Odin Blew Up My TV! (8 page)

“Well, Lewis, this is the life, eh?” said Greg.

They were strolling through a patch of elm trees towards a hill, which they hoped would give them a view of the route ahead. Lewis’ eyes darted this way and that in expectation of an ambush.

“If by ‘life’ you mean ‘the pits’,” he said unhappily, “then yes. Loki’s stolen our town, turned everybody into statues and we’re lost in a weird country full of dragons, bears and wolves.”

“It was a dead dragon, Lewis,” Greg pointed out, “the bear ran away, and those wolf things of Loki’s are as thick as Mum’s Sunday custard.”

“I’m still worried about Dave,” said Lewis as they started up the hill. “How is he going to manage on his own?”

“He’ll be fine,” Greg assured him airily. “Didn’t you say he’s really brainy? He’s probably nearly as smart as I am.”

“If you’re so smart,” said Lewis, “do you know where we’re going?”

“The rings know,” said Greg. “It’s just like following a satnav. Yours is still pulling you, right?”

“It gives my finger a tug now and then,” Lewis answered. “I just hope we recognise this bit of magic staff when we find it.”

“If we’d known they did this,” said Greg, raising his hand to gaze at the Asgardian ring, “maybe we could have used them ages ago to find buried treasure and stuff.”

“I don’t think they work like that,” said Lewis.

The top of the hill was covered in thick bramble bushes, and as they pushed through to the other side they came face to face with a Really Big Troll. They stopped dead in their tracks and stared at him. He stopped and stared back at them.

The troll was twice as tall as Lewis, with dull green skin. He had a huge, bulbous nose and tufts of red hair sprouted randomly from various points on his scalp. He wore a frayed leather tunic studded with metal discs and had a dirty blue rag tied around his head. He smiled, revealing rows of crooked teeth that looked like pebbles dug out of the ground.

“He looks pleased to see us,” Greg muttered.

“Do you think that’s a good thing?” Lewis murmured back.

The Really Big Troll stepped closer and squinted at the boys. “Ouat ee nid,” he grunted.

“Sorry, I didn’t quite get that,” said Lewis.

“Frr teem,” the troll explained.

“Whatever he’s havering about,” said Greg, “it looks like he wants us to stick around.”

“Gum sonn,” the Really Big Troll informed them amiably.

“We need to get away from him and find the staff,” said Lewis anxiously.

Greg whipped a book out of his pocket and started flicking through the pages. “Maybe I can find some words in here to make him do what we want,” he said.

Lewis wrinkled his nose doubtfully. “Is that the stupid book you bought,
The Verbal Samurai
?”

“
Ninja
, Lewis,
Ninja
,” Greg corrected him. “A Samurai is something completely different.”

He was still flipping pages when the Really Big Troll stretched down a massive paw and snatched the book out of his hands. He popped the paperback in his mouth, chewed twice, and swallowed it in a single gulp.

He made a face and grunted, “Sandwich too dry.”

“Sandwich?” Greg echoed incredulously. “That was no sandwich, you great lump. That was the key to my future success.”

“Hey, I understood what he said that time,” said Lewis.

“When you get used to his grunting, it’s not really that hard,” Greg agreed.

The Really Big Troll beat a fist against his chest and declared, “Gruklob!”

“Hang on, I didn’t catch that,” said Greg.

“I think he’s telling us his name,” said Lewis.

The troll pounded his chest again and repeated, “Gruklob!”

“Nice to meet you, Gruklob,” said Greg, pointing to
himself and Lewis. “I’m
Bedbug
and this is my brother
Sickbag
.”

“Bedbug, Sickbag,” the troll repeated. He set off down the far side of the hill, beckoning the boys to follow.

“He doesn’t seem like such a bad guy,” said Greg, heading after the creature.

Lewis followed reluctantly. “Do you really think we should be going with him?”

“The rings are pulling that way, aren’t they?” said Greg. “Besides, we’re all pals now, aren’t we, Gruklob?”

“Bedbug friend,” the troll grunted. “Sickbag friend.”

“What did you give us those stupid names for?” Lewis complained.

“We’re operating undercover,” said Greg, “like spies. All we need now is a pen that shoots poisoned darts and a car with an ejector seat.”

At the bottom of the hill the troll led them through a maze of scraggy trees and mossy boulders to where another troll was waiting. He was even bigger than Gruklob with pale yellow skin and a crest of black hair sticking out of the top of his head. He also had a blue rag tied around his brow.

“Wer yu bin?” he asked Gruklob.

“Found two,” Gruklob announced proudly, shoving the boys forward. “Bedbug and Sickbag.”

“What do they want with us?” Lewis wondered. “Trolls don’t eat people, do they?”

“I don’t think so,” said Greg, “but if you see a cooking pot, run for it.”

The Even Bigger Troll stared at them. “Puny,” he grunted, “but do.” With that he turned and sauntered off through the trees.

Gruklob shoved the boys along after the Even Bigger Troll. He pointed at him and said, “Spudlug.”

“Right, his name is Spudlug,” said Greg.

“Team for game need…” Gruklob paused to count on his fingers. “Ten. Plus…” He paused to count his ears and his nose. “Three.”

“Thirteen,” Lewis piped up.

“Mugrash break leg kicking mountain, so can’t play,” said Gruklob. “Bograg pick fight with giant. Not see Bograg again. So need two. You.”

“Did you hear that, Sickbag?” said Greg. “We’re on the team.”

“What team?” Lewis asked. “What do they expect us to do?”

Gruklob said no more but herded them along after Spudlug.

They followed Spudlug to a spot where crude stakes the height of a man had been driven into the ground. Stretched between them was a fence made of branches, woven grass and strips of tree bark, enclosing an area roughly the size of a football pitch. They were led through a gap in the crude fence and onto the enclosed field.

A couple of dozen trolls were milling about here, some wearing blue rags around their heads, others red. Standing
in the middle of them all was a Very Old Troll with a huge purple nose and a wild mane of white hair. At the end of a leash he held a pig that was nosing about in the ground.

Spudlug approached the Very Old Troll and addressed him respectfully, lowering his head and bowing every few seconds. From the way he was gesturing in their direction, Lewis could tell he was talking about the two of them.

“It looks like they need that old guy’s permission to let us on the team,” said Greg. “I expect he’s the referee.”

“Is your ring still pulling?” asked Lewis.

“No, it’s tingling now,” said Greg. “Maybe that means the staff piece is right here. We need to stick around till we find it.”

After a short discussion, the Very Old Troll raised a hand in the air and declared, “Yes! Punies on blue team!”

“I wish they’d stop calling us puny,” said Lewis.

“Stop being so sensitive,” said Greg. “Keep your eyes peeled for the staff thingy.”

The trolls in the blue headbands gave a ragged cheer and everyone headed to the centre of the field – a stretch of rough ground pitted with holes, many of which were filled with muddy water. Grassy hillocks rose up here and there with boulders and logs scattered all over.

Gruklob stood them before Spudlug, who slipped a length of blue rag over Lewis’ brow and knotted it behind his head.

“Not so tight!” Lewis complained. “You’ll cut off the circulation to my brain.”

The troll performed the same operation on Greg, who grinned. “Now I actually feel like a ninja,” he said.

“Sports!” Lewis moaned. “I never win at sports.”

“Come on, Lewis,” Greg said encouragingly, “remember that time you nearly beat me at table tennis.”

“
Nearly
,” Lewis repeated sourly.

“Rules simple,” Gruklob explained. “Catch pig. Get pig in enemy circle. Keep pig in circle. Take enemy flag as sign of win.”

Lewis looked up and down the field and saw that a circle of stones had been laid out at each end. There was a blue flag in one circle and a red flag in the other. When he looked at the red flag the tingling in his ring grew stronger.

“Greg, I think the red flagpole is what we’re after,” he said. “The piece of the staff!”

Greg squinted up the field and nodded. “That makes things simple. All we have to do is win the game and take the flag.”

“Oh, right, that’s no problem then,” Lewis groaned.

“Lewis, it’s just a game, okay? Like rugby.”

“I hate rugby,” said Lewis. “I nearly got killed that time they made me play it at school.”

Both teams had now lined up facing each other. The Very Old Troll stood between them with the pig. Gruklob pushed the two boys into position among their teammates.

It started to rain and the trolls all cheered.

“I guess they like playing in mud,” said Greg.

The Very Old Troll raised a fist in the air and yelled, “Ready for pig!”

Everybody tensed up as he released the animal. As soon as it was free the pig shot off, zigzagging across the field. With a savage roar, both teams set off in pursuit, bashing their opponents aside and slithering about in the mud.

“Come on, Lewis, let’s go!” Greg urged, joining the chase.

Lewis tried to run after him but slipped and fell face-first in the mud. “Sports!” he groaned, spitting out a mouthful of mucky water. “I hate sports.”

Hiking across the wild landscape of Vanaheim beside Sigurda, Susie was reminded of last year’s Spinetti family holiday on the island of Mull. She and her older sister Toni (short for Antonia) had gone tramping through the heather and over rocky hills until they found a small loch, where they had dived in for a swim. Toni was working in America now. She had posted spectacular photos of the Grand Canyon on Facebook. Susie wondered if she would ever be able to tell Toni – or anyone – about her adventures in Vanaheim.

“Susie,” said Sigurda, interrupting her reverie, “I can almost hear the thoughts buzzing in your head like bees in a hive.”

“I was just thinking, Sigurda,” said Susie, “that if I tell anybody about the adventures I’ve had, like when Thor came to St Andrews a few months back, or now here with you, they’d think I was cracked in the head. There’s no way I can tell Father O’Dwyer at our church that I’ve met Thor and Loki.”

“One was well met, I’ll wager,” said Sigurda, “the other not so.”

“Yes, about that,” said Susie. “How could you, you know,
hang out
with Loki? I mean, he’s kind of a sleazeball, isn’t he?”

“He is a rogue, that is certain,” said Sigurda, “yet even a rogue may have his charms. In that long ago age I found him fair of face and sharp of wit, with always a merry jest upon his lips to lighten a weary heart.”

“So you’re saying he made you laugh.”

“Yes, as when amid a storm of woe the clouds part and a shaft of golden sunlight gladdens the spirit. He was not like the others gods of Asgard, who are fixed in their ways. With him one always found the unexpected.”

“Greg’s like that too,” said Susie. “He’s kind of a goof, but next to him everybody else is boring. I mean, you don’t ask for vanilla ice cream when there’s chocolate-chip rum-and-raisin on the menu.”

“Over time,” Sigurda continued, “Loki was corrupted by ambition, growing both vain and selfish. His jests became bitter and cruel.”

“So he went from being a clown to being a serious pain in the neck,” said Susie sympathetically.

“I bade him depart my presence or feel the keen edge of my blade,” Sigurda recalled. “And still, these many years later, he speaks as though some bond of caring yet exists between us.”

“Guys, eh?” said Susie, rolling her eyes. “What are they like?”

They halted at the edge of a dark lake with a tree-covered
island in the centre. Susie could see the stone towers of a castle poking up above the treetops.

“The ring’s still nagging at me to go that way,” she said, pointing across the lake. “Do you think we’re supposed to go for a swim?”

“To do so would mean abandoning my weapons and armour here on the shore,” said Sigurda ruefully, drumming her fingers on the hilt of her sword. “There must be some other means of crossing.”

Even as she spoke, a splashing of oars caught their attention. A small boat was making its way towards them from the direction of the island. The boatman rowed steadily with his back to them, occasionally casting a disgruntled glance over his shoulder.

“It’s a bit like phoning a taxi, isn’t it?” said Susie. “You just think about how you need a boat, and zing, one shows up.”

“It is Skarabeg the Boatman,” said Sigurda. “Whenever a traveller in urgent need requires passage across water, Skarabeg and his boat appear, whether it be on a river, a lake or the tumultuous waves of the storm-tossed sea. That is the curse laid upon him.”

“A curse?” said Susie. “How did that happen?”

“Once when Odin was walking the Earth in the guise of a very old man…” Sigurda began.

“In an age long past, I’ll bet,” Susie guessed.

“Indeed, in an age long past…” Sigurda agreed seriously.
“Odin came to a great river where he begged passage of Skarabeg the Boatman. Skarabeg demanded payment in gold from the ragged old man.

“Odin protested that he had no wealth to share, but if Skarabeg gave him passage, he would pray to the gods to send him good fortune. Skarabeg laughed harshly and declared that prayers were of no value to him, whether they be to Odin or any other god.

“Angered by these arrogant words, Odin threw off his cloak and revealed his true identity as king of the gods. To punish the boatman for his selfish arrogance, he laid this curse on him. He and his boat would appear on lakes, rivers or at sea, wherever a traveller in need required passage. Skarabeg would be compelled to serve without payment, and so do penance for insulting the gods.”

When the boat bumped up against the shore Susie saw that Skarabeg was a small, hunched figure with a round turnip of a face. His arms were thick and muscular from years of pulling on the oars.

“Hail, Skarabeg the Boatman,” Sigurda greeted him. “We demand passage in accordance with the decree of Odin.”

“Right, so you know me,” Skarabeg retorted ungraciously. “Get in if you’re coming.”

Susie and Sigurda had barely settled into the boat when Skarabeg pulled abruptly away from the shore with a powerful heave on the oars.

“Hey!” cried Susie, grabbing the edge to steady herself. “I nearly went over there.”

“I’m a busy man,” Skarabeg informed her. “I can’t wait around all day for you to make yourself comfortable.”

Susie turned to Sigurda. “Cursing him doesn’t seem to have improved his personality.”

“Skarabeg, who dwells in yon island castle?” Sigurda asked the disgruntled man.

“Odin’s curse forces me to give you passage,” Skarabeg sneered, “but I’m not your travel guide. Find out for yourself.”

A long shape passed under the boat, undulating through the murky water.

Susie peered over the side and wrinkled her nose. “There’s all sorts of things squiggling about down there,” she observed. “I don’t suppose there’s any point asking old Skarabeg what they are.”

“I hope one of them jumps into the boat and bites you,” Skarabeg snapped.

“You know, my cousin George is a taxi driver,” said Susie, “and he’s a lot nicer than you.”

Skarabeg ignored her and carried on rowing.

“We went across Loch Ness in a boat once,” said Susie. “I spent the whole time looking for the monster but never spotted it.”

They struck the island shore with a jolt that almost threw Susie out of her seat.

“Thanks for the friendly chat,” she said to Skarabeg as they climbed out, “and the soft landing.”

The boatman hunched over his oars and a nasty smirk passed across his thin lips. “I’ll wait here for you,” he said. “Only for an hour, mind. If you’re not back by then, you won’t be coming back.”

“What do you mean by that?” Susie asked him sharply.

Skarabeg shrugged. “I’m just saying; that’s all.”

“Waste no more time with him,” said Sigurda. “We must be about our business.”

A path of flat, crooked stones led through the trees. They followed it to the centre of the island where a craggy grey castle rose up. Its crumbling towers soared upward, like rocky fingers stabbing at the sky. Ivy crawled over the walls and wound itself around the battlements, as though trying to drag the whole structure down into the earth.

“This was definitely built in an age long past,” said Susie. “I doubt anybody lives here now.”

A pair of wooden doors, broken loose from their hinges and pitted with holes, hung askew in the arched entrance. As she passed between them, Sigurda drew her sword. “We must be prepared for any danger,” she said.

“I wish I had my hockey stick,” said Susie, following her inside.

“Hockey stick?” Sigurda repeated.

“I use it for ice hockey,” said Susie, “when I’m playing
for my team the Fife Flames.”

“Ah, in a contest of skill and courage,” said Sigurda.

“That’s right,” Susie enthused. “It’s a Bearlander carbon and fibreglass AX3 with a super-low kick-point. It’s a beaut.”

From ahead came an eerie sound, like many voices moaning. They entered a great hall where sunlight filtered through the long, crumbling windows.

The place smelled of mildew and dust. Scattered about were tables and chairs, all broken and rotted with age. A wooden shield studded with rusted metal was fixed to one wall. Facing it on the other was the horned skull of some massive beast.

The flagstones had burst apart down the centre of the floor to expose a gaping fracture in the earth, from which emanated a sickly white light.

Susie felt a chill at the sight of it, as if somebody had opened a giant fridge right in front of her.

Suddenly a figure appeared out of the crack in the ground. It twisted up from the light, like a sheet blowing about in a gale. Susie saw it had arms and legs and a ghastly face with huge eyes. Its great gash of a mouth opened wide to let out a miserable howl. Then it turned and swooped off through one of the open doorways in the far wall.

“What was that?” Susie gasped. “What’s going on?”

Sigurda’s clenched her sword hilt tightly. “A crack has opened in the earth leading down to Niflheim, the land of the dead,” she said. “Some of the ghosts have escaped.”

“Ghosts?” Susie echoed unhappily. “Really? Ghosts?”

“The unquiet spirits of those who died without honour,” Sigurda explained. “The brave who die in battle are carried to Valhalla, to dwell in joy and celebration, but those who flee danger are dragged down into Niflheim, the cold and misty land of death. Some of them accept their lot and pass their days in the bleak silence of the shadow realm. Others harbour bitterness against the living and escape to spread terror and torment.”

“Look,” Susie said nervously, “there’s not much that scares me. But ghosts. Well, even when I didn’t believe in them, they creeped me out. So now, well…” She shuddered.

“We must keep clear of that baleful light,” said Sigurda, indicating the glowing crack with the point of her sword. “Which way are we bound?”

Susie felt the tug of the ring and pointed to a wide stone stairway ahead. “That way,” she said. Her throat had gone so dry she could barely get the words out.

Sigurda started forward and Susie forced her feet to follow.

“Ghosts!” she muttered. “Why did it have to be ghosts? Why couldn’t it be snakes or something?”