Part 2, Chap. 3: Loki, you naughty fellow!

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Chapter 3: Repeat Visit

I came home to find Mom and Pike practically hadn’t noticed I was gone, and that put me in a bad mood. They had their hands full with my brother Till, who had suddenly announced at dinner that the only thing he would accept for his birthday was a Mature-rated video game about car thieves.

I scraped leftovers out of the Pyrex and ate at the sideboard while, in the living-room, they kept arguing. I gathered that Mom and Pike had taken the position that if Till felt that way, a birthday without presents wouldn’t kill him, and Till kept saying, “It’s not just this birthday. You don’t even know who I am anymore.”

You don’t even know who I am.

I couldn’t face trig homework, so I put on my pajamas and brushed my teeth and sat in bed trying to read our history chapter about the French Revolution. I fell asleep with the light on.

When I woke, someone had switched the light off, and my alarm clock said two-thirty. The whole house was dark. I tiptoed to the window and saw the moon shimmering on the pasture. I thought of Jotuns traveling down the path to town, moving so smoothly they seemed to hover above the ground. I wondered if Stephen had a reason for thinking they only came out at dusk. I wondered how many there were in the cave.

I drifted into a half-dream where I was standing in Till’s room, watching as a Jotun bent over his bed and placed a hand on his heart. Since the Jotun was facing him and not me, there was nothing I could do but wait for it to stand up and turn to leave, and by then it would be too late.

When my alarm woke me at six-thirty, I felt as if I’d been walking in a blizzard for hours, against the wind. I dressed and threw my books and notes together. I couldn’t remember what homework was due, and I didn’t care.

I sleepwalked through school that day, doodling in my notebooks because I couldn’t keep my mind on what anyone was saying. Mainly I drew daisies, which are pretty much all I can draw. In trig I drew a three-D cube, then sine and cosine curves, which I accented with daisies. I tried to draw the rune on Stephen’s hand, but I couldn’t remember it.

During lunch, I went to the library and looked up rune. The Net had long explanations, but all I managed to absorb was that runes always go up and down and not side to side. This is because they were originally scratched on tree bark, which has veins running side to side that would have horribly confused the Old Norse people trying to read the writing.

I tried to imagine having nothing to write on but tree bark and nothing to read but tree bark. I couldn’t. It’s bad enough taking tests where you aren’t allowed to use your laptop.

Then it was afternoon, time for history, and I found I couldn’t keep my head upright for more than five minutes anymore.

Luckily, Mr. Blanding had decided not to talk about our assigned French Revolution chapter and instead to focus on the student council and the upcoming elections. He seemed to assume we knew that today in last period we would have an assembly where the candidates announced their candidacies and presented their platforms - news to me. It may have been news to some other people in the classroom, too; at least, none of them looked particularly excited.

Mr. Blanding stalked back and forth in front of us like a hungry panther, hands in the pockets of his sports coat. “Democracy,” he said, “has to be valued to work. It has to be wanted by every single citizen. Luce, why do you want to vote in this student election?”

“I don’t,” said Luce Carncross, who was wearing black eyeliner and knitting something that looked like a long black stocking. “I could care less who says they’re my so-called representative.”

People laughed.

“Don’t laugh!” said Mr. Blanding. He pounded on the empty desk in front of him. “If you don’t want to vote, why do you care if you even get the chance? Or do you?”

A bunch of people shook their heads. I was too tired to untangle the question, and I prayed he wouldn’t call on me. He didn’t. He worked his way up one row and down another, asking everybody in turn what they would do if a Martian appeared and offered to pay them if they didn’t vote in this election for student officers. He kept a running tally of how many would and wouldn’t sell their votes on the blackboard.

“You gotta tell me how much they’re offering,” said Billy Corcoran.

Mr. Blanding rolled his eyes. “One thousand dollars.”

But he ended up lowering the figure to a hundred, so that at least a few people would say no. By the time he got to Kristen Hawke, who sat at the end of the second row, I had put my head down on the desk.

“I can’t answer that question, because I’m actually one of the candidates,” said Kristen.

“Ah,” said Mr. Blanding. “Then your question is, If a Martian appeared and asked you to throw the election for a hundred dollars…”

And so on and on. I closed my eyes and dreamed I was waltzing with a Jotun. He was very tall and broad and strong and held me close, but he was not as cold as a Jotun should be. Round and round the town skating pond we went - somehow it also was a dance floor, with funny little Christmas lights - and the Jotun whispered in my ear, If you don’t burn me, Aslaug, I’ll tell you all my runing secrets.

I’m not interested in your runes, I answered him. What I want to know, mainly, is why Martians care about our student government election.

Martians are highly evolved and believe in democracy, said the Jotun. The Norse, not so much. What will it take for Kristen to win?

I was opening my mouth to say not much, since she was popular and Evie Carlsson or Karin Lind had probably nominated her, when someone came from behind and plucked at my sleeve. It felt like Stephen. Aslaug! he said.

Oh, go away. I don’t want to kill any Jotuns tonight.

But Stephen’s voice kept saying, “Aslaug, Aslaug! Aslaug, wake up.”

I woke up all at once, the way you do when you’ve been sleeping upright in a chair in the middle of the day. My mouth tasted like old sneaker soles. The classroom was empty now except for me and someone who’d been pawing gently at my sleeve. Someone whose gray-blue eyes were looking directly down into my face, probing it as if to read my secrets. “For God’s sake, Aslaug,” he said, right before I realized what was happening and closed my eyes.

It was too late. Mr. Blanding burst into flames.

The sudden heat and force threw me backward, toppling my chair to the floor. It took me a second to use my body again; my legs had both been yanked to one side, and my left shoulder felt out of sync with my neck. Everything hurt, but nothing was broken. I lay there on my back on top of the heavy plastic-and-metal-tube chair, staring at the ceiling.

I smelled no smoke. I never did. I saw the wild golden light flicker on the corkboard above me. I felt a hot wind jolt me, and my hair sizzled with static electricity. I heard something bang against a desk once, twice, as if someone were running or struggling. I heard no screams.

When I finally managed to roll over and bend both knees and get up, the fire was out. Mr. Blanding was gone. And in his place, with both boots planted firmly on a surprisingly small pile of gray and black ashes, stood Loki.

Loki. I hadn’t seen him for almost a year.

He was dressed differently this time, in a sort of tunic and pants made of coarsely woven cloth that was caked with dried mud so it all looked gray, and lumpy gray boots. His golden hair jumped up and off his face in snake-like strands as if he gelled it, which somehow I don’t think he did. It looked like a nimbus of flames. His face was still lean and delicate, with high cheekbones and sarcastic brows and sly eyes, and his mouth was also sarcastic. I don’t think I’d noticed the first time just how sarcastic Loki was.

He stepped out of the ashes and took both my hands and looked straight into my eyes. His eyes were bluer than Mr. Blanding’s, but a blue like the highest part of the sky on a very cold day. “Thank you for freeing me, kind lady,” he said, and winked.

I dropped his hands. For the first time, I felt tears on my face. Maybe the fire’s heat had brought them. I swallowed and asked, “Where is Mr. Blanding?”

“Gone,” said Loki. He shrugged. “Valhalla, Hel, I don’t know. I’m guessing maybe he’s dead.”

“But you-”

“Along for the ride.” He shrugged again, and his bright hair moved like flames. “I wanted to check in on Sigurd’s lovely daughter, so I hitched, as you people say. I’ve been riding in this body for a while. It’s intensely depressing, even for someone who’s lived through one Big Freeze.”

“So you’re a demon,” I said softly. I thought again of my mom’s friend Ginger, who saw demons everywhere.

“No, no,” said Loki. He reached down and touched my cheek with his long, tapering index finger. It felt warm like anyone’s. “Why would you think something like that, Sigurd’s Daughter? I’m certainly not a demon. In fact, I’m practically a god.”

OK. I knew what my mother would say to that. “There’s only one God,” she would say, her feet firmly planted and her eyes flashing. Or maybe “You sure think a lot of yourself, Mister.”

I said, “How can you be practically a god?”

“It’s a good question,” said Loki. He drew back a little and put his finger on his sharp chin, as if he were pondering. “In any case, the gods are gone,” he said, “so you won’t be able to ask them what they consider me. Odin and Baldr and pretty Freya and the rest - maybe you’ve heard of them? They’ve been gone for a while.”

I hadn’t heard of them, and I didn’t care. I could hear the faint roar of clapping in the auditorium, a sound from another world. I could hear a bird singing closer, right outside the window, and though it made no sense, I wished it would tell me what to do.

“Mr. Blanding was Jotun-touched,” I said.

Loki winced as if I’d given him a light electric shock. Then he smiled - a broad, curly-lipped, beautiful smile. “Yes,” he said. “His heart’s been cold for years, poor boy. He struggled with it, but it just made him bitter. It’s a mercy to let him go.”

He’d hitched a ride in Mr. Blanding, he had said. Been inside him. “Then you,” I said, “are a …”

He rocked forward and studied my face. “A what?”

I forced myself to look into his eyes. “He was Jotun-touched. You… you used him. If he’s cold inside, and you were inside him, then you don’t mind the cold. Even though you look like fire.”

His eyes narrowed. “Careful, Sigurd’s Daughter.”

But I couldn’t stop. “Then I’m thinking that you are… that you are maybe a - a something that likes the cold.”

“A Jotun?” Loki’s smile faded abruptly, and he peered at me. “I’ve been told I resembled many things, sweet girl, some of them not flattering. But never a giant lumbering pile of dirt and ice.”

He sounded so scornful that I blushed. It did seem ridiculous. He was tall for a man, but no giant, and he moved and talked and laughed and had warm hands. More importantly, I had looked into his eyes without killing him.

His finger flicked my cheek again - the lightest touch, then gone. As if he wanted to call my mind back. “But you’re right about one thing,” he said. “I’m not a man of your time. To live here in this chilly money-counting world full-time would kill me - though it’s true, as you say, I don’t mind the cold. That’s true. But I don’t love the cold.”

“What world do you live in?”

“Several. But mainly the old world, the fighting world.” His face brightened. “As does your honored father, my girl. Sigurd Fafnir’s Bane, Sigurd Volsung, the root of all courage and courtesy, the tall maple shaft of shiny weapons. From that world, he sent me with a crucial message to you.”

His voice had taken on a funny chanting tone, as if he were saying something he’d memorized.

“My father wasn’t tall,” I pointed out. I couldn’t believe I was arguing this point while between us stood a pile of ashes that had been Mr. Blanding. “My mother said he was little,” I said. “Like Napoleon. She only saw him once, but he wasn’t any kind of hero. He complained about the ale.”

“As well he might,” said Loki, still using his story-teller’s voice. “The ale of this world is for money counters, not for those who slay with bright blades. It’s nasty stuff, way too sweet. Anyway, Aslaug Bright Eyes, Daughter of Sigurd and the Brave Shield Maiden Brynhild, here’s what I was sent to say. You must stop hiding your eyes, child. When you meet the Jotun-touched, you must burn them.”

Suddenly I was shaking all over; I couldn’t stop myself. “They’re people,” I said.

“People?” He leaned close again, and I felt his hot breath. I felt his sarcastic incredulity. “What kind of people live their lives cold inside, Aslaug? What kind of people want nothing, feel nothing, except maybe the same old pain where their passions used to be? What kind of people can barely keep themselves fixed on a single goal? They’re lower than thralls - than slaves, I mean. Don’t feel for them.”

“I do.”

“You don’t have to.”

I shook my head. I thought of Mr. Blanding getting exasperated, asking us his silly questions about Martians and the election. He was a little mean and a little strange and obviously lonely, but he had cared about something. I knew he had.

“Explain everything to me,” I said. “Please. Do the Jotuns take their souls? Do the people let it happen?”

Loki shook his golden head. I could tell he was exasperated with me, much like Mr. Blanding. “Fool’s questions,” he said. “Not worthy of your father, my lovely one. Not worthy of the fire you bear. Anyway, as an almost-god willing to reduce himself to the status of an errand boy for your honored father’s sake, I can only repeat his words. You must look deep into each person’s eyes, Aslaug. If they’re warm inside, you must let them live, and if they’re cold you must kill them. Just as you kill the Jotun kind. This is your task, as it was your father’s in his time and has been your kind’s task for all time since the middle worlds began.”

I shook my head violently, reminded of Stephen. Your task, he had said in the same serious way. Right now, I ignored all that was strange in Loki’s talk - the different worlds he seemed to think existed, the wrong name he gave my mother. “I will not look at people. Not till I have a way of knowing who I can look at without hurting them. Jotuns I’ll kill. People, no.”

“That hardly seems fair,” said Loki. But I could feel him withdrawing, his voice losing that stiff, ceremonial quality and becoming the voice of a teasing boy. “What have Jotun kind ever done to you, sweetheart?” he asked.

Loki’s voice had a power over me - I won’t deny this. When he was extra-charming, and obviously trying to wrap me around his little finger, his voice sounded like singing. I felt it reaching into my head and making complex, beautiful chords resonate in response. I sensed that he was older than me, though he barely looked it, and that he’d endured adventures and challenges that had made him wise and difficult to impress. I wanted to impress him. And yet I sensed he was making fun of me and even making fun of Sigurd with the whole honored hero bit. As if we were all a Lifetime movie, with no sense of perspective about our tiny problems. Problems that meant nothing to an almost-god.

“I want to bring Mr. Blanding back,” I said. I felt my own voice shaking. “I think you arranged things this way. I think you wanted me to kill him.”

Loki shrugged and shuffled the pile of fine ashes with his foot. “How do you expect me to bring him back?”

I shook my head. How should I know what an almost-god could and couldn’t do?

“It would be hard,” said Loki, “and not very authentic. Oh well. Here goes nothing.”

He raised his right hand into the air and extended his pointer finger and began to write imaginary lines with it. It reminded me of what Imogen had done last night when she was making fun of Stephen.

But when Loki did it, the lines appeared. They were strokes of flame-colored light that hung in the air over the pile of ashes, and I could see the figure they made: a tight group of vertical lines with tiny sideways slashes. Runes.

“And that one, and that one,” Loki muttered. He waved the hand, and the glowing rune in the air zipped sideways like a laser pointer and attached itself to his bare throat.

I gave a start, then hoisted myself onto my desk and scrambled backward, putting the solid wood between me and him. The disembodied rune’s glow filled the whole room, and I feared Loki would burst into flames now. That was all I needed: a second pile of ashes. Another thing to feel I had done wrong.

But the light vanished in an instant, and I found myself standing across the desk from Mr. Blanding.

I dropped my eyes right away this time. Still, I could see from Mr. Blanding’s stance and the way he fiddled with his top jacket button that he was a little bewildered, a little lost.

“Oh, Miss Andersson,” he said. “Your chair - what happened to your chair? I think you’ve tipped it over. And you’re probably late for last period, as well.”

I hugged myself in my thick fall hunting jacket, feeling oddly confused and sad. Had I dreamed my conversation with Loki? I couldn’t put it past myself. I said, “I’m sorry. I’m going now.”

“You’ll want to go along to the assembly, of course,” said Mr. Blanding. “You won’t want to miss your chance to hear the candidates’ platforms. That’s very important as a civics lesson. You’ll want to watch how they deliver their speeches, too, to see if they seem sincere. Reading things on the Internet just isn’t the same.”

I nodded politely and brushed past him, heading between two rows toward the open door. “I will.”

“Yes, yes, good,” said Mr. Blanding. I heard him knock into one of the desks and then sharply clear his throat, as if he were surprised. “Aslaug, what are these - these, these ashes? What on earth? Were you making a fire by your seat while the rest of us were having class?”

I stopped moving. “Ashes?”

“Yes, right here.” He grabbed me by the arm and turned me so I had to look. The pile of ashes was still there.

“You wouldn’t know anything about this, would you? You aren’t perhaps responsible for burning an innocent man at the stake in your spare time?”

“No.”

“Are you sure, Aslaug? Are you very, very sure?” said the voice, with a hint of amusement now. “Maybe there was no stake, see. Just burning.”

“No! Those shouldn’t be there. I don’t think it really happened.”

“But they are.”

I tugged away from him and went for the door, and he let me go. Behind me, I heard Loki’s laughter.