Thor Is Locked in My Garage! (4 page)

Even as they watched, the picture began to flicker and break up into tiny squares.

“Where’s Dad?” asked Greg.

“Oh he’s out back with our visitor,” Mum replied.

Lewis felt a tingle of dread. “Visitor? It’s not Larry O’Keefe, is it?”

“No,” said Mum, “His name is Spanner or something.”

“Spanner?” said Greg.

“Or Screwdriver, something like that,” said Mum. She tossed the remote control aside. “This is hopeless. Tell you what, Susie, why don’t we have a mug of hot chocolate and watch a DVD?”

“That would be brilliant, Mrs Mac,” Susie replied. “Have you got any chocolate digestives? I’m starved.”

While Mum and Susie disappeared into the kitchen, Lewis and Greg grabbed their coats and hats from the hallway. They pulled them on as they went out through the back garden where
Dad was standing in his overcoat and his old tweed bonnet, puffing on his pipe. The garage door was wide open. Inside, a broad-shouldered stranger was rummaging around among the tools and piles of old furniture.

“This is Mr Sven Mallet,” Dad explained. “He says we have something that belongs to him. Mr Mallet, these are my two sons, Greg and Lewis.”

Mallet waved an acknowledgment without looking round. He had long blond hair and was dressed in jeans and a leather vest. He was barely more than five feet tall but he was nearly that broad with muscles that bulged as he heaved the big lawnmower out of the garage. He set it aside as if it weighed nothing.

“He must have a screw loose, walking around in a blizzard dressed like that,” Greg muttered aside to Lewis.

“Aren’t you getting kind of chilly in that outfit, Mr Mallet?” Lewis asked their visitor.

“I don’t much feel the cold,” Mallet answered in a thick foreign accent. He turned just enough for them to glimpse a round, ruddy face with a short cropped beard before he returned to his search.

“What kind of an accent is that?” asked Greg. “Russian?”

“Scandinavian, I think,” said Lewis.

Greg leaned close to Dad and said, “Where did he come from? He looks like he’s lost his motor bike.”

“He just turned up at the front door,” said Dad. “Said he’d lost something around here and could he have a look in the garage.”

“That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?” said Lewis.

Dad shrugged. “He seems harmless enough, and I didn’t like to turn somebody away in this weather. Any luck yet, Mr Mallet?” he asked raising his voice.

At that point a gust of wind caused the garage door to swing down and clang shut with the visitor inside. Greg caught hold of the handle and tried to swing the door open, but it wouldn’t budge.

“It’s jammed again,” he said.

“Are you all right in there, Mr Mallet?” Dad called out.

The answer was a heavy blow from inside that made the heavy metal door shiver.

“Boys, I think we’d better stand back,” Dad advised.

The three of them beat a hasty retreat just in time. The next instant a powerful blow sent the door flying up with a clang. Sven Mallet stepped out, his round face alight. “Ja! Ja! Here it is!” he exclaimed excitedly.

In his hand he held a large metal hammer. Lewis saw it was inlaid with Norse runes. Mallet heaved the hammer into the air and declared, “At last Mjolnir is mine again!”

“I’ve never seen that before,” said Dad, bemused.

Mallet tossed the hammer back and forth from hand to hand, beaming joyfully.

Lewis swallowed hard. “I think I know who this guy is,” he said.

“Let me take a guess,” said Greg. “Rumpelstiltskin?”

“He’s Thor,” said Lewis, “the god of thunder.”

“Oh great,” said Greg. “As if the weather wasn’t bad enough!”

“What’s that, son?” Dad queried. “Thor, you say?”

“What I mean, Dad, is that he looks like a picture of Thor in one of my mythology books,” Lewis explained hastily.

“I expect half the engineers in Norway look like that,” said Dad. “You did say you were from Norway, didn’t you, Mr Mallet?”

“Something like that,” said the newcomer. “And call me Sven.”

“Dad, why don’t we take
Sven
inside for a cup of tea,” Greg suggested.

“Good idea,” Dad agreed. “You take care of that while I have a few more puffs on the old pipe.”

There was no smoking allowed in the house, so Dad was always glad of an excuse to step outside with his pipe, even on a day like this.

“Come on, Sven,” said Lewis, leading the blond-haired man inside. “I’ll make some tea.”

“Have you any foodstuffs?” Mallet asked. “A whole roast boar I could eat.”

“We can probably manage some sandwiches,” said Greg.

They could hear Mum and Susie laughing over their hot chocolate in the front room. They were watching one of the
Ice
Age
films. Greg directed their visitor upstairs. “Head up to the first room on the left. That’s mine. We’ll be up shortly.”

The stranger marched up the steps, swinging his hammer at
his side. Greg and Lewis took off their coats and hats and went into the kitchen.

“Are you sure he’s Thor?” asked Greg as he rummaged in the fridge for cheeses and slices of cold meat. “Another Norse god? You’d think he’d be taller.”

“Just because somebody’s important, it doesn’t mean they have to be tall,” said Lewis, who was a little sensitive about his own height. “Didn’t you see how short Garth Makepeace was in that photo?”

“I can’t say I paid him much mind once I’d spotted Loki.”

Susie bustled in to mix herself a fresh mug of chocolate. “So how’s it going, boys?” she asked. “Have you dug up anything new?”

“We’re working on it,” said Lewis evasively.

Susie stirred her chocolate and took a sip. “You know, I’ve been giving this business some thought, and it may not be as big a deal as you make out.”

“Is that so?” said Greg.

“Susie, there’s a packet of bourbon creams in the cupboard,” Mum called through from the other room.

“Got you, Mrs Mac,” Susie replied. She turned back to Greg. “Look, this O’Keefe might only be here on a scouting expedition. Maybe he’ll just nose around town for a while, then fly back to Pluto.”

“If he’s only scouting,” said Lewis, “then why all the snow?”

Susie rolled her eyes. “I already told you, he’s from an ice planet. Don’t you listen? He’s adapted the environment to suit his alien metabolism, that’s all.”

She grabbed the bourbon creams out of the cupboard and headed back to the TV. “Let me know if anything turns up,” she
said as the kitchen door closed behind her.

“It worries me that she sounds more sensible than we do,” Lewis muttered.

“That’s only because she doesn’t understand what’s really going on,” said Greg.

Lewis collected a big bottle of Irn-Bru and three plastic tumblers while Greg threw together an assortment of sandwiches. They took them upstairs on a tray and found Thor asleep on Greg’s bed. The rune-carved hammer lay on the floor at his side.

As Lewis cleared space on the desk to set the tray down, Greg took the hammer by its handle and tried to lift it. It wouldn’t budge. “It weighs a ton,” he grunted. “What did he call it?”

“Mjolnir,” said Lewis. “That was the name of Thor’s hammer in the Norse myths.”

Greg gave up and left the hammer on the carpet. “And what exactly was it doing in our garage?” he asked.

“I suppose we could ask him,” Lewis suggested.

“Mr Mallet, time to wake up,” Greg said. When there was no response he raised his voice. “Yo, Thor! Wakey wakey!”

The visitor sat straight up and blinked at the boys. “Call me Sven,” he yawned. He swung his short, heavily muscled legs around so he was sitting on the edge of the bed.

“But you are Thor, right? The god of thunder?” Lewis asked.

“I sure am. But usually it’s a bad idea to go around telling folk that.”

Greg presented Thor with the plate of sandwiches. The god of thunder took two cheese and pickle and munched on them hungrily.

“You were quick to spot who I am,” he said between bites. “Most people don’t have belief in the old gods.”

“You’re not the first god we’ve met,” said Lewis.

“A few months ago we had a run in with Loki,” said Greg as he poured them each a tumbler of Irn-Bru.

“Loki! That wormbag!” Anger flashed in Thor’s eyes. He crammed the rest of his sandwiches into his mouth, chewed furiously, then washed them down with a swallow of Irn-Bru.

Lewis took a bite of his sandwich and almost gagged. “Ugh! There are sardines in this! You know I can’t stand sardines.”

“I didn’t force you take that one,” said Greg, biting into a ham and tomato. “You should be more careful.”

“I’ll have that if you’re done with it,” offered Thor.

Lewis passed him the sandwich and watched it disappear. He took a sip from his tumbler and said, “Loki told us he was tossed out of Asgard and exiled on Earth. He said the other gods disappeared or fell asleep or something.”

“He didn’t tell the whole story, then,” said Thor. “For vengeance, Loki went to his cousin Surtur, the fire demon, and persuaded him to steal the Treasures of Asgard. Mjolnir was one of those treasures.”

He tapped a forefinger against the handle of his hammer. “Surtur brought the treasures to Midgard – what you call Earth – and hid them in secret locations all over the world. My father Odin and I and the rest of the gods pursued Surtur and slew him… but in the battle, the Bifrost was destroyed.”

“The beef roast?” said Greg. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“The Bifrost,” Lewis explained. “It was the rainbow bridge that connected Asgard, the home of the gods, with Earth.”

“Ja,” said Thor, nodding. “With the Bifrost destroyed we were cut off from Asgard, which is the source of our power. Trapped
on Earth, we became like normal folk, except that we live on for centuries.”

“Are you all housemates or something?” asked Greg.

“No, we have scattered all over,” said Thor. “The last I heard of any of them, Heimdall was working as a security guard and Freya had opened a bakery.”

“What about the treasures?” asked Lewis.

“They too lost their power,” said Thor, “and slept on in their hidden places. But a few months ago, all of a sudden I became aware that the power of the treasures had been restored and that they had been all pulled together into one place.”

“St Andrews,” said Greg. “But how?”

“It must have been the Lokiday spell,” said Lewis. “The one Loki tricked us into casting that brought back his special day. Loki was magically transported here from Las Vegas. The same thing must have happened to the treasures.”

“And the magic charged them up again,” said Greg.

“That sounds about right,” Thor agreed. “They are now hidden all around St Andrews. Because of my special bond with Mjolnir, I felt it call to me, even though I was far out at sea.”

“What were you doing at sea?” asked Greg.

“Working on an oil rig,” said Thor. “A fellow has to make a living. It took me a long time to track the hammer to St Andrews. I sure didn’t expect the weather to be this bad.”

“It’s not supposed to be like this,” said Lewis. “This is Loki’s doing.”

“Loki!” exclaimed Thor, his beard bristling. “Is that hogsbreath here in town?”

“He’s here, all right,” said Greg. “He opened the Fumblewinter Box.”

“Fimbulwinter,” Lewis corrected him.

Thor smacked his fist against the pillow and boomed. “Gotterdamerung!” He looked at the brothers and added, “Pardon my language, boys, but this means big trouble.”

“He told us the Troll King made the box for him,” said Lewis, “so I suppose he was able to track it the same way you tracked your hammer.”

“So tell us, Sven, why has he started this blizzard?” Greg asked.

“He is one tricky snake,” Thor scowled. “He must have some mischief in mind.”

“Yes, we figured that much out for ourselves,” said Greg.

“He said he wanted to keep everybody off the streets so they wouldn’t get in his way,” prompted Lewis.

Thor bit into a fresh sandwich, his brow knotted in thought.

Greg leaned over to Lewis and murmured, “You know, even after all we’ve been through, it still feels weird to have the god of thunder sitting on my bed, eating a cheese and pickle sandwich.”

“The Treasures of Asgard,” said Thor at last. He nodded slowly to himself. “He wants to grab all the treasures for himself. He is searching the town for them.”

“Hang on, you said you could find the hammer because it belonged to
you
,” Greg objected. “How is Loki going to find the treasures if they don’t belong to him?”

Thor picked up Mjolnir and laid it in his lap. “The treasures all have an affinity with each other. You can use one to detect the others.”

“With just one treasure he’s already buried St Andrews in snow,” said Lewis. “Just think the damage he’ll cause if he gets all of them.”

“Then we need to go and stop him right now,” said Greg, springing to his feet.

“You’re right, boys,” Thor agreed. “We shall be allies in the battle against the evil one.” He thrust his clenched fist out towards them. Greg grinned and bumped his own fist against it and Lewis followed suit.

“For the honour of Asgard!” Thor declared.

“Right on!” Greg said. “We’re coming for you now, Loki!”

“We sure are,” Thor agreed. “But is it all right if I freshen up first? I’ve had a long journey.”

“Come on,” said Lewis, “I’ll show you where the bathroom is.”

Leaving Greg to polish off the last of the sandwiches, Lewis led Thor into the hallway and showed him where to find the bathroom. Thor walked over and put a hand on the door handle.

The instant he opened the door, a torrent of snow burst out of the bathroom and slammed him against the wall with the force of an avalanche. Thor slumped to the floor and disappeared under a mound of white.

Spilling out with the snow came the contents of the room: toothbrushes, sponges, Dad’s shaver, toothpaste, shampoo, Mum’s hairdryer, the toilet brush, soap, flannels, towels, a rubber duck, face cream, shower gel, and a dozen other toiletries.

The noise brought Greg rushing out to where Lewis stood frozen in shock. He gaped at the scene. “What’s going on? Where’s Thor?”

Lewis pointed numbly to where their visitor had disappeared.

“How could you let this happen?” Greg demanded.

“How is it my fault?” Lewis exclaimed. “All I did was show him where the toilet was.”

“I leave you in charge for a few seconds,” grumbled Greg,
jumping on to the snow, “and he ends up buried under his own personal avalanche.”

Lewis joined him and they dug with their bare hands, ignoring the chill in their fingers. Once they had cleared Thor’s head they could see he was breathing but unconscious. Pausing for breath, Lewis suddenly became aware of a cold draft gusting down the back of his neck, and turned in the direction of the bathroom.

“The window must have blown open,” he said.

“Even so,” said Greg, clearing snow off Thor’s broad shoulders, “all that snow couldn’t have piled up in there by itself.”

Just then the snow beneath them convulsed. It threw them to the floor with a violent heave, like a wild horse tossing a rider off its back.

Scrambling to his knees, Greg cried, “Now what?”

“It’s Loki’s snow magic!” gasped Lewis. “He knows where we live, remember?”

Before their horrified gaze the mound of snow was rising up, forming an animal shape like an enormous bear, with sharp icicle teeth and wicked claws.

“Thor! Sven! Wake up!” Greg yelled desperately.

The god of thunder did not stir as the monster reared over him, its frozen jaws opening wide.