Bright Segment

by Theodore Sturgeon

  You cut out of there and go down to the rec area and into the short-order bar. “A beer,” you say. “And put a lump of vanilla ice-cream in it. And straws.”

  “You crazy?” says the man.

  “No,” you say. “Oh, no.”

  The Riddle of Ragnarok

  JOY WAS NOT JOY in Asgard, for all the ale and the heady mead, the singing and the wild hard laughter. Clink and clatter and clash rang the arms; whip and whicker and thud the arrows. Sinews were tuned and toned and honed and hardened, and speech was mighty, and much of the measureless night belonged to the unearthly yielding of the Aesir goddesses, whose limbs were magic.

  Here were the heroes of Earth, here the dazzle-winged Valkyrs; here in the halls of not-quite-forever they feasted and fought and found that which mortality is too brief and too fragile to grant.

  The Aesir were made for joy, and the heroes had earned it, and their joys were builded of battle, and to battle they built. The battle they faced was the battle of Ragnarok; they would fight the Giants at Ragnarok; they would dare death at Ragnarok, and there they would die.

  There was woe in the winds about Asgard. It was there like a bitterness in the drinking horns and it cut like cold. Hope lay frozen in the iron ground, moon-silver mantled the battlements like a winding-sheet, and against the stars the eagles floated, crying a harsh despair.

  Heroes new-come to Valhalla heard of it, after their feast of honor, after they settled into the halls of the brave and looked about them and called this cold and mighty land their own. Sooner or later they asked and were told:

  In the spring of the world when the mountains were new and the sea not salt, and Yggdrasil, tree of trees, but a blooming shrub, good Odin the sky-father, seeker of wisdom, descended a Well where dwelt Mimir the Wise. For a terrible price, the least part of which was one of his eyes, he was given knowledge unthinkable.

  Odin learned the Runes, and the way to take from the Giants the skaldic mead which makes him who tastes it a poet. He learned the ways of wild things and the tricks of the halflings issuing from unspeakable unions between the Giants and the elf folk. But of all he learned, the greatest and most terrible was the doom of Asgard: the certain victory of the Giants at Ragnarok.

  Ever after, Odin was dedicated to forestalling that Day. Never again did he laugh, and only his silent wife Frigga knew completely his torment, and would silently brood over it and weep as she spun threads of gold. At the feasts, Odin presided but would not eat; two great wolves who lay at his feet had his share. He seemed never to join altogether in the company, though he always attended.

  He would sit at the board in his golden palace Gladsheim with his wolves and his two ravens—Hugin, who was Thought, and Munin, who was Memory—who used to fly the world and return to him with news of all that happened in it; and he would ponder. And sometimes in his kirtle of gray and his dazzling blue hood he would walk the battlements or stand searching the sky.

  Then he might call Tyr, war’s god, or Thor, mightiest of them all, and give them tasks and duties, the purpose of which only he could know; these were the means of strengthening Asgard and delaying Ragnarok; but for what? for what? Asgard was doomed.

  So it was that all colors in Asgard bore a tint of sadness, and a piece of every voice was mourning.

  A sadness such as this was a wonder, but it was not the only wonder of Asgard. There was once a greater wonder than the wisdom of Odin or the strength of Thor: it was a thing more beautiful even than the one part of Asgard visible to mortal eyes, the rainbow bridge of Heimdall. The god Freyr, of the fruits of Earth, never served the world so well, the songs of Freyr herself lent less glory to the world than did the young god Balder.

  In this atmosphere of awe and strangeness, of power and of powers, Balder moved with the confidence of a child in a loving home. His quality was a brightness—not like that of gold, or steel, but that of summer mornings, clean hair, first love, or high new notes from some seasoned lute. He was goodness and all kindness, and he was loved as no man nor no thing was ever loved before or since.

  Balder was loved by god and hero alike, by Giant and elf and halfling, by the beasts, by the rocks and the very sky. It was said, in Balder’s time, that only he could keep life in doomed Asgard; only such light as his could cancel the dark shadow of Ragnarok.

  He shed his light wherever he went, and he went everywhere. There lay in him no evil. He was welcomed, not only in Asgard, but in Jotunheim where the Giants dwelt. Hela, who ruled over the dead, found a smile—even she—for Balder, and in the blackest heart of the wilderness the bears sat like kittens and watched him pass.

  As all things must somehow be matched and balanced, and since one of the Aesir could move freely in all realms, so there was the son of a Giant who drank and sang in Valhalla and Gladsheim when he willed; he was the laughing devil Loki. His eyes saw more than did the ravens of Odin, and his heart was a catacomb in which his loyalties and his loves could be led and lost.

  Yet so quick was his wit and so hilarious his mischief that he might have been tolerated in doomed Asgard for these alone. But least of all things did he need to earn a place at the feasts of Gladsheim; he was sworn blood-brother to Odin in payment of an old partnership in the dawn of the world, and he could not be challenged.

  So he went his way, careless; and about him was no fidelity nor anything which could be predicted, save his love for Balder: this, in the world, was as inescapable as sun, as frost, or any other pervading natural force.

  Now on a terrible morning bright Balder woke wondering; he felt something which was, for him, most strange. He went to Frigga, his mother, and told her of it, and she listened and questioned him, and listened again, until she could tell him that what he felt was fear.

  “Fear, Mother?” he said.

  “Ay,” she said; “a kind of warning, a foreboding of danger.”

  “I like it not, Mother.”

  “Nor do I; I shall take it from thee.”

  And take it she did.

  What has never been done before or since, Frigga did; and if it were not that time is counted differently in Asgard than elsewhere, she would never have had time enough. All about Asgard she went, and among the Vanir, their neighbors; even through Jotunheim she walked, her mission opening gates before her like a magic key. She went also to the world of men, where, they say, she walked in the season between flower and frost, so that to this day Earth turns glorious for a time in memory of her, and then the leaves fall and the trees feign death in memory of what followed.

  And she went to places where dwelt neither gods nor men, nor Giants: places with names better not recalled.

  And to everyone and every thing she met—to stones and sky and all who lived between them; to roots however deep and to high air-sucking blossoms; to the blood-bearers, warm and cold; to all with fangs, feathers or fins, hands or hooves; and to the wind, and to ice, and the sea; to all these she spoke, saying, “I bring tidings of evil: the unthinkable has happened, and Balder is touched by fear. Give me thy promise that, from thee, harm shall never come to him! That is all I ask of thee.”

  Gladly then, gladly the high and the tall, the ancient, the once-living and the never-alive—all gave their bond; and not from them could harm come to Balder.

  Back then to Asgard went Frigga, wearily. She noticed as she entered that high by the gate grew a tumble of glossy leaves and waxen white berries. She smiled then at the mistletoe, a green given to small and happy magics, and let it be, asking nothing of it. She sought out Balder and told him of what she had done, kissed his bright face and fell in a swoon.

  She slept then, for a time long even in Asgard.

  II

  The news blew through stark Asgard like a warm wind, and the Aesir rejoiced. It was almost as if Ragnarok itself was removed from their thoughts—indeed, might not this be an inroad on their doom? For was not Balder of the Aesir? And were not the Aesir to die at Ragnarok? Yet now it was also true that no harm could come to Balder …
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  Ragnarok receded, and even Odin nearly smiled. He had, however, the habit of pondering, and it was a trouble to him that Ragnarok could be, or that Balder might live through it, but not both. He buried this problem in a silent place within him and there worked on it mightily.

  Balder was given a feast at Gladsheim, with such singing, such tries of arms, such mountains of succulent food and oceans of mead as were memorable even in Asgard.

  And it came about that Balder found himself standing in the courtyard, laughing, while all about him the warriors of Gladsheim and of Valhalla rushed at him with sword and mace, nocked and aimed their arrows, plunged and lunged at him with sword and lance.

  The lances bent away from his shining body and the swords met a stony nothingness about him and bounced away ringing. The arrows rose to pass him, or slipped aside.

  Above on her throne, Frigga sat watching. She was pale still from her ordeal and perhaps overwrought because of it. She kept touching her lips as if to stop their trembling, or perhaps to check some warning she knew was unneeded. This was Balder’s pleasure and that of the gods and heroes about him; should she then call caution as if he were still her golden babe?

  At length her eye fell upon Loki, who stood to the side, where Balder’s blind brother Hodar sat, stony eyes wide and an eager smile on his mouth, trying with all his heart to know the details of Balder’s joy. Summoning Loki, the god-queen waved her ladies back, and met the mischief-maker’s bold gaze with a great pleading.

  “I say this to thee myself, good Loki,” she said quietly, “rather than send the message, that you may know it pains me. But I fear a mischief, and to think of mischief is to think of thee. No one loves Balder better than thee, and I believe it—yet I were happier with you gone from this hall. Indulge me, then …”

  Something indescribable and ugly moved in Loki’s bright eyes, yet he smiled. “Since you ask, lady,” he said and turned away, adding arrogantly over his shoulder, “but do not command me, I shall go.”

  He sprang down the steps and out into the night.

  Frigga drew her shawl of tiny feathers close about her and shivered. Her ladies, cooing like a cote, closed about her. For long moments they whispered to her and to each other, until her great kindness asserted itself and she began, in turn, to soothe them in their concern.

  “I am weary and foolish,” she said; “none knows better than I how safe he is. Yet …” She paused while the laughing god turned his back to a black-armored hero swinging a knobbed mace, and paled until the weapon slipped from the mailed hand in midstroke and crashed into the wall. “Yet will I be happier when this noisy childishness is done.”

  “But Lady Frigga—you missed nothing. Did not all the world promise not to harm him?”

  “Whatever I missed matters not,” Frigga said.

  “Was there something, then?” asked a soft voice.

  Frigga widened her eyes and turned to the woman, a stranger to her—but the halls were populous and this a great festival; folk had come from afar.

  “Only the mistletoe,” said Frigga comfortingly, and the other ladies laughed at the idea of the gentle mistletoe as a danger.

  Later, the woman was gone from her side, and was seen kneeling by blind Hoder, to help him, with her words, see the action, it seemed. And Frigga was pleased, for she saw the blind god’s head come up, and heard him laugh and cry out, “Balder! May I cast at thee?”

  “Ay; I am fair game tonight!” cried Balder, and went to stand before his brother. “Here I am before thee; may fortune favor thy aim!” he said mockingly.

  Then Hoder rose, and raised his arm. The woman was seen to turn him a little, better to face Balder squarely. Then Hoder hurled the sprig of mistletoe that he held, and it pierced Balder’s heart. Balder uttered one great cry, all astonishment and no fear, and he fell, and he died.

  Dark Hela, ruler of the underworld Niflheim, took the murdered god hungrily, as one who had waited long aeons; and indeed she had. And when Balder’s second brother Hermod came there at Frigga’s bidding, to ransom Balder back, Hela yielded to this degree: that if every living thing would weep for him, she would surrender him, but if a single one would not mourn, then forever he would be Hela’s.

  Back Hermod came with the word, and indeed it seemed a simple matter, for already all creation wept, the midges keened, and great splashes of color dripped from the rainbow bridge.

  Yet in Jotunheim dwelt a Giantess, a strange, ageless creature steeped in sorcery and locked away from the world. All around her was weeping, even the Giants finding the death of this one enemy more than they could bear. Yet she would not weep for him nor anyone.

  “Balder? Balder? Let the dead stay dead. Only dry tears will ye get from me. I had no good from this Balder, nor will I give him good.” And no other word would she say; and so was Balder’s death sealed.

  And who killed him? Who killed the bright one who had no enemies, who had done no ill? Who was capable of an act so monstrous, so useless and cruel?

  The heartsick Hoder testified that the mistletoe, which he examined afterward, smelt of Giant.

  Who, being part Giant, had access to Gladsheim?

  The woman who had given the mistletoe to Hoder and urged him to throw it had disappeared. Who was she? Or—was it a woman? Who was the greatest of all adepts at disguise; who had once fought a battle with the god Herindal in the shape of a seal?

  The answer to all these questions was the same: Loki, Loki Loki.

  And Loki was found outside, not impossibly far from the gate whence the mysterious woman-thing had fled, still sparkling with anger at having been asked to leave the hall. No one had seen him nor knew what he had done since he left.

  So he was brought in, and chained. He said he was innocent and no more than that. Since the blood-brother of Odin could not be slain, he was lowered into a foul pit; and above him was suspended a frightful serpent in such wise that its venom dripped on him. And he was doomed to hang there until Ragnarok.

  Then a pall settled over Asgard. Frigga, when she could, spun her golden threads and was silent. Great Odin brooded, Tyr and Thor, without guidance or orders, cast war and thunder about the earth as the casual spirit moved them.

  Odin’s twin ravens, Hugin, who was Thought, and Munin, who was Memory, quarreled bitterly over the fact that Munin had taken unto himself the duty of reporting to Odin the events of that evil night, while Hugin felt it was his privilege.

  They went their separate ways, and though they might have been recalled by a word from Odin, he had not the word, for he cared no longer what happened in the world of men, or indeed in his own house.

  So indeed it seemed true that Balder was needed in Asgard, lest the mere shadow of Ragnarok settle over the Aesir and crush them before there could be a battle at all.

  This is the story which was told and retold for more than seven thousand years, as men count time. This, for all that while, was the complexion of Asgard. There, for a million moments measured by drops of scalding venom, hung Loki. And this is the prelude to the prelude of Ragnarok.

  III

  Munin flew high, and higher, turning one bright eye and then the other to the frozen land below. He flew because he must seek, he sought because he could not forget: his name was Memory.

  He remembered the days when he perched on Odin’s shoulder, waiting to be sent to the world of men, waiting for the long, companionable flight back during which he reported to his fellow all he had observed. He remembered the pleasant homecomings, the rasp of Hugin’s voice as the other raven told Odin of what they had seen.

  And he remembered the night of Balder’s death, and Hugin’s infuriating silence, and his own croakings and bleatings as he reported what had happened in and around the fateful hall.

  He remembered Hugin’s brilliant black stare as he spoke on and on, and the total anger of that insulted bird. He remembered the countless years of loneliness and idleness since, and he had had enough.

  Between two crags he saw a dark f
ir, and in its lower branches he discerned a swaying lump just different enough in shape from a pine-cone to be what he was looking for.

  He folded his wings and dropped closer. Ay: no pine-cone had moldy feathers aquiver in the wind, an ivory beak pressed to a moulted breast too sparse to hide it.

  He fluttered to the branch, worked his claws about amongst the close-set needles until he found comfort, and settled.

  “Hugin,” he said. “Hugin.”

  Slowly the scaly eyelid on his side opened, just far enough to identify the speaker. It closed immediately.

  “Parrot!” spat Hugin; it was his first word in seven thousand years, as men count time.

  “Hugin, old comrade …” Munin paused to collect himself, to remind himself that he had come here to renew his partnership with Hugin, and that he must under no circumstance let Hugin make him angry. “What has thee been doing?”

  “What thee sees,” said Hugin shortly, still not deigning to open his eyes.

  “Ah, Hugin. Remember the times we’ve had, the—”

  Hugin raised a warning claw.

  “I remember nothing. I am not a foolscap, a storage shelf, a … a macaw like thee. I am Hugin and my name is Thought.”

  “Ahh. And what has thee been thinking for seven thousand years, as men count time?”

  “Of thine inexcusable perfidy, lovebird. What else?”

  “But surely … thought thee not of the old days, of the great flights we—”

  “I’ve no truck with memories, as thee should know. There were more important things with which to concern myself.”

  “The death of Balder.”

  “I told thee,” said Hugin in some irritation, and at last opening his eyes, “what it was I thought about.”

  “About me? About what I did that night, when thee closed thine eyes and had nought to say, with the very world cracking about our heads?”

  “I had to think!”

  Munin recognized, slowly, that Thought without Memory had indeed done nothing but turn over and over that last insult. For the first time he felt a great welling pity for his comrade.