The Age Of Odin

Six

Fifth day, I had a visitor. I woke up from a snooze to find this bloke had pulled up a chair beside my bed and was sitting there, hands laced together on his lap, studying me.

He was old, like Frigga, but wore his age less well. It seemed to hang heavily on him, the weight of years, bending his neck, stooping his shoulders. The lines on his face turned the flesh into little separate pouches. He had long white hair and a bushy white beard, like Santa Claus, but a Santa with manic depressive tendencies.

I could only see his right eye. The left, if it was there, was hidden beneath the brim of a big battered leather hat. The hat was cocked and the wide brim bent so that most of that side of his face lay in shadow.

The other eye shone brightly enough for two, however. It was grey like the North Sea, and there was intelligence in it. The deep, sad kind. Wisdom. I had the feeling that eye had been looking at me a long while, and I imagine that that was how it looked at everything. Steadily, for a long while. With care.

"Good evening," the old man said.

"Yeah, is it? I try to keep track, but…" Outside the window it was dark and snowy. For a change.

"You are on the mend?"

"Getting there. Things are sore, but I feel like I've been fixed up well."

"You have. My wife is an excellent nursemaid and a gifted healer."

"Frigga." The corners of my mouth twitched, but that was all.

He nodded. "She tells me you came in with quite a litany of woes. Three cracked ribs. A dislocated shoulder. A cut to the head. A torn Achilles tendon. And of course that chewed and broken wrist."

"I was going for the record. World's most beaten-up man."

"You're lucky to be alive."

"I know."

"Had the Valkyries not found you when they did…"

"The who?"

"Valkyries."

"The three snowmobile birds? That's their name? What, are they in some kind of band or something?"

"You're surely familiar with the term Valkyrie."

I racked my brains. "There's that boring Tom Cruise movie. Oh, and a piece of music, isn't there? The one in Apocalypse Now. When the helicopters come. Wagner, 'Ride Of The Valkyries.' Dah dah-dah Dah dah, dah dah-dah Dah dah…"

"Indeed."

"They took their name from that?"

He didn't answer, only grinned. There was something about it, that grin. Something I didn't entirely warm to. Reminded me of the wolves. Yeah, that was it. Definitely a wolfish look about it.

"Tell me," he said, "you were searching for us, were you not? You and your companion."

"If this is Asgard Hall…"

"It is."

"And the Valhalla Mission…"

"It is."

"Then yes, we were."

"It was an effort to get here."

I flashed him a stating-the-bleeding-obvious smile.

"I'm sorry that it was," he went on. "It does seem that many of you have to suffer in order to fetch up on our doorstep, and a few don't make it at all. Wolves in the forest are a perennial problem, of course, but there are worse things."

"Really? Such as?"

"You'd laugh if I told you, so I won't."

"No, go on."

"I could mention the word trolls."

I laughed.

"See?" he said with a shrug. "I'd have been better off keeping my mouth shut. My name's Odin, by the way. Odin Borrson."

"Gideon Coxall."

"Pleasure to meet you, Gideon."

"I prefer Gid. Less of a mouthful."

"Gid," he said, musingly. "Almost 'God' but not quite. Missed it by a vowel."

"Never thought of it that way."

"Whereas I am forever prone to spotting such things. Perhaps over-prone. Looking for patterns and connections and concordances which may or may not exist. It's a failing of mine. A burden."

He slapped his thighs and stood.

"Well, I shan't take up any more of your time, Gid," he said. "I just thought I'd drop by and make my number with you. I try and see all the new arrivals as soon as I can. We'll talk further when you're more rested and recovered. There's much to show you, much to explain. But in the meantime, anything you require? Anything that might make your life easier?"

"Any way I can phone my ex, just to let her and my kid know I'm all right?"

"No phones. Not here."

"Oh. How about internet, then? I could drop them an email."

"Ha. Such things are… not possible at Asgard Hall. We lack the necessary sophistication."

"Broadband not reached here yet?"

"Something like that. If you're bored, I could arrange for someone to bring you something to read if you wish."

"I'm not much of a reader."

"A book does help pass the time."

"Really, not much of a reader. Last time I opened a book was at school. Great Expectations. It didn't live up to them. Oh, and David Copperfield. I was expecting a bit more magic in it than there was. He didn't even make the Statue of Liberty disappear once. The only thing I can really remember about that one is the first line. 'Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or… something, something, something…' Obviously can't remember it so well, can I?"

Odin chuckled and left the room.

And I thought, Nutter. Not in a condemning way.

Well, not completely.

But Odin Borrson was clearly not a hundred per cent sane.

Eccentric, that would be one word for it.

After all, trolls.

Trolls!

And he'd seemed serious when he said it. As though he sincerely believed things like trolls existed.

Despite what I'd said about reading, a book did appear. It was lying on my bedside table when I next woke up. Big fat hardback that looked like it had been read several times. Bumped around a bit. Jacket creased and torn at the edges.

I peered at the large gold lettering on the spine.

Only President Keener's autobiography. Her life story, her small-town-girl made good saga. From Wonder Springs To Washington. Last year's big bestseller. I'd heard she got a ten million dollar advance for it.

I left it well alone.

For about an hour.

Then curiosity — and/or boredom — took hold. I grabbed the book. There was the prez, gazing winsomely out from the cover. Off to some fancy function, some Republican party fundraiser maybe. Hair all coiffed. Evening dress on, showing a hint of cleavage but not enough to be trashy. Clutch bag. Diamond necklace and earrings. Teeth all sparkly white like only an American's could be. Belle of the ball.

That face — so wholesome. So shiny and corn-fed and true.

But you could tell. You could just tell. She was a dirty bitch. It was in her eyes. Get her behind closed doors, down under the covers, she'd be all filth and knickers. She'd do stuff no good girl ever would and not every bad girl would either.

Or so it was nice to think.

I started flicking through. Scanned a paragraph here, a page there.

Soon, in spite of myself, I was engrossed. Engrossed as you might be by a glossy soap opera or a grade-Z slasher flick.