Admittedly, the danger part might have been something I was projecting onto the wind. This wasn’t a fun run; it was insanely perilous.

Ratatosk had told me I would know immediately when I’d reached Vanaheim. For one thing, the purple teeth of the Asgard Mountains would loom large in front of me, and for another, the Plain of Idavoll would give way to harvested fields, idyllic farmland dotted with bright points of color on the horizon, where barns and granaries rested like the desultory afterthoughts of an impressionist’s brush, all waiting for winter’s first snow. I arrived there as the sun was setting in front of me, and I marveled at the imagination of the Norse, who thought that things like the sun and gravity and weather would behave the same way on a floating plane attached to an ash tree as they did on earth.

Still, they’d imagined their paradise well. If I wasn’t about to become the Norse’s most wanted, I would have liked to linger there awhile.

I kept running past the twilight songs of birds and cast night vision to save myself from injury. I had run for more than eight hours straight at ten miles per hour, and now the Asgard Mountains were close, jutting up into the early evening like towering ziggurats.

Another mile earned me a glimpse of a pale yellow glow shining just north of west over the canopy of a forest I was fast approaching. It was either a very large campfire, which I deemed unlikely, or it was the golden mane of Gullinbursti. Deciding I had run a bit too far south, I altered my course to head straight for it, and before long I stopped for the first time since I’d left the Norns. There was a river to cross here; it definitively marked the traditional border of Vanaheim, according to Ratatosk. I didn’t relish a swim, but I didn’t appear to have a choice. Flying across as an owl would mean leaving almost everything behind. I shrugged, sighed, and waded in. Everything that needed to be dry was safely tucked into a waterproof pouch anyway.

Fortunately it was a slow stretch of river, its current not particularly strong, and even weighted down with my clothes and sword, I was able to manage without much trouble aside from the chill. I admit it: There was shrinkage.

Figuring the best cure for shivering would be to resume running, I jogged for maybe forty yards toward the pale light before I had to stop again. Just before I entered the trees, the glow flared brightly and something launched itself from the woods. A blinding phosphorous comet streaked into the sky, followed by a rolling rumble of thunder and a dark cloud bank that had not been there moments before. I remained still, dripping onto the earth and getting colder, because those particular flying objects were gods—and they were probably looking for me.

It was the fertility god Freyr, riding on the back of Gullinbursti, and behind him came Thor in his chariot, pulled by two goats. They were headed toward Yggdrasil.

I waited until they were almost out of sight before moving again. I continued straight on my northwesterly path, now sure that I was headed in the right direction and positive that I didn’t have far to go.

That was good, because my timetable had just accelerated. I’d been hoping to be gone before anyone discovered the Norns were missing, but that seemed unlikely now. How fast they picked up my trail depended entirely on how fast they set the god Heimdall the task of finding me. He had superlative senses that made him an excellent tracker; if he was nearby, I had no doubt he’d be able to hear my heartbeat and smell my anxiety.

There was nothing for it but to proceed quickly. I suspected that Odin had seen through my ruse by now; he’d had plenty of time to figure out that Bacchus wasn’t coming and the dark elves hadn’t done anything. Still, he didn’t know who or what I was, what my goal was, or where I was. Thus Thor and Freyr were going to Yggdrasil on a fact-finding mission, perhaps along with other gods as well—but not Odin himself. I’d bet Odin was on his way to his silver throne right now, if he wasn’t there already. He’d want to search for me and dispatch a proper welcoming party—so that’s why I had to act now, before he had a chance to “see all” from his throne. Ratatosk had been a bit hazy on the distance between Gladsheim and Valaskjálf, so there was no telling how much time I had left.

The unmannerly chaos of the woods changed after four miles to measured orchards in stately rows; the branches of pear trees, plums, apples, and more bore silent witness to my passage, and then a slow, deep river curled into view, perhaps the same one I’d crossed earlier. Suspecting this served as the border between Vanaheim and Alfheim, I kept to the south side of it and looked for halls nestled on either shore. Another mile brought me to them.

On the north side of the river, Freyr’s hall seemed to grow like a sturdy oak in the middle of a lush garden still blooming late into November; it appeared organically grown rather than constructed, yet I could still discern that here were walls and a watertight roof, as comfortable and secure as any other hall. Spaced randomly about the grounds on carved wooden pedestals were woven baskets overflowing with produce. Wee nocturnal animals were taking advantage of these offerings, and an owl swooped down to take advantage of the wee nocturnal animals. The warm glow of Freyr’s hearth fire could be seen through the windows, which were open to the air—as was his door. A path led from his step to the boundary of his garden, which then turned south and widened to kiss the edge of a sturdy, handsome bridge floating above the river. Bold planks would allow three to walk abreast upon it, or it could support large animals and carts.

The path continued on my side of the river once the bridge touched the shore. It led straight to a stouter, smaller hall, clearly constructed rather than grown, but every inch of it was carved with runes and scenes of brave Viking deeds. I crept closer until I could read the runes. They were skalds of one form or another, proclaiming the hall to be that of Idunn and Bragi, long may they live and love and so on.

My art appreciation was curtailed by the sound of low, intense voices coming from the hall. The door and windows were open, just like Freyr’s, and the fire inside was more for its light than its warmth.

“Get closer,” imaginary Kirk said. “I want to hear what they’re saying.”

“I agree,” said imaginary Spock. “The additional intelligence might prove to be useful.” I told them both I liked it better when they argued, as I picked my way carefully forward until I was crouching underneath the front window of the hall.

The warm, rich voice of a woman fluttered into my ears: “… what this means? If the Norns are truly dead, then their prophecies may be null. We could be truly free, Bragi, think of it!”

A sonorous baritone voice rumbled contemplatively. “Ragnarok, null?” A loudy thump and the scrape of chair legs on a wooden floor suggested someone had sat down heavily. “Perhaps then there is hope for us all.”

“Yes!” the woman enthused. I assumed her to be Idunn. “And there is hope for us specifically! Do you not understand? Perhaps we could finally have a child! The doom they laid upon us may have died with them!” I heard kissing noises and then a throaty chuckle from the baritone.

“Ah, I see. Only one way to find out, isn’t there?” The kissing noises became more frequent, and these were shortly followed by other, less chaste noises and heavy breathing. I sank dejectedly onto my haunches, realizing this might take a while. These were not teenagers who finished such business in a few frenzied minutes. The long-lived knew how to love long.

But the brief snatch of conversation I’d overheard gave me plenty to think about. Idunn had implied that the two of them were cursed with infertility, and their current behavior implied that they couldn’t wait to get rid of that curse. Moreover, it implied that they were still in love. Mortals never got a chance to see if their love would last for centuries, but clearly Idunn and Bragi’s had. At first I felt a bit envious, and then heartachingly so for the memories it stirred.

There had been a woman in Africa once whom I loved for more than two hundred years. Upon returning to the fringes of eastern Europe with the hordes of Genghis Khan, I’d quickly ascertained that there was little to be gained by staying there. So I crossed Arabia instead, a strange infidel in the Caliphate, then delved deep into the African continent and lost myself in that wondrous land of savanna and jungle and desert. I did not reemerge until the fifteenth century, happily missing the Black Death in the process. Even more happily for me, Aenghus Óg lost track of me for that whole time; were I superstitious, perhaps I’d assign the credit for that to my love. (More likely I had made enough progress on my amulet to shield me from his divination, and until he thought of new ways to track me, I was safe.)

The source of my long attraction to Tahirah had been perfectly matched chemistry, of course, the same frisson that clearly existed between the Norse gods now snogging behind me. Her sharp wit kept up with mine, and her soft dark eyes soothed my restlessness and chained me willingly to her side. Her low musical voice entered my ears like new velvet, and her laugh was so pure that it struck a tuning fork against my bones and gave me shuddering chills down my spine. She was the last person with whom I’d shared Immortali-Tea. Over the two centuries of our marriage she gave me twenty-five children, all of them a joy; I regretted nothing. Perhaps we would still be in love today, still making babies and trying to keep the young ones from inadvertently marrying the descendants of the old ones (I’m sorry, honey, but you can’t marry him. He’s the great-great-grandson of your brother, you see, who was born back in 1842). I would never know; the Maasai war party we stumbled across ended our chance at eternal love.

The renewed scraping of the chair leg interrupted my reverie and I heard footsteps fading away deeper into the hall, along with some panting and a few wanton giggles.

That was opportunity knocking.

Rising slowly from my crouch, I peeked carefully over the windowsill. The hearth drew my attention first, off to my left. It was heating the contents of an iron pot craned over the flames, which Idunn and Bragi were apparently willing to let stew for some time. Directly in front of me was the kitchen table, a wooden bowl of fruit on it. There were pears, plums, and peaches—but no apples.

Imaginary Kirk spoke up. “Do you dare to eat a peach?”

“Of course I dare,” I whispered.

“May I remind you that we are here for a golden apple?” imaginary Spock said. “We should not be distracted by superfluous fruit.” I reached my hand through the open window and selected a plum from the bowl, figuring there would be no time to enjoy an entire peach. It was ripe and slightly soft underneath my fingers.

“Attaboy,” Kirk said as I took a bite. It was absurdly tasty.

I grinned impishly and hoped it was a sign I could go with Plan C. I’d planned obsessively for this caper, plotting courses of action based on various contingencies all the way up to Q (but unfortunately hadn’t included a duel with the Norns in any of them). Plan C involved leaving a note behind at the scene of the crime. Now the note was taking shape in my mind as I chewed on the plum; all I needed to do was find the apples.

I silently buried the plum pit underneath the window, with a whispered command to the earth. I untied the drawstring to my belt pouch by touch and removed a waterproof package of oilskin, which contained (among other things) some note-sized sheets of paper and a fountain pen for Plan C. I retrieved these after dissolving my camouflage, then quietly entered the hall while its owners took loud delight in each other.

Once past the threshold, I saw to my right a wooden pedestal much like the ones surrounding Freyr’s hall. It had been invisible from the window, but it was prominent as one entered the door, ornately carved with figures that were most likely the Norse gods. A basket full of golden apples rested upon it, clearly an offering to anyone visiting. I grinned and continued to the kitchen table with my paper and pen; Plan C was a go. Taking inspiration from the Modernist poet William Carlos Williams, I wrote a brief poem in Old Norse that would no doubt insult Bragi’s sense of good taste, since skaldic poets had no patience with free verse:

This is just to sayI have stolenThe plumsThat were inYour fruit bowlAnd whichYou were probably SavingFor the NornsFreyja’s tits!They were deliciousSo sweetAnd so cold 

I signed it, “You’re all stupid. You can lick me, Bacchus,” and then stuffed every one of the plums into my pockets, leaving only pears and peaches in the bowl. I didn’t care if they believed it was written by Bacchus or not. The entire point of the note was to throw them off my trail; they’d be looking for someone with hands capable of writing saucy Modernist poetry, and I was shortly going to be hands-free.

The moment of theft had arrived. Idunn and Bragi were obligingly experimenting with the pleasurable effects of friction in their bedroom, and the golden apples of the gods beckoned invitingly near the open door. Continuing to tread softly, I picked one out of the basket and paused perversely to see if an alarm would sound. Idunn wailed in ecstasy from the back of the hall and demanded that Bragi give her a baby, but I didn’t think that counted.

Moving as quickly as I could without making any noise, I went back to the river and tossed in all the plums. My feet left prints leading down to the riverbank, but that was all right. It would be perfect if they thought I’d jumped in; they’d waste their time searching up- and downstream for where I came out on the other side.

I backed slowly away from the bank and had the earth fill in my prints as I walked, leaving the ones leading to the river alone. Eventually I was under the orchard canopy, where the ground was a bit more firm and strewn with fallen leaves that softened my footfalls and disguised them, since there was a bit of moisture remaining in the leaves and they had yet to turn crunchy. Here, I hoped, was where I’d lose anyone trying to track me by smell.