“Anything else?”
“Yes, Divinity.” He looked down at the personal digital assistant he carried, then grinned. “Ticket sales are way up for the Great Battles of History Symposium series. The Rommel/Patton debate really got people juiced to hear more.”
“Who is up next?”
“Hannibal and the two Scipios, Elder and Younger. Nike is going to underwrite part of the cost.”
“Right, they have those Air Hannibal hiking boots.” I nodded. “Very good. Make sure we have plenty of them stocked in our gift shops before and after that debate. I take it Tyr’s still in court?”
Gunnar nodded. “Case should go to the jury in two weeks. We anticipate a victory. The other side has good lawyers, but ours are devilishly clever and even the most stone-hearted troll would side with Tyr against a tabloid.”
“Good. Keep on top of these things and keep me informed.” I gave Gunnar a pat on the shoulder. “I’m going to see my daughter, but I should be back in an hour or so.”
I felt the shudder ran through him, but I ignored it and wended my way through the crowd waiting in line to get into the Thor memorial. I was tempted to shift my shape into that of my lost comrade, just to give them a thrill, but the chances of starting a riot weren’t worth it. I passed through them unnoticed, smiling as every third or fourth person remarked on what a pity his death had been.
I thought it was more tragic—grandly tragic at that. Thor had taken to professional wrestling like a fly to carrion. He knew there was no one who could best him in a fight, and the audience knew that as well. Every night, every bout, was a morality play. It was a reenactment of the classic solar hero struggle to overcome the forces of evil and return to a new day and dawn. The bouts would start even, then Thor’s foe would use some underhanded trick to gain a temporary advantage. Thor would take a beating and while his foe danced around the arena, exultant and triumphant, Thor would crawl to his corner and pull on his belt of might and gloves of iron.
I used to thrill to it. His enemy—some steroided mutant man or odd demigod from pantheons best left to their obscurity—would remain innocently unaware of his danger. The crowd would begin to pound their feet in a thunderous cadence and Thor would draw power from it. Their desire to see him win, their belief in his invincibility fueled him. He would slam his gloves together, letting their peal spread through the crowd, then he would turn and vanquish his foe.
The end came when he fought Louis the Serpent. Louis was yet another in a line of forgettable foes to face Thor, but we’d arranged for a worldwide satellite hook-up. Thor’s fame and popularity were peaking—ninety-five percent of the people on the planet could identify him. This bout would solidify his place in the minds of all humanity. Thor had known from the first moment of sentience that he was meant to fight a great serpent, and Louis became it.
And Louis killed him.
After three rounds of battering each other silly, Louis picked him up in a big bear hug and snapped his spine. He cast Thor aside and laughed at his fallen foe. Then he laughed at Thor’s fans, called them weak and stupid. He said they were pathetic for having believed in him and that they were losers because their god was dead.
Thor’s death was a crushing blow for us, but not for long. Little by little stories began to filter in about Thor having been seen here and there. There was no mistaking him, of course. He helped people out of difficult situations, averted disasters, and made the impossible happen for them. To each and every one of his worshipers these stories were proof that he lived and that their faith was anything but false.
In death Thor became bigger than he ever was in life. Caps, shirts, the Craftsman line of Mjolnir tools, the comics, videos, and action figures all went through the roof in sales. While Odin was doing very well with his books and motivational speaking engagements, and Tyr added a layer of respectability to Asgard Unlimited, Thor was the backbone of its popularity.
Past the memorial I stepped up to a door few could see and fewer could open. I could and did, passing through and petting Garm as I did so. The hell-hound would have gladly taken my hand off at the shoulder, but he feared my son Fenris, so I was safe. Past him I headed down the spiral stairs that took me to Niflhel, my daughter Hel’s domain. I tossed a quick salute to Baldur—making as if I was going to flick my mistletoe boutonniere at him. He flinched and I laughed.
Compared to Valhalla, the mist-shrouded depths of Niflhel were cold and claustrophobic, but I found it bracing and cozy at the same time. The vaporous veils softened the light and dulled sound, though I was certain my laughter had penetrated into the depths.
Confirmation of that fact came from the rising and incoherent growl on my left. Through the mists a huge shadowed form lunged at me. Its eyes blazed and its teeth flashed, then the length of chain binding it to the heart of the underworld ran out of slack. It tightened, jerking the collar and creature back. It landed with a heavy thud, shaking the ground, then lay there with sobs wracking its chest.
I squatted down at the very edge of its range. “Will you never learn, Thor?”
“This chain will break.”
I shook my head. “I think not. If you will recall, the chain forged to restrain Fenris resisted the efforts of any of the gods to break it, yourself included. That chain was made from the meow of a cat, the beard of a woman, the roots of a mountain, the tendons of a bear, the breath of a fish, and the spittle of a bird. For you I alloyed in yet other things, both tangible and intangible. There’s Nixon’s belief in his own innocence, the true identity of the man on the grassy knoll, and not a little bit of kevlar. The same goes for the collar. You are here until I decide you are to be released.”
Thor pulled himself up into a sitting position. “I know how you did it. You invited me in for a celebratory drink before my match and drugged me, then took my shape and were killed by the serpent.”
“Very good—you’ve been using your head for something more than a helm-filler.”
“You won’t get away with it. Heimdall has to have seen what you did, and what you have been doing. He knows you have been masquerading as me. He will expose you.”
“Ha!” I stood and looked down upon him. “Heimdall spends every hour of every day watching the programming on over five hundred television stations. Even a god cannot escape transformation into a drooling idiot when subjected to that much television. He’s so mesmerized he couldn’t blow his nose, much less blow his horn.”
“Why?”
“Why what? Why fake your death?” I shook my head. “How often do I have to go over this with you? Every human idol must pass through the mystery of death. Death absolves you of guilt and hides your blemishes. You’re more perfect in death than you ever were in life, just like Elvis and Marilyn, Bruce Lee and Kurt Cobain. From the start I knew I needed someone to die, and you were it. Odin had already done it and hadn’t had very good results, and death is just too inelegant for Tyr. That left you—Mr. Big, Dumb, and Vulnerable.”
“That I understand.” Electricity sparked in Thor’s eyes. “I want to know why the deceptions? Why do I appear everywhere? Why build up my army of believers?”
“Because they aren’t your believers.” I snorted derisively at him. “If all those people who worship Thor were worshiping you, this chain would be like a spiderweb to you. You could tear it and me apart. You can’t because they don’t worship you. They worship the image of you— the romanticized image of you that I project.”
I smiled. “My friend Louis and I, after having been so long linked and vilified by the Christers, realized we could never be transformed into the noble and hunky sort of god that people would accept. Lucifer had a constituency—hedonists, anarchists, selfish, venal people, and impotent people who wanted a shortcut to power. As Louis the Serpent he fed all those ‘get it now and easy’ fantasies. In showing contempt for your believers, he earned the respect of those who hated your image, and he earned quite a bit of hatred from your people. That was his payoff.”