James Lovegrove - The Age Of Odin (9 page)

"It has a name," Odin said.

"Thing that size, it bloody well ought to. What's it called, then? Treezilla? Humong-ash? King Conifer?" I was quite pleased with that last one.

"Yggdrasil."

"Come again?"

"Yggdrasil."

"Bless you."

"I suspect however many times I repeat the name, you'll keep pretending to mishear."

"Try me."

"Yggdrasil."

"About a quarter to eleven."

That wolfish grin. "You have quite an... insistent sense of humour, Gid."

"Keeps me sane," I said. "Just about. Yggdrasil, eh? Well, it's better than Bert or John, I suppose. Tree like this, an ordinary name just wouldn't cut it. How old?"

"As old as the world."

"No, but really."

"Really." Odin winked - or maybe blinked. With that left eye of his hidden, it was hard to tell. "Yggdrasil sprang up at the moment of creation, when the Nine Worlds were formed."

"The Nine Worlds? You mean the nine planets of the solar system?"

"No, the Nine Worlds. Earth, also known as Midgard, is one. The others are Muspelheim, the world of fire, Alfheim, the world of the elves, Svartalfheim, the world of the gnomes, Niflheim, the world of -"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." I tapped the fingertips of one hand against the palm of the other to form a T. "That's it, Odin. Time out. Let's stop right there. I don't mean to be rude, but this is starting to get ridiculous."

"Ridiculous? How so?"

"Granted, I'm not the sharpest tool in the box. Hardly what you might call Oxbridge material. But I'm not stupid either. I've worked out that there's a theme going on here. Asgard Hall. Valhalla Mission. Your name - Odin. Took me a while to piece it all together but I got there in the end. The Norse gods, the Norse myths, whatever.
That's
where all this comes from. The Valykries too, and old Iggy Pop here. All based on old Norse stuff. I'm not that familiar with the legends, but I did read a few Marvel comics when I was young. You know, the Mighty Thor. He was always popping off across the Rainbow Bridge to Asgard and getting into trouble with Odin, his dad. Wasn't my favourite superhero, with his girly long hair and all those 'thous' and 'verilys' and 'forsooths.' I was more of an Incredible Hulk fan myself. But some of the Thor stories had their moments. And you've borrowed from the same legends, kitted yourself out with the old names, and that's all fine and well if you're into that sort of thing. It's just..."

"Just...?"

"It's... I don't know what it is," I said, lamely. "I'm finding it a bit of a struggle to take in, that's all. There's you going on about nine worlds, and gnomes, and trolls, let's not forget the trolls, and you're doing it absolutely straight-faced and... and I just don't get what it's all in aid of. What's the point? It's like some weird, obscure game you're playing, and I have no idea what the rules are. I came here - me and my friend came here - because we thought, we were led to believe, that you lot were looking for a few good men, as the saying goes. We had the impression there was soldiering to be done, for money, decent money, and you'd take almost anyone who applied, never mind their track record. Now, maybe we were mistaken about that, maybe we misread the signs, maybe we got entirely the wrong end of the stick, but what I wasn't expecting, the last thing I was expecting, was to find that the person running this place is some old geezer who spouts Dark Ages storybook stuff like it's true and has even named himself after the king of the Norse gods. It's - it's confusing. And that's putting it mildly. I feel like I tuned in to watch
Where Eagles Dare
, and
Lord of the Rings
is on instead, and there was no warning on the TV listings page about the change to the schedule."

"I understand," Odin said. "I sympathise. If it's any consolation, disorientation like yours is quite common. You'll adjust. Everyone does. Please be assured that I am not mad."

"Did I call you mad?"

"No, but you're thinking it. Doubtless you'll think it all the more when I tell you that, when I was much younger, I hung myself upon this very tree." He slapped the ash's silvery, honeycomb-like bark.

"Hung yourself," I echoed.

"Nailed myself in place, for nine days and nine nights." He winced. "It was not a pleasant experience. An act of sacrifice, so that I might gain knowledge."

"Knowledge. Right. And did it work?"

"I like to think it did. I observed the patterns Yggdrasil's fallen twigs made on the ground. I perceived that they made letter shapes, spelled out words. That was how the runic alphabet came about. I was the one who discovered it, and with it the magic of written language, the power of ideas expressed in a form intelligible to all. This made me wiser than my brothers Hoenir and Lodur, which in turn elevated me to the position of All-Father, head of my family, the Aesir. A fair exchange, I'd say, for those many long hours of suffering."

"Bargain."

His eye narrowed. "If you want proof, look." He pointed to something about three metres above us on the trunk. "See? Up there? Those stains. Bloodstains. Mine. My blood."

I squinted. Certainly there were a few streaks of discolouration running in long thin lines down the bark. Some dark, sticky substance had trickled there once. Long dried now.

"Sap," I said. "Trees do that, you know. Leak sap."

Odin stared at me for a moment.

"I can see," he said, "that you're not going to make the leap of faith today. One good look at Yggdrasil usually does the trick, but not in your case. That's fine. A shame, but it's still early. You'll come around in time. You would prefer, I imagine, to be shown something more concrete. Something more in line with what you envisaged when you set out on your journey here. Very well. This way."

He set off at a fair old pace, slightly faster than I and my still sore ankle could keep up with. If Odin was miffed with me, which he seemed to be, there was sod-all I could about it. I wasn't prepared to indulge his whims and fancies, this bizarre blather of his. Norse god? The All-Father? Nine days nailed to a tree? Do me a favour! I followed him out of curiosity alone, to find out if there really was any more to this place than a crazy man and his wife and their castle and a handful of equally deluded followers. I didn't think there was, and already I was planning, like the undercover journalist in the brothel, to make my excuses and leave. Soon as I was fully mobile again, I was out of here. The whole thing was a bust. A waste of time. London beckoned, and the ordinary life. Nothing on earth was going to convince me to stay.

Nine

Around past the castle Odin went, sticking to the paths dug out in the snow, and I limped after him, quick as I could manage.

Soon the paths petered out and we were forging across open countryside. Ahead on the horizon I could make out a huddle of low buildings. A dozen log cabins, each with a smokestack chimney sending up a pencil-grey plume into the air. Cosy-looking, despite - or maybe thanks to - all the snow heaped high on their roofs. Chalet-like, the sort of thing you might find up in the Alps or on the shores of a Norwegian fjord.

Through the hut windows I spotted metal bunks. Each cabin slept perhaps twenty. The beds were made, and I glimpsed enough clutter and clobber around them to tell me that
somebody
was resident here, even if no one was actually at home at this precise moment.

The sound of voices came pealing across the roofs, dulled somewhat by the snow. Men yelling, roaring, cheering, jeering. Beyond the last of the cabins Odin had halted, waiting for me to catch up. As I joined him I found myself confronted with a field full of people dressed in extreme cold weather gear. Uniforms. Grey and white snow-pattern camouflage. Scores of them.

An army.

Some were at trestle tables, stripping down and reassembling firearms. A few were being given skiing lessons by a pixie-like woman bundled up in animal furs. Others were exercising - star jumps, sit-ups, burpees - their faces pink with effort, their breath coming in sharp bursts of white, their boots churning the snow and the mud beneath to chocolate mousse. The fitness instructor who strutted around bellowing at them was also a woman, tall and blonde. She was too far away for me to make out her features distinctly but she was, from her figure alone, striking, and I knew I'd like to see more. The guys doing the workout certainly seemed to be doing their best to impress her.

The majority of the soldiers, however, were gathered in a large crowd focused inward, and from their cries and jostling and the avid looks on their faces, it wasn't hard to guess on what. Not to mention, money was changing hands. Bets were being placed, and argued over.

"A fight?"

"A sparring match," said Odin. "Useful for morale, every so often. Vents steam. And if I don't miss my guess, one of the participants will be my son."

"Your son. Don't tell me - Thor."

"Naturally. Of all my offspring, he is the most combative. Loves a good brawl, does Thor. Nothing he likes more. Come on, let's go in for a closer look."

The crowd parted to let Odin through, and I trailed along in his wake. The men might have been caught up in the fever of the fight but as soon as they recognised Odin they gave him a wide, respectful berth. Anybody who didn't see him coming was alerted by a sharp tap on the shoulder or a nudge with an elbow, either from a neighbour or Odin himself, and instantly stepped aside.

At the centre of the throng were two men, grappling and trading blows. One was more or less my size, young, black, with peroxided cornrows and a terrific scar down one cheek. Seriously hard-looking sort. While the other was... well, a giant. Seven feet tall, and proportionately broad and brawny. Long red hair, huge red beard, and yes, because this was Thor, could only be, he had a hammer lodged into his belt. A short-handled, square-headed mallet, a stubby affair, looking more ornamental than functional but heavy enough to do some damage all the same if used offensively.

They were going at it with gusto. Scarface I could tell had done some proper boxing in his time and looked fairly tasty. He bunched his fists just right, thumbs alongside rather than in front, and kept a good guard up. Tight but limber, and he danced like a demon, his back foot up on its toes so he could throw his whole mass behind a punch. Wasn't so hot in the clinches, but when he could keep space between him and Thor he fired off solid hits that connected well and gave the bigger man something to think about.

Thor, on the other hand, was a wrestler. He preferred the bear hugs, the holds, the grabs and tussles. He wasn't quick on his toes like his opponent, so he was forever looking to close the gap and hem Scarface in. Once he had him in his clutches, then he was able to bring his superior bulk and strength to bear. He could crush and smother, and Scarface's only possible response was to slug away at his flanks from point-black range, which didn't have much effect. Thor's frame was meaty enough to absorb the impacts.

After engulfing Scarface for a minute or so Thor would let him go. Maybe throw him away, maybe just release him. Scarface would stay out of his reach for a while, getting his wind and dander back, then weave in sidelong to resume the fight.

It was obvious to me - to anyone with eyes - that Thor was toying with Scarface. He never looked in danger of being beaten. He was just too huge and hefty for that. It would have taken a lot more to topple him than a few punches, however well aimed and executed.

But that didn't appear to bother Scarface. It didn't even seem to be the purpose of the contest. This was about something else, and judging by Scarface's expression, that something else was pride. He kept coming back at Thor - even though he must have realised he didn't stand a chance of defeating him - because he had a point to prove. He was getting the worst of it. One of his eyes was puffing shut and there was blood dribbling from one of his flared, near-vertical nostrils. As I watched, a rogue swing from Thor decked him, splitting open his lower lip. But Scarface got straight up again. He wasn't going to back down or throw in the towel. He was going to continue at it for as long as he had bones in his legs.

"Go get him, Cy!" some of the crowd were shouting. "Show him what a man can do!"

But even as they egged him on, all of them were wagering on Thor to win. The bets weren't about
who
, they were about
how
. Fall, knockout, submission, one of the three.

Scarface - Cy - was starting to wobble, and I felt sorry for him. He'd been doing sterling work, but Thor was easily soaking up the punishment he was dishing out, and giving it back twofold. At one point he had Cy by the neck and I honestly thought he was going to throttle him unconscious. Cy was choking, his eyes rolled up, and if Thor hadn't relaxed his grip in time he'd have gone under. I looked at Odin, thinking that this was taking things too far and he should step in and stop the fight. But he either didn't notice my look or else ignored it. He was wrapped up in the spectacle like everyone else in the crowd, relishing it nearly as much they were.

Cy lurched at Thor one final time. He gave it all he had, a last-ditch effort. Some nice combos battered Thor's head - an uppercut followed by a pair of roundhouses, some jabs with the left finished off with a thumping right hook. Thor simply spat out a trickle of blood and chortled.