Лайон Спрэг Де Камп Array - The Incomplete Enchanter

Shea found himself yawning again. He was too tired for explanations and flipped off his answer. «Well, some say one class and some say another, but the real rulers are called traffic cops. They pinch you —»

«Are they then some form of crab-fish?»

«No. They pinch you for moving too fast, wheres a crab pinches you for moving too slowly.»

«Still they are sea gods, I perceive, like my brother Ægir. What is their power?»

Shea fought a losing battle against another yawn. «I’m sorry I seem to be sleepy,» he said. «Aren’t you going to bed soon, Golden?»

«Me? Ho, ho! Seldom has such ignorance been seen at the Crossroads of the World. I am the Watcher of the Gods, and never sleep. Sleepless One is, indeed, another of my titles. But it is to be seen that it is otherwise with you, youngling, and since I have won the game of questions you may go to bed.»

An angry retort rose to Shea’s lips at this calm assumption of victory, but he remembered that icy glare in time. Helmdall, however, seemed able to read his mind. «What! You would argue with me? Off to bed — and remember our little plot against the Bringer of Discord. Henceforth you are Turnip Harald, the bold and crafty warlock.»

Shea risked just one more question. «What is a warlock, please, sir?»

«Ho, ho! Child from another world, your ignorance is higher than a mountain and deeper than a well. A warlock is a wizard, an enchanter, a weaver of spells, a raiser of spirits. Good-night, Turnip Harald.»

The bedroom proved to have a sliding door. Shea found it no bigger than a Pullman section and utterly without ventilation. The bed was straw-stuffed and jabbed him. He could not find comfort. After an hour or so of tossing, he had the experience, not uncommon on the heels of a day of excitements, of finding himself more wide-awake than in the beginning.

For a time his thoughts floated aimlessly; then he told himself that, since this was an experiment, he might as well spend the sleepless hours trying to assemble results. What were they?

Well, firstly that there had been an error either in the equations or his use of them, and he had been pitched into a world of Scandinavian mythology — or else Scandinavian history. He was almost prepared to accept the former view.

These people talked with great conviction about their Ragnarök. He was enough of a psychologist to recognize their sincerity. And that icy stare he had felt from Odinn and then Heimdall was something, so far as he knew, outside ordinary human experience. It might be a form of hypnosis, but he doubted whether the technique, or even the idea of hypnotism, would be known to ancient viking chiefs. No, there was something definitely more than human about them.

Yet they had human enough attributes as well. It ought not to be beyond the powers of an experimental psychologist to guide his conduct by analysing them a little and making use of the results. Odinn? Well, he was off to the gates of Hell, whither Shea had no desire to follow him. Not much to be made of him, anyway, save a sense of authority.

What about Loki? A devastatingly sharp tongue that indicated a keen mind at work, Also a certain amount of malice. Uncle Fox, Thjatfi had called him, and said he was fond of jokes. Shea told himself he would not be surprised to find the jokes were often of a painful order. Working for him might be difficult, but Shea smiled to himself as he thought how he could surprise the god with so simple an object as a match.

Frey he had hardly noticed. Thor apparently was no more than a big, good-natured bruiser, and Thjalfi, the kind of rustic one would find in any country town, quoting Eddic lays instead of the Bible.

Heimdall, however, was a more complex character, certainly lacking in Loki’s sense of humour. And he quite evidently felt he had a position of dignity to maintain with relation to the common herd — as witness his insistence on titles. But equally evidently, he was prepared to accept the responsibilities of that position, throw himself heart and soul and with quite a good mind into the right side of the scales — as Loki was not. Perhaps that was why he hated Loki. And Heimdall, underneath the shell of dignity, had a streak of genuine kindness. One felt one could count on him — and deciding he liked Heimdall the best of the lot, Shea turned over and went to sleep.

Shea awoke with a set of fur-bearing teeth and a headache that resembled the establishment of a drop-forging plant inside his brain — whether from the mead or the effect of those two piercing glances he had received from Heimdall and Odinn he could not tell. It was severe enough to stir him to a morning-after resolution to avoid all three in the future.

When the panel of his bedroom slid back he could hear voices from the hall. Thor, Loki. and Thjalfi were at breakfast as he came in, tearing away with knives and fingers at steaks the size of unabridged dictionaries. The foxy-faced Loki greeted him cheerfully: «Hail, hero of the turnip fields! Will your lordship do us the honour of breakfasting with us?»

He shoved a wooden platter with a hunk of meat on it towards Shea and passed along one of a collection of filled mugs— Shea’s mouth was dry, but he almost gagged when a pull at the mug showed it contained beer and sour beer at that.

Loki laughed. «Ridiculous it is,» he said, «to see the children of men, who have no fixed customs, grow uneasy when customs about them change. Harald of the Turnips, I am told you are a notable warlock.»

Shea looked at his plate. «I know one or two tricks,» he admitted.

«It was only to be expected that a hero of such unusual powers would be modest. Now there is this to be said: a man fares ill at Ragnarök unless he have his place. Would you be one of my band at the Time ?»

Shea gulped. He was still unconvinced about this story of a battle and the end of the world, but he might as well ride with the current till he could master it. «Yes, sir, and thank you.»

«The worm consents to ride on the eagle’s wings. Thank you, most gracious worm. Then I will tell you what you must do; you must go with us to Jötunheim, and that will be a hard journey.»

Shea remembered his conversation with Heimdall the night before. «Isn’t that where some of the giants live?»

«The frost giants to be exact. That lying Sleepless One claims to have heard Thor’s hammer humming somewhere in their castle; and for all of us it will be well to find that weapon. But we shall need whatever we possess of strength and magic in the task — unless, Lord Turnip Eater, you think you can recover it without our help.»

Shea gulped again. Should he go with them? He had come looking for adventure, but enough was enough. «What is adventure?» he remembered reading somewhere, with the answer, «Somebody else having a hell of a tough time a thousand miles away.» Only —

Thjalfi had come round the table, and said in a low voice:

«Look. My sister Röskva is staying here at the Crossroads, because the Giant Killer don’t think Jötunhejm would be any place for a woman. That leaves me all alone with these Æsir and an awful lot of giants. I’d be mighty obliged if ye could see your way to keep me company.»

«I’ll do it,» said Shea aloud. Then he realized that his impulsiveness had let him in for something. If Loki and Thor were not sure they could recover the hammer without help, it was likely to be an enterprise of some difficulty. Still, neither Æsir nor giants knew about matches — or the revolver. They would do for magic till something better came along.

«I’ve already spoken to the Lord of the Goat Chariot,» Thjalfi was saying. «He’d be glad to have ye come, but he says ye mustn’t disgrace him by asking to eat turnips. Ye’d best do something about those clothes. They’re more than light for this climate. Sverre-bonder will lend you some others.»