Going Bovine
Page 86Balder’s eyes narrow. “You don’t believe me.”
Gonzo finally spears a slimy egg. “Uh, let me see. Hmmm … no. No, I don’t believe the yard gnome is a Viking god. Call me crazy.”
“Gonzo,” I start, but he holds his hands in a time-out “T” and turns to Balder.
“Let’s stop talking shit and be honest here. You’re a dwarf. I know it. You know it. Just own it, man. Stop the self-hate.”
“Very well. I shall prove that I am Balder.” He hands Gonzo a table knife. “Run me through with this smallish but worthy sword.”
Gonzo stops midchew. He opens his mouth full of gnarly egg-toast mash. “You want me to shiv you with a dull butter knife?”
“I want you to try to kill me,” Balder explains. “To make my blood flow like the Leiptr.”
“Dude, I’m eating,” Gonzo whines.
Balder smiles. “Don’t worry, I cannot be harmed. That is the power of Balder the great.”
“Aaahh!” Gonzo cries. A few heads pop up in our direction. I use my body to block any view of Balder.
“Would you guys chill?” I whisper through tight lips.
Balder pulls the knife neatly from his skin and lays it on the table. It’s completely clean.
Gonzo’s face is white. “Dude, you are freaking me out.”
I put my hand on Balder’s stomach. There’s no wound. “How did you do that?”
“I am immortal.” Balder takes a sip of his tea. “You see, I had a fearsome dream that I would be killed, and so my mother, Frigg, traveled to the underworld to beg for protection. She went to everyone in the realm and made each one promise not to hurt me. All swore an oath, save the tiny mistletoe bush, who was too young to make such a promise. Thus, I was protected.”
I vaguely remember my mom telling me this story. It seemed different when she told it, but I can’t remember—all that stuff is disappearing from my head, misplaced files I can’t always find. Mom. If she were here right now, she’d be pitching a fit about Konstant Kettle. She’d probably tell the poor waitress that Constant shouldn’t be spelled with a “K” and that they’re contributing to “education erosion.” That’s the sort of stuff that always embarrassed me about my mom. I feel bad about not calling. She’s probably going nuts. I use the complimentary pack of crayons to draw on my napkin.
“For sport, the others would try to kill me—they’d throw stones and darts, even spears,” Balder chuckles. “I remained unharmed.”
“May I finish?” Balder says, clearly annoyed.
Gonzo reaches over him for the jelly. “I thought you were finished.”
“When a Viking warrior dies, they make a pyre upon a mighty vessel, set him on it, and send him off to Valhalla, the hall of the gods in the afterlife. It’s a very noble death.”
Gonzo rolls his eyes. “Set on fire? Yeah, sounds like big fun. Can you pass the ketchup?”
“I don’t expect you to understand,” Balder says. “You are not noble.”
“I came on this trip, didn’t I? I didn’t have to do that? Cameron, tell him I didn’t have to do that.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.
Gonzo points at me with his fork as if to say, See, you ass**le?
Gonzo narrows his eyes and tightens his grip on the fork. “I don’t really think you’re in a position to be talking about somebody’s size, are you, dude?”
“It’s not a question of size. It’s a question of stature. In my travels, I’ve learned to speak five languages. I’m versed in science, the arts, music.”
Gonzo stares at him. “You’re a freakin’ yard gnome. Dude.”
“Dwarf,” Balder grumbles.
“Piss post!”
“Ignoble.”
“For Chrissakes, can we just get along and eat in peace?” I say with a sigh. I don’t feel so great. My head’s throbbing and my stomach hurts. I don’t think it’s my CJ, just an old-fashioned hangover. I look down at the napkin, where I’ve crossed out the “K” in Konstant and replaced it with the proper “C.”