Hammered tidc-3

by Kevin Hearne

  After that I needed to sing a song to calm my own rage. The flood of it nearly loosed itself upon him, with no dam to stop it save my will; yet I knew that Thor could stand against that tide if anyone could, and furthermore I knew that I was woefully unprepared to fight him at that time. I had no defense against lightning. Instead, I did what I should have done earlier and cast a seeming over my presence to hide myself from his eyes. As Thor pulled himself through the water with powerful strokes toward the shore, I cast another seeming on my small hut and yet one more on my voice, so that when I spoke next Thor would not know from whence it came.

  The thunder god emerged from the sea looking every bit as angry as I felt. He took the hammer from his belt, where he’d secured it during his swim, and shook it threateningly in my general direction.

  “Coward! Show yourself! You who slew my goat! Answer for it!”

  “Will you answer for slaying the leviathan?” I said. My voice boomed from every direction, and the thunder god spun, trying to locate me.

  “I have nothing to answer for!” he shouted. “I did the world a service.”

  “Do the world another and slay yourself. That creature was harming no one.”

  “Foolish mortal! It was about to eat you!”

  “We were speaking peaceably and you murdered it without divining its true intent. And I am not mortal.”

  His expression turned incredulous, then composed itself into a contemptuous sneer. “What are you, some sorcerer who keeps serpents as pets?”

  I replied in the same tone, “What are you, a thickheaded, arrogant god who thinks immortality excuses all sins?”

  The sneer left his face, which reddened as he shouted in a circle, making sure I heard him. “That creature was a spawn of the world serpent and as such was my rightful prey! I merely practice for Ragnarok. What was your purpose? Jörmungandr will not wait for any man’s permission to attack Asgard, so I shall not stay my hand against those who would hasten its coming.” He stalked over to his chariot and yanked my spear out of his slain goat before tossing it into the fjörd. Then, with a touch of his hammer, he resurrected the beast, who looked a bit wild-eyed but otherwise none the worse for having been dead.

  “Witness the power I wield, whoever you are,” he said. “I am life and death. Vex me further at your peril.”

  He waited for a reply, but I made none. The time to vex him further is now; it was not then.

  Satisfied that he had cowed me sufficiently, he mounted his chariot and snapped the reins, flying back into the dark clouds that had concealed his approach.

  From that day to this I have mourned the loss of my unnamed friend and cursed the name of Thor. He ripped from me the wonder of the ocean; he stole from all men the knowledge of a world they can never inherit. The Finns may no longer need an old wizard to watch over them, but Thor still needs to answer for his callous murder.

  I have salted my hatred and cured it, stored it in a dark cellar of my mind against the day when I could let it be my only nourishment. The day is finally come, and I will tear into this meat and savor its taste.

  * * *

  Väinämöinen’s last words were a guaranteed applause line with this crowd. Perun suggested that it called for a toast. He pulled a bottle of vodka from somewhere and started pouring. I joined in, more out of appreciation for his lyricism than from any bloodthirsty sentiment against Thor. What had stunned me from the moment he described his unnamed friend was how it recalled what Odysseus had told me in Hades—I hadn’t been lying when I told Granuaile that the sirens had spoken to him of hasenpfeffer and sea serpents. What they’d said, essentially, was a bunch of rubbish to the fabled king of Ithaca, but to me it all made perfect sense. They had sung to him a series of prophecies that were far more accurate than anything Nostradamus spewed forth.

  That was the attraction of the sirens: not promises of power or riches, but bewildering, tantalizing prophecies that made men leap from their ships to go ask the crazy bitches what the fuck they were talking about. Or, if that didn’t work, then they leapt when the sirens said they knew what would happen to the sailors or to the sailors’ families. Odysseus lost his shit and demanded to be freed from the mast when they sang their prophecies about Penelope and Telemachus.

  Odysseus never saw any of their prophecies come true, but I did. He related to me what they said—word for word, because they were burned indelibly into his memory—and they were creepily accurate. They’d predicted the Black Death in Europe and the breadth of the Mongol Empire. They said things like, “The red coats will be defeated in the New World,” and “Two cities in Asia will perish under clouds shaped like mushrooms.” They added that “A man with a glass face will walk on the moon,” and “People will never get along in Jerusalem.” Only one of their predictions hadn’t come true yet: “Thirteen years from the time a white beard in Russia sups on hares and speaks of sea serpents, the world will burn.”

  Cue the shivering violins. Had I just witnessed the beginning of a final countdown? Was Väinämöinen the herald of the apocalypse? It occurred to me, rather uncomfortably, that if this final prophecy of the sirens came true, it would be shortly after the time Granuaile completed her training and became a full Druid.

  Correlation does not imply causation, I reminded myself. Maybe the sirens were talking about global warming.

  Perun was growing more convivial the more he drank. He was pounding two shots of vodka to every one of ours. Aside from getting happier, he showed no other effects of inebriation. Perhaps this was one of his godlike powers.

  “Is time for my tale, yes?” he said, rising smoothly to his feet and grinning amiably at us. “You maybe thinking, Perun just jealous of Thor. He does not want to share sky. But you would be wrong!” He pointed a finger at me and then waved it around clockwise to indicate everyone. “Plenty of sky for all gods. Plenty of men and women to make worship, plenty of vodka—hey.” He halted, raising his eyebrows at us and holding up his bottle. “You want more?” No one took him up on the offer, so he shrugged and poured himself a shot.

  “I drink alone, then.” He tossed it back, winced appreciatively at the burn in his throat, and exhaled noisily.

  “Ahhhh, is good. Good, very good. Now, listen like thieves.”

  I looked at him sharply to discern whether he’d intentionally alluded to an INXS song, but he appeared unconscious of making any pop culture reference at all, and no one else seemed to recognize it.

  “I tell you what happened. But I tell it short, yes? English is no good for me.”

  Chapter 17

  The Thunder God’s Tale

  Americans say all men created equal. These words very good. Make men feel special. They know is not true, not really, but they always say is true, and they point to these words and say, Ideas like this make us strong. They turn mouse into bear. They turn dog into bear. Everything can become strong like bear if you think with American brains. But if everything is bear, what do bears eat?

  Americans want magic, perfect world. But these places only seen in movies. People never equal, same as animals never equal. There is always predator and prey. Little fish make dinner for big fish, yes? And there is always bigger fish.

  Is same with ideas. Exact same. Small ideas eat up by big ideas. Big ideas stay for long time in brains of men. Small ones forgotten; is like little fish eaten up by big fish.

  Gods are big ideas. They stay for long time in brains. They walk on earth or live in sky or water or under ground. But even gods can be eaten by bigger gods.

  I was eaten by Christ. You see? Christ ate many gods. I mean he ate me as idea, not as flesh. He ate me and other Slavic gods. He ate Celtic gods and Greek gods, Roman gods and Norse gods—even Väinämöinen here—and took their places in brains of men. Some of those old gods are dead now. Men have forget—no, forgot—them.

  But I am not gone from all brains yet. There are some who remember me. There are some who still worship. I will not die until they forget.

  Yet I
am weak like kitten. Not strong like days before Christ came to my lands. And reason is Odin and Thor.

  At first I think only Thor did this. Later I think Odin ask him to do it. Thor comes to me and say, “My people build me finer statues than yours. They love me more than your people love you. Nothing is finer than statues and stone tributes.”

  He shows me his statues in Sweden. He shows me his tributes in Norway and Denmark, and they are fine indeed. I become envious. I become jealous. I ask my people to build me stone tributes. Wooden ones too. Not only for me but for my pantheon. This is how you show love for me, I say. And so my good people do this, and soon I have monuments and statues better than Norse ones.

  But later I see truth. Is hard to write on stone. So hard that it is better to write nothing at all. And any writing that goes on statues gets worn away by time. So then Christ comes with his reading monks and their printed word, and idea of Christ remains and grows while idea of Perun washes away in rain and wind.

  This is how gods are strong today. Christ, Allah, Yahweh, Buddha, Krishna: They have pages and pages of words about them. These words travel everywhere to bring idea of them to new generations. I have stone statues that travel nowhere. If lucky, I get half hour of man on History Channel asking who I was in deep voice.

  Odin saw this coming. He sent Thor to me to trick me into slow death. Then he sent Thor to Iceland to have their skaldic poets write Eddas. Centuries later, when it is too late, I see what happen. Norse remembered because of Eddas. They still weaker than before Christ, but much stronger than me. Because of words. Because now children in many parts of the world hear about them. And so they are bigger ideas.

  What can I do now? If I appear to men and say, I am Perun, I am a god, they will say, No, you are just very scary hairy man. This has happened. A man in Minsk said to me, Put down that axe and I will give you brush for hair.

  If I say to men, Look, I control thunder, they say, No, that is natural force. Is science. Or coincidence. Magic does not exist. Gods do not exist. No belief, you see, is as strong as their disbelief.

  And besides, they say to me, even if gods are real, you cannot be god of thunder. That is Thor.

  You see what Thor has done? Among all thunder gods in world, he is now supreme in minds of men. He has done this with words and by tricking me. He has stolen my thunder, as saying goes.

  And not only mine. I pay visit to other thunder gods. Shango in Africa, Susanoo in Japan, Ukko in Finland. All of them get visit from Thor, and Thor say to them, Oral tradition is best, or carve this in wood, or scratch this on rock, and you will be remembered. But none of them remembered now like Thor, except Olympians.

  Zeus and Jupiter doing fine. Much written about them by their people. Thor and Odin doing very well. And I think they see this time coming long ago. Old One-Eye throws runes, or he talks to Norns, and he sees what he must do to remain strong in age of science. He sees that he must make idea of Norse become bigger than ideas of Slavs or Celts or other peoples. And he sees he can do this with words instead of spear. He sends Thor out to world, statues and carvings get made, and many gods of world fall prey to bigger ideas.

  Their words—their lies—have made me little fish. But I am still fish with sharp teeth. They owe me blood. My axe will take it. Is all I have to say.

  * * *

  The lightning flash in Perun’s eyes was not so friendly by the time he finished his tale. I thought his self-assessment was remarkable for a god. I could not imagine the Morrigan, for example, frankly asserting that she was a little fish. Flidais would never contemplate the possibility that she might be prey; she was always the predator. Perun’s ability to do so spoke of a certain realism spawned by many painful hours of reflection. His seeming good humor most likely masked a terrible rage.

  I checked the magical spectrum to see if the stories were doing the trick, and it appeared they were. There were bonds forming between the men who had told their tales, gossamer threads of camaraderie twining between their auras. To those who hadn’t spoken yet, the bonds flowed only one way. Weakest of all, however, was my own bond to them. Thor had never done anything to me personally, so I couldn’t relate to them in this way. I’d bond to them later through different tales, some other shared experience that would make us brothers.

  There were two left. Everyone looked at Leif, but he stared at Zhang Guo Lao and nodded at him, indicating that the alchemist should go next. The ancient immortal returned the nod, acquiescing, and cleared his throat delicately.

  “If leisure serves, I will offer my experience now,” he said.

  There were replies of “Aye, Master Zhang,” and “Please, sir,” and “Excellent.” The immortal Zhang Guo Lao rose and bowed to us, then began his tale.

  Chapter 18

  The Alchemist’s Tale

  Begging your forgiveness for this poor, simple tale; it is a trifling matter only and not weighted with portent and substance like the adventures you have shared with me.

  In elder days I walked the earth as a simple man, learning the mystery of the Tao. Through study and application I conceived the Elixir of Immortality; through battle and experiment I won reputation; through legend and worship I acquired godlike power. Wisdom eludes me yet, but foolishness I captured long ago and to this day it is my constant companion, though many people consider me wise.

  Throughout China I am known for riding upon a white donkey. My portrait, sketched many times, always shows me astride my companion. This ass was a singular creature; he brought me much fame. He carried me for thousands of li every day, and when I arrived at my destination, I folded him up like a work of origami and put him in my cap box. When I was ready to travel again, I would squirt water from my mouth upon the paper donkey and it would expand and grow to its normal size.

  It was in this very part of the earth where I met Thor seven hundred thirty years ago. I was making camp for the night, about to fold up my donkey for the night, when he descended from the sky in his chariot pulled by two goats. Though the night was chill, he wore a fur wrapped around his hips, secured by a belt, and nothing else save a pair of fur boots laced up with rawhide.

  We exchanged greetings. He did not speak Mandarin and I did not speak Old Norse, but we both knew a third language, Russian, and we communicated brokenly in that, happy to have the practice. He smiled and was very charming. I invited him to join me for a humble dinner of fish broth and vegetables.

  “Why content ourselves with meager fish when we can feast on our animals?” the god asked.

  “I cannot eat my own ass,” I said, though I thought it should be obvious to him. “He carries me wheresoever I wish.”

  Thor shrugged. “I need my goats to pull my chariot. That doesn’t stop me from eating them whenever I get hungry.”

  “You must have a very large herd of goats to indulge in such wanton consumption,” I said.

  “Not at all. There are only these two.”

  “Will you not be stranded if you eat them, then?”

  He brandished his hammer. “No. I simply touch them with this, and they are resurrected from their bones.”

  “Surely you jest.”

  “Nay, I am in earnest. See for yourself.” He slew his goats with two quick strikes of his hammer, and then he gutted them and cooked large pieces of them over my fire. We ate until we were full, but I kept looking at the sad remains of their bodies lying on the ground. When we had finished, Thor stood over the carcasses of his goats and softly, even tenderly, touched them with his hammer. Immediately they sprang back to life, healthy as when they’d arrived, formed out of nothing more than skin and bones. They seemed content to graze nearby for the rest of the night.

  “Remarkable,” I told him. “I have never seen such doings.”

  “Efficiency,” Thor said. “It makes traveling much simpler. Where are you bound?”

  We spoke of our travels and traded tales of faraway cities. He was affable and polite, and for that evening I enjoyed his company. When I folded up my
donkey for the evening, he looked like a fish gasping for air.

  “I am truly astonished, Master Zhang!” Thor said, his eyes following me as I carefully stored my donkey in my cap box. “What a novel way to stable your beast! But does that not make it easier to steal?”

  “This box never leaves my possession during the night. It is very secure. And, besides, stealing it would prove no advantage. To everyone else save me, it is nothing more than a worthless piece of folded paper.”

  He stayed the night with me on the other side of the fire, and in the morning he asked if he might travel with me some distance, since my company was so refreshing. I agreed, for to have a well-traveled companion is no small comfort on a long journey. We spoke of novelties to be found in various corners of the earth, each cataloging future adventures to seek, courtesy of the other’s advice.

  When it came time to camp again and think about cooking dinner, Thor suggested we try something different. “I have been eating goat for far too long. I’m in the mood for something new. Why do we not eat your donkey? I will resurrect him tomorrow.”

  “Oh, no, I could never do that to him,” I said, holding my hands up in protest.

  “He won’t remember a thing,” the thunder god assured me. “Look you, my goats show no fear of men or gods, though I kill them every day when I travel. They are every bit as strong as the day they first became mine. The entire process will be painless. Please reconsider as a favor to me, your guest.”

  We were not at my home; we were merely traveling together. I did not think the customs of hospitality applied in this case. Still, I did not wish to be rude or give the impression of stubborn selfishness, and soon I had granted him permission.

  He swung his hammer down onto my dear donkey’s skull, and the animal was dead before he hit the ground. We ate—but I will not relive that for you.

  After we finished eating, I requested that he resurrect my donkey as promised.