Kevin Hearne - Hammered

The renewed scraping of the chair leg interrupted my reverie and I heard footsteps fading away deeper into the hall, along with some panting and a few wanton giggles.

That was opportunity knocking.

Rising slowly from my crouch, I peeked carefully over the windowsill. The hearth drew my attention first, off to my left. It was heating the contents of an iron pot craned over the flames, which Idunn and Bragi were apparently willing to let stew for some time. Directly in front of me was the kitchen table, a wooden bowl of fruit on it. There were pears, plums, and peaches—but no apples.

Imaginary Kirk spoke up. “Do you dare to eat a peach?”

“Of course I dare,” I whispered.

“May I remind you that we are here for a golden apple?” imaginary Spock said. “We should not be distracted by superfluous fruit.” I reached my hand through the open window and selected a plum from the bowl, figuring there would be no time to enjoy an entire peach. It was ripe and slightly soft underneath my fingers.

“Attaboy,” Kirk said as I took a bite. It was absurdly tasty.

I grinned impishly and hoped it was a sign I could go with Plan C. I’d planned obsessively for this caper, plotting courses of action based on various contingencies all the way up to Q (but unfortunately hadn’t included a duel with the Norns in any of them). Plan C involved leaving a note behind at the scene of the crime. Now the note was taking shape in my mind as I chewed on the plum; all I needed to do was find the apples.

I silently buried the plum pit underneath the window, with a whispered command to the earth. I untied the drawstring to my belt pouch by touch and removed a waterproof package of oilskin, which contained (among other things) some note-sized sheets of paper and a fountain pen for Plan C. I retrieved these after dissolving my camouflage, then quietly entered the hall while its owners took loud delight in each other.

Once past the threshold, I saw to my right a wooden pedestal much like the ones surrounding Freyr’s hall. It had been invisible from the window, but it was prominent as one entered the door, ornately carved with figures that were most likely the Norse gods. A basket full of golden apples rested upon it, clearly an offering to anyone visiting. I grinned and continued to the kitchen table with my paper and pen; Plan C was a go. Taking inspiration from the Modernist poet William Carlos Williams, I wrote a brief poem in Old Norse that would no doubt insult Bragi’s sense of good taste, since skaldic poets had no patience with free verse:

This is just to say

I have stolen

The plums

That were in

Your fruit bowl

And which

You were probably

Saving

For the Norns

Freyja’s tits!

They were delicious

So sweet

And so cold

I signed it, “You’re all stupid. You can lick me, Bacchus,” and then stuffed every one of the plums into my pockets, leaving only pears and peaches in the bowl. I didn’t care if they believed it was written by Bacchus or not. The entire point of the note was to throw them off my trail; they’d be looking for someone with hands capable of writing saucy Modernist poetry, and I was shortly going to be hands-free.

The moment of theft had arrived. Idunn and Bragi were obligingly experimenting with the pleasurable effects of friction in their bedroom, and the golden apples of the gods beckoned invitingly near the open door. Continuing to tread softly, I picked one out of the basket and paused perversely to see if an alarm would sound. Idunn wailed in ecstasy from the back of the hall and demanded that Bragi give her a baby, but I didn’t think that counted.

Moving as quickly as I could without making any noise, I went back to the river and tossed in all the plums. My feet left prints leading down to the riverbank, but that was all right. It would be perfect if they thought I’d jumped in; they’d waste their time searching up- and downstream for where I came out on the other side.

I backed slowly away from the bank and had the earth fill in my prints as I walked, leaving the ones leading to the river alone. Eventually I was under the orchard canopy, where the ground was a bit more firm and strewn with fallen leaves that softened my footfalls and disguised them, since there was a bit of moisture remaining in the leaves and they had yet to turn crunchy. Here, I hoped, was where I’d lose anyone trying to track me by smell.

Placing the golden apple carefully in the crook of a tree branch, I stripped off everything and folded it into a neat pile, glad to be out of the damp leather. I wrote another quick note—“You take unusual delight in sheep asses and everyone knows it. Neener-neener, Bacchus”—and set it on top. The sword I placed off to one side. I asked the earth to part for me and it obliged, opening a hole about two feet deep and about as wide. I placed the pile of clothes and my pouch inside with the note on top and then had the earth bury it for me. I paused to say a few soft words for Ratatosk, because his bones were in my pouch. Then I redistributed leaves over the spot and rose, satisfied. If anyone, such as Heimdall, sniffed me out to this point and then dug up the clothes, they’d get nothing but frustrated.

I sure hoped Odin was missing all of this. I took the apple down from the tree and laid it gently on the ground a few paces away. Then I slung Moralltach across my body and adjusted the strap to a custom length so that it sagged ridiculously on my right side. The sword slid down my back and I hitched it up, then got down on all fours so that the strap hung beneath my torso and even brushed the ground. After a few more tugs and shrugs to position the sword properly across my back, I was ready: I triggered the charm on my necklace that let me shape-shift into a stag, and when the transformation was complete, the sword and its strap was fitted snugly around my body.

This procedure had taken much practice and many hours of making custom straps, but it was worth it since it was a part of Plans A through Q. Now I could run much faster and still have the sword available in case I had to fight in close quarters. I gingerly picked up the golden apple between my deer lips and cast camouflage on myself, the apple, and Moralltach. I was exuding a markedly different scent now that I was a deer—my werewolf friends in Arizona confirmed for me that they could not tell, strictly by scent, that I was the same being when I shape-shifted—and unless Odin somehow figured out what was going on, I didn’t foresee any trouble getting back to Yggdrasil in maybe five or six hours, compared to the eight it had taken me to get out here. Who was going to see a camouflaged stag running at night across the Plain of Idavoll?

I wasn’t naïve enough to seriously believe I’d have no trouble, though. I just didn’t foresee it.

Occasionally I am smitten with an acute case of Smug. It can happen to anyone, but it happens most often to people who think they’ve been especially clever. I felt a case of it coming on as I got closer and closer to Yggdrasil with no signs of pursuit or even alarm. Through a combination of surprise, speed, and guile, I had thrown an entire pantheon into such confusion that they didn’t know their legs from lutefisk. My supreme cock-up with the Norns should have balanced that out, but I was firmly blocking that and choosing to feel the Smug instead.

With about ten miles to go, near the trunk of Yggdrasil but still miles away from the root leading to Jötunheim, my acute case of Smug turned to a gibbering case of Oh, Shit! I believe that’s a bona fide psychological term; if it isn’t, it should be.