[Anthology] The Paranormal 13- now With a Bonus 14th Novel!

by Dima Zales

  He seems so much like the nice, kind of shy awkward guy she remembers from the police station. Beatrice seems utterly enchanted by him. It takes nearly half an hour for her to turn to Amy and say, “How did your final exams go, dear?”

  Putting down her sandwich, Amy says, “Oh, great, Grandma. I think my exam for Equine Theriogenology went really well.” Her grandmother looks at her pointedly, and then tips her head in Thor’s direction. Amy belatedly remembers it’s not nice to use words people probably don’t understand. Licking her lips she prepares to explain theriogenology is the study of animal reproduction when Thor says, “Oh, really? Was the curriculum theoretical or practical? I’m no expert on theriogenology myself, equine or otherwise, but I have had the opportunity to be present for a foaling here and there. And my friend … Homer … was always hatching odd things.”

  Amy blinks. “The class was theoretical and practical … ”

  “Oh, excellent,” says Thor. “It’s so lovely watching foals clamber up on their wobbly little legs, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” says Amy, her mouth threatening to pull into a smile.

  “Did you grow up on a farm?” Beatrice asks Thor.

  “No,” he says. “But there were stables nearby.” Helping himself to the last of the stuffed cabbages, Thor says. “What are in these cabbages? They are delicious!”

  Beatrice giggles like a young girl and Amy restrains a sigh as her grandmother begins to tell Thor exactly what’s in them. Instead, going to the stove, Amy ladles another bowl of mushroom soup for herself. Actually, listening to her grandmother talk about ground pork and seasonings is beginning to make her feel like this isn’t a dream.

  Didn’t Dream-on-the-bus Thor tell her she’d know she was alive when things became ordinary again? And maybe Armor-in-the-garage-attic Thor was just another dream? She hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in days now. Maybe she drifted off to sleep when she came out of her shower and lay down on her bed? Of course! That must be what happened.

  She’s just going back to the table when the CD player, which had been playing some mellow shoe gazing electronica, switches to her grandmother’s Glenn Miller CD.

  Thor sits up straighter as the opening bars to “In the Mood” comes on. “I know this song,” he says.

  Sighing, Beatrice says, “I learned to dance the Swing with this song.”

  Thor grins. “So did I!” Setting his napkin on the table, he stands, bows slightly and holds out a hand. “Beatrice?”

  Beatrice puts a hand to her mouth. And then she smiles and says, “Oh, why not? But let’s go to the living room. There’s no space in here.”

  Taking Thor’s hand, she leads him to the other room and Amy follows.

  “No dipping or throws!” Beatrice says, “Remember, I’m old!”

  “Nonsense,” says Thor, putting a hand on her back as they step in front of the fireplace. “You don’t look a day over 65!”

  Beatrice laughs and holds up her hand for him. “I’m closer to 85, young man!”

  Taking her hand in his, Thor pauses. “No, really, I meant it, you don’t … ” The look on his face is genuinely perplexed. But then he blinks, says, “Good on you!” and they begin to dance. Thor is very gentle for such a huge guy and Beatrice smiles from ear to ear — if she feels anything weird beneath Grandpa’s old shirt Thor’s wearing, she’s not showing it. Amy leans against the mantle and just watches. She hasn’t seen Grandma this happy since Grandpa died, and it makes her a little misty eyed. Even if this is all in her head, for Beatrice’s sake, she doesn’t want it to end.

  And then it almost does. The light in the living room flickers and goes out, and there is an instant of darkness. But then, all at once, every single candle on the mantle lights up. Amy jumps, as her hair nearly catches fire.

  “Oh, candles! Lovely!” says Beatrice.

  Thor smiles at Amy. “Thanks for lighting those!”

  Amy decides not to say anything. Aren’t hallucinations part of sleep deprivation?

  As the music winds down, she just follows her giggling grandmother and Thor back into the kitchen.

  Breathing a little heavily, Beatrice sits down and smoothes her hair.

  Thor slides into the seat across from her and starts helping himself to the last of the boiled potatoes and sausage.

  “You are too much fun to be Thor!” Beatrice declares.

  Thor’s body stills, a spoon full of potatoes hanging in the air. “Oh?” he says. His voice has just the barest hint of an edge to it, and Amy tenses. “Who am I then?”

  Something mischievous enters Beatrice’s eyes. “I’d say you’re more a friend to Hoenir than you are a Thor.”

  Thor puts the potatoes down. “Friend to Hoenir … ”

  Winking, Beatrice says, “It’s a kenning, young man. You can Google it later.”

  “Google?” says Thor.

  “I’m a very tech savvy Grandma!” says Beatrice. “I email my granddaughter every day! It’s so wonderful.”

  “Email … ” says Thor.

  “Kenning?” says Amy.

  Looking at Amy, Thor says, “A kenning is a conventional poetic phrase used in place of the name of a person or thing. For instance, storm-of-swords means battle.”

  Beatrice blinks, “Very good! How about whale-road?”

  Putting a potato in his mouth — the whole thing, but it really isn’t that big a mouthful for him, Thor smiles, chews a moment, swallows, and then says, “The sea!”

  The next half hour or so consists of Beatrice throwing kennings at Thor. Thor gets all the old obscure ones, like gore-cradle for battlefield, and battle-flame for the light on a sword, but he misses the new ones, like beer-goggles. When Amy explains it he laughs heartily. He doesn’t get surfing-the-net either; when Amy tries to explain that one, he only looks befuddled.

  Thor’s cleaning up the last of everything on the table when Beatrice says, “Well, I think I’ll offer you dessert and then call it a night.” She looks at Thor’s plate. “Unless, of course, you still would like more meat and potatoes … ”

  She’s just being polite, of course; anyone can see it.

  But Thor nods vigorously. “I could eat more meat and potatoes if you’ve got them.”

  Beatrice blinks at him. “Well … I do have a cold smoked ham in the fridge I was thinking of serving my church group … ”

  Smacking his lips, Thor says, “That sounds delicious! I love ham!”

  Beatrice stares at him, then shaking her head, gets up and says, “I forget how much young men can eat!”

  Amy helps her grandmother put a huge ham on a serving plate in the middle of the table. Beatrice hands Thor a carving knife — and a loaf of bread for good measure, and then excuses herself. As she is leaving, she turns and says, “Friends of Hoenir are always welcome in this house.”

  Thor smiles. “Well, Hoenir is a lovely man. I’m sure any friend of his is exceptional.”

  Beatrice laughs. “Hoenir’s friend did put the gods in their place on more than one occasion,” and Thor looks absolutely befuddled again.

  Beatrice leaves the room, the old floorboards, and then the stairs, creaking as she goes up to her room.

  An awkward silence settles on the table. Thor rips off a piece of bread, looks down at his plate and says, “Friend of Hoenir … ”

  Amy whips out her iPhone and Googles it. She sits up straighter. “It’s Loki,” she says. She swears the lights flicker just a bit. At her feet, Fenrir makes the same noise she makes when she spies a rabbit.

  She looks up and sees Thor staring at her, as though gauging her reaction.

  Amy doesn’t move. She feels like pieces of a puzzle in her brain are falling into place, but the picture that is forming is too weird and too impossible to be real.

  He looks down at his plate. “Hoenir was a good friend. From the beginning … even willing to risk his life … ” Thor stirs the food on his plate, but says no more.

  Loki is 12 years old. A mist is settling over the gar
dens outside the palace in Asgard. It is early evening, and he runs as fast as his legs can carry him down dark garden paths, his breathing loud in his ears.

  He doesn’t stop until he gets to Hoenir’s hut. As he bangs at the door, a little gray mouse with eight black insect legs and no tail drops down from the eaves on a silvery trail of spider silk. Loki loves spiders. Ordinarily he’d pet the little creature, but now he’s too flustered to even raise a finger to it.

  The door opens and golden light spills out. Hoenir is wearing an apron and gloves of the kind falconers wear. He steps silently aside and Loki bolts in.

  Loki never knows what he’ll find when he comes into the hut. On the outside, it looks like a single room just a few paces wide, but on the inside it has many rooms, and is much larger than it looks from the garden. He never knows which room he’ll step into. Sometimes it’s a sitting room with comfy chairs and a roaring fire, sometimes an enormous library grander even than Odin’s, sometimes a kitchen, or sometimes, like tonight, he enters a workshop. There is a long workbench as high as Loki’s chest and some tall chairs next to it. From the ceiling hangs a large lamp-like thing that glows orange and nearly touches the bench top.

  Mimir is standing on his neck by the lamp. “Ah, Loki, we were just about to do a hatching. Would you like to select an egg for us?”

  Hoenir gestures towards an enormous basket, as big as Loki, filled with eggs, all rather long and oblong instead of the regular shape of a bird egg. Loki finds one that is about twice the length of his outstretched hands and about half as wide. It is leathery and soft.

  “Excellent,” says Mimir. “Why don’t you bring it here and set it beneath the lamp.”

  Hoenir leads Loki to a tall chair close to Mimir and the lamp. Loki climbs up on it and puts the egg beneath the light. The lamp gives off a lot of heat.

  The three of them sit staring at it for a long time. At last Mimir says, “So, Loki. What brings you to our hut at this time of night?”

  Loki shrugs.

  For a few moments Mimir says nothing, and then he says, “So have you seen baby Baldur? I’m not such a fan of babies myself, but Odin and Frigga’s child … why I’ve never seen such golden curls on a newborn. And even his cries sound musical.”

  Loki scowls. “His curls aren’t golden. His hair is thin and black and straight. And his cries sound just like every other baby’s cry. They’re loud and I wish he’d shut up.”

  “Now, now,” says Mimir. “I’ve seen Baldur, and he most definitely has golden curls, and rosy cheeks and … ”

  “No,” says Loki, staring at the egg. He thinks he sees it moving. “His hair is black. And his skin is pale and nearly blue … like mine. He looks more Jotunn than Aesir. And there’s magic all around him … gray magic, so dark it’s nearly black.”

  What Loki doesn’t say is how just being around Baldur makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. How he feels a chill just being near the baby.

  “Did you tell Odin what you see?” Mimir asks quietly.

  Loki can only swallow.

  “Oh, dear,” says Mimir, and Loki glances up to see Mimir looking at Hoenir. Hoenir looks very distraught.

  “I’m afraid to ask … ” says Mimir.

  Loki stares as the surface of the egg rips apart and a tiny hole appears. “Odin told me to leave the palace and never come back.”

  It was the only time Odin has ever screamed at him — usually there have been maids and governesses for that. Loki has taken his designation as “God of Mischief” rather seriously. Mimir and Odin have stressed the Aesir aren’t really gods — more gardeners of the World Tree, but Loki likes his moniker. It’s great fun to make an illusion of a snake in a laundry basket and then explain it to Odin as his “sacred duty.” Such things never fail to make Odin chortle.

  But telling Odin what Baldur looked like to him … that had not gone so well.

  Beside him he hears Hoenir scoot back in his chair. The egg starts to shake.

  “What sort of creature’s in the egg?” Loki asks. He doesn’t want to talk about Odin or his exile from the palace.

  “A hadrosaur,” says Mimir, his voice soft.

  “One of Hoenir’s creations?” asks Loki.

  Mimir raises his eyebrows, “No, well, only distantly. It was created by evolution.”

  Loki wonders who Evolution is but asks the more pressing question. “What is a hadrosaur?”

  “It is a sort of herbivorous dragon,” says Mimir.

  Loki puts his hands down on the counter and rests his head on them. The egg starts to shake some more; a tiny hole splits into a tear.

  The tear splits down the side of the egg, and then a tiny dark green head peeks out. The creature has eyes set in the side of its head; its mouth is slightly agape. Its teeth look strangely sharp for a herbivore — maybe they’re just baby teeth, sharp for splitting the egg’s leathery shell?

  “Wait a minute … ” says Mimir.

  Loki and Hoenir lean closer.

  Blinking hawk like yellow eyes, the head emerges on a long ungainly neck, followed by two tiny little arms with little hands and long sharp claws. Powerful hind limbs follow and a long thick tail.

  “That isn’t a hadrosaur,” says Mimir.

  The little creature tilts its head towards Mimir, then catches Loki’s eye. Seemingly changing its mind, it looks back to Hoenir.

  “No!” Mimir screams.

  Hoenir backs up, but too late. The creature springs from the counter and sinks its claws and teeth into Hoenir’s arm. Hoenir stares at it wide-eyed as though in shock.

  “Loki! Stop it! Stop it! ” Mimir shrieks.

  Jumping forward, Loki grabs it by the neck like he would a snake. He pinches its jaws on either side, pushing the gums into the creature’s own sharp teeth. It releases Hoenir with a hiss and thrashes in Loki’s hands.

  Mimir sighs. Loki holds it at arm’s length. “What should I do with it?”

  Putting a hand on his chin, Hoenir looks around the workshop, seemingly unconcerned with the blood dripping from his arm.

  Loki readjusts his grip so one hand is on the neck and the other is wrapped around the creature’s writhing torso. It really is quite interesting. He squints to get a better view of its tiny, razor teeth when the door to the hut bursts open.

  Odin stands in the door frame for an instant. Then he walks over to Loki with quick strides that leave Loki paralyzed with fear.

  Ripping the little dragon from Loki’s hands, he wrings its neck and throws the lifeless body across the room. Hoenir’s eyes open in horror. When Odin speaks, the hut’s windows rattle. “A velociraptor! I thought we discussed this. Never. Again!”

  “We thought it was a harmless hadrosaur,” Mimir says. “We were hatching it for the elves — ”

  Odin grabs Loki by the collar and shakes him so hard his teeth rattle “It’s your fault,” he says. Heaving Loki against a wall, Odin says, “What did you expect, Hoenir, inviting this little agent of chaos into your workshop? He should never come here!”

  Loki can only gasp for breath. With a sneer Odin tosses him to the side.

  “He can’t help what he saw!” Mimir shouts as Loki falls to the floor.

  Hoenir runs between Loki and Odin, and Mimir says, “You can’t kill Loki, Odin. Not really. Not without killing Hoenir, too.”

  With a cry, Odin tips over the workbench. Mimir’s head lands with a crack and then goes rolling across the floor. Laughing maniacally, Mimir says, “Oh, come now, don’t be paranoid of Hoenir and Loki’s friendship! They can’t help it.”

  “Shut up, Mimir!” Odin roars.

  “I won’t shut up! We don’t agree with how you treat him! Calling him the God of Mischief! You trivialize him!”

  “I’m trying to give him a childhood! Doesn’t he deserve that?” Odin yells.

  “You’re trying to control him!” Mimir shouts. “But as soon as he sees something you don’t like … ”

  Odin goes stomping in Mimir’s direction. Next
to Loki, Hoenir meets Loki’s eyes and then looks towards the door. Loki nods. As Hoenir runs between Mimir and Odin, Loki darts out into the night.

  The last thing he hears as darkness falls upon him is Mimir saying, “It’s not just chaos that gives birth to monsters.”

  Hours later Hoenir comes for him. In one hand he carries a lantern with a flame that he holds aloft. In the other hand he has a lantern hanging at his side, but where the flame should be is Mimir’s head.

  “Come with us,” Mimir says. “Odin will recover, but you’ll be staying with us for a while.”

  Loki scampers up from where he’d been huddled on the ground. He’s relieved, terrified, and confused. He says nothing that night. But a few days later, when he is sitting in Hoenir’s kitchen, he says to Mimir, “What did you mean, Odin trivializes me?”

  Mimir sighs. “Nothing, Loki. I said it in anger. Odin is very good at what he does … tending the branches of the World Tree, and keeping things running smoothly. I should not have questioned him in that way.”

  “I like being the God of Mischief,” Loki says. He does. There is a freedom in being a mischief maker; he can skirt rules and expectations. Sometimes he does it for fun, but sometimes he does it because it feels right. Like when a group of boys were saying cruel things to Sigyn, a girl Loki fancies. He sidled up beside her and made it appear as though both he and Sigyn were Valkyries with wings and flaming spears. To most male Aesir pretending to be female, even a Valkyrie, would be shameful. But it was so much fun as the boys ran away to shout, “What’s wrong! Afraid of girls?”

  Mimir says nothing for a few moments. But then he says, “Loki, about Baldur … It is alright for a man to be enchanted by his newborn baby.” Sighing, Mimir says, “And … Odin grieves for him.”

  “But he’s not dead,” says Loki.

  Mimir does not respond.