a fetish site called Naughty Gnomes. I cannot adequately convey the trauma of it. Now. The telephone is in the living room by the TV. I’ve seen cabs here before—County Cab, 1-800-333-1111. When you’ve been taken hostage as much as I have, it helps to pay attention.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“You’re welcome.”
After I make the call, I come out to find the guys who were smoking the J now crowded around Balder. “Hey, man, I’ll bet this little guy would make a good football or target practice.”
Balder’s face is a mix of terror and sheer pissed-off-ness. Given the chance, he’d run these guys through, I bet.
“I wouldn’t do that,” I warn.
The guy closest to Balder shouts, “Yeah? Why not? You gonna kick my ass?”
Lovely. Gee, I hope we’ll be friends forever. “Naw, man. I just saw this big dog come and take a piss on him.”
He jumps back fast, and the other guys laugh and high-five each other. “Awwww, dude! Close one. Dog piss!”
Somebody sticks a head out the door. “Yo! They’re showing Chainsaw Motel on the late show! Get your sorry asses inside.”
“All right! Cannibals!” the guys yell, and stumble-run to the house.
Balder lets out the breath he was holding. He bows. “That was a nice thing you did. You are indeed noble.” With his chain mail and domed helmet, he reminds me of some weird, courtly little knight. “Please allow me to read your fortune in the runes.”
“What?”
“The runes,” he says, drawing a small leather pouch from his pocket. “We from the
North use them as tools of protection and divination. Here.” He offers the pouch. “Draw one.”
I pull out a smooth stone with a weird “R” etched into it.
“Ah,” Balder says, lighting up. “Raido. The rune of travelers, for it means a journey will be undertaken. The journey will be important and there will be no getting around it.” He puts the pouch back. “You might need the services of a warrior. I would be happy to ride into battle with you, if you chose to take me with you on your journey.” He shoots me a hopeful look.
How the hell am I going to explain this to Gonzo? My cab pulls up to the curb. The driver honks once. I stand up and brush the grass from my jeans. “Okay, here’s the deal: I’m traveling with a friend, Gonzo. You have to talk to him, too, because he already thinks I’m going insane, and I don’t need any more help on that front. Got it?”
“Indeed.”
“We’re going to Florida. There’s a beach there. I don’t know if your ship will be waiting for you or not—I mean, I can’t promise anything—but it’s a shot.”
He bows deeper this time. “The gods have truly sent a wise one to me. I shall honor your wishes, and I shall make one condition of my own.”
“What’s that?”
“You and your friends are not to take any unauthorized pictures of me. I do not wish to show up on your Internet page posed in front of any national monuments or next to dubious signage with some obnoxious caption underneath. I’ve had quite enough of that.” His expression is as no-fooling as they come.
“Got it,” I say.
I lift him in my arms like a baby. On the way to the cab, Balder gives one last look at the cul-de-sac—the weedy yard, the rock garden littered with butts, the cars lining the block like conformity guards. He gives a small wave, and I think maybe he’ll miss this place after all, but then his fingers slowly bend till only the middle one’s left standing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
In Which I Learn That Two Very Small People Can Add Up to a Major Pain in the Ass and We Nearly Bite It at the Konstant Kettle
Gonzo’s gotten up in a bad mood. He’s not happy that I went to a party without him. He’s not happy that I don’t have exact change for the soda machine. He’s not happy about getting his lazy ass up before noon, even though the Mister Motel—while being lax about the sort of cretins who rent their rooms—is pretty serious about their eleven o’clock checkout policy, and I am not about to be charged another full day rate so Gonzo can sleep in. But once I introduce Balder, the talking Viking yard gnome, Gonzo is unhappy for a whole new set of reasons.
“I’m just gonna verify this one more time, dude: I’m having breakfast with a yard gnome,” he says, once we’re established in a booth at the Konstant Kettle, located conveniently to the right of Mister Motel. He hasn’t touched his breakfast.
“I am Balder, god of wisdom, second son of Odin,” Balder explains between sips of tea. He’s wedged in the corner, where no one else can see him eating.
“Okay, you’re a delusional yard gnome,” Gonzo says.
“Let’s not talk about delusional,” I warn, looking around the place. I’m sure everyone’s noticed us—the twitchy teen, cranky dwarf, and talking yard gnome—but no, people are just going about their business here, digging into their corned-beef hash and eggs. It’s kind of funny and sad how people never really notice what’s going on, just like Dulcie said once. I wonder if I’ll ever see her again.
Balder’s eyes narrow. “You don’t believe me.”
Gonzo finally spears a slimy egg. “Uh, let me see. Hmmm … no. No, I don’t believe the yard gnome is a Viking god. Call me crazy.”
“Gonzo,” I start, but he holds his hands in a time-out “T” and turns to Balder.
“Let’s stop talking shit and be honest here. You’re a dwarf. I know it. You know it. Just own it, man. Stop the self-hate.”
“Very well. I shall prove that I am Balder.” He hands Gonzo a table knife. “Run me through with this smallish but worthy sword.”
Gonzo stops midchew. He opens his mouth full of gnarly egg-toast mash. “You want me to shiv you with a dull butter knife?”
“I want you to try to kill me,” Balder explains. “To make my blood flow like the Leiptr.”
“Dude, I’m eating,” Gonzo whines.
Balder smiles. “Don’t worry, I cannot be harmed. That is the power of Balder the great.”
“Listen—” Gonzo starts. Without warning, Balder pushes himself onto the knife in Gonzo’s hand. The blade disappears in his rounded belly.
“Aaahh!” Gonzo cries. A few heads pop up in our direction. I use my body to block any view of Balder.
“Would you guys chill?” I whisper through tight lips.
Balder pulls the knife neatly from his skin and lays it on the table. It’s completely clean.
Gonzo’s face is white. “Dude, you are freaking me out.”
I put my hand on Balder’s stomach. There’s no wound. “How did you do that?”
“I am immortal.” Balder takes a sip of his tea. “You see, I had a fearsome dream that I would be killed, and so my mother, Frigg, traveled to the underworld to beg for protection. She went to everyone in the realm and made each one promise not to hurt me. All swore an oath, save the tiny mistletoe bush, who was too young to make such a promise. Thus, I was protected.”
I vaguely remember my mom telling me this story. It seemed different when she told it, but I can’t remember—all that stuff is disappearing from my head, misplaced files I can’t always find. Mom. If she were here right now, she’d be pitching a fit about Konstant Kettle. She’d probably tell the poor waitress that Constant shouldn’t be spelled with a “K” and that they’re contributing to “education erosion.” That’s the sort of stuff that always embarrassed me about my mom. I feel bad about not calling. She’s probably going nuts. I use the complimentary pack of crayons to draw on my napkin.
“For sport, the others would try to kill me—they’d throw stones and darts, even spears,” Balder chuckles. “I remained unharmed.”
Gonzo smears an inch of butter on his toast. “And I thought dodgeball was sadistic. I’d hate to take a Viking gym class: ‘Hey, Timmy, dodge the spear and … oh, sorry, Timmy. Listen, you don’t need more than one arm, not really’”
“May I finish?” Balder says, clearly annoyed.
Gonzo reaches over him for the jelly. “I thought you were finished.”
“When a Viking warrior dies, they make a pyre upon a mighty vessel, set him on it, and send him off to Valhalla, the hall of the gods in the afterlife. It’s a very noble death.”
Gonzo rolls his eyes. “Set on fire? Yeah, sounds like big fun. Can you pass the ketchup?”
“I don’t expect you to understand,” Balder says. “You are not noble.”
“I came on this trip, didn’t I? I didn’t have to do that? Cameron, tell him I didn’t have to do that.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.
Gonzo points at me with his fork as if to say, See, you asshole?
Balder sizes Gonzo up. “You’re quite small, aren’t you?”
Gonzo narrows his eyes and tightens his grip on the fork. “I don’t really think you’re in a position to be talking about somebody’s size, are you, dude?”
“It’s not a question of size. It’s a question of stature. In my travels, I’ve learned to speak five languages. I’m versed in science, the arts, music.”
Gonzo stares at him. “You’re a freakin’ yard gnome. Dude.”
“Dwarf,” Balder grumbles.
“Piss post!”
“Ignoble.”
“For Chrissakes, can we just get along and eat in peace?” I say with a sigh. I don’t feel so great. My head’s throbbing and my stomach hurts. I don’t think it’s my CJ, just an old-fashioned hangover. I look down at the napkin, where I’ve crossed out the “K” in Konstant and replaced it with the proper “C.”
“I’ll be right back,” I say.
“
Where you going?” Gonzo sounds panicked.
“I’ll be right back. You guys just … get to know each other. Bond,” I say.
Balder offers Gonzo the butter knife. “Perhaps you would like to stab me again?”
“Cameron, don’t leave me with the freaky yard gnome!” Gonzo pleads, but I’m already up.
There’s a pay phone in the way back next to the men’s bathroom. I drop in all the change I’ve got and make the call. It rings four times and goes to voicemail. I hear my mom’s familiar message—“Hi, this is Mary Smith. I can’t come to the phone right now because I’ve probably been carried away by griffins. But if you leave your name and number, I’ll get back to you just as quickly as Hermes would.” There’s a pause, and then she says to me, “Cameron, did I do that right? Oh! We’re still recording! Oh my goodness …,” and her laugh is cut off. That message used to annoy the crap out of me—my mom being all spacey and mom-ish. But right now, hearing her voice is the best thing in the world, like waking up and realizing there’s no school. There’s a beep, and my stomach tightens.
“Um, hi, Mom. It’s me. Cameron. Well, you probably figured that part out,” I say, sounding like the biggest dork. “Anyway, I’m okay. I want you to know that first. And, you know what? Keep grading those moronic English Comp 101 papers, because otherwise, we’re all gonna be getting our gas at the K-W-I-K S-E-R-V and drinking our E-X-P-R-E-S-S-Os at the Konstant Kettle, two K’s. Seriously, the world needs you. You matter. A lot. Okay, I gotta go, ’cause the griffins are here and you know how much they hate to wait. Love you,” I add quickly, and hang up.
I turn and bump into somebody reading a newspaper. “Sorry,” I mumble.
“No problemo,” comes a familiar voice. Dulcie lowers her newspaper. Her bright pink hair has been twisted into short, corkscrew curls that wiggle when she shakes her head. “You would not believe the things people put in the personals these days.”