Since he got
dementia, Odin finds it hard to tell his ravens each from each. Huggin and
Munnin, Memory and Thought. Which is which? What things does he remember, and
what things are mere phantoms of his thoughts? Did he hang upon a cross to
fathom knowledge even Gods weren’t meant to know, or was the cross a tree? Did
he give an eye for wisdom, or lose it in a bar-room brawl? Does he ride a horse
or spider? Are there elephants in Asgard? Have there always been? He really can’t
be sure.
He feels like they
won a great victory, some months ago. He tells the young. They laugh at him,
they sneer, they wave front pages, point at phones. The pound is falling they tell Odin, Norway doesn’t want to know. We’re fucking fucked. In the old days
he would have smote them for their insolence. But nowadays the thunderbolts
recoil on him. He shakes. They shake their heads and move away. Perhaps one
stays, to see he doesn’t bite his tongue. Perhaps an ambulance is called.
Perhaps it will come quickly. But it’s Friday and most people just got paid and
absent any plan for Ragnarok they’re getting pissed and fighting.
It’s a long wait,
with the false god, for an ambulance.
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