Welcome to Northern Wordsmiths

This is a story, INSPIRED BY, in a teeny-tiny way, one tale in my brand-new short story collection, Strange Tales are These. That particular story is entitled, It’s Raining Cats and Dogs.

 This story, “Come in Number Nine …”, pays homage to the magic tree-of-life in “Cats and Dogs”, to Odin, the Norse god and All-Father, to Sleipnir, Odin’s eight-legged horse – and his two ravens, Hugin and Munin.

ALAS, IN THE STORY I’M ABOUT TO TELL YOU, THERE ARE NO CATS OR DOGS.

HERE IT IS: Enjoy –

As I looked down on the wonderful scene – the setting sun a fiery red ball, the trees swaying in the shadows – I noticed an ominous oak, glaring at me with menacing intent, from a wizened visage as old as the hills. Its face was set in the centre of the oak’s trunk. It changed its expression into a warm smile as I gazed upon it. 

Ah. I’ve made a friend, I thought.

I began to wonder if this awe-inspiring oak might be the original Tree of Life, the World Tree of the Anglo-Saxons. Why? It was as though he was a controlling force of nature. Maybe he was a friend of the Earth Mothers – the Sisters of Wyrd. I mean, why not? There was a magical quality to the air around him. I could feel it.

All the other trees in the wood bowed in the presence of the great oak, lowering their heads in a submissive gesture.

The wizened old oak, though hard of hearing, listened intently as I whispered. He never answered with words but communicated wisely, all the same.

I drifted over to the foot of this wonderful Tree of Life and patted his trunk. He groaned, huffing and puffing, as though he was in pain. Looking up into his wrinkled, grizzled face, I saw that he was fading away into misty vaporous cloud. His branches vanished, his leaves quivered like feathers, fluttering to the ground.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked, watching his lop-sided, twisted smile disappear into the distance. He shimmered like a dimming star. Then he was gone; replaced by a devilishly handsome and haughty white-grey horse. 

What? I thought.

Baffled, I stepped backward. I saw the horse rear up on his eight legs. Eight legs, I thought. ‘Eight Legs’ I yelled. 

Suddenly, that meant something to me. Then I recognised him; remembered him from books I’d read about mythical gods of the Norse lands. I spoke his name – 

‘Sleipnir, is that you? Odin’s magic horse?’

He snorted, letting out a languorous “neigh”, which I think meant, “yay”.

Already agog with excitement, I was doubly so when an enormous giant of a man slipped into Sleipnir’s saddle. 

It must be Odin. Not a bit how I imagined him; not the blond, handsome god I expected. This guy was old as the hills but sprightly. Gnarly, he was, and pock-marked around the face like he’d had acne in his youth. His grey hair, tousled with ringlets, matched the colour of his eyes. They sparkled, silvery – shining with good humour and kindness – such kindness. I was bowled over. His hefty legs. His muscled shoulders, His bearded face. God-like.

‘How long you been up that tree, Odin?’

‘Nine days and nine nights. No food or water. Hungry as a bear, I am. C’mon, horsey. Look lively, my two brave ravens. Over the Rainbow Bridge we go. There’ll be plenty of burnt offerings where we’re going.’ 

‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

‘The world below, to find my brother Loki, who fooled me – tricked me – stuck me up this tree.

‘NEVERTHELESS,’ he bellowed, ‘I SHALL SAVE HIM FROM THE UNDERWORLD AND BRING HIM HOME.’

Simmering down, Odin explained, ‘LOKI’S A BAD MAN. HE WANTS TO REIGN AS THE KING OF “HEL”. ALTHOUGH 9 HOURS WILL IT TAKE US TO GET TO HIM, THE MAGIC NUMBER NINE MAY SAVE HIM FROM THE NINE LIVES OF DEATH.’

And off they rode, Sleipnir’s tail swishing and twitching; Odin’s roar loud and howling; Huggin and Munin, the ravens’ cackles, crass and cawing:

‘NUMBER NINE, THE BRIGHTON LINE’, ‘DOCTOR’S ORDERS, NUMBER NINE’.

COME IN NUMBER NINE – YOUR TIME’S UP!