Odin Blew Up My TV! (11 page)

Well, being attacked by a giant hawk while riding in a chariot pulled by a flying horse then plunging straight down into an icy pool isn't exactly my idea of a good time. Frankly, I've had better days. Lucky thing I'm an expert swimmer. Remind me to tell you about the time I went scuba diving in the Red Sea with my girlfriend Inga.

Anyway, I flounder around for a while, kind of shaken by the fall, but manage to get my head above water and catch a few breaths. I crawl onto land and find myself in the big forest that seems to have sprung up everywhere.

Well, I'm soaked through, so I find a clearing where the sun's shining. I take off my clobber and spread it out over a bush to dry in the sun. I reckon I should get a bit of shut-eye, so I curl up on a pile of leaves and doze off for a while. When I wake up I'm a bit groggy so it takes me a minute to realise somebody's speaking to me.

“Well, well, what have we got here?” says this voice, rough as sandpaper.

I look up and see, well, sort of a woman, but not really.

She's taller than me by a full head, and what a head. She's
got skin like a mouldy orange and a hooked nose you could use for a tin opener. Her eyes are the colour of mud and her hair is green and stringy like seaweed. She's dressed in a grubby smock and she's wearing a necklace made of teeth and bird bones. She looks tough enough to walk through a brick wall and not even feel it. I reckon she's a giantess or an ogre or something else that isn't human.

Anyway, woman or monster, it's still pretty embarrassing that she's found me lying there starkers, so I take cover behind the bush.

“Sorry,” I say. “You've caught me at a bit of a bad time.”

“No need to be shy,” she says.

I grab my gear and get dressed as fast as I can. Luckily it's mostly dried out while I was sleeping. I try not to goggle at her, but she is a sight.

“Here I was, gathering fungus,” she says, waving a basket in one of her huge, wrinkled hands, “and what do I find? A little pet to play with.”

“A pet?” I say, puzzled. “Oh, you mean me?”

I don't like the sound of this.

“My name's Dave,” I tell her. “Very nearly Doctor Dave. I've still to finish up my thesis, but I'm sure it's in the bag.”

She shakes her seaweed-covered head and says, “You gabble like a goblin with its foot in a trap.”

I decide to shut up and not tell her how I've been studying lobsters for the past five years.

“My name's Gullygag,” she says. “Maybe you've heard of me.”

“Er, not that I can recall,” I say, trying to be polite. “Are you a celebrity then?”

“I'm the most famous witch this side of the River Ifing,” she says, sounding really proud of herself.

“That's cool,” I tell her. “Do you get much hassle from the paparazzi?”

She laughs. It's not a nice laugh, though. It sounds like mud gurgling down a plug-hole. I laugh too, just to keep in with her.

“You use a lot of funny words,” she says. “I like you. How about you come back to my place and I'll fix you a tasty treat?”

Well, I am feeling a bit peckish after all the excitement, so I say, “You're on, lady,” and follow her through the woods. I reckon I'll get a bite to eat and then she'll give me directions back to town. Maybe she's even got a map. I mean what's the worst that could happen?

She's got a goat tethered to a tree close by. Not an ordinary goat mind. This one's as big as a horse. She unties it then climbs on its back, pulling me up behind her.

“I travel in style,” she says with a big smile that shows off all three of her teeth.

Away goes the goat, galloping like the clappers. I don't know what she feeds it, but it's like riding on the back of a Formula One car. We whizz through the forest, trees
flying past, rabbits diving out of the way for what seems like miles and miles. On the downside, this goat smells rank, so I'm not sorry when we reach the end of the line.

We get to her cottage, right, but it's not the sort of a place you'd want to go for a holiday. It's built out of rocks, mud, branches and stuff, with purple smoke coming out of the chimney. That's a bit fishy, I think. Not a marine-biology kind of fishy, but a really strange and a bit scary kind of fishy.

Now it looks bad on the outside, but inside it's even worse. There's animal skulls all over the walls and jars of weird-looking dust on the shelves, and whatever's burning in the fireplace stinks like dead mice dipped in pond scum or something.

“Take a seat,” says Gullygag, showing me to a table covered in nasty stains, like somebody's spilt acid all over it.

I sit down, hoping against hope that the grub will turn out to be okay. Maybe a bacon sandwich or a lamb curry. Some hope!

She scuttles about for a bit then sticks a bowl in front of me. I'm guessing it's soup, but there's all kinds of muck floating around in it – rat-tails, nettles, toadstools, dead flies, moss, and other stuff I don't even want to think about.

“Get that down you,” she urges. “It'll give you some pep.”

More like give me food poisoning, I think, but I don't say it. Instead I manage to swallow a couple of spoonfuls and force a smile. “I've never tasted anything like it,” I tell her truthfully, but not in the way she takes it.

“You'll want this too,” she says, and tosses me a lump of bread that crashes down on the table like a rock. I try dipping it in the soup but even then it's so hard I nearly break a tooth on it.

I decide that the smart thing to do is to sweeten her up, so I nibble a bit off and say, “It's delicious. I don't suppose I could have a glass of water?”

She sloshes a wooden cup in a bucket and plonks it down in front of me. The water's pretty grimy looking, but I drink some just to force the soup down.

By the time I've eaten half the soup it's getting dark outside, so I yawn and tell her I'm completely bushed and could do with a kip. She takes me to a tiny room at the back of the cottage that's got a bag full of straw on the floor. This is my bed she tells me, then goodnight, sleep tight and all that.

Well, after the day I've had, I doze off pretty sharpish. But the bad stuff's not over, even when I'm asleep. No, I have this dream where I'm a lobster floating in a tank of water and there's Gullygag's horrible face staring at me through the glass, like she's making up her mind whether or not to eat me. I wake up in a bit of a funk, I can tell you.

I get up and creep into the front room, thinking maybe I can sneak off before Gullygag wakes up, but no such luck. She's already up and about, laying some fresh fungus on the walls.

Soon as she spots me, she pipes up, “I've got all sorts of fun planned for today. We can hunt for poisonous toads, go
for a swim in the swamp, then pick a fight with some bears.”

“That all sounds great,” I say, “but I've really got to be going. I don't want to miss the last bus.”

She plants her knobbly knuckles on her big hips and scowls at me. “Going? You can't go. You're mine now. I found you.”

“Sorry,” I tell her, “I'm a one-girl guy and I've already got a girlfriend. Her name's Inga and she's from Denmark.”

When she hears this Gullygag lets out a roar. “If she shows her face around here, I'll grind her bones into dust and use it to bake my bread!”

“That's a bit extreme, don't you think?” I say, trying to calm her down. “After all, we can still be friends.”

“You're going to stay here with me,” she insists. “I'll make you happy like that Inga never could. I'll make your dreams come true.”

“If it's all the same to you, I'd rather you didn't,” I say, edging towards the door. Then, quick as a flash, I'm out of there and running like the blazes.

Gullygag comes pelting after me with a bag in her hand. She's pretty quick but I'm a nimble sort of a guy and dodge around the trees, keeping clear of her. Finally she stops and chucks the bag at me. It hits me in the back and explodes in a shower of blue powder that covers me from head to foot.

“That will sort you out, you ungrateful worm!” I hear her yell.

Well, I don't stop running, I can tell you, not till my
legs give out and I collapse in a patch of dandelions. I don't know if I'm just worn out from running or if it's something to do with the blue powder, but I fall right to sleep.

“When I wake up, well, I've turned into this. Yes, I've sometimes wondered what it's like to be a lobster, but I didn't want to find out in person. Did you know that lobsters can smell with their feet? I can't tell you how totally weird that feels.”

“It looks like she really did make your dreams come true,” said Greg.

“Well, the one about being a lobster, at least,” said Susie.

The lobster's head drooped and its antennae dangled unhappily. “What's Inga going to say when she sees me like this? I'm pretty sure the wedding will be off, for a start.”

“Look, we need to press on and rescue Odin,” said Lewis. “I'll bet he can fix this.”

“You think so?” said the lobster.

“Sure,” said Greg. “He's king of the gods. He can do all kinds of stuff, you know, like a wizard.”

The sun began to sink as they entered the foothills of Mount Daggerflash. The nearer they drew to their destination, the more they could feel the sections of the staff quivering. By the time they reached the foot of the mountain it was almost impossible to hold onto them.

“Maybe we should put them down now,” Lewis suggested.

“Good plan,” Susie agreed.

They laid the three sections of the staff end to end on the ground. All at once the magical runes glowed along the whole length of the wood and the three pieces fused together with a crackling sound, like electricity.

“That's quite a trick!” said the lobster.

“What do we do now?” asked Greg.

“I suppose we should pick it up,” said Susie.

The moment she took hold of the staff the runes blazed like fireworks.

“Spinny, you'd better put it down,” Greg warned.

“I can't,” said Susie. “It's like my fingers are glued to it.”

Suddenly the staff tilted so that it was pointing directly at Mount Daggerflash. A beam of light shot from the end of it and played over the mountainside. With a great grinding and creaking the rock face split open to form an archway, out of which stepped a tall figure, still wreathed in the shadows of the mountain's interior. The staff flew from Susie's fingers towards the man's upraised right hand, with which he grasped it firmly. Fresh light flared from the enchanted stick to illuminate the figure.

He wore a gold helmet and a black patch covered one eye. A white beard poured down over his silver tunic and a crimson cloak billowed behind him.

“Odin!” Lewis gasped. 

“That guy looks a bit awesome,” said the lobster, as the king of the gods strode towards them. “Are you sure he’s on our side?”

“Don’t worry, Dave,” Lewis assured him. “We’ve met Odin before.”

“Greg and Lewis, sons of Alan, and Susie, daughter of Theresa,” Odin greeted them, “I thank you for restoring my staff and freeing me from this imprisoning mountain.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” said Greg with a shrug. “We’re glad to help.”

“But what manner of creature is this?” Odin asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow at the lobster.

“Dave the Lobster,” said the creature, extending a friendly claw. “Pleased to meet you.”

Odin glanced doubtfully at the claw.

“He’s under some kind of a spell,” said Greg.

“Yes, a witch turned him into a lobster,” Lewis explained. “He’s really a marine biologist.”

“Almost a doctor of marine biology,” the lobster added proudly.

“Such enchantment is only temporary and easily undone,” said Odin.

He pointed his staff at the lobster, whose whole body began to shake. Its features blurred and gradually its claws turned into hands and its shellfish head changed back to the spiky-haired head of Dave the Lobster.

Dave looked down at his restored body and smiled broadly. “Well, that’s a relief,” he said, straightening his rumpled t-shirt. “I’m not sure I’ll ever eat seafood again.”

“But what has become of my shield-maiden Sigurda?” Odin enquired, raising his eyebrow.

“She was with us most of the way,” Susie answered, “until she was snatched by that big hawk of Loki’s.”

“Ah, Falkior,” said Odin. “He is ever ready to serve the cause of mischief.”

“I expect Loki’s holding her prisoner in St Andrews now,” said Lewis.

“Yes, we must make haste to your town, torn from its rightful place by Loki to further his infamous ends,” said Odin.

“It’s a long walk, I can tell you that,” said Greg.

“I have a swifter means of travel,” said Odin.

There was an air of strength and wisdom about the king of the gods that was immensely reassuring after all the dangers they had passed through. Lewis felt sure that Odin would manage whatever further hazards lay ahead and guide them back home to their parents.

Odin reached into a pouch that hung from his belt and pulled out a piece of wood about the size of a pencil. He laid it on the ground in front of him.

“What’s this supposed to be?” asked Greg sceptically. “The world’s smallest broomstick?”

Odin waved his hand over the stick and immediately it began to grow, unfolding into the likeness of a ship. It grew larger and larger, swelling up to the size of a lifeboat.

A mast shot up out of the deck and from it unfurled a golden sail, which rippled in the breeze. From its sides, where banks of oars would have been on a Viking longship, a pair of wings extended. They were made from green fabric stretched over a wooden frame, and slanted down so that their tips touched the ground.

“This is my ship, Skidbladnir,” said Odin.

“A fold-up ship,” said Susie. “Pretty neat.”

“I could do with one of those,” said Dave the Lobster. “You haven’t got a spare one, have you?”

Odin walked up one of the wings onto the deck. He stood by the mast and beckoned the others to follow him.

“I’m not sure how much use this is on dry land,” Greg mumbled.

As soon as they were all aboard, Skidbladnir began to move. The golden sail seemed to latch on to the air above and hoist them upward, while the wings began to beat, lifting them even higher. Floating above the surrounding
hills, the boat pivoted eastward and flew off towards St Andrews. As they gathered height and speed, the landscape of Vanaheim rolled swiftly by beneath them.

The three youngsters gave Odin a brief account of their encounters with Loki and their journey to Mount Daggerflash.

“I knew at once what had given Loki this power,” said Odin. “A splinter from the icy heart of Ymir, a foe I had thought long dead.”

“This Emir sounds like a really bad dude,” said Dave the Lobster.

“From what you have told me,” said Odin, “Loki has broken his pact with the evil one and can no longer command the shard of Ymir’s heart.”

“The thing was running completely out of control,” said Greg.

“Ymir himself must be guiding it from the depths of Ginnungagap,” said Odin. “Still, all is not yet lost. Which of you has the Asgard crystal?”

“Crystal?” said Lewis. “What crystal?”

“The crystal in which the golden city of Asgard lies hidden, preserved from harm,” said Odin. Seeing their blank faces he explained further. “When I saw that Loki was about to displace Asgard from Vanaheim, I used all the power in my staff to cast a protective spell over the city. It was shrunk to the size of my fist and encased inside
a protective crystal. Moreover, the spell would cause the crystal to seek out one of the Ringwearers for safekeeping.”

“That sounds great,” said Greg, “but I haven’t seen any crystal.”

“Me neither,” said Susie. “Sorry.”

“We don’t know anything about it,” confirmed Lewis.

Odin shook his head grimly. “I know the spell did not go amiss. What can have happened?”

The lofty trees of Ironwood were rising up directly ahead and angry black clouds swirled and twisted in the sky above, as though stirred by an invisible spoon. The breeze was stiffening and they could see the trees bending before the wind.

“Looks like rough weather up ahead,” said Greg.

“Is Loki doing it, do you think?” Lewis wondered.

Odin shook his head gravely. “It is Ymir asserting his power from the depths of Ginnungagap. This storm presages his coming.”

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than Skidbladnir was jarred violently, as though it had slammed into a wall. The gale whipping through the treetops threw the little ship into a giddy spin.

“Whoa! This is worse than the Cyclone ride at the Lammas Fair!” said Greg.

The boat was tossed about in the storm like a top being spun by an angry child. Below them the treetops of Ironwood bent under the force of it and birds fled,
shrieking, in a swirl of leaves and pine needles.

Odin placed a hand against the mast and gripped his staff in the other, using its power to control the ship as it fought its way through the tempest. Ahead they could see the spires of St Andrews illuminated by a lurid glow radiating from the town centre.

One corner of the sail snapped loose of its spar and flapped furiously while the wings bounced and cracked under the assault of the storm.

“Hold on tight,” Odin cautioned. “We are almost through.”

Suddenly the wind dwindled to a breeze and they glided across a peaceful sky, descending towards the outskirts of St Andrews.

“Phew, the wind’s stopped blowing,” said Susie.

“Yes, it’s called the eye of the storm,” said Lewis, “a calm area in the middle.”

“Then why are we still wobbling?” asked Greg.

Dave the lobster peeked over the side. “Do you suppose it could be because the wings are coming off?”

They could all hear the creaking and cracking of the wings, which had been badly damaged by the gale.

“I shall guide us to a safe landing,” said Odin as they glided over the outskirts of town.

“There’s a clear spot there,” said Susie, pointing. “There on Hallow Hill.”

The ship dropped steeply and landed with a crash on top
of the hill, just beyond the pair of Pictish graves that had been discovered there years before. The timbers cracked under the impact and the deck tilted abruptly, pitching everyone but Odin off their feet. The king of the gods stood unmoved, as though his boots were set in concrete, until the ship skidded to a halt beside a bent oak tree.