Chapter 28
It was another eagle, a different eagle. The next one was a different eagle too, and the next. The air seemed to be thick with eagles, and it was obviously impossible to enter Valhalla without getting swooped on by at least half a dozen of them. Even eagles were being swooped on by eagles. Dirk threw up his arms over his head to fend off the wild, beating flurries, turned, tripped and fell down behind a huge table on to a floor of heavy, damp, earthy straw. His hat rolled under the table. He scrambled after it, stuffed it back firmly on his head, and slowly peered up over the table. The hall was dark, but alive with great bonfires. Noise and woodsmoke filled the air, and the smells of roasting pigs, roasting sheep, roasting boar, and sweat and reeking wine and singed eagle wings. The table he was crouched behind was one of countless slabs of oak on trestles that stretched in every direction, laden with steaming hunks of dead animals, huge breads, great iron beakers slopping with wine and candles like wax anthills. Massive sweaty figures seethed around them, on them, eating, drinking, fighting over the food, fighting in the food, fighting with the food. A yard or so from Dirk, a warrior was standing on top of a table fighting a pig which had been roasting for six hours, and he was clearly losing, but losing with vim and spirit and being cheered on by other warriors who were dousing him down with wine from a trough. The roof – as much of it as could be made out at this distance, and by the dark and flickering light of the bonfires – was made of lashed-together shields. Dirk clutched his hat, kept his head down and ran, trying to make his way towards the side of the hall. As he ran, feeling himself to be virtually invisible by reason of being completely sober and, by his own lights, normally dressed, he seemed to pass examples of every form of bodily function imaginable, other than actual teeth-cleaning. The smell, like that of the tramp in King’s Cross station, who must surely be here participating, was one that never stopped coming at you. It grew and grew until it seemed that your head had to become bigger and bigger to accommodate it. The din of sword on sword, sword on shield, sword on flesh, flesh on flesh was one that made the eardrums reel and quiver and want to cry. He was pummelled, tripped, elbowed, shoved and drenched with wine as he scumed and pushed through the wild throng, but arrived at last at a side wall – massive slabs of wood and stone faced with sheets of stinking cow hide. Panting, he stopped for a moment, looked back and surveyed the scene with amazement. It was Valhalla. Of that there would be absolutely no question. This was not something that could be mocked up by a catering company. And the whole seething, wild mass of carousing gods and warriors and their caroused-at ladies, with their shields and fires and boars did seem to fill a space that must be something approaching the size of St Pancras station. The sheer heat that rose off it all seemed as if it should suffocate the flocks of deranged eagles which thrashed through the air above them. And maybe it was. He was by no means certain that a flock of enraged eagles which thought that they might be suffocating would behave significantly differently from many of the eagles he was currently watching. There was something he had been putting off wondering while he had fought his way through the mass, but the time had come to wonder it now. What, he wondered, about the Draycotts? What could the Draycotts possibly be doing here? And whene, in such a mйlиe, could the Draycotts possibly be? He narrowed his eyes and peered into the heaving throng, trying to see if he could locate anywhere a pair of red designer spectacles or a quiet Italian suit mingling out there with the clanging breastplates and the sweaty leathers, knowing that the attempt was futile but feeling that it should be made. No, he decided, he couldn’t see them. Not, he felt, their kind of party. Further reflections along these lines were cut short by a heavy short-handled axe which hurtled through the air and buried itself with an astounding thud in the wall about three inches from his left ear and for a moment blotted out all thought. When he recovered from the shock of it, and let his breath out, he thought that it was probably not somethiog that had been thrown at him with malicious intent, but was merely warriorly high spirits. Nevertheless, he was not in a partying mood and decided to move on. He edged his way along the wall in the direction which, had this actually been St Pancras station rather than the hall of Valhalla, would have led to the ticket office. He didn’t know what he would find there, but he reckoned that it must be different to this, which would be good. It seemed to him that things were generally quieter here, out on the periphery. The biggest and best of the good tunes soemed to be concentrated more strongly towanls the middle of the hall, whereas the tables he was passing now seemed to be peopled with those who looked as if they had teached that season in their immortal lives when they preferred to contemplate the times when they used to wrestle dead pigs, and to pass appreciative comments to each other about the finer points of dead pig wrestling technique, than actually to wrestle with one again themselves just at the moment. He overheard one remark to his companion that it was the left-handed three-fingered flat grip on the opponent’s sternum that was all-important at the crucial moment of finally not quite falling over in a complete stupor, to which his companion responded with a benign “Oh ah.” Dirk stopped, looked and backtracked. Sitting hunched in a thoughtful posture over his iron plate, and clad in heavily stained and matted furs and buckles which were, if anything, more rank and stinking than the ensemble Dirk had last encountered him in, was Dirk’s companion from the concourse at King’s Cross station. Dirk wondered how to approach him. A quick backslap and a “Hey! Good party. Lot of energy,” was one strategy, but Dirk didn’t think it was the right one. While he was wondering, an eagle suddenly swooped down from out of the air and, with a lot of beating and thrashing, landed on the table in front of the old man, folded its wings and advanced on him, demanding to be fed. Easily, the old man pulled a bit of meat off a bone and held it up to the great bird, which pecked it sharply but accurately out of his fingers. Dirk thought that this was the key to a friendly approach. He leant over the table and picked up a small hunk of meat and offered it in turn to the bird. The bird attacked him and went for his neck, forcing him to try and beat the savage creature off with his hat, but the introduction was made. “Oh ah,” said the man, shooed the eagle away and shifted a couple of inches along the bench. Though it was not a fulsome invitation, it was at least an invitation. Dirk clambered over the bench and sat down. `”Thank you,” said Dirk, puffing. “Oh ah.” “If you remember, we – ” At that moment the most tremendous reverberating thump sounded out across Velhalla. It was the sound of a drum being beaten, but it sounded like a drum of immense proportions, as it had to be to make itself heard over the tumult of noise with which the hall was filled. The drum sounded three times, in slow and massive beats, like the heartbeat of the hall itself. Dirk looked up to see where the sound might have come from. He noticed for the first time that at the south end of the hall, to which he had been heading, a great balcony or bridge extended across most of its width. There were some figures up there, dimly visible through the heat haze and the eagles, but Dirk had a sense that whoever was up there presided over whoever was down here. Odin, thought Dirk. Odin the All-Father must be up on the balcony. The sound of the revels died down quickly, though it was several seconds before the reverberations of the noise finally fell away. When all was quiet, but expectant, a great voice rang out from the balcony and through the hall. The voice said, ‘”The time of the Challenging Hour is nearly at an end. The Challenging Hour has been called by the God Thor. For the third time of asking, where is Thor?” A murmuring throughout the hall suggested that nobody knew where Thor was and why he had not come to make his challenge. The voice said, “This is a very grave affront to the dignity of the All-Father. If there is no challenge before the expiration of the hour, the penalty for Thor shall be correspondingly grave.” The drum beat again three times, and the consternation in the hall increased. Where was Thor? “He’s with some girl,” said a voice above the rest, and there were loud shouts of laughter, and a return to the hubbub of before. “Yes.” said Dirk, quietly, “I expect he probably is.” “Oh ah.” Dirk had supposed that he was talking to himself and was surprised to have elicited a response from the man, though not particularly surprised at the response that had been elicited. “Thor called this meeting tonight?” Dirk asked him. “Oh ah.” “Bit rude not to turn up.” “Oh ah.” “I expect everyone’s n bit upset.” “Not as long as there’s enough pigs to go round.” “Pigs?” “Oh ah.” Dirk didn’t immediately know how to go on from here. “Oh ah,” he said, resignedly. “It’s only Thor as really cares, you see,” said the old man. “Keeps on issuing his challenge, then not being able to prove it. Can’t argue. Gets all confused and angry, does something stupid, can’t sort it out and gets made to do a penance. Everybody else just turns up for the pigs.” “Oh ah.” Dirk was learning a whole new conversational technique and was astonished at how successful it was. He regarded the man with a new-found respect. “Do you know how many stones there are in Wales?” asked the man suddenly. “Oh ah,” said Dirk warily. He didn’t know this joke. “Nor do I. He won’t tell anybody. Says count ’em yourself and goes off in a sulk.” “Oh ah.” He didn’t think it was a very good one. “So this time he hasn’t even turned up. Can’t say I blame him. But I’m sorry, because I think he might be right.” “Oh ah.” The man lapsed into silence. Dirk waited. “Oh ah,” he said again, hopefully. Nothing. “So, er,” said Dirk, going for a cautious prompt, “you think he might be right, eh?” “Oh ah.” “So.Old Thor might be right, eh? That’s the story,” said Dirk. “Oh ah.” “In what way,” said Dirk, running out of patience at last, “do you think he might be right?” “Oh, every way.” “Oh ah,” said Dirk, defeated. “It’s no secret that the gods have fallen on hard times,” said the old man, grimly. “That’s clear for all to see, even for the ones who only care about the pigs,which is most of ’em. And when you feel you’re not needed any more it can be hard to think beyond the next pig,even if you used to have the whole world there with you. Everyone just accepts it as inevitable. Everyone except Thor, that is. And now he’s given up. Hasn’t even bothered to turn up and break a pig with us.Given up his challenge. Oh ah.” “Oh ah,” said Dirk. “Oh ah.” “So, er, Thor’s challenge then,” said Dirk tentatively. “Oh ah.” “What was it?” “Oh ah.” Dirk lost his patience entirely and rounded on the man. “What was Thor’s challenge to Odin?” he insisted angrily. The man looked round at him in slow surprise,lookcd him up and down with his big sagging eyes. “You’re a mortal, aren’t you?” “Yes,” said Dirk testily, “I’m a mortal. Of course I’m a mortal. What has being a mortal got to do with it?” “How did you get here?” “I followed you.” He pulled the screwed up, empty cigarette packet out of his pocket and put it on the table. “Thanks,” he said, “I owe you.” It was a pretty feeble type of apology, he thought, but it was the best he could manage. “Oh ah.” The man looked away. “What was Thor’s challenge to Odin?” said Dirk, trying hard to keep the impatience out of his voice this time. “What does it matter to you?” the old immortal said bitterly. “You’re a mortal. Why should you care? You’ve got what you want out of it, you and your kind, for what little it’s now worth.” “Got what we want out of what?” “The deal,” said the old immortal. “The contract that Thor claims Odin has entered into.” “Contract?” said Dirk. “What contract?” The man’s face filled with an expression of slow anger. The bonfires of Valhalla danced deeply in his eyes as he looked at Dirk. “The sale,” he said darkly, “of an immortal soul.” “What?” said Dirk. He had already considered this idea and discounted it. “You mean a man has sold his soul to him? What man? It doesn’t make sense.” “No,” said the man, “that wouldn’t make sense at all. I said an immortal soul. Thor says that Odin has sold his soul to Man.” Dirk stared at him with horror and then slowly raised his eyes to the balcony. Something was happening there. The great drum beat out again, and the hall of Valhalla began to hush itself once more. But a second or third drumbeat failed to come. Something unexpected seemed to have occurred, and the figures on the balcony were moving in some confusion. The Challenging Hour was just expiring, but a challenge of some kind seemed to have arrived. Dirk beat his palms to his forehead and swayed where he sat as all kinds of realisations finally dawned on him. “Not to Man,” he said, “but to a man, and a woman. A lawyer and an advertiser. I said it was all her fault the moment I saw her. I didn’t realise I might actually be right.” He rounded on his companion urgently. “I have to get up there,” he said, “for Gods’ sake, help me.”