Chapter One
A gray sky covers the gray city, making all the colors muted and dismal, except to one girl. Let's make this her story, since hers has parallels to every story that can be told. It has similar pains and pitfalls, loves and greatnesses, since we may know this girl intimately. This could be our story, so let us learn a little more about this girl. The city she lives in, let me guide you through its cesspools, since it is the only part of city she knows. It is decay, incarnate in cement and asphalt. Ghettoes and crime are ways of life to some, drugs common; pain a neighbor to nearly everyone.
That is her setting and mold, pitted with the footfalls of millions, like the sidewalk we see her walking on now, dotted with the gum of hundreds before her. Slapped again by her feet, we see her fading converse sneakers first, once green and white, they are now streaked with ball-point decorations, designs of crude rebellion, or cruel boredom, we will not learn today. If one could fashion one's clothes to suit one's personality, they would be less honest than the clothes she wore, a pair of pants sewn mostly by hand, red thread set on black cloth a prickling of color in the gray vastness, excess bags of cloth bunched here and there for pockets, the pants are… interesting to say the least.
Worn, they are taken care of however, so we zoom back, looking over her slim form in movement we can become lustful over the body covered for display, a small green tee shirt covered with a long denim coat flapping in the wind do as much to cover as declare a felinity, though she is not for sale. Waiting at a corner, the wind blowing her rainbowed hair in the wind of petrochemical exhaust we watch her delicate hand sweep across her brow to brush the hair from her eyes, the green of grass in a summer's field.
Continuing on her way, we see her enter a storefront, preparing it for its daily sales. Entering as a customer, we walk into the store, which happens to be a small food-bar, called 'The Grotto'; we are greeted by her smile, and asked if we can be helped.
"I have doubts about that, but I'd enjoy a cup of black coffee, dear." We tell her.
"In just a bit then Wodan, I'm still opening," is her reply.
"I can wait, Gort."
"You know to call me Ivy you old coot."
"The old names still have meaning young girl," I smile as we exchange banter, the act thereof a proof that life exists, since there is nothing good in hell. So we
have her name, Ivy, or Gort, if you live in places where Nordic traditions still hold the common unconscious. "Or don't you know what you are heir to, as the child of your parents?"
"I know plenty well what my heritage is, with you telling the same stories every week, giving the kids that come in here nightmares of the heroes dieing in the end of the story."
"How else would something end?" I smile, having cornered her in our repartee.
"Why not happily, like the fairy tales from Grimm, 'They lived happily ever after' and whatnot?"
"'Lived happily ever after?' what nonsense! The only end comes with death, and even that is a new beginning it itself. Valhalla or Hel, each is a new place with new rules and new stories. We just don't hear from them anymore."
"Why not Wodan?" she asks, stopping her work to look at me, having seated myself in a corner. "What keeps them from telling us stories?"
"Knowledge, mostly. That is, the knowledge that this world has bounds, bounds that are not crossed. The knowledge that says the world is explored, that the lands have been mapped. And the loss of belief in magical happenings. Some things just have to be believed dear, since they cannot be returned from."
During this time, the woman who owns the eatery had entered, and at this break in the conversation we both greeted her, Ivy with a hug and me with a nod. She was motherly in just the same way as Ivy was maidenly, round of body and large of heart, dressed in yellows and greens, she made everyone comfortable in her presence. "Hello Wednesday, Ivy my sweet! I trust the night was not perilous?"
"No it wasn't, dear Beth. I slept well, as I always do in a yew posted bed," I told her, smiling. Gort smiled, and nodded, "I traveled well in my dreams, mother adopted."
Beth smiled at us both, and flipped her hand softly towards me, "As always Wednesday, you are fool and magician. Yggdrasill is, as always, your wood. Dear Ivy, I am glad to hear it. I do wish I could stay in front, but the income tax will not wait." She walked to her office with our blessings, and we resumed talking, since the day was hardly begun.
"What's Yggdrasill Wodan?" Ivy asked, frowning a little "You've never told me much about that…"
"Indeed not Ivy. Yggdrasill, my dear, is the tree in which this world is suspended, the underpinnings attached to the branches. Beth says I hung from it for vanity, but I still hung for nine days, out of my own will, sacrificing myself to myself. It ties in well with what we were talking about earlier, since Niflheimr, Jötunheimr, Jossálfheimr, Hel, and Asgardhr are caught in its branches and roots."
"Where?" she asked
"I told you that you did not know your heritage. Niflheimr lay to the north when the worlds were born, and it was a cold place. From its eternal ice comes freezing winds, which were met from the south from the hot winds of Muspellsheimr, creating the ice rime that the cow-"
"Oh! The creation stories! I remember those."
"Please don't interrupt an old storyteller, we may forget the story once we've chastised you for it, young lass."
"Sorry Wodan, I was just trying to tell you I remember about the cow licking the ice, which made the first god… or whatever, who made two people from trees… and etcetera… "
"Mmm… you know so much then, yes?" I grumbled, watching a cluster of young teen's parade in, and Ivy walking behind the counter to help them. Now, I
admit the events I have described are strange, but they have been known as stories far longer ago than Christ walked, and thereby have a power of truth to
the people who believe them.
So you know five characters now: Ivy, or Gort; Wodan, or Wednesday; Beth, the city, and the Grotto. It is an interesting cast so far, I hope. Since we are taking a rest from the action inside, let me describe the Grotto. French double doors open to you as you walk in; an oak bar walks along the center in a large "U" into the middle of the room. In the surrounding space, apple wood tables and chairs lend a faint fragrance, under the bottom of the other scents of the bar. In one half of the room, a couch sits against the wall; in the other booths walk the wall. Decorations have been plastered into the wall, Celtic knots defining a boundary of protection from ill turns run along the ceiling. Paintings and poetry sit comfortably next to each other, primarily from locals, all in a 'New age' sort, the rebirth of spiritual knowledge, though I would say they are mistaken. I always thought of blood as fitting to give to your god, they chose wine instead. I won't figure it out.
Ivy has been having dreams, powerful dreams, dreams from the gates of ivory, the gates of true dreams. I know it, and so does she. In her dream she is on a mountain, in a castle. They are the same, really, the castle is in the mountain, and the mountain is the castle. She is searching for something lost, she doesn't know what yet, but she will know when she finds it. She isn't being chased, she would know. She has no one to fight, except herself. And she will have to fight herself… Not even I know what way, however.
Later, after the day's work, as Ivy cleans up, and puts the room in order, another girl skips in, and jumps into the startled Ivy's arms, giggling.
"Renna!" Ivy says fondly, hugging the girl close.
"Good eve to you two, my old bones need rest. Don't be too naughty, you need your sleep." I chuckle fondly over my shoulder, as I discretely exit.
Renna returns Ivy's greeting with a firm kiss, stifling any words that could be thrown after me. After a moment, the two girls finish, and Ivy goes back to work, turning off the lights, locking the doors, and they walk to their apartment together, chatting and holding hands. In their small apartment, they continue to talk, discussing things from different viewpoints, when Ivy brings up the story I told her that morning. "It was kind of weird, how he brings something up with this long intro, and drops it… Not like him at all…"
"Maybe he is old, and forgot the rest of it?" Renna counters, smiling as they lay in bed, cuddling.
Ivy chuckles, and shakes her head "I don't think so… He lives to tell stories… Oh well, time to sleep! You silly girl!"
* * * * * * * * *
Ivy stands up in a large hall, tile mosaics of gold and silver, blue and brown in almost random patterns, like the continents, as if she were standing in a room made of a map of the earth. She looks around, gently fingering a design of gold and blue glowing brightly nearby, she is shocked, as if by static, but instead of electricity arcing from the tile, it is memory, feelings, she can see herself being held, feel the breath and heartbeat of someone else, until her fingers leave the glowing tiles. She gasps for breath, a cold sweat rising on her body. "A voyeur, are you?" she hears a voice ask, and turns around sharply.
"Wodan?" she asks quietly.
"Yes… and no. I am Odin, of the Asenhater. You are dreaming. And you are not dreaming. Does that help?"
"No, frankly. It doesn't."
"You are dreaming, this place was never real. You are not dreaming, what you just did was real. Better?"
"A little." She answers, amazed by the truth she has just comprehended. "Why am I here?"
"I don't know, not yet. I have been summoned here by you, your quest is your own however."
"I did all this? In my own little dream? What do I have to do?"
"Right now? You have to pick a path, and find what you are looking for. One is simple, and the other is hard. One will tell you the truth, but the other will lie. One will show you magic, but the other will show you stagecraft. You must pick between those two doors."
As I spoke, two doors were apparent on the near wall, tall as a Jötun, one black as night, with twinkles of stars, the other white as ivory, carved very plainly.
"Woah… Isn't this a little much, Odin? Which is which?"
"I do know it is, and I cannot tell you." I said sadly, watching her think. I could read the thoughts vibrating from her mind, but chose to ignore them, as I couldn't be allowed to interfere.
"I think I understand… I thank you Odin, Wodan, Wednesday." She said, kissing my cheeks. Then she walked to the door of Horn, the gate of truth, and opened it.
A gray sky covers the gray city, making all the colors muted and dismal, except to one girl. Let's make this her story, since hers has parallels to every story that can be told. It has similar pains and pitfalls, loves and greatnesses, since we may know this girl intimately. This could be our story, so let us learn a little more about this girl. The city she lives in, let me guide you through its cesspools, since it is the only part of city she knows. It is decay, incarnate in cement and asphalt. Ghettoes and crime are ways of life to some, drugs common; pain a neighbor to nearly everyone.
That is her setting and mold, pitted with the footfalls of millions, like the sidewalk we see her walking on now, dotted with the gum of hundreds before her. Slapped again by her feet, we see her fading converse sneakers first, once green and white, they are now streaked with ball-point decorations, designs of crude rebellion, or cruel boredom, we will not learn today. If one could fashion one's clothes to suit one's personality, they would be less honest than the clothes she wore, a pair of pants sewn mostly by hand, red thread set on black cloth a prickling of color in the gray vastness, excess bags of cloth bunched here and there for pockets, the pants are… interesting to say the least.
Worn, they are taken care of however, so we zoom back, looking over her slim form in movement we can become lustful over the body covered for display, a small green tee shirt covered with a long denim coat flapping in the wind do as much to cover as declare a felinity, though she is not for sale. Waiting at a corner, the wind blowing her rainbowed hair in the wind of petrochemical exhaust we watch her delicate hand sweep across her brow to brush the hair from her eyes, the green of grass in a summer's field.
Continuing on her way, we see her enter a storefront, preparing it for its daily sales. Entering as a customer, we walk into the store, which happens to be a small food-bar, called 'The Grotto'; we are greeted by her smile, and asked if we can be helped.
"I have doubts about that, but I'd enjoy a cup of black coffee, dear." We tell her.
"In just a bit then Wodan, I'm still opening," is her reply.
"I can wait, Gort."
"You know to call me Ivy you old coot."
"The old names still have meaning young girl," I smile as we exchange banter, the act thereof a proof that life exists, since there is nothing good in hell. So we
have her name, Ivy, or Gort, if you live in places where Nordic traditions still hold the common unconscious. "Or don't you know what you are heir to, as the child of your parents?"
"I know plenty well what my heritage is, with you telling the same stories every week, giving the kids that come in here nightmares of the heroes dieing in the end of the story."
"How else would something end?" I smile, having cornered her in our repartee.
"Why not happily, like the fairy tales from Grimm, 'They lived happily ever after' and whatnot?"
"'Lived happily ever after?' what nonsense! The only end comes with death, and even that is a new beginning it itself. Valhalla or Hel, each is a new place with new rules and new stories. We just don't hear from them anymore."
"Why not Wodan?" she asks, stopping her work to look at me, having seated myself in a corner. "What keeps them from telling us stories?"
"Knowledge, mostly. That is, the knowledge that this world has bounds, bounds that are not crossed. The knowledge that says the world is explored, that the lands have been mapped. And the loss of belief in magical happenings. Some things just have to be believed dear, since they cannot be returned from."
During this time, the woman who owns the eatery had entered, and at this break in the conversation we both greeted her, Ivy with a hug and me with a nod. She was motherly in just the same way as Ivy was maidenly, round of body and large of heart, dressed in yellows and greens, she made everyone comfortable in her presence. "Hello Wednesday, Ivy my sweet! I trust the night was not perilous?"
"No it wasn't, dear Beth. I slept well, as I always do in a yew posted bed," I told her, smiling. Gort smiled, and nodded, "I traveled well in my dreams, mother adopted."
Beth smiled at us both, and flipped her hand softly towards me, "As always Wednesday, you are fool and magician. Yggdrasill is, as always, your wood. Dear Ivy, I am glad to hear it. I do wish I could stay in front, but the income tax will not wait." She walked to her office with our blessings, and we resumed talking, since the day was hardly begun.
"What's Yggdrasill Wodan?" Ivy asked, frowning a little "You've never told me much about that…"
"Indeed not Ivy. Yggdrasill, my dear, is the tree in which this world is suspended, the underpinnings attached to the branches. Beth says I hung from it for vanity, but I still hung for nine days, out of my own will, sacrificing myself to myself. It ties in well with what we were talking about earlier, since Niflheimr, Jötunheimr, Jossálfheimr, Hel, and Asgardhr are caught in its branches and roots."
"Where?" she asked
"I told you that you did not know your heritage. Niflheimr lay to the north when the worlds were born, and it was a cold place. From its eternal ice comes freezing winds, which were met from the south from the hot winds of Muspellsheimr, creating the ice rime that the cow-"
"Oh! The creation stories! I remember those."
"Please don't interrupt an old storyteller, we may forget the story once we've chastised you for it, young lass."
"Sorry Wodan, I was just trying to tell you I remember about the cow licking the ice, which made the first god… or whatever, who made two people from trees… and etcetera… "
"Mmm… you know so much then, yes?" I grumbled, watching a cluster of young teen's parade in, and Ivy walking behind the counter to help them. Now, I
admit the events I have described are strange, but they have been known as stories far longer ago than Christ walked, and thereby have a power of truth to
the people who believe them.
So you know five characters now: Ivy, or Gort; Wodan, or Wednesday; Beth, the city, and the Grotto. It is an interesting cast so far, I hope. Since we are taking a rest from the action inside, let me describe the Grotto. French double doors open to you as you walk in; an oak bar walks along the center in a large "U" into the middle of the room. In the surrounding space, apple wood tables and chairs lend a faint fragrance, under the bottom of the other scents of the bar. In one half of the room, a couch sits against the wall; in the other booths walk the wall. Decorations have been plastered into the wall, Celtic knots defining a boundary of protection from ill turns run along the ceiling. Paintings and poetry sit comfortably next to each other, primarily from locals, all in a 'New age' sort, the rebirth of spiritual knowledge, though I would say they are mistaken. I always thought of blood as fitting to give to your god, they chose wine instead. I won't figure it out.
Ivy has been having dreams, powerful dreams, dreams from the gates of ivory, the gates of true dreams. I know it, and so does she. In her dream she is on a mountain, in a castle. They are the same, really, the castle is in the mountain, and the mountain is the castle. She is searching for something lost, she doesn't know what yet, but she will know when she finds it. She isn't being chased, she would know. She has no one to fight, except herself. And she will have to fight herself… Not even I know what way, however.
Later, after the day's work, as Ivy cleans up, and puts the room in order, another girl skips in, and jumps into the startled Ivy's arms, giggling.
"Renna!" Ivy says fondly, hugging the girl close.
"Good eve to you two, my old bones need rest. Don't be too naughty, you need your sleep." I chuckle fondly over my shoulder, as I discretely exit.
Renna returns Ivy's greeting with a firm kiss, stifling any words that could be thrown after me. After a moment, the two girls finish, and Ivy goes back to work, turning off the lights, locking the doors, and they walk to their apartment together, chatting and holding hands. In their small apartment, they continue to talk, discussing things from different viewpoints, when Ivy brings up the story I told her that morning. "It was kind of weird, how he brings something up with this long intro, and drops it… Not like him at all…"
"Maybe he is old, and forgot the rest of it?" Renna counters, smiling as they lay in bed, cuddling.
Ivy chuckles, and shakes her head "I don't think so… He lives to tell stories… Oh well, time to sleep! You silly girl!"
* * * * * * * * *
Ivy stands up in a large hall, tile mosaics of gold and silver, blue and brown in almost random patterns, like the continents, as if she were standing in a room made of a map of the earth. She looks around, gently fingering a design of gold and blue glowing brightly nearby, she is shocked, as if by static, but instead of electricity arcing from the tile, it is memory, feelings, she can see herself being held, feel the breath and heartbeat of someone else, until her fingers leave the glowing tiles. She gasps for breath, a cold sweat rising on her body. "A voyeur, are you?" she hears a voice ask, and turns around sharply.
"Wodan?" she asks quietly.
"Yes… and no. I am Odin, of the Asenhater. You are dreaming. And you are not dreaming. Does that help?"
"No, frankly. It doesn't."
"You are dreaming, this place was never real. You are not dreaming, what you just did was real. Better?"
"A little." She answers, amazed by the truth she has just comprehended. "Why am I here?"
"I don't know, not yet. I have been summoned here by you, your quest is your own however."
"I did all this? In my own little dream? What do I have to do?"
"Right now? You have to pick a path, and find what you are looking for. One is simple, and the other is hard. One will tell you the truth, but the other will lie. One will show you magic, but the other will show you stagecraft. You must pick between those two doors."
As I spoke, two doors were apparent on the near wall, tall as a Jötun, one black as night, with twinkles of stars, the other white as ivory, carved very plainly.
"Woah… Isn't this a little much, Odin? Which is which?"
"I do know it is, and I cannot tell you." I said sadly, watching her think. I could read the thoughts vibrating from her mind, but chose to ignore them, as I couldn't be allowed to interfere.
"I think I understand… I thank you Odin, Wodan, Wednesday." She said, kissing my cheeks. Then she walked to the door of Horn, the gate of truth, and opened it.