Classics Mutilated

by John Shirley

Eilif and I shared another class, and his incessant talking continued throughout. Following that, we headed in separate directions and I thought I was through with him. But unfortunately, as I later made way to the many spits where fire-roasted lunch awaited us, he approached me once again.

  It had been a long day already and not yet half-done, and the constant feeling of scorn from teachers and students alike had been mentally exhausting. I craved neither food nor the companionship of Eilif, who was as interested in explaining to me the breed of goat we were to consume as I was in trying to tune out his voice.

  It was then that my aches, my hunger, my loathing for both myself and all others … all of these discomforts left my body in a flash, for it was there in the lunchroom at that moment that I first noticed them. A group of mysterious strangers across the lunching area. The rest of the world seemed to turn insubstantial and gray in comparison to what I now saw.

  There were four students all hunched together, keeping their distance from everyone else. Every one of them possessed a near-translucent skin tone, as pale as anyone yet to be spirited away to Valhalla’s halls. Their hair colors and body types varied greatly, yet there was something about them that made them all seem the same. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Had I been able to, I would’ve saved myself the grief to come.

  The smallest of them all stood a foot taller than anyone else within sight. They all had dark eyes, with deep shadows under those ebony eyes. I was nigh mesmerized by what I saw, but it wasn’t because of their overall appearance.

  No, I stared because their icy faces were inhumanly beautiful, like visions glimpsed in an oracle’s reflecting pools. One in particular, a female. They all bore the visage of godlike beings. Yet I was myself a northern god, and familiar with the surrounding pantheons. Which begged the question …

  “Who are they?” I said in a breathless tone.

  By this time, Eilif and I had been joined by other students he knew. One of them was a female fire-demon named Surty, another a lowly Viking child. They ignored my query; instead, Surty spoke at length about being here in Jotunheim as part of the advance scout for some invasion or other. If I had a gold coin for every time I heard someone talk about their intent to invade somewhere, I could swim in a pond-full of gold. Besides, I could not be bothered to listen to her when there was a much more captivating scene displayed in front of me.

  Surty changed her tactic, moving from talk of impending war to a subject that actually interested me—the answer to my question of just who was the bedeviling creature in front of me. She said, “They’re the Geirrods. Those blondes are Grid and Griep, the thin one is Porr, and that brunette,” she paused for effect, “is Gjalpa.”

  I ran the name through my head. Gjalpa.

  “They all live together with Geirrodr and his wife in the northern shadow of Yggdrasil.”

  “They don’t look related,” I said.

  “Oh, they’re not.” Surty had clearly grown bored with this conversation, and she absentmindedly melted the leftover chicken bones in her grasp as she spoke. “Some say they moved here years ago. Some say they’ve always been here. Geirrodr adopted all of them, wherever they’re from.”

  As we spoke, I glanced again at the group of over-tall strangers. From across the room, Gjalpa appeared to turn her head and stare at me. Not just look in my direction, but into mine own eyes. Is that … is that even possible, that she should notice an outcast such as I?

  Well, let me correct that—of course it’s possible that she would notice me. For am I not still Loki? But regardless of my opinion of myself, I quickly turned away. When I looked back a moment later, she and her group were gone.

  “Time to get going,” Surty said. “Got to study. Schoolwork before making war.” She wandered off with her friends, leaving me alone with my thoughts. And Eilif.

  “Where you headed next, lemme see!” He grabbed my class schedule from my hand. “Ahh, you’ve got Metallurgy next, same with me. C'mon, I can walk you there. I’ll show my nickname isn’t accurate any more! Eilif the Found, I am!”

  I prayed that Heimdall didn’t hear the sound of my eyes rolling from here to Asgard, but it wasn’t out of the question.

  In the Metallurgy class, my luck improved when Eilif drifted away to sit with others he knew. For an anonymous and disfigured dead Viking on loan to the school from Valhalla, he certainly seemed to know a vast array of people. He took a seat in the back of the room, his endless prattle wafting away from my ears as I headed toward the one remaining open seat. It was then that I noticed the person occupying the seat next to where I was headed—Gjalpa Geirrod.

  I took my seat next to her. As I sat, I turned to look at her. At her shoulder, anyway—her actual head sat at least another head’s length above mine. These were not small people, the Geirrods.

  She turned away from me, and her frosty demeanor was palpable.

  As the teacher, a hideous dwarf who I could scarcely stand to lay eyes on, began his lesson, I noted that Gjalpa’s hand was frozen in a fist. The waves of coldness continued to emanate from her. Had I somehow so wronged her with my furtive glances earlier that she was filled with cold loathing for me? Or was this normal behavior for her? My reputation, my recent misdeed in Asgard … those could not have followed me here so quickly, could they?

  I dared not speak to her until she relaxed her fist.

  This continued on for the duration of the class. The disgusting dwarf spoke much, danced around animatedly as he spoke of smelting steel, and did his level best to keep the class engaged. I paid his foul self no attention whatsoever. Despite the perceptible chill I felt, sweat escaped my brow in a trickle and I prayed to my mother that Gjalpa not notice my discomfort.

  Finally, the clang releasing us from our lessons sounded. Better to have poisonous venom dripped on my face for all eternity than to have to experience that awkwardness again. Gjalpa arose before the bell could finish chiming and quickly exited the class.

  “Loki.” It was Eilif, already at my side. These people moved quickly. “Wow, did you pierce Gjalpa’s heart with a mistletoe arrow or what?”

  “What?! Of—of course not, why would you ask such a thing? And with such a choice of weapon? I … whatever do you mean?”

  “Hey, take it easy,” he said. “I’ve just never seen her act like that before, that’s all.”

  So this was not her normal behavior. I carried home that small comfort.

  The night was a long one for me. My dog had yet to be sent to me, and I missed his company. But I became even more dismayed when I replayed Gjalpa’s bizarre behavior over and over in my head. She didn’t know me well enough to behave in such a manner.

  I was also troubled by the fact that this bothered me. I have e'er been alone but not lonely. Until now. Loki, the One, the ever-present, the independent trickster-god, could not escape the pangs of loneliness that washed over him. Er, me. The barn floor was especially uncomfortable this night, and sleep was long in coming.

  The next day was better … and worse. All night, I dreaded Gjalpa’s angry glances to come the next day. I longed to confront her and demand to know what her problem was. It seemed somehow important to know.

  It turned out that my sleepless night was for naught, as she wasn’t in school at all. None of the Geirrods were. It was especially disheartening to realize this since the sun broke through a bit, making the day rather pleasant, for a land in the throes of a year-long third winter, that is.

  Gjalpa and her adopted family didn’t attend school the rest of the week.

  The following week, walking across the meadow to my Armament class, I noticed the Geirrods gathered around the chariot parking area, feeding their horses. They joked and laughed with one another. In short, they looked like normal kids. Taller by far than the others, yes, but lighter of spirit than I saw upon my first introduction to them. I wondered if my great sense of loneliness was what caused me to project such strange personality traits on Gjalpa upon meeting her.

  Gjalpa
turned suddenly, again staring across the field and, seemingly, directly into my eyes.

  Even worse, she suddenly began walking this way.

  I hesitated for a moment, turning this way and that, pondering which way to go just long enough for her to appear in front of me, cutting off any escape option. Giantesses can cover a lot of ground very quickly, I noted mentally.

  “Hello,” she said. Her voice was like the beating of a snow owl’s wings across a crisp winter’s night. Unsure of myself in her presence, I said nothing.

  “Hello,” she repeated, not acknowledging my awkwardness. “My name is Gjalpa Geirrod. I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself before. You must be … Loki.”

  “H-how do you know my name? I mean, why did you call me Loki?”

  “Well, in class when you sat by me, the professor called you that name. “

  “Ahh, right. That vile, disgusting dwarf.”

  She smiled. “Yes, the teacher. You raised your hand when he referred to you as ‘Loki,' so it seemed reasonable to assume that that was indeed your name.”

  “In-indeed.” Stupid stupid stupid. I brought my gaze up to her face, an action which required me to crane my neck nearly to its breaking point. It was then I noticed her eyes.

  “Did you … did you go sleepless last night?” As soon as I asked the question, I regretted it. Stupid stupid stupid.

  “No,” she said. Her eyes were blazing red right now, a contrast to the deep black the first day I saw her. I noticed she clenched her hand into a fist again. But despite that implied threat of violence upon my person, or perhaps because of it, I felt a sense of calm around Gjalpa. Calm like I had rarely known in all my days.

  We spoke not again of her changing eye color—really, for one such as I who could alter his physical appearance into any living creature, what difference did variable eye color make? Our conversation continued on.

  “It’s good news about the snow, isn’t it?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “You don’t like the cold? You’d think that nearly a full calendar’s turn of the same weather might have acclimated you.”

  “It’s … not my favorite,” I said. I wanted to be more forthcoming with this person. I wanted to tell her how I felt a connection with her already, but I dared not say more. Yet.

  “Perhaps the amassing fire demons will bring a more temperate clime,” she said. I only think she was joking. “You must find Jotunheim a difficult place to live.”

  “You have no idea. However, an unpleasant life is still preferable to the alternative back home. Things there were … complicated.”

  “Why did you come here? You can tell me.”

  “I …" I hesitated. Were my secret to get out, the rending of my limbs could be soon to follow. And I was rather attached to my limbs, and they to me. However, there was something in her plaintive manner that appealed to me. I let down my guard and told her who I was. I told her everything. Only later would I realize what a mistake this was.

  “… and so, it was really nothing more than a prank gone wrong. Grear Balder used to boast of his impervious nature, how only the mistletoe plant could gravely harm him. Am I truly to be faulted for putting that boast to the test? Yes, Balder was the most beloved of all the northern gods, and yes, he was slain by a mistletoe arrow that did indeed pierce his heart. Some could argue that I was directly responsible for this death.”

  “Some?” She smiled again, eyes blazing red but possessing no judgment in them.

  “Okay, well, all. But really, he must share some blame for making that kind of boast. It felt like a direct challenge to one such as me.”

  Was I saying too much? I kept the story as truthful as possible, although I did not mention the fact that I would indeed have slain that preening fool myself had I thought I could get away with it. Instead, I armed the blind god Höðr with an arrow carved from mistletoe. But how could I have known that the unseeing fool would strike a killing blow?

  “The one thing I hear of mistletoe,” she said smiling, “is that the plant has other, more … mutually beneficial … uses than just mayhem.”

  And with that, Loki’s own heart suddenly felt pierced. We spoke no more. She looked down into my eyes. I stared up at her, her head looming large in my vision, a source of brightness amidst the storm clouds that had again gathered overhead.

  I know not how long we spoke, for time stopped moving during our conversation. However, when it did restart, it did so in a hurry. As we stood in the field, a carriage led by two large horses started to take flight in the distance behind us. But as I would learn later, the foolish coachmen only had with him one large carrot, and neither horse was willing to share with the other. The piebald horse slammed his head into the other horse in an attempt to snatch the carrot away. This sent the carriage careening wildly out of control. Right for us!

  The coachman was helpless to stop this as the horses battled, themselves oblivious to anyone in their path. The carriage slid recklessly out of control across the ground, with us in its path. As much as the fates like to predict our end, they are often wrong, and I assumed that my time of demise was only seconds away.

  Suddenly, Gjalpa leapt in front of me, crouching down and touching the ground with both hands, palms pressed flat against the hard-packed dirt.

  The horses and the carriage suddenly slid to either side of us, as though they struck patches of ice that did not exist moments before. The carriage slammed hard into the wall to the left of us, although I did not see this—I had shut tight my eyes, preparing for the crushing impact.

  I opened my eyes and saw Gjalpa looking into them. The redness I saw in her eyes before was gone, her eyes again beautiful black pools. “Loki—Loki, are you all right?!”

  “I-I’m fine,” I said. I cast my eyes to the carriage. The horses were damaged, perhaps unable to ever fly again, but still living. The coachman was less fortunate. Which mattered not, since had he not perished in this collision, he would have met Loki later this evening and learned a valuable—and final—lesson in driving care. As it was, I made a mental note to revisit the two horses at midnight and impart the same lesson. My puppy, being sent to me this afternoon, would be in need of a good snack.

  “Gjalpa, how … how did you turn the carriage so? It appeared to strike twin patches of ice, but the ground….”

  “The ground on which we stand has no such ice, Loki. I was right next to you. The horses luckily veered off at the last instant.”

  As she helped me off the ground, I doubted my senses, and I doubted her story more. Magic was not exactly an unknown commodity in my life, and I was sure I saw something magical today. “No, you were … in front of me. But you touched the ground, and then they slid away….”

  “No, no.”

  “Yes, I saw you, Gjalpa.”

  “No. Please, Loki, trust me.”

  I wanted to trust her. I did. But fooling the eyes of a trickster-god is easier said than done. Still, I felt a bond with her that was new and surprising to me, and not so easily discarded. So I chose not to press the issue. The important fact of the situation—that Loki yet lived—was the only tangibly important detail anyway, and so I let the matter drop.

  “I—thank you, Gjalpa. For, um, talking to me, I mean. I am—I should go. I’m a bit shaken up, and I must prepare my barn for the arrival of my dog. He is being sent to me, and he’ll be hungry. I must prepare for him a nice supper.” I looked at the two injured horses as I said this.

  We parted. She went back to rejoin her adopted family, and the crowd that had gathered similarly departed. No one wanted to be present when the foolish coachman was spirited away to the halls of the dead lest his guides decide he needed additional company on that particular journey.

  Yet I stayed. I bent down to touch the ground in front of me. While all the hard-packed soil was cold to the touch—nothing in this endless winter town was anything but cold—I could have sworn that I felt icy patches that dissipated under the warmth of my touch.
Nothing was visible to the eye, and so I had no proof.

  I considered what this meant, and tried to make sense of the jumbled thoughts running around through my head. I felt like I was close to puzzling out what I was thinking, for I felt a familiarity with Gjalpa, a kinship unlike any I’d known before. I might well have avoided the anguish to come had I not been interrupted, but a crackling in the sky jolted me from my reverie.

  2. THIRD WHEEL

  I’d been told many things about the Valkyries from my father and the elder gods. Those death-obsessed riders of winged horses, those shield-maiden choosers of the slain, those vengeful spirit-warriors who would not only take departed souls to the death-land of Valhalla but also, occasionally and capriciously, grab those still living and take them there as well. These horrid creatures were said to be monstrous in appearance, horrible of manner and blackened of soul.

  “You only ever want to meet the Valkyries once in your life,” my father told me as a child. “And even then, many souls wither in their presence before ever being able to complete the journey to Valhalla’s fabled halls.”

  It seems my father never met hyperbole he didn’t love. For the Valkyries who appeared now in front of me through an electrified hole in the sky possessed one other trait my father neglected to mention, or perhaps never knew for himself (after all, with only one eye, it’s difficult to see things clearly)—they were impossibly, inarguably gorgeous.

  As the three riders entered the school grounds on winged horses so white in color that they fairly glowed with brilliant light, the shield-maidens themselves nearly burned my eyes, so great was their beauty.

  One in particular especially caught my eye. Never before today had the eyes of Loki been so ensnared so easily, but for the second time in recent memory, I was seized by feelings new and unexplored.

  The third Valkyrie to exit the rift in the air was also the youngest. She appeared roughly my age, while the other two were visibly older and battle-hardened.