Pyramid Power: Chapter Twenty Three

    Liz was not the only one who could see that the trail would be easy to follow. Loki was up on the prow talking to Jörmungand. They immediately began to throw a series of s-bends that Liz just knew would have made poor Jerry lose his breakfast.

    “That won’t stop them following us,” she said to Loki, as she clung to the gunwale.

    “It might just put them off doing so on horseback,” said Loki, with a wicked grin. “Look.”

    Liz could see what he meant. The trail was no less clear, but now there were huge ridges of snow—real powder drifts—seven or eight feet high to wade through. As a South African from an area of that country where it never snowed she had no idea how much it would affect the horses. But it didn’t look like it was going to be pleasant. And galloping down their back-trail, which would have been easy a little earlier, was going to be impossible now.

    “We’ll reach the sea before they reach us,” said Loki. “I have arranged a vessel.”

    Liz was impressed. Either Lamont or Thrúd or Sigyn must have leaned on him, hard. Loki wasn’t much of a hand at preparation.

 

---

 

    The sea, when they got there, was cloaked in a clinging sea-mist—the ocean plainly warmer than the frigid air. Liz wondered what sort of little unseaworthy tub she was going to encounter. The poor thing she and Lamont had vandalized in Thor’s work-room had been well-built, she had to grant. And weren’t these Norsemen Vikings? It had to be better than that Greek boat, or that blasted Egyptian floating banana, stuck together with linen strips. And at least she was used to going to sea in small boats.

    The vessel loomed blackly out of the mist, at least the size of a supertanker.

    “Naglfar,” said Loki. “She cannot come too close to shore.”

    Thor and Thrúd both shuddered.

    “At the moment she carries no cargo,” said Loki, urbanely. “And what other ship did you two think I could get?”

    “I suppose a cruise liner was too much to hope for,” said Liz. “Or even a battleship.”

    Loki chuckled. “On Naglfar we need fear no warship. She is the biggest ship in all of the nine worlds. I have to have the biggest and best of something.”

    “So they let you have the corpse-ship,” said Thor, a little tersely. “Well, let’s go to her then, if we must.”

    It looked like a long cold wade and then a longer cold swim to a ship that even Thor seemed reluctant to board. But the Midgard serpent had shaken herself free of the mythworld skidoo. “I’ll take you out to her,” she said. “Get up on my back.”

    It wasn’t quite as wet as swimming might have been, although stowing all of Thrúd’s bundles was less than easy. In some ways Thrúd was a woman after Liz’s own heart. She also didn’t believe in that silly “traveling light” idea.

    When they got closer to the great vessel, Liz realized that it might just be bigger than she’d thought… and a lot weirder than the Egyptian banana-shaped boat held together with strips of linen had been. In the sea-mist it almost seemed to be constructed from tiny scales.

    “Okay, what is it made of?” asked Liz, as Jörmungand got closer to the vessel that loomed like some vast cliff over them.

    “Nails,” said Loki, ghoulishly, plainly relishing telling her. “The nails of the dead.”

    He was rewarded by suitable shudders from some of Jörmungand’s passengers. Liz wasn’t going to oblige him. “Lousy building material. What do you do for struts?”

    Loki looked darkly at her. “You and Sigyn are two of a kind.”

    Jörmungand reared up out of the water and deposited them on the deck.

    The ship really was at least the size of supertanker. “A lot of nails,” said Liz.

    “The godar are encouraged to make their people be sure that no man dies with untrimmed nails, as Æsir would have Loki’s ship take a long time to finish,” said Thrúd.

    Liz sniffed. “Smells like old toenails. Maybe washing their feet before they died would have been nice too.”

    Sigyn gave a snort of laughter at the hastily turned back of Loki. “Now he’s gone off to sulk. He’s very proud of Naglfar.”

    “She’s certainly big enough,” admitted Liz.

    Sigyn shrugged. “She will ferry the enemies of the Æsir to Ragnarok. So Thor will tell you that she is too big, and I would have her twice the size.”

    “Well, let’s see if we can skip Ragnarok. It does sound as if I could pass on it.”

    “All that lives will pass, or so it is foretold, either in flood or by fire,” said Sigyn, with a hint of sadness.

    “A lovely grim prediction,” said Liz. “Packs them into the churches, does it?”

    Sigyn looked a bit nonplussed.

    Liz took pity on her. “Look, back where I come from there are dozens of religions, and preaching that the end of the world is at hand is good business. So far their gods have been a bit of a let-down, because the end keeps being delayed. It’s probably because the dead are now working to rule or something.”

    Sigyn looked at her and shook her head. “Here the end comes. Fimbulwinter has begun. There will be no spring for three years.”

    “And no hay-fever. Look. Things have to change. And if you believe in them, they won’t.” Just don’t stop believing in this ship of nails until we get to disembark, she thought to herself.

    Sigyn shrugged. “Nothing really changes in the nine worlds. We live in the great cycle of time. And here the dead do not work to rule, they fight to rule.”

 

---

 

    Jötunheim lies to the north and east of Asgard. Liz thought it was probably a good place for hunting snarks. It was a place—if she remembered her Lewis Carroll correctly—entirely composed of chasms and crags. And even finding that the snark was a boojum, was easier than taking another voyage on Naglfar. The nails formed a flexible armor, very like fish-scales. But unlike fish-scales they did not have anything inside them (like a fish, for example) to stop them flexing with each and every wave. Liz was an old sailor. She didn’t mind the ship pitching or rolling. But the deck moving in parallel with the waves under her feet was too much! She understood now why Thor and Thrúd had been so unenthusiastic about the corpse-ship. It wasn’t squeamishness. It was just a liking for being able to remain standing up.

    At least the children had enjoyed it as much as Loki.

    “So where now?” asked Liz, as they sailed into a deep bay that would have made the average Nordic postcard photographer orgasmic and the average sailor very wary. Snowy pines clung to the cliff edges above the midnight blue water. Naglfar touched and scraped her way slowly in toward the shore. Liz had yet to work out what moved the great ship. She was a little afraid to ask.

    “I must consult my kin,” said Loki. “And then we will need to find a messenger to send to the Æsir.”

    “And we need to set about getting to Marie,” said Lamont. “As I explained to you last night, Loki, she’s… sick.”

    Loki nodded. “I have thought about what you told me, and I have thought about where you are and her health. I must explain fully what the thorn of sleep does. It may be that Odin has unwittingly blessed you. He may have given you hope.”

    “Don’t play the fool about this, Loki,” said Lamont harshly. “We had the best doctors in the US examine her. It’s too late. It’s gone too far. There is no cure known to man.”

    “I do not jest.” There was none of the usual mockery in Loki’s voice. “Odin has not given you healing. He has given one thing that you did not have before, though. And that is time to seek that healing.”

    “What?” Lamont’s head bobbed forward. He stared intently at Loki.

    “The thorn of sleep. It is a magical thing. The victim will lie without breath, but without change or death either, until that thorn is pulled out. I do not know this illness that you speak of. But there is much wisdom to be found in the nine worlds. This will give you time to seek it. Were you from the nine worlds your Marie might go to rest with my daughter Hel, if she died. But from what I can understand, if she dies she will go beyond the reach of men and possibly gods. This way, that won’t happen while you search.”

    Lamont sat down on Naglfar’s deck with a thump. Looking at him, Liz wanted to start crying herself. Tears were streaming down his face.

    Liz bit her lip. It had always seemed that the mythworlds were places to escape from. Where time rushed past, and death and danger were the best reward. Suddenly she could think of several million people who would settle for as much of a chance as Lamont Jackson had just been handed.

 

---

 

    “So who is our hostess?”

    “Ran.”

    “It’s an odd name,” said Liz.

    “I wouldn’t let her hear that,” said Thrúd, with a wry smile. “She’s quicker tempered than Papa-Thor, even if Loki does have her wrapped around his thumb. The mother of the waves is she who normally deals with drownings.”

    They were inside the cliff dwelling of the giantess Ran, which was where Loki had been heading with Naglfar. Liz was engaged in her least favorite pastime. Waiting.

    Fair enough, Loki and Sigyn had a lot of organizing to do. And Lamont, having been handed something of a possible lifeline was trying to work out where he could track down any wisdom that might just help Marie.

    Thor was training Emmitt. Jörmungand had gone off on some errand for Loki, and Fenrir had been sent off on a similar mission into the hinterland. The two younger boys were happily engaged in boy-mischief, and Ella was asleep. That left Liz and Thrúd to entertain themselves, as their hostess was off about her watery business.

    Thrúd embroidered. It was what a noble Scandinavian lady did. Liz’s mother would have approved too, so Liz had carefully avoided learning any of that type of art. Which left talking and being irritated. Liz and Thrúd were swapping stories of very different worlds—with strong similarities in places. Hunting, for one, wasn’t that different.

    The window—no glass, just a sturdy shutter—was open to provide Thrúd with light and Liz with the fresh air she craved. But she’d been advised not go out, alone. This was Jötunheim. Mortals walked here with trepidation.

    A raven came to perch on the sill. “So this is where you are.” It hopped from one leg to the other looking at them with intelligent dark eyes.

    “Close the shutters,” said Thrúd urgently.

    “Too late,” said the bird with a clack of its big beak. “Hugin saw you already. Clever Hugin, even if Munin doesn’t think so.”

    Liz smiled at it innocently. “Want some more meat, bird? I gave you that delicious heart before.”

    The bird nodded greedily. “More dragon heart?”

    “On the table.” Liz pointed to the far corner, sitting calmly on her chair.

    The raven looked suspiciously from one of them to the other, cocking its black head from side to side. Then it launched into the room—and quick as a flash, Liz swung the shutter closed.

    “How do you feel about grilled raven, Thrúd?”

    “I prefer them boiled.”

    “I’ll peck your eyes out,” said the raven crossly.

    “And what good will that do you?” asked Liz. “You’ll still be stuck in here. Now where is your other half? What’s his name? Moron?”

    “Munin,” said the raven. “He’s around somewhere. Odin gives him all the best tasks to do.”

    Ah, thought Liz. This was the greedy one who didn’t remember too well. “I really do have some food. Not dragon heart, unfortunately. If you were hungry I might give you some.”

    “I’m always hungry,” said the plump raven in a self-pitying tone. “But I don’t trust you.”

    “Oh, come now,” said Liz. “What have we actually ever done to you?”

    “Threatened to throw sticks and stones at me. Shut me in a dark room. Promised me food you didn’t give me.”

    “Well, you’ve threatened to peck our eyes out. And we’ll let you out now. We just didn’t want you to have to share with moron, uh, Munin.”

    The raven clicked his beak. “Would you believe that he found a stag that got killed by a runaway log-wagon, nice and mature, and he didn’t tell me about it. So what food have you got?”

    Liz turned to Thrúd. “You packed half a larder. All I have is multi-flavored jelly beans. And that could make enemies.” She thought of the rakfisk jelly bean experience and felt decidedly unwell.

    “What about some smoked salmon?” said Thrúd.

    “How do you feel about that, bird?” asked Liz.

    “Too salty and not ripe enough,” said the raven.

    Well, if it wanted ripe…

    The jelly bean had been pink. She dug out the box from her shoulder-bag, and found a pink sweet in the new wooden box. She cautiously sniffed it, and then held it out to the raven. “Try that.”

    Hugin’s greed exceeded his common sense by several orders of magnitude. He snapped it in half with his beak—and by the bouquet Liz knew she’d got it right. The other half of the jelly bean fell to the table.

    The raven stood stock still, ruffling all its feathers up and closing its eyes. For a moment Liz thought she’d killed him. Then the bird opened his eyes wide and stabbed the remaining half of the jelly bean with such ferocity that he left a quarter inch dent in the table.

    Hugin stood there with his raggedy black feathers all fluffed out, with a raven expression of absolute beatification on his ugly beak. He stayed like that for at least three minutes. Then he shook himself back to normal, and eyed Liz and the box with his black eyes full of unalloyed greed. “Would there be any more, oh kind and generous and lovely and wonderful lady?”

    Liz looked. There were six more pink essence of rakfisk raven’s delights. “Some,” she said. “Not too many.”

    “Could I perhaps have another one?”

    “Perhaps,” said Liz. “Definitely, if you can tell me where someone is and what is being done to him.”

    “I’m your raven. I can find out anything.”

    So Liz described Dr. Jerry Lukacs as best as possible.

    Hugin nodded. “Odin’s got him. He’s got plans for him.”

    “I need to know what they are. Then I definitely have another one of those… delicacies for you.”

    “Open the shutter,” said Hugin, impatiently. “And look after those things until I return. Guard them very carefully.”

    He flew off making as much haste as a plump raven could.

 

---

 

    “I think we have our spy,” said Liz.

    Thrúd nodded. “That’s powerful magic that. What are those things?”

    “Believe it or not, it is a sort of sweetmeat for children. I don’t think we know what we’re giving them sometimes. I wish I had a few more.”

    Thrúd looked thoughtful. “Well, let us see if the raven returns. And then we can talk to Ran.”

    “I’d just like to know what the other raven is up to,” said Liz. “I think we’d better go and tell the others about this, eh? Especially Loki and your father.”

    Loki proved elusive, but they found Thor coming back from the sauna, looking glum.

    “I need to get back from giantish parts,” he said. “The Jötun are laughing at me for not drinking. And water will kill me soon anyway. I want to die in Bilskríner.”

    Liz absorbed the fact that he was perfectly serious. Well, Jerry had said as much about water in myth-Greece. “It’s time to introduce you to tisanes. And maybe you need to lift a few boulders in public or do something Thor-like to put off laughter.”

    “It’s in his head,” said Thrúd. “The giants are all terrified of him. None of them would dare laugh. If anyone can give up drinking and not be laughed at, it’s him. So. Show us these ‘Tisanes.’ If Papa-Thor has to drink them, so will I. Will they protect you from the bloody flux?”

    She turned to her father. “You may not realize this, but this woman is a powerful witch. She bespelled one of Odin’s ravens.”

    “Oh? Thought or memory? Hugin or Munin?”

    “Hugin.”

    Thor nodded. “A pity it is isn’t Munin. Hugin’s prone to forget what he’s been sent to do if he spots something tasty and dead.”

    “I can believe that. He has carrion-crow tastes,” said Liz. “Now, to make tisanes I need some herbs. Any chance of such things in your stash, Thrúd?”

    They found some mint, and after an expedition, some boiling water, a small pot and some honey. The end result was fragrant, anyway.

    Thor sniffed it doubtfully. then tasted it. “It’s not exactly Kvasir’s mead is it?” He took another cautious sip. “But you can drink it.”

    “It’s a very sophisticated drink,” insisted Liz, hoping her amusement didn’t show.

    “Sophisticated?” Thor looked as if it wasn’t a word that had been used in his presence too often.

    Liz raised her nostrils at him in the way her pretentious mother cultivated so carefully. “Yes, you know, something that someone of refined culture and intellect would drink. Like you. Chugging ale and mead is all very well for the uncultured ones without any finer feelings. But this takes a true connoisseur.”

    Thor looked warily at the clay bowl. “Oh.”

 

---

 

    It was a little later in the day, just before sundown, that Loki accosted her. He had a very angry trussed raven under his arm.

    “Liz, I just want to know why Thor is wandering around drinking that vile smelling stuff with a sort of constipated expression and his pinky-finger stuck out straight. He looked at me as if I’d crawled out of a piece of cheese when I asked him about it. He said I had no appreciation of the finer things in life. He said I should ask you about it.”

    “I would have thought you of all people would have a grasp of the intrinsic philosophical Zeitgeist and angst that are symbolized by the delicate nuances in bouquet.”

    Loki grinned crookedly. “Don’t let Sigi hear that rubbish or she’ll have me drinking it too.”

    Liz grinned back. It was hard not to like Loki. “It was just a joke. But Thor took it seriously, and to be honest I think that it gives him an excuse to refuse drinks. I told him that alcohol dulls the palate. And it makes him feel good to think he’s got such refined tastes. Play along, will you?”

    Loki’s shoulders shook. “Oh, certainly. But you do realize that Thor is still the greatest warrior of the Æsir? And that many fighters still look to him as a role model?”

    Liz smiled. “Culture and an appreciation of the finer things didn’t exactly blunt the edge of the samurai. We’ll have to introduce him to a tea-ceremony next. Now what are you doing with that raven?”

    “It’s one of Helblindi accursed spies,” said Loki, cheerfully. “I was thinking of baking it in a pie and sending it back to him.”

    “Um. Which of the two is it? Hugin or Munin?” said Liz.

    “Hugin, I think. All ravens look alike to me. It thought it was faster than Loki the wild cat.”

    “Can we find out which one it is? I reached an agreement with Hugin. He was going to find out where Jerry was and what Odin was doing with him.”

    “Ah,” said Loki. “Let’s untie the beak, then.”

    “This is going to cost you at least two of those magic beans!” said Hugin, crossly.

    “I’m sorry. It was a mistake,” apologized Liz.

    Loki eyed her. “You speak raven. A woman of many hidden talents.”

    “And some of them even useful,” said Liz dryly. Loki brought out the sarcasm in her. “You better untie him, Loki. If he has news, that is?”

    Hugin looked affronted. “Of course!”

    “Oh?” said Liz.

    “Odin’s decided that he’ll use him in his quest for wisdom. He said he was damned if he would hang on the tree again or part with his remaining eye. Now where is my reward!”

    “He’s going to hang Jerry?”

    Loki nodded.

    “We need to get moving then,” said Liz. “Or at least I do. A dead boyfriend is no earthly use to me. I’m not into necrophilia.”

    Loki held up a calming hand. “You’re not the only one with spies, you know. Although,” he said, looking at the ecstatically shivering Hugin. “Mine does it for a love of gossip not for some kind perverse gastronomic reason. In one way we are too late.”

    “What!”

    “Jerry already hangs from the world tree like rotting fruit.” Before Liz could fall over, Loki put an arm around her. “But he will survive. Odin did, and Ratatosk has seen to it that your Jerry will.”

    “Ratatosk?” said Liz weakly.

    “Drill-tooth. The squirrel who lives on the world tree carrying happy little spite-messages between the eagle that lives at the top of the tree and the Nídhögg serpent that gnaws at the bottom of the tree. A friend of mine.”

    “This is a crazy screwed up universe,” said Liz, shaking her head. “Humans die if they get hanged, Loki. We’re not built the same as you.”