"Tasks are for gods like Mercury and Atlas and the like," replied Bragi. "Me, I just do poetry."
"But we're at war, and the enemy has called down its own god."
"What is that to me?"
"We rather hoped to pit you against him."
Suddenly Bragi appeared interested. "How is he on iambic pentameter?'
"I don't know," answered Wilcox honestly.
"That's one of my great strengths," said Bragi with more than a trace of pride. "Though I can recite sonnets with the best of them. Does my opponent let his voice linger lovingly over rhyming couplets? Can he bring tears to your eyes? How is he on free verse?"
"What he's mostly good at is making soldiers desert," said Wilcox.
"What? You mean he can't even hold an audience?" bellowed Bragi with a confident laugh. "Lead me to him!"
"I don't think you understand me."
"Certainly I do. You've set up a contest between myself and this pretender."
"Well, yes and no," said Wilcox.
"Explain yourself."
"We'd like to set up a contest, but not the type you're referring to."
"Any type at all will do. I'll murder the bum. Into the Valley of Death rode the six hundred . . ."
"That's kind of what we had in mind."
"Tennyson?" asked Bragi. "One of my favorites."
"No—murdering the bum."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Don't you understand?" said Wilcox. "We're at win, and the other side has a god helping them."
"No problem," said Bragi. "I'll fill your men with such spirit that they will be unbeatable."
"They will?"
"Virtually."
"What does virtually mean, in this context?"
"They'll feel pretty good about themselves for at least five minutes after I've finished reciting."
Wilcox shook his head. "I'm afraid that's not good enough."
"If pushed to my limits, I can encourage them to look death in the eye and stare it down," said Bragi. "John Brown's Body comes to mind."
"What good will staring it down do?" asked Wilcox. "In the end, they'll be just as dead, won't they?"
"But they'll die happily," said Bragi. "A few of them may even be mouthing the same brave words they hear from my immortal lips, inspired to the very end."
"This is not working out," said Wilcox. He turned to the Maasai, who had been a silent witness. "Olepesai, send him back."
"But I just got here!" protested Bragi.
"You heard me, Olepesai," said Wilcox. "Send him back and we'll summon another one."
"I protest!" said the Norse god.
"Protest all you want," said Wilcox. "We're wasting time."
"Wait!" said Bragi with such desperation that both men froze in their tracks.
"You can't send me back yet," said the god, tears coming to his eyes. "Nobody up there listens to me anymore. They've heard all my poetry. They snicker when I get up to declaim, and they always leave before I'm through. Lola is the worst of them, but even Odin leaves the room the moment I enter it. Give me a chance to destroy this other god. Then I will write a great new ode to myself, three hours in length and filled with the most remarkable felicity of expression, and my peers will finally listen in awe."
Wilcox had his doubts that anyone, human or deity, would ever be willing to sit through a three-hour ode that Bragi wrote about himself, but he was desperate enough to give the tearful god a chance.
"All right," he relented. "As long as you're here, we might as well make the best of it." He paused. "I suppose the first thing is to find the other god."
"I can see him right now," said Bragi.
Wilcox turned with a start. "Where is he?"
"In a cave halfway up the mountain."
"You have remarkable eyesight."
"Gods can always see others of their kind."
"You can?"
"Well, there aren't an awful lot of us to begin with," explained Bragi, "and we do have an affinity toward each other. With all due respect, I am already bored to tears by the two of you."
"Then let's start climbing the mountain," suggested Wilcox, who was feeling much the same way about Norse gods of poetry.
"There is an easier way," said Bragi.
"Twenty-seven!" shrieked Peter Njoro. "There are tens of thousands of British soldiers surrounding us, and you only managed to get twenty-seven of them to desert?"
"It's the wrong time of year," said Hermes defensively. "There's no snow base at Aspen yet, and it's raining in Miami." He frowned. "And Cunard has got the Queen Mary in drydock for re-outfitting."
"Twenty-seven," muttered Peter.
"There s a bright side, though," said Hermes.
"Oh?"
The god nodded. "Yes. Starting next week, Pan Am is giving a thirty percent discount on its around-the-world airfare."
Peter turned to Matenjwa. "Two thousand cattle, you say?"
The old mundumugu nodded.
"I'm doing the best I can," whined Hermes.
"And your best is none too good!" said a booming voice from the back of the cave.
Peter drew his pistol and trained it on the blond, fur-clad man who suddenly appeared.
"Who are you?" demanded Hermes.
"I am the one who is going to bring you to your knees," replied Bragi confidently. "Listen, and weep:
There are strange things done in the midnight sun,
By the men who moil for gold,
The Arctic trails have their secret tales,
That would make your blood run cold;
The northern lights have seen queer sights
But the queerest they ever did see
Was the night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
There! What do you think of that?"
There was a stunned silence, which Hermes finally broke.
"Actually, I rather liked it," he said.
"You did?" asked Bragi excitedly.
"Definitely," said Hermes. "I hate all this newfangled stuff. I don't know how people can call it poetry when it doesn't even rhyme."
"My feelings precisely!" agreed Bragi.
"By the way, that's a fine-looking helmet you're wearing," said Hermes. "I don't suppose you'd like to trade it for my bowler?"
"I don't think so," replied Bragi after some consideration.
"I'll throw in my umbrella. You never know when it might rain up here in the mountains."
"Done!" cried Bragi, removing his helmet and handing it to Hermes in exchange for the other god's hat and umbrella. "You know," he continued, "you're not such a bad guy."
"Neither are you," said Hermes. "I could listen to real poetry all night."
"Not in my cave, you can't," said Matenjwa disgustedly.
"We can go back behind the British lines," suggested Bragi, obviously eager to recite for a receptive audience.
"Nonsense," said Hermes. "We have the whole world to choose from."
"We do?" asked Bragi.
Hermes opened his briefcase. "Just this afternoon I saw . . . now where is it? . . . ah, here we are!" He held up a small brochure. "Why stay on this cold, damp mountain at all when we can take a five-week cruise to Tahiti and then transfer to a luxury lodge on Bora Bora ? You'll have round-the-clock room service, a private bath, an electric overhead fan, and four miles of absolutely uncluttered white sand beaches."
"It sounds wonderful," said Bragi. "Tell me more about the boat."
"Well, well want first-class passage, of course," said Hermes, taking Bragi by the arm and leading him out of the cave and down the twisting path that paralleled the stream. "There's a pool, a dance floor, two nightclubs, a library, shuffleboard . . ."
"Nightclubs? Possibly they might like to hear me recite."
"No reason why not," answered Hermes. "Every morning there's a breakfast buffet from eight o'clock until . . ."
Then they were out of earshot.
"Those were gods?" asked Peter bitt
erly.
"Perhaps we expect too much of them," offered Matenjwa. "Or perhaps not."
"I don't understand."
"If our war god met their war god in battle, they would probably have fought to a draw, just as these two did," said the old man. "At least this way, the mountain is still standing, which is a good thing, for we shall wish to live on it after our war is over."
Deedan Kimathi was killed three months later, bringing the State of Emergency to an unofficial end.
Peter Njoro, after a brief period as a game ranger, converted to Christianity and spent the rest of his life as a minister in Nairobi.
Michael Wilcox returned to England, converted to animism, dropped out of college, and opened a poster shop in Soho.
As for Hermes and Bragi, they opened the very first travel agency in Papeete. With the profits from this venture, they formed the H & B Theater Company, where Bragi still declaims nightly before a devoted audience of Polynesians who never learned to appreciate the virtues of free verse.
JUST REWARDS
Mentor and the new god had been discussing ancient battles and tactical errors. The views and information were so accurate and fascinating that Tek was able to almost ignore his growing sense of urgency.
"So if Stalin had kept the army in their fortified positions instead of moving everyone forward to occupy Poland, Hitler's generals would have convinced him to not attack until 1943," Tek wondered.
"Yes, and even then the Wehrmacht would have taken major losses at the border fortresses," Mentor amend. "So that war and millions of casualties were determined by a decision made in peacetime two years before the battle began. An excellent analysis."
"We have spoken of almost all the wars in man's history. You have shown me scenes of glory and defeat. Can your television show me the earliest wars, the ones fought by the gods?" Tek asked. "I have found files referring to a Ragnarok and of a battle against the Titans."
Mentor smiled nervously and did not conjure back his teaching screen. Instead he considered for a time and then spoke.
"Your favorites, the Greeks, were among the first of the truly self-aware gods. They wrested control of the Earth and its worshippers in a gigantic war against those gods who had come before. Later the humans, unable to understand the nature of these early gods, made them mere giants. The Titans were really the early Earth and sea powers. They were defeated almost without a single loss by the new gods."
"Were they so weak that young gods could defeat them?" Tek worried aloud.
"No," Mentor said. "They were actually quite powerful. The young ones defeated them with guile. Where the Titans depended upon their great powers, the gods found a way around them. Even Mars found ways to outthink, not just outfight his opponents. You see, reason and cunning can overcome even the most courageous and powerful warrior."
"Reason or technology," Tek corrected.
"If you say so," Mentor agreed quickly.
"And this Ragnarok?"
"It hasn't happened yet," the teacher explained. "It is predicted by the Fates, and the Norse gods must always prepare for it. It makes them dreadfully dreary company. Their enemy is the giants, who are themselves, again, minor Earth gods."
"Giants?"
"Yes, most are man shaped and of enormous size—hence the name." Mentor explained. "The most powerful today dwell in the deserts and appear in whirling clouds of sand or occasionally from inside bottles or lamps. Others are shaped like gigantic wolves, but a few are easily mistaken for human."
"Will we be helping the Norse gods in this final battle?" The idea appealed to Tek. He'd been looking forward to Armageddon.
"No!" Mentor almost screamed his reply. Then he continued more calmly. "It is not a battle you should be part of. Almost family business." There was short pause as the teacher was obviously gathering his thoughts. "Nor are the giants an enemy. In many ways they nave justice on their side. They were put upon at every side by the upstart gods. Later, when they fought back, the ungrateful bards portrayed them as evil. Why, there is even a half-god and half-giant who is like a hero to them."
"Who would that be?"
"Loki," Mentor answered. "A brave warrior and a brilliant thinker. All the giants admire his courage and cunning."
"Ana this half-god will side with the giants at Ragnarok?" the war god wondered.
"Maybe," Mentor seemed unsure. "He might." Then he shrugged and looked self-conscious.
This was almost the only time Mentor had not been able to answer one of the war god's questions. Tek sat, suspecting Mentor was accessing obscure files and waited for a clarification.
"The Nordic gods are gathering warriors to aid them in the final battle. The giants will rely on themselves alone, and maybe the one heroic god."
"Recruit warriors?" Tek asked. He wouldn't have minded a bodyguard that day in Diana's garden. "Could I do that?"
Instead of answering the teacher summoned his screen.
DISPATCHES FROM VALHALLA
by Brian M. Thomsen
There are three lies about dying that every professional soldier knows: "You hear the bullet that has your name on it," "your entire life flashes before your eyes," and "you regret that you ever became a mercenary."
Damn lies all of them.
I never heard the bullet, saw my life in retrospect, or regretted a single thing in my entire life. I felt pain. Not a short, sharp piercing pain like a pin prick, or a sudden poke that leads to a deadening feeling of numbness. I felt pain, pain like I had never felt before in my life. Worse than the time I stepped on a punji stick in the la Drang Valley, worse than the time I had to remove twelve pieces of shrapnel from my leg after the fall of Saigon, and even worse than the time I was dragged behind a jeep down a gravel road by Salvadorian refugees. Worse than anything I've felt during my entire career as a contract soldier.
The minute the bullet entered my back, I was in agony. When the supply truck, theirs, ran over me I screamed, I cursed, I cried. I wanted it to stop. I wanted it to be all over . . .
. . . and it was.
William J. Frederick had been a professional soldier for thirty years. The first six years he spent with special forces in Vietnam as a clean-cut, all-American, killing machine. Then, after a disagreement with a chicken-shit CO who deserved to be fragged anyway, he went AWOL, and hooked up with a Frenchman named Jules Martine who offered to find him work, doing what he did best. South Africa, Beijing, Guatemala, Saigon, Montreal, and Havana. Wherever there was action, Major Frederick was always just a contract away from service.
At the time of his death, he was leading a band of rebels in Central America, trying to overthrow an uncooperative political regime that was standing in the way of a joint U.S.-Japan business transaction.
He was forty-seven when he died, two-thirds of his life having been spent on some battlefield or other.
The pain was gone, but not forgotten. I didn't know how long I'd been unconscious, or where I was. I felt my legs that had been crushed by the truck, but they were whole again. I felt for the bullethole in my back, but it wasn't there. It couldn't have been a dream. Was I going crazy?
Then I saw her. She was tall, and slender with perfectly ripe breasts peeking out from her camo top. Her hair was raven black, and her lips were full and moist.
She looked like Sonia Braga, and she called me by name.
"Welcome to Valhalla, Frederick," she said. "My name is Freya, and this is your final reward."
"What's going on here? I thought I had been shot, and seen my last sunrise," said Frederick trying to make some sense out of his situation. She obviously didn't want to kill him, at least not now, or she would have done so already.
"Oh, you have been shot, maricone. And you died. It really was quite glorious, a hero's death in battle. That is why you are here with me now. This is your reward."
"My reward," he said, accepting her hand as she helped him to his feet. "Your reward, she said, "forever and ever."
And then she kissed him.
>
After a night of lovemaking, no, more akin to rutting, like he had never experienced before, she lead him to what she called his camp, a well-stocked bivouac on a rocky hillside overlooking the barren landscape.
There, Frederick was treated to a reunion with some of his closest companions of the past thirty years. They were all there: Rico the Italian who had his balls blown off by a "bouncing betty" in Cambodia, Larry Spellman who had been shot by a sniper in Havana, Gary Butler who had been roasted alive in his tank during the burning of Montreal, and Spada the Greek, whose throat he had seen slit four short weeks ago, and many more.
"Geez, Will, it's great to see you. Sorry about your iwent demise. I see you've already met the boss lady. Ain't this place great," said Butler, slapping him on the back just the way he used to.
"What is this place?" asked Frederick, slightly more relaxed now that he was among friends, even if they were all dead.
"It's Freya's place, Valhalla. Because we all died as heroes, we now get our eternal reward, warring all day, and whoring all night."
"Who are we fighting?"
"You name it. Last week we successfully repelled a group of Redcoats under Lord Nelson, before that a horde of Huns, and before that Otto Skorzeny and his commandoes. It's great! And the best part is we can't be killed. Well, at least not for long."
"That's right," said Freya, rejoining the conversation. "Bam! You're dead. Wham! You're back again. Just like that. Now get ready, Chiang Kai Shek and his forces are entering the clearing, and let the battles begin."
It was great being back with the guys, though in all actuality we had never fought together as a group before. In fact, in all probability, we'd fought on opposite sides more than once during the course of our lives. But here, that didn't matter. We were a finely trained fighting machine, and we made Freya proud.
And Butler was right, we can't be killed. Last week, Spellman was beheaded by a Turk, and sure enough, he showed up for breakfast the next morning.
After about three months, we pulled up stakes, and moved camp.
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