Kevin Hearne - Hammered

But I am not gone from all brains yet. There are some who remember me. There are some who still worship. I will not die until they forget.

Yet I am weak like kitten. Not strong like days before Christ came to my lands. And reason is Odin and Thor.

At first I think only Thor did this. Later I think Odin ask him to do it. Thor comes to me and say, “My people build me finer statues than yours. They love me more than your people love you. Nothing is finer than statues and stone tributes.”

He shows me his statues in Sweden. He shows me his tributes in Norway and Denmark, and they are fine indeed. I become envious. I become jealous. I ask my people to build me stone tributes. Wooden ones too. Not only for me but for my pantheon. This is how you show love for me, I say. And so my good people do this, and soon I have monuments and statues better than Norse ones.

But later I see truth. Is hard to write on stone. So hard that it is better to write nothing at all. And any writing that goes on statues gets worn away by time. So then Christ comes with his reading monks and their printed word, and idea of Christ remains and grows while idea of Perun washes away in rain and wind.

This is how gods are strong today. Christ, Allah, Yahweh, Buddha, Krishna: They have pages and pages of words about them. These words travel everywhere to bring idea of them to new generations. I have stone statues that travel nowhere. If lucky, I get half hour of man on History Channel asking who I was in deep voice.

Odin saw this coming. He sent Thor to me to trick me into slow death. Then he sent Thor to Iceland to have their skaldic poets write Eddas . Centuries later, when it is too late, I see what happen. Norse remembered because of Eddas . They still weaker than before Christ, but much stronger than me. Because of words. Because now children in many parts of the world hear about them. And so they are bigger ideas.

What can I do now? If I appear to men and say, I am Perun, I am a god, they will say, No, you are just very scary hairy man. This has happened. A man in Minsk said to me, Put down that axe and I will give you brush for hair.

If I say to men, Look, I control thunder, they say, No, that is natural force. Is science. Or coincidence. Magic does not exist. Gods do not exist. No belief, you see, is as strong as their disbelief.

And besides, they say to me, even if gods are real, you cannot be god of thunder. That is Thor.

You see what Thor has done? Among all thunder gods in world, he is now supreme in minds of men. He has done this with words and by tricking me. He has stolen my thunder, as saying goes.

And not only mine. I pay visit to other thunder gods. Shango in Africa, Susanoo in Japan, Ukko in Finland. All of them get visit from Thor, and Thor say to them, Oral tradition is best, or carve this in wood, or scratch this on rock, and you will be remembered. But none of them remembered now like Thor, except Olympians.

Zeus and Jupiter doing fine. Much written about them by their people. Thor and Odin doing very well. And I think they see this time coming long ago. Old One-Eye throws runes, or he talks to Norns, and he sees what he must do to remain strong in age of science. He sees that he must make idea of Norse become bigger than ideas of Slavs or Celts or other peoples. And he sees he can do this with words instead of spear. He sends Thor out to world, statues and carvings get made, and many gods of world fall prey to bigger ideas.

Their words—their lies—have made me little fish. But I am still fish with sharp teeth. They owe me blood. My axe will take it. Is all I have to say.

The lightning flash in Perun’s eyes was not so friendly by the time he finished his tale. I thought his self-assessment was remarkable for a god. I could not imagine the Morrigan, for example, frankly asserting that she was a little fish. Flidais would never contemplate the possibility that she might be prey; she was always the predator. Perun’s ability to do so spoke of a certain realism spawned by many painful hours of reflection. His seeming good humor most likely masked a terrible rage.

I checked the magical spectrum to see if the stories were doing the trick, and it appeared they were. There were bonds forming between the men who had told their tales, gossamer threads of camaraderie twining between their auras. To those who hadn’t spoken yet, the bonds flowed only one way. Weakest of all, however, was my own bond to them. Thor had never done anything to me personally, so I couldn’t relate to them in this way. I’d bond to them later through different tales, some other shared experience that would make us brothers.

There were two left. Everyone looked at Leif, but he stared at Zhang Guo Lao and nodded at him, indicating that the alchemist should go next. The ancient immortal returned the nod, acquiescing, and cleared his throat delicately.

“If leisure serves, I will offer my experience now,” he said.

There were replies of “Aye, Master Zhang,” and “Please, sir,” and “Excellent.” The immortal Zhang Guo Lao rose and bowed to us, then began his tale.

Begging your forgiveness for this poor, simple tale; it is a trifling matter only and not weighted with portent and substance like the adventures you have shared with me.

In elder days I walked the earth as a simple man, learning the mystery of the Tao. Through study and application I conceived the Elixir of Immortality; through battle and experiment I won reputation; through legend and worship I acquired godlike power. Wisdom eludes me yet, but foolishness I captured long ago and to this day it is my constant companion, though many people consider me wise.

Throughout China I am known for riding upon a white donkey. My portrait, sketched many times, always shows me astride my companion. This ass was a singular creature; he brought me much fame. He carried me for thousands of li every day, and when I arrived at my destination, I folded him up like a work of origami and put him in my cap box. When I was ready to travel again, I would squirt water from my mouth upon the paper donkey and it would expand and grow to its normal size.

It was in this very part of the earth where I met Thor seven hundred thirty years ago. I was making camp for the night, about to fold up my donkey for the night, when he descended from the sky in his chariot pulled by two goats. Though the night was chill, he wore a fur wrapped around his hips, secured by a belt, and nothing else save a pair of fur boots laced up with rawhide.

We exchanged greetings. He did not speak Mandarin and I did not speak Old Norse, but we both knew a third language, Russian, and we communicated brokenly in that, happy to have the practice. He smiled and was very charming. I invited him to join me for a humble dinner of fish broth and vegetables.

“Why content ourselves with meager fish when we can feast on our animals?” the god asked.

“I cannot eat my own ass,” I said, though I thought it should be obvious to him. “He carries me wheresoever I wish.”

Thor shrugged. “I need my goats to pull my chariot. That doesn’t stop me from eating them whenever I get hungry.”

“You must have a very large herd of goats to indulge in such wanton consumption,” I said.

“Not at all. There are only these two.”

“Will you not be stranded if you eat them, then?”

He brandished his hammer. “No. I simply touch them with this, and they are resurrected from their bones.”