by Dima Zales
“I don’t remember doing anything for Hoenir except causing trouble,” Thor says, the words tumbling out suddenly after a long silence. His eyes flick up quickly to hers.
“You don’t remember doing anything … ” Amy blinks. The puzzle pieces that fit together in her head, they’re just crazy. He isn’t Loki. The police let him go, he has a clean record, he’s got a social security number that checks out, for heaven’s sake. They’re obviously playing a little game here. She can play along. Raising an eyebrow, she says, “You’re Loki now, not Thor?”
He shrugs nonchalantly, but his eyes are glued to hers and there is a wicked glint there. “So you say,” he says.
Shifting her eyes back down to the iPhone she says, “Here it mentions you saving Hoenir while he was held captive by some dwarfs.”
“That never happened — it was Lopt who rescued Hoenir,” he says, too forcefully to be funny.
Tapping her screen with her thumb she says, “According to Wikipedia — ”
“Wikipedia?”
Amy feels a chill go down her spine. “How can you know what a kenning is and theriogenology and not know what Google or Wikipedia are?” She shakes her head. He is really good at this game. She blinks.
Or wait. Maybe he was raised by one of those fundamentalist religious groups that home school and don’t allow modern technology? She remembers how shy and polite he was at the police station. Even his awkward clothes. Yep. Rural religious fundamentalist home school escapee. It all makes sense.
Smirking at her he takes another bite of ham. “We don’t have Google or Wikipedia in Asgard,” he says.
Okay, now the game is funny again. “Uh-huh,” she says.
“So really,” he says leaning toward her from across the table. “What are they?”
Amy smiles. “Wikipedia is an online encyclopedia that everyone can contribute to.”
His eyes widen and a happy smile plays on his face, as though he’s just worked out something monumental. “Online means the internets?”
She does not snort. But it is a near call. “Yeah, the internets.”
Brow furrowing, he says, “If anyone can contribute, doesn’t that put the authenticity of the information in question?”
She smiles and looks down at a picture captioned, Loki as depicted on an 18th century Icelandic manuscript. “Yeah, you wouldn’t believe how unflattering the first picture of you is.” It really is hideous.
With a scowl he holds out a hand.
She passes over her iPhone.
His scowl deepens and he says, “The artist makes me look like a dwarf!” His irritation seems so genuine, she almost laughs aloud.
“And they gave you such a big nose.”
He pushes the iPhone back to her. Without taking it she says, “The picture of you and Sigyn isn’t so bad.” It isn’t a good likeness of the guy in front of her, but at least it isn’t ugly.
He stares down at the iPhone.
“Scroll with your finger,” she says.
He blinks. “Is any sort of special concentration needed?”
It takes her brain a little while to comprehend the randomness of the question.
Leaning forward, he says, “It’s like magic, isn’t it? Don’t I have to picture what I am doing in my mind?”
She purses her lips. “No,” she says softly. “You just have to move your finger.”
Swallowing, he gingerly puts his finger on the surface of her iPhone and then drags it down. Smiling, he says, “It works!”
His joy seems so real, it makes Amy’s eyes widen.
And then his smile vanishes. “Ah,” he says. “My 200 year imprisonment. It wasn’t as bad as depicted here. There was snake venom, but no snake, and I was shackled but could walk around a bit.” Squinting at her phone he says, “This looks nothing like me. Nice likeness of Sigyn, though … although I don’t remember the Bible-esque robes being in fashion then … ”
Holding the phone up he smiles wryly at it and says, “Ah, yes, memories.”
And that’s a little too much. Who knew homeschoolers could be such great actors? She takes the iPhone from him. “Okay,” she says. “Enough of this game.”
Shrugging, he says, “You started it.” And then he picks up his fork and starts to eat again.
Amy looks down at the iPhone and the Wikipedia entry on Loki. “Says here you are a shape shifter.”
“Um … ” he says.
She glances up and he looks distinctly nervous.
She grins and reads aloud, “Loki gave birth—in the form of a mare—to the eight-legged horse Sleipnir. Says the dad was some special stallion … ”
Putting his fork down hard, he says, “Now, how can shape changing even possibly work? We are all formed by immensely complex instructions coded into our cells and by the environment. It’s hard enough to just create simple elements, and so energy consuming. But for living things, the concentration, the imagination involved … How could anyone — well except maybe Hoenir and I’m not sure about that — ever hope to match the splendid complexity of all the subtle interactions — ”
Grinning wider, Amy says, “I’ll say you have a little experience foaling.”
He rolls his eyes and she snickers.
Glaring at her he says, “It’s not true.”
Amy snickers, “Of course it’s not true.”
Narrowing his eyes, he says, “I can only create illusions of other forms.”
Amy blinks, Fenrir barks, and across from her is a woman with Thorish strawberry blond hair wearing Amazonianesque armor that is more of a glorified girdle squeezing in an impossibly small stomach and supporting enormous breasts.
The woman gestures to said breasts and says in a voice that sounds exactly like Thor’s, “I mean, if I had these, would I ever leave the house?”
Amy stares at her hallucination for a fraction of a heartbeat, and then she bursts out laughing. She laughs so hard she convulses around her middle and hits her head on the table.
“It wasn’t that funny,” says Thor.
Rubbing her sore head she says, “No, no, no, it’s just, this dream is too wacky happy and unoriginal for me to be dying in a ditch somewhere. I’m at home and I’m hallucinating and I’m going to be fine.”
“Unoriginal?” says Thor, back in his more Thor-like form.
Snickering at how scandalized he sounds, Amy stands up and stretches. “I’m going to go to bed, or slip from REM to Stage 1 sleep. Why don’t you go now … if you’re even here.”
He stares at her a moment. Turning to the food on the table, he says, “May I take the ham?”
Shrugging, she says, “Go ahead.” She looks towards the living room. Flickering light is coming through the door. “I should put out the candles even if I am only dreaming.” Just to be on the safe side.
“Good idea,” he says. “How did you light them so quickly? Electricity?”
Turning back, she points at her head. “With the power of my mind.”
Brow furrowing, he says, “Don’t toy with me,” and waves a hand. Beneath the table Fenrir barks.
Amy turns around; the other room is dark. She peers around the corner; all the candles are extinguished. She’s not even bothered anymore.
She looks back at the table. Thor is already standing up with the plate of ham in one hand, and the loaf of bread in the other. He’s not smiling.
“Pleasant dreams!” she says.
He nods at her. “Likewise.”
She shrugs. “They already are!”
After Thor’s out the door, she heads up the stairs to her bedroom. To her surprise, her grandmother is standing on the landing in her pink nightgown, looking towards the door Thor just exited.
“Sounded like you had a lot of fun chatting with Hoenir’s friend,” she says, eyes narrowing to slivers.
Amy just snorts.
6
Amy has more dreams later that night. They aren’t as pleasant and she has trouble falling to sleep again. In desperation, she pulls
Fenrir up near her pillow. Still, she doesn’t go to sleep until the very early morning. When she wakes up, it is to Fenrir whimpering by the door. She blinks at the light and then does a double take. It must be nearly noon.
Amy gets up quickly, dresses, and heads down to the kitchen. Beatrice has her apron on and is leaning over the sink washing dishes. She smiles up at Amy. “Good morning, Dear.”
Thor is sitting at the table, in his retro outfit, a Chicago Transit Authority map spread out in front of him. How did he get invited to breakfast? Or brunch, or whatever.
“Good morning,” he says. He looks like the guy she remembers from the police station. A little rumpled, shoulders not quite square, expression soft. The sort of shy guy who filled her with trust. He doesn’t look like the mischievous guy in her dream last night, the one who turned himself into an Amazon, or the guy in the armor.
She blinks as she lets Fenrir out the back door. The kitchen is flooded with warm yellow light. Thor is complimenting Beatrice on her cooking; there is a bowl of freshly scrubbed strawberries on the table; the room smells like coffee, bacon and toast.
… and it feels even more dreamlike than Amy’s dream of Thor the Amazon.
“Amy? Amy?”
Beatrice is suddenly standing very close to her.
“Are you all right?” her grandmother says.
“Yes,” says Amy.
“Sit down,” says Beatrice. “I’ll get you some coffee.”
“No,” says Amy. “I’ll make some myself.”
She goes to the cupboard and takes out a cup. It crashes to the counter but doesn’t break. Amy shakes her head and rights it. She lifts the coffee pitcher off the base and starts to pour. The stream of hot fluid bounces around, some spilling on the counter. She wipes it up quickly with a dishtowel and goes to sit at the table.
Taking a sip, she notices that her grandmother’s and Thor’s eyes are on her.
“I’m alright,” Amy says.
Her grandmother tilts her head. “You’ve had quite a shock.”
“I’m alright,” Amy says again, more forcefully this time.
“I’m sure you are,” says Thor. Turning to Beatrice he says, “Thank you for the map — and of course, for breakfast.”
Picking up a cup Amy knows contains chamomile tea, Beatrice nods, “You’re always welcome at this table, of course.” There’s something about the way her eyes are narrowed and the way she peers over the cup that tells Amy something isn’t quite right.
Thor doesn’t seem to notice. “I think I better go now,” he says with a warm, sunny smile. He stands up from the table, the Chicago Transit Authority map and a tiny white book in one hand. “Oh,” he says suddenly. “You must have dropped this last night. I found it on the floor.” He puts her driver’s license on the table and slides it towards Amy. She doesn’t remember taking it out of her wallet since the police station.
A few minutes later he’s gone. Amy scowls. “Did you invite him in?”
Beatrice nods and looks towards the door. “It’s better to make sure he’s always invited.”
Amy stares down at her coffee. What does that mean?
Tilting her head, Beatrice pulls the tea bag from her cup. “Of course, it is nice to be able to cook for someone again,” she says brightly.
Amy reaches over and grabs her license. “I need to get ready for an interview at a new temp agency.” The one she used to work for went out of business.
Beatrice blinks. “Are you sure that’s wise? You don’t seem quite yourself.”
Amy stares at her coffee. She isn’t herself. But she just has to get over it. It’s not like this experience is completely new; it is just extreme. She’s dealt with creeps before. What woman hasn’t? She’d been felt up on the ‘L’ one time — and had elbowed the guy so badly he’d sputtered and nearly puked. Some really lovely gentleman had followed her home from the bus stop one night and she’d unslung her backpack, screamed at him like a banshee, and chased him away.
She puts her head in her hands. She didn’t escape this time. She was rescued. It turns out maybe there is a big difference. And if she hadn’t been rescued … She screws her eyes shut and starts to sob.
“There, there,” says Beatrice.
“Grandma,” she says. “If it wasn’t for Thor … ” she can’t talk about the pictures, can’t say what she saw in them — or them bursting into flames. That part was real, the fire, wasn’t it?
She takes a big gulp of air. She isn’t sure of anything anymore. “Should I have invited him home?” she says. “He, he, he … ” What? Has featured prominently in some weird dreams, or … “Maybe I trust him more than I should because he saved me, but he could be crazy, too.” She shakes her head.
Beatrice’s hand stops. “Oh, I don’t think you or I have anything to worry about from our guest.” She looks around the kitchen, “Other than that he might eat us out of house and home. Always better to invite him to the party, though … ”
“Grandma?” says Amy.
Beatrice blinks. “Oh, nothing.”
Amy stares at her grandmother for a few moments. She looks tiny and frail. But she’s not — or she wasn’t.
Beatrice’s parents put Beatrice and her two brothers on a boat to the free world back in 1940, just before the Nazis invaded. Before they left they’d already lost family members and friends under Soviet rule — some disappeared in the middle of the night, others simply died in the great famine of the early 1930s.
Beatrice lost her entire world. Amy feels like her world has changed forever, that she’s lost something precious — but compared to Beatrice, Amy has lost nothing.
“How did you do it, Grandma? When you got on the boat … ”
Beatrice blinks. “What?”
Swallowing, Amy looks down at her hands and plays nervously with her fingers. “I was just wondering how you kept going … after you lost everything.”
Beatrice sighs and looks down at her tea. “You just do.”
Standing up, Amy wipes her face. “I’m going to get ready to go.”
Beatrice looks at her for a moment and then nods.
Amy manages to get ready for her interview, and she gets out of the door with plenty of time to spare — even though leaving her home shatters her sense of security.
What she doesn’t manage to do is drive. She stares at her grandmother’s Subaru Forester, keys in hand, and decides she’d rather take the bus. She’s not sure if it’s because of the rollover, or if she just wants to stay around other people.
As she walks out to the front walk and heads towards the ‘L’, she sees an older man, perhaps in his 50’s, buying an ice cream from one of the Mexican ice cream bicycle carts that frequent her neighborhood. He’s got a stern square jaw and is completely bald on top. Amy notices him because he’s wearing a gray suit despite the heat. The suit looks too nice to belong to an old timer from the neighborhood, but he isn’t young enough to be a yuppie. As she walks by, he tips his head at her over his drumstick ice cream cone. Not wanting to be rude, she nods back.
Loki consults the CTA map and his book. The location is right.
The building in front of him looks to be about 100 years old. It has not been maintained very well. The facade of brick and cement is crumbling. Cutting straight through the heart of the building is a covered brick alleyway that leads to a dismal inner courtyard. There is a decorative iron gate that is rusted and blood colored. Loki scowls — it is strange that mortals tend to erect physical gates where World Gates reside. Another strange bit of human magic? He tilts his head; fortunately the iron gate is now open and won’t be in his way. Beyond the iron gate, on the far wall of the courtyard in peeling paint, are the words, “Graphic Arts Co.” Set into the walls are boarded up doors and windows covered with graffiti.
Loki looks around. He sees a few men down the street unloading a small van. They don’t seem to notice him. Loki has altered his Midgardian attire considerably. As he walked here — only a few short miles — h
e observed the natives and gradually modified his clothing. He now appears to be wearing a gray tee shirt, breeches of a thick blue fabric, gray shoes with laces and stripes, and dark glasses. And he appears to have a black rectangular bag slung over one shoulder.
He is actually wearing his armor, with his helmet on, visor down. Over one arm he’s slung his army knapsack filled with the two remaining grenades, some of last night’s ham and bread, and a large bottle of water he nicked from a store on the way.
Moving beneath the overhang towards the iron gate he closes his eyes. An instant later he is invisible to anyone who looks in his direction.
Loki walks until he feels a shiver snake its way up his spine. The World Gate is here. He can feel the tug of magic in the place where time and space are weakly defined.
He begins to murmur a childhood rhyme he used to recite to his children. It isn’t a spell, per se; but it helps him focus his mind. Lifting his hands, he closes his eyes and begins to imagine pulling back a heavy curtain. The gate opens surprisingly easily, and a swirling vortex of color spins before him.
Loki steps forward …
… and feels stone beneath his feet. He takes a deep breath, drops the invisibility spell to conserve magic, and opens his eyes to the bright white-blue sunlight and silvery hues of Alfheim, land of the Elves. He looks down; beneath his feet is a silver road. That is right. The realm is right. But …
Scowling, he spins around … On both sides of the road is dense forest. On one side of the road the tree trunks are light lavender; the undergrowth is sparse and dotted with blue and yellow flowers. On the other side the trunks are deep indigo and nearly black; the undergrowth is dense and dark. Above the dark trees is an ominous swirl of dark gray magical clouds. He is certain he sees eyes peering at him from beneath the dark branches.
Unsheathing his sword, he switches to the tongue of the Dark Elves and says, “Don’t even think about it.” Just to be on the safe side he concentrates his magic towards the undergrowth and imagines the molecules there swirling and dancing together. There is a burst of flame, just as he intends, and a curse from his onlooker. He hears stirring in the undergrowth as the Dark Elf disappears into the forest.