Joanne Harris - Runemarks

He’s my brother, Odin said.

You never learn, do you? said Thor.

Odin smiled and reached out his hand.

Sugar dreamed of pork roast and kept an eye open in case Fat Lizzy should happen to drift by.

Dorian dreamed of Ethel Parson. You always were too good for me, he thought, and now -Now Ethel was two women in one-one the dowdy parson’s wife, the other the woman of almost blinding beauty he’d glimpsed at intervals as they drew closer to their goal. They stood, faces back to back, like the January Man: Ethel looking forward, the other looking sweetly behind.

Don’t leave me, said Dorian.

Then take my hand, said the two-in-one.

And as Dorian reached to take her hand, he saw a man standing in her place: a big red-bearded man whose hands, though large, were far from clumsy and whose face he felt he should know. For a second he paused…

Fat Lizzy dreamed of Dorian Scattergood and sighed.

Hel the Half-Born never dreamed. Dreaming was for lesser folk, and anyway, she had lived alongside Dream for too long to be affected by its tides and vagaries. With a word, she conjured her citadel and repaired with Balder to one of its higher turrets, the better to observe what happened next.

Time acts differently in Dream. Though hours seemed to have passed since then, the gate between the Worlds had been open for a mere six of the thirteen seconds remaining on the face of Loki’s deathwatch.

Six short seconds-but the damage was done. The Black Fortress was now no more than a foundering patch of rubble against the rising swell of the river. Demons, prisoners, and pieces of ephemera thrashed and tumbled in the hectic flow. And now the space between the Worlds looked just like a waterspout, sucking obscenely and at random, sending chunks of flotsam-some as large as skerries-lurching into the filthy air.

“It has to be stopped,” said Balder to Hel. “Any more of this and Chaos will find its way into the other Worlds.”

Hel shot him a glance from her living eye. “It’s safe enough in here,” she said. “Even Surt knows better than to mess with Death.”

“And the others?”

She shrugged. “They knew the risks when they came here. Anything happens to them, I’m not responsible.”

How tiresome he was, thought Hel. For the first time in centuries she had Balder to herself, and all he could think about was the possible disruption to the other Worlds. To be sure, she had made a stupid mistake-

You broke your word. You cheated Loki out of thirteen seconds…

And now the time had come for Hel to pay.

Balder the Beautiful looked down from his turret, and though his eyes were blue as summer skies, they were far from dreamy. He saw Odin far below, struggling with some dream of drowning.

He saw Ethel and Dorian holding hands and Fat Lizzy perched on a spur of rock. He saw Adam Scattergood, lost in a dream of giant spiders, and Loki, surrounded by poisonous snakes.

He saw Nat Parson and knew he was dying.

He saw the thing that had been the Nameless, its face twisted with rage and chagrin, as it stood hip-deep in the river and screamed at the rising tide, like the Fool King in the old tale: STOP, I SAY! I COMMAND YOU, STOP!

But words-even Words -have no power in the realm of Dream. Dream has no rulers, no servants, no kings. Dream cannot be summoned, commanded, or banished. And as the Nameless ranted and raved, Nat Parson-Nathaniel Potter, as was-fell into a dream of his own, a dream in which he was a young boy again in his father’s house, watching his father at work in the shop.

Look at the clay, his father said.

I see it, said Nathaniel. The clay was blue and smelled of the riverbed from which it had been gathered. Nat’s father cupped it between his hands like a bird that might otherwise fly away. The potter’s wheel turned as he pumped the treadle, and the lump of clay began to take shape.

A fat-bottomed pot, with a neck that grew slim as the wheel went around. Nat thought he had never seen anything as delicate as his father’s big hands cupping the clay: teasing it round, making it smooth.

You try, said Fred Potter.

Nat cupped his fingers around the pot.

But he was only a boy, not even a prentice, and the beautiful pot with its swan’s neck and gracious curves wobbled, leaned, and collapsed on the wheel.

Nathaniel began to cry.

Don’t cry, said Fred, and put his arm around the sobbing boy’s shoulders. We can always make another one.

He began to pump the treadle again, and the pot began to rise anew, to become, if anything, more beautiful than before.

Fred Potter turned and smiled at his son. See, son? he said. Our lives are like these things I make. Turn ’em, build ’em, bake ’em in fire. That’s what you’ve been, son. Baked and fired. But a pot don’t have the right to choose whether he be for water, wine, or just left empty. You have, son. You have.

This was where Nat realized-to his sorrow-that this was all a dream. Fred Potter could never have voiced such thoughts. And yet Nat, who hadn’t thought about his father more than twice since the old man’s death, now found himself wanting to believe.

It’s too late, Dad. It’s all gone wrong.

It’s never too late. Come on, take my hand…

And as Nat Potter took his father’s hand, he found himself at peace for the first time in many years and slipped quietly away to a place where even the Nameless could not find him.

The Nameless gave a roar of frustration as it plunged, bodiless, into Dream. At the same time there came a kind of rushing sigh-like the sound of the sea coming in on the sand. Ten thousand souls gave a single gasp as Dream struck them with a giant wave and they were lost in a moment, like grains of sand, rolling, roiling, sifting, seething, drifting, drowning, marveling-for so few of them had ever dreamed, and here they were, at Dream’s very source…

Some wept.

Some ran splashing into it, like children at the seaside.

Some went insane.

The dead of Hel, which had gathered like dust and ash and smoke and sand on the deserts of Hel for centuries, were drawn to the movement and flocked like birds to the edge of Dream…

And Elias Rede, the Examiner once known as 4421974, had time to think, No more numbers for me, as he plunged with joy into the wave.

“That rift,” said Balder, “in Netherworld. You know what caused it, don’t you, Hel?”

Hel’s face was impassive, but he thought her living profile flushed a little.

“You have to mend it now,” he said. “Your dead are escaping. Your realm is at risk.”

“There are always plenty of dead,” said Hel. “I can bear a few losses.”

“But the rift is widening. If Chaos gets through-”

“It won’t,” she said. “Dream will contain it.”

“It may not, Hel. You broke your word.”

Hel’s word is unbreakable. Balder knew this, as everyone did; it was one of the axioms of the Middle Worlds.

But it seemed the unbreakable had been broken-and now there was turmoil in her realm. He knew what that meant-that the forces of Chaos were very close and that if nothing was done to halt it now, then the rift between the Worlds would widen and tear, opening up similar rifts between the Eighth World and the Seventh, and then unraveling through the fabric of the Worlds like a ladder in some fine lady’s silk stocking until, at last, the Chaos was everywhere, and Ragnarók would come again.

Hel the Half-Born knew it too. The promise of Balder had blinded her to danger as well as to consequences, but the face of the deathwatch was beyond argument. Slowly but nonetheless relentlessly as Dream flooded the land, the hands of the deathwatch were moving together, and when they met…