The Age of Odin - James Lovegrove [66]
Three women you really don't want to meet, Freya had said. And Odin wasn't that keen on paying them a house call. Even Huginn and Muninn had chosen to give the event a miss and had fluttered off on some birdie errand or other. So, understandably, I was beginning to wonder myself whether this was such a good idea.
"We could come back another time. Or maybe you could tell me yourself about the enemy. We don't have to go to all this trouble if you don't want to."
"It's the best way," said Odin, grimly, gravely. "The Norns have skills that I lack. Their demonstrations of fact are more convincing than any mere words of mine would be."
He reached out to tug at the knob of a bell-pull. A bell clanged deep, unfathomably deep inside the cottage.
"Oh well, nobody home," I said before the ringing had even stopped. "Let's go."
"They're home. They're never not home. Hold fast."
We were on the doorstep for nearly five minutes, and I was starting to hope that Odin was wrong and the Norns were, for once, out. Nipped down to Asda or the bingo or something.
Then: light footsteps, stiff bolts being shot, a key creakily turning, and the door was opened by...
...not a wrinkly white-haired crone like I'd been picturing, but a girl, barely a teenager, blossom-cheeked and pretty. Reminded me very much of Sally Stringer, who I'd lusted after through most of secondary school, tried countless times to chat up at parties and discos without getting anywhere, and had my boyish heart broken by when she started going out with Brett Hughes. It had been an especially painful kick in the teeth because Brett's parents were well-off, had a large house, gave him a generous allowance, and Sally - the Sally I thought she was, the Sally I'd built her up to be in my mind - wasn't the kind of girl to have her head turned by wealth. Although apparently, at the end of the day, she was.
The girl smiled at us, coldly welcoming.
"Odin," she said.
"Urd," said Odin, and he had lowered his head, as if he could scarcely bring himself to look at her. He was even, I thought, shaking.
But she was just a girl. Simply dressed. Slender. Not tall. Slip of a thing. No threat to anyone.
"And Gideon Coxall," she said, turning to me.
"Gid."
"Your mother always preferred Gideon. Your father was the one who shortened it. It was a bone of contention between them - one of the few, all minor, until his infidelity. Afterwards, she wouldn't even let your friends call you Gid while they were in the house. 'Gideon,' she would insist. 'As in the Bible.'"
Me: eyes on stalks, jaw open to the neck.
But I recovered well, I thought.
"Okay, that trick isn't creepy much. What have you got back there, The Big Book Of Gideon Coxall, complete with illustrations?"
"Something of that ilk," said Urd. "I shall use Gideon too, because it was your mother's choice, and she is a significant factor in your past. What my sisters call you is their own business."
"Will you invite us in?" said Odin, having to force the request out. "I can't believe our visit was not expected."
"Nothing is unexpected to the Norns," Urd said, "and indeed we already know your motives for being here and have prepared accordingly. Come in, both."
She let us in, shut the door behind, and showed us along the hallway through to a lounge. The cottage's interior matched its exterior. Ripped and peeling wallpaper. Threadbare rugs and throws. Chairs well ventilated with holes. Moth-eaten, mildewed, mouldering curtains with hems so rotted away they barely touched the sills. The smell of dust, dense and peppery in the air. If the Norns were deliberately going for the shabby-chic look, they'd nailed it. Nailed it to the point of overkill.
In the lounge, two women rose to greet us. Both had a similar look about them to Urd. Same posture, same mannerisms, same colouring. In point of fact, they were exact replicas of her, just older. One by maybe twenty years, the other by a lot. One was Urd as she