“The Norse pantheon,” whispers Faye to him, “in Asgard. Kind of like Olympus. Where the gods all live.”
“‘Enraged, Odin shamed his son,” I continue, “stripping him of his powers but leaving him immortal, forced to walk among mortals for eternity, denied a warrior’s glorious death. Now wary of others who sought to rebel, the god Odin disguised his powers—Thought, Memory, Magic, Wisdom and War—as scavenging birds, and sent them through the portals of the earth, to spy on the doings of men, for he only had one eye, and could not see all things at once.
“The birds travelled far and wide, and returned at night to Odin’s shoulders, tattling what they had seen— ’”
“Okay, we’ve seen things similar to that,” Julian says, and I catch his eye and nod.
“Yeah, the ravens. But listen, Jules, this is new: ‘But of clever Yvengvr they saw nothing, for he hid underground at the witch’s well, waiting to capture his father’s powers and regain his rightful place in Asgard.
‘Huginn was the first to be caught, for Muninn was dearer to Odin, and he kept his memory closer than his thoughts, but they were a pair, and were never parted long. Wisdom was sent to find them, and was fast captured. War and Magic were soon ensnared as well, for Odin sent them in haste to look for their winged brethren, following behind on a storm of eight-legged steeds.’”
“That reminds me of something I translated,” Faye murmurs.
My brother lunges for the book again. “That goes against everything I’ve ever read before. Does the author credit his sources? Or the translator?”
“Shhh.” I glance up. Ethan’s face is carved of stone, mouth harder than the rest of him. He ignores me. I swallow and continue. “‘When Odin reached the edge of the portal where the earth met the well of knowledge, he found himself face to face with his banished son, all his crows captured, cawing their distress from a wicker cage.
“Yvengvr then entreated Mimir to use her powers to release the ravens from Odin’s command and bind their powers to him, but the birds fought in their cage, and it toppled to the ground, freeing them into the underground cavern. Instead of helping to catch the birds, the witch betrayed Yvengvr, forcing them into the shape of mortal men as they escaped, scattering into the forests, never to be seen again.’” I turn the brittle page.
“Then what?” Ethan asks.
“‘Yvengvr bound the witch to him, to shield himself from his father’s wrath, and powerless, half-blind Odin fled to Asgard, without his crows, while his son still waits on Earth, plotting his righteous return.’”
I close the book and sit down.
“Where did you get that?” Julian asks. This time I let him have the book.
“Professor Anders gave it to me. The author is Johann Vangarde. A professor of ancient mythology here, at the school.”
“Okay, wait.” Ethan’s eyes are focused somewhere to the left of my face, refusing to make contact. This is fine by me. My head still hurts from his demon kiss. “So what you are saying is that Odin and his son fought some kind of battle and the dad turned his power into crows?”
I nod. “Right—to keep them safe, in case his son attempted to overthrow him again.”
“And his son is powerless, too, left wandering around the Earth forever.” He rubs his temples with his fists. “So what does this have to do with our project?”
Faye draws a spiral on the tabletop that ends in stick letters. “The symbolism is similar, isn’t it?” she says, glancing at both boys. “To our Native American folktales. The birds using a sacred place as a crossing point between worlds?”
“I really don’t want to use anything that can’t be backed by more sources than a comic book,” Julian argues. “For all we know this guy made it up. What else is in there?”
“I haven’t gotten much further,” I tell him and then nod to Faye. “I thought maybe we could use this Norse story and then some local myths about the well to show the parallels in the crow theme.”
“Is there anything more about the son? I’ve never heard of him.” Julian flips through the book, eyes scanning down the page at his lightning speed.
“Odin had quite a few. He got around a bit. A lot like Zeus,” Faye says.
“The rest of the chapter seems to be divided into folk tales about each crow once it escaped.” I swipe the book back from my brother, and push it toward Ethan and Faye. “There are some drawings in here, too.”
Faye takes the book, taps an illustration of a line of jagged letters carved into a stone, and follows the line with her finger. “‘Somebody,’—it’s broken off there, I can’t read the name— ‘Tyrsdotter raised this stone in memory of Kenaz’—that means the wise one—‘her father’s sister, who died without children to honor her.’”
“You can read that?” Ethan asks.
She nods. “My dad worked a lot of Viking ship burials. Stones like this are everywhere in Scandinavia. This is a very primitive futhark, but the wording is standard, easy to recognize.”
“Footh—?”
“Futhark. Alphabet.”
“So that’s a gravestone?”