Norse

 

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For Lucretia, who listened to the plot in detail. For Charlotte and Eng 142, who read the short story. For J.D., who is an inspiration. For Emily, who made it and keeps me motivated. For the CyborgGriffin, who love fantasy just as much as I do.

 

And in the end, for Rick Riordan, who got this whole ball rolling (three times).

 

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This is how it started.

            Not how everything started of course. That involves the world tree, a young god, a young giant and a cow. But this story starts with a bet.

            Once, when Odin had returned from his wanderings, he held a feast within his great halls on Asgard. Odin felt a generous mood come upon him, and so all were invited—the elves, the dwarves, and even Lady Hela came up from her icy pit.

            All sat in the great halls of the Aesir, eating their fill of boar and salmon, drinking their fill of wheat ale and honey mead. Everyone except Loki.

            If you’ve ever read the old stories, you know that Loki either starts or gets blamed for a lot of mischief. And it’s true that even though everything started with the world tree, a young god, a young giant and a cow, people would blame the very beginning on Loki if they could. They would say it was a bad decision, and then count on Odin, or Thor, or another among them to set things right and begin properly.

            But this time, Loki really was responsible for the bet that began everything.

            The feast went on and on. The gods began to grow rowdy as they grew drunker. It was just as a fight was about to break out that Loki threw open the doors to Odin’s great hall.

            Everything stopped.

            But only for a moment—jeers and jests rose up at the sight of Loki, because the trickster god almost always enjoyed a good joke, even sometimes at his own expense. Indeed, Loki only grinned and waved and strode to the front of the hall where he took his seat at the left hand of Odin.

            At Odin’s right sat his Queen, Freyja.

            “And where have you been this night, Loki?” asked Freyja.

            “I took up my brother’s mantel for a time and went a wandering, my lady,” said Loki.

            Said Freyja, “Indeed? And have you gained anything by this wandering?”

            Said Loki, “Only cause never to wander again.” He paused. A grin overtook his face, from one ear to the other. “And a question.”

            “What question is that?”

            “A question of my lady.”

            “Aye, let’s have it then.”

            Odin, who had heretofore been reclining as he contemplated the hall and the state of his stomach, leaned forward slightly. Many in the hall had gone silent as well, listening to the trickster and the queen as they spoke. There was something afoot. It hung in the air like ozone before a lightning strike.

            Loki nodded to Freyja. “My Queen is known for her beauty, her grace and her passion. And indeed all of these are wondrous qualities of her majesty.”

            A cheer rose up from those in the hall who had been listening. Those who had not been listening cheered for something to cheer at.

            “Flattery does not suit you, trickster,” said Freyja. “Make your point.”

            Loki shrugged. “The legends speak much of your beauty and grace, but they also speak of your great love, and how you have loved a great deal.”

            Whistles and shocked ooooos rang out in the hall.

            Freyja only raised an eyebrow. “I would think such petty comments beneath even you.”

            “I mean no insult,” said Loki, his hands raised palm out. “Truly, I don’t. If anything, I complement you on your endeavors. It’s only, as I wandered the realms, I wondered why I had never heard that you took a human as your lover.”

            “This is what you ponder?”

            “Indeed. Your more famous paramours have been written into legend. Even those less famous were worth a rumor. But I have never heard anything about you taking a mortal to your bed.”

            “An odd thing to wonder, brother,” said Odin, speaking for the first time.

            Loki, again, shrugged. He raised a glass to his lips. “’Tis only conversation. The Lady need not reply if she does not wish to.” He drank deeply from the cup.

            The conversation could have ended there. Thank goodness it didn’t. I wouldn’t exist.

            Freyja, being the goddess of love and passion, took offense to this. “If you must know,” she said, “I have never had a human lover worth ‘writing into legend,’ as you put it. I find human men too interested in their own pleasure and not that of their partners. Human women fall to the other extreme of being vastly under curios of themselves. The whole lot is a frustrating pursuit not worth bedding.”

            “Indeed?” asked not Loki, but Odin.

            “Aye,” said Freya. “Indeed.”

            “I have had rather a different experience, my Queen,” said Odin. “The men may fumble, but they are a through group, if prompted. And the women I have taken have lost themselves to throws of such deep passion they have scarcely been able to return.”

            The men of the hall hooted and hollered.

            Freyja rolled her eyes. “Perhaps you have had such experiences, husband, but things are different for men then they are for women. One would thing as wise as you are, you might have come to understand this.”

            The women of the hall raised up a cheer, one louder than their men folk.

            “Perhaps you might consider that you have simply had a few who were not worthy of you,” said Odin. “There may yet be some who might satisfy you.”

            “Perhaps you might admit that there are few remarkable souls in that lot,” said Freyja.

            “Perhaps,” Odin agreed, bobbing his head in agreement. “Perhaps we ought to put both theories to the test.”

            “Oh?”

            “I propose a bet.”

            “Of what sort?”

            “You and I shall both go hence forth to Midgard. We shall each seek out a lover for the night, and report our findings to one another. If you should find a lover who possesses great passion and skill in bed then you shall owe me a boon. If I should find one who possesses lackluster interest, I will owe you a boon.”

            Freyja tossed her head from side to side, her loose red-gold locks shaking with her. “It should be an easy boon to gain. Very well, my husband, you shall have your bet.” She leaned forward and kissed his mouth buried beneath his grizzled lips. “I look forward to our rejoining.”

            “Should we too go and make merry?” asked some of those in the halls.

            “It’s been ages since I’ve been to Midgard,” said others. “I wonder what has changed.”

            “Probably not much, mortals are such simple folk.”

            “Let us all go, to see who is right in these matters, the King or the Queen.”

            “The Queen should know, she reigns over passion as well as Asgard.”

            “We shall not know until we see for ourselves.”

            As the King and Queen departed, many others did to cross the rainbow bridge into the mortal realm. No one really noticed that Loki slipped in with them. Or if they did, they said nothing. Perhaps they thought he intended to go to Midgard for the same reasons as they.

            No one could have known Loki’s true purpose, not even Freyja or Odin, as wise and predisposed to future sight as both were.

            Loki did not go and make merry that night, not as the others of the nine realms might have suspected. When he returned to Midgard, he slipped into a small home on the plains, wrapped himself around the body of another and whispered, “It’s done. I’ve made certain of it.”

            “I suppose it wouldn’t help to pray,” said the other.

            “It certainly couldn’t hurt,” said Loki. “You never know who might be listening. And willing to help you with a trick.”

            The other person, a woman, only smiled and kissed him. “Things will work out for the best, my dear. I feel it in my bones.”

            Loki hummed. Not for the first time, he wished he had the future sight his blood brother had received. Somewhere inside of himself he wished he were not a god, so that he could have someone to pray to.  As he hummed, he felt the bundle of life in the woman’s stomach began to take shape. 

 

            Kjersten sat tending her fire pit on the early spring evening. Isaaki nudged her shoulder and held out a beer.

            “We shouldn’t have cooked the meat this way,” he said. “It’s taking forever, and how are we going to eat a whole hog?”

            “You’re the one who bought the meat and wanted to cook it over an open fire,” she retorted, taking a swig of the beer. She spat it back out on the fire. “What’s this swill you’ve brought?”

            Isaaki rolled his eyes. “Oh forgive me, Kjersten the great. Some of us can’t afford the great alcohol you brew.”

            “You could if you had a job,” she said, setting the bottle aside.

            “Who’s going to hire a freak of nature with no credentials?”

            “I started a brewery and distiller with less,” she said. Kjersten punched her twin in the arm. “You had better hurry and get some kind of record brother. The world is turning to one where everyone’s names and numbers will be kept in a single little box. That’s going to be a lot harder to fake.”

            Isaaki snorted. He took a long drink of the beer, despite it tasting like swill as Kjersten had said. “You don’t think those computer things will catch on so soon, do you? It took mankind hundreds of years to accept standardized writing.”

            “It’s the same as the printing press,” she said. “It’ll catch on quicker than you think…”

            Kjersten trailed off, getting to her feet.

            “What is it?” Isaaki asked.

            Kjersten held a finger to her lips and then pointed it toward a light on the horizon line. As the light grew closer, she and Isaaki could hear voices and laughter. The twins grew stiff when the group first came into view and they could clearly see the forms of gods dressed in mail and fur.

            “See, Tyr, you were wrong,” said a young, blond god to one with auburn hair.

            Tyr waved his hand at the blond god, elongating his form. He was the second largest among them, but easily stood a head and a half above Kjersten. “I could have sworn I had the trail of the Trickster. But it is no matter. Let us feast with these mortals instead.”

            “I like how they assume that we would want to feast with them,” Isaaki muttered.

            Kjersten elbowed him in the ribs. “Don’t cause trouble. We’ve two sons of the Allfather here, and you know how he considers us. And I like not the look of the light bringer. He sets me on edge.”

            Isaaki frowned, but he nodded. He wanted to die no more than his sister did.

            “Friends!” cried the blond god. As he drew closer, Kjersten could see that he glowed faintly, even in the light of their torches. It made his skin like the sun reflecting off of snow, and his hair, which was redder than she had first imagined, burn like embers in a fire pit. She knew him to be Baldr, the Allfather’s favorite son. “May we join you by the fire and partake of your meal?”

            “What hosts would refuse a company of gods?” Kjersten asked. “Isaaki, go into the cellar and fetch libations for our guests.” She gave him a look that told him to fetch the good stuff.

            Isaaki returned her look with one that asked if she really wished to be left alone with several drunk, male gods.

            Kjersten only jerked her head back toward the house.

            Isaaki frowned, but stood. He bowed toward their guests and made for the house.

            “Someone ought to help him,” said a dark haired god. Kjersten could not guess who he was, but she saw by the light of the torches that he was blind and marked the earth with a walking stick. Even as he spoke, he felt around for a seat near to the fire. When he found it, he seated himself and made no move to get up.

            “Thor is the strongest among us,” said Baldr, nodding to his red haired brother.

            Thor rolled his eyes but stood. He paused for a moment, leaning down to kiss a golden haired woman Kjersten could only assume to be his wife, Sif. When Thor disappeared into the house, Sif rose as well, taking Kjersten by the arm. “Come,” said the goddess. “I will help you prepared the rest of the meal.”

            Kjersten nodded and led Sif into her kitchen. Kjersten had baked that day, and was thankful she had baked for the whole week and not just she and Isaaki. Otherwise, she might have had to bake more bread as well as fry up some more vegetables as well. Sif, for her part, seemed rather helpful, and listened well to Kjersten’s instructions. She even set aside some of her adornments so that might better assist.

            Isaaki and Thor had long returned with the crates of bottled mead when Kjersten and Sif rejoined their company. Isaaki was just finishing basting the pig one final time, as the two women passed around plates of fried vegetables and bread. The gods took up singing with one another, loud and drunk.

            When the spit had been removed from the fire, the pig rested and cut, the party of gods and mortals crowded around the fire as the nigh grew colder and colder. Kjersten had taken a seat upon the ground, for lack of a place to sit. As she starred into the fire, eating the pork with her fingers, she recalled the other times she had been forced from her seat, Isaaki at her side.

            “Come now, mistress,” said Baldr, “there’s no need to sit on the ground in your own home.”

            Kjersten looked up at him. “I won’t force my guests from their place of rest.”

            “But we are not cruel guests,” said Baldr. He patted his lap. “And I have a warm seat for you right here.”

            Kjersten rolled her eyes at his remark, while the others, even Isaaki and Sif, roared with laughter. She had not lied when she said something about the god of light put her off. But such behavior was befitting mortal men, much less gods. She rose to her feet, plate in hand. “I’ll fetch a chair from the house, if my lord is so concerned for my well-being.”

            As she moved toward the house, Baldr grabbed her by the waist and forced her into his lap. Kjersten was so startled she dropped the plate of food she had been holding. With Baldr’s hands so firmly around her waist, Kjersten found she was still able to reach for the knife strapped round her waist. The laughter stopped as she held it to his throat.

            “Careful now,” said Baldr with a hum. “If you know me, you know that knives won’t hurt me. Nor plants nor water, nor anything a mortal like you could come up with. Though,” he brushed Kjersten’s black-as-night hair behind her ear to reveal the point they had to them, “I don’t think you’re too mortal, are you dear?”

            Kjersten breathed hard through her nose. It was the only thing she could hear at the whole party.

            “You ought to let her go.”

            All turned to the blind man, who had sat forgotten in the corner.

            “And why should I do that, Hothr?” asked Baldr. “Who are you, brother, to say what I should do?”

            Hothr smiled at his twin, eyes not quite meeting Baldr’s own. “Surely the great Baldr is better than to force one woman who refuses him? Surely he can have the scores of others who seek his bed? Shall Asgard hear of such a foul deed performed by its favorite son?”

            Baldr let loose a growl, but tossed Kjersten from his lap. She stumbled, but caught her footing quickly. Kjersten watched as he stalked into the night followed by Tyr and Thor, calling after him to calm him down.

            Kjersten turned to Hothr. “Thank you, my Lord,” she said. “You will always have a place in my house if you want it.”

            Hothr beamed at her. “What more could a blind beggar ask for. If I could, then, my lady, ask for a bed this night? No doubt they will forget about me when they return for lady Sif, and it is dangerous for me to try to find the rainbow bridge. The light flees from me, you see.”

            “Of course,” said Kjersten. She turned to her brother, who stood still a little frozen. “Isaaki, would you show Lord Hothr to a bed?”

            Isaaki looked at her, his revere broken, and shrugged. “Sure.”

            “Will you require lodging as well, Lady Sif?” Kjersten asked.

            Sif waved her off. “You’ve been most hospitable so far. I don’t think that will be necessary. Thor will return for me, if no one else does. In the meantime, I will help you cut the pig to save in your larder, and then we may retire inside.”

            They did just that, cutting the pig nine ways so that it might fit in her refrigerator. Kjersten would take some to the neighbors tomorrow and maybe make a soup. She carried some of the burned coals in a pan to the hearth in her living room and built a fire there. Sharing a glass of mulled wine with Sif, Kjersten pretended not to notice her brother had never returned from helping Hothr to bed.

 

            Hezekiah had noticed her all night.

            He was fairly certain the entire club had noticed the beautiful red haired woman, standing on the wall, nursing her drink. Several people had asked her to dance, and she would oblige them for a song or two before returning to her post. More than once she had looked in his direction, and Hezekiah could have sworn she was looking at him.

            The squeak of the bar flap opening made him look up to where Karen was tying her apron. “Hey Heze,” she said. “Mitch says you can go ahead and punch out. He also, and this is an exact quote, says to go and get her already, he’s getting second hand embarrassment.”

            “I don’t do white girls,” Hezekiah said, undoing his apron. He folded it and stashed it under the bar, ignoring Karen’s eye roll. “You don’t understand, okay? It gets complicated real fast.” White people never understood—they were always saying shit like “We’re all one race!” Or “Nobody cares about interracial relationships.”

            “Whatever man,” said Karen. “Do her or don’t. It’s none of my business. Just get out of here before the boss has to pay you overtime.”

            Heze left the bar, closing the flap behind him. He walked across the club, hand poised on the “EMPLOYEES ONLY” door. Heze pushed it open. Then he turned back to where the red-haired woman was standing. “I’m so gonna regret this,” he said to himself. The loud club music thrumming in his ears, he crossed the club to where she stood.

            “Hello,” she greeted.

            “Hey,” said Heze. “You’ve been watching me all night. Something the matter?”

            “Nothing at all,” she said. “I simply find you very attractive. You’ve been watching me in return, you know.”

            “Hard not to when someone keeps staring.” Hezekiah thought that was perhaps ungenerous. “And you’re pretty beautiful too, you know.”

            “I do,” she said. “I get told that quite often.”

            Heze was sure she did. She was the epitome of magazine beautiful. Long, shiny hair, smooth, creamy skin—the woman was a walking beauty commercial. But there was something more than that. Her grey eyes bore into him, making him want her with every fiber of his being. She reminded him of die Lorelei, a Germanic beauty who lured sailors to their deaths on the rocks of the Rhein. It was hard not to get drawn in to her.

            “Hey, what’s your name?” he asked.

            “Freyja,” she said.

            “Like the goddess.”

            She smiled, a little giggle spilling out of her lips. “Yes, just like the goddess. And what’s your name?”

            “Hezekiah,” he said. “Most people call me Heze.”

            “I would love to call you Heze,” said Freyja. She leaned forward a little, placing a single hand on his chest. Her hand pulsed warmth into him, like sitting close to a fire. “I would especially like to call you Heze from my bed tonight.”

            Hezekiah swallowed, trying to douse the flame that was lighting in his stomach. “Listen, you got a boyfriend?” he asked.

            “No.”

            “Husband?”

            “Yes, does that matter?”

            Heze swallowed again, the fire dying out. “You ever hear of Emmett Till?”

            Freyja blinked. “Yes, of course.”

            “Then, listen, you know why I’m going to say no to you.”

            She laughed again—something about it made Hezekiah want to write sonnets about that laugh. He wanted to promise her poems and songs and the best of anything that she wanted.

            “It isn’t like that,” said Freyja. She leaned closer to him. “Odin won’t care. He’s off seducing his own lover for tonight. He certain won’t come after you for sleeping with me. He knows I’m my own woman, and who I take to bed is my business.”

            “Is that so?”

            “It is. I swear it. I’ll swear by whatever you want me to.”

            She leaned further into his space. Hezekiah could smell her perfume—or maybe that was just her. He couldn’t say what it smelt like, just that it was sweet and he wanted some.

            “Be honest now,” he said, wrapping his arms around his waist. “Am I going to regret this?”

            The drink had disappeared from her other hand (and where had that gone? Heze knew he should be thinking abou tit, because it all just didn’t make sense. But he found that he couldn’t focus) as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “I don’t know. I think you’ll only regret it, if you want to regret it.”

            “Oh yeah,” said Hezekiah. He could feel himself vibrate with excitement from violating his own taboo. “I’m gonna regret this.”

            Freyja only laughed again as he leaned in for a kiss. 

 

Amihan tried desperately not to grimace as she sipped her glass of wine. How did people drink wine on a regular basis, for fun no less? She could understand putting up with it for health reasons, it supposedly did make you live longer, but not for fun.

            At least her stomach was no longer tying itself in knots, like it had been before her performance. Honestly, she was twenty-five, and the butterflies wer still eating her alive before recitals.

            "Ami!"

            Ami turned to see an old music instructor walking toward her. "Mr. Jones!"

            "Oh, please, Ami, you're all grown up now, I think you can call me Ron." He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her cheek, and wrapping one arm around her, careful not to spill any of the wine from his own glass on her. "It's so good to see you."

            "Oh you as well," said Ami, returning his gestures. "It's been so long. How are you?"

            "Inspired!" he replied. He had taken a step back to release her from the hug, but there was still only so much space between them. "So many wonderful performances tonight, especially yours. You made me want to take up performing again. Simply wonderful, my dear."

            "Well, I had a few excellent teachers," she said, nudging him with her elbow. Ami smiled up at him.

            Her smile disappeared when he placed a hand on her side. "Well, I'm honored to be counted among those excellent teachers. But you know, I remember that you don't really like large parties. If you want, I know of a smaller, more elite affair—I could introduce you to some producers. I know a few who might kill some of the others to work with you. on an album."

            Ami didn't know for sure if Mr. Jones was soliciting her. All she could think of at the moment, was a time when she had seen other girls leave their lesson with him in tears and wonder if there had been something more there. "Oh, I don't know," said Ami. Not taking any chances, she pretended to snag her foot on the carpet. Lurching forward to catch herself, Ami spilled her glass of wine all down Mr. Jones' front. "Oh my goodness! I am so, so sorry!"

            For his part, Mr. Jones gave a genuine laugh, wiping at himself with a napkin he had on hand. "Still as clumsy as ever, hmm?"

            "You'd think I would be better now that I'm not twelve, and we're not in a studio with wires all over the floor."

            "His smile flickered—perhaps at being reminding just how long he had known her—but it returned in full force after just a moment of doubt. "I’ll just go up to my room and get a fresh shirt. Can I come find you in a little bit?"

            "Oh, I don't know. Like you said, I don't like large parties—I might decide to go home soon," said Ami, trying to keep the smile plastered on her face.

            His smile flickered again. "I hope you’ll stick around long enough to say good-bye at least. I shouldn't be too long, no more than a half hour I promise."

            Ami forced her biggest smile. "Oh, well, I guess I can try to stick around for another half hour at least."

            She held her breath as she watched him walked out of the room. Now all she needed was someplace to hide out so she could say that she had staid, but Mr. Jones wouldn't be able to find her. When Mr. Jones disappeared, she let out a breath, and felt several tense muscles relax. As she looked around for some place to hide out, she turned around and nearly ran into someone.

            "Oh, I'm sorry!" she said, grateful she had already spilled her wine.

            "Not at all," said the man

            Ami got a good look at him, and suddenly she was grateful for many things—chiefly that she was wearing her sparkly, off the shoulder, little black dress.

            The man was tall and barely contained his barrel chest underneath his white button down. If he had a belly, like most grey-haired men she knew, it was well contained by his waistcoat and suit jacket. In fact, despite the wrinkles on his face, and his full head of grey hair, the man looked quite debonair, save for perhaps the eye patch across one eye (but then, that only made him look more mysterious).

            "I hope you don't think me too forward," he said, his deep voice sending chills down Ami's spine. "But I came to offer you another glass of wine after you so expertly spilled yours on the man who was bothering you." He handed her the glass of wine, clinking their glasses together. "Well, and also to congratulate you on a con well perpetrated."

            "Oh...thank you." Ami tilted her head down, letting her hair fall into her eyes. She quickly swept the dark locks behind her ear again, to wanting to seem coy.

            "Have I over stepped?" he asked.

            "Not quite," said Ami. "I just... Well, these days, you really can’t accept drinks from strangers, and well, I don't really like wine."

            "What a shame." He held out his hand for her glass.

            Ami passed it over to him and was amazed when he quite smoothly put both of their glasses on the tray of a passing waiter. "Well, then I shall just have to fascinate you with conversation, rather than my good taste in wine."

            A chuckle left Ami's lips. "Well, you're off to a good start."

            "Hmm, well then, may I continue by asking your name?"

            "Oh." Ami offered out her hand. "Ami—well Amihan Ocampo, pleased to meet you."

            He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. "Odin Borrson, and I can assure you the pleasure is all mine. May I ask one further question?"

            "Well, I've liked all of them so far," said Ami. 

            "May I have this dance?"

            She licked her lips. It would just be a dance, that's all. Then she would excuse herself, and leave the party, hopefully not running into Mr. Jones on the way out. Maybe, she would even be fortunate enough to have Odin leave with her. "I think I would like a dance." Amihan linked her arm into his.

            Odin led her onto the dance floor, smiling all the while.

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Saga bent to inspect the root of the tree. It was an old tree. It had stretched up to the blue, Colorado sky for as long as Saga could remember. But they had had a storm — completely out of season and a total nuisance all of the adults had said. Now some of the tree’s roots were sticking up out of the ground. Some of them were as thick as the tree’s truck and stretched out for feet and feet.

            Saga lay down in between the roots, pillowing her head with one and propping her feet up on another. They were longer than she was, and she was tall for her age. Mama said so.

            Pappa said that her being tall was probably nothing to worry about. He and Mama usually lowered their voices when talking about worrying about Saga. Saga knew they weren’t really worried — they had told her once that all Mamas and Pappas just worry sometimes that they didn’t want their children getting sick or growing wrong in their bones.

            But Saga had heard her Pappa talk about giants, and how Saga should be alright. She was only half­-giant after all.

            Saga closed her eyes and took a deep breath in, hearing the air rush into her lungs. Rand had just woken up. She could tell, even though he was several hundred yards away from her, and still inside of his house. Aunt Kjersten, Rand’s mama, had just shaken him awake, saying something like how Rand had overslept.

            That was okay. Saga could wait for Rand, even though he was late. She would keep her eyes closed and count the ants that passed over the tree roots and her belly on their way to find food. She could listen to the wind and see what it would bring her.

            Somewhere in the distance, there was a piano. Saga could hear the notes, crisp and clear ringing out sure and sound. She pictured a boy sitting in front of the piano. His dark eyes watching the page as his fingers worked the keys, legs still needing to stretch to touch the peddle. Saga decided that the brown skilled boy playing the piano was beautiful and she liked him very much.

            She could also picture a little red haired, black girl dancing with a doll in her living room. Her curly hair didn’t reach much past her scalp, and she only wore pants and a tee shirt, but then again so did Saga most days. The little girl spun the doll around in the air, watching the fabric of the dolls dress sparkle in the sunlight let in through their. A woman came into the living room and told the little girl to put the doll away. It was time for lunch and the little girl’s father would be home soon with two new baby sisters.

            “Saga, what are you doing on the ground?”

            Saga opened her eyes.

            Pappa squatted near the unearthed root, his cow-boy hat covering his eyes. It didn’t matter. Saga knew what his eyes looked like, and Mama said it was important for Pappa to protect himself from the sun. He wasn’t lucky like Saga and Mama, who both had dark brown skin. Mama had that skin because she used to live in the Andes Mountains. Saga had it because her Mama had given it to her.

            “Listening,” said Saga.

            “To what?” Pappa asked.

            Saga hummed, rolling up onto her butt. She reached out to her father, who gathered her up in his arms as he sat back against the tree root. “Comfy?” he asked.

            “Uh-huh,” said Saga.

            “Now, what are you listening to? Can I listen with you?”

            “You can always listen with me, Pappa.” Saga rubbed her nose against his. “I was just listening for Rand. He just woke up. Since he was gonna be late I was listening to the ants and the wind and the tree.”

            Pappa wrinkled his eyebrows at her. “You can hear the ants?”

            Saga nodded. “When they move they make tiny, tiny noises. But if I’m real quiet, and real still, I can hear them.”

            “And what about Rand? You can hear Rand.”

            Saga had to think about that. “I don’t think I can hear him with my ears,” she said after a minute. “But I can hear him ‘cause he’s Rand.”

            Pappa laughed. “You do spend an awful lot of time with Rand, don’t you?”

            “He’s my best friend, Pappa, and we’re going be friends forever.” Saga fiddled with the collar of his shirt. There were strings coming out of it, unraveling the fabric as they went.
            “Do you want to marry Rand one day?” he asked.

            “No,” said Saga. “And he doesn’t want to marry me. We’re just going to be friends.” Saga scrunched her face. “That’s alright, right? That we can just be friends?”

            “Of course,” said Pappa. “You can find someone else to marry, or not get married at all. You can marry a boy or a girl or — Saga? Saga, what’s wrong?”

            Saga had gone stiff as a board in her father’s arms. “Something’s wrong with Rand. He’s scared. Auntie Kjersten does know what’s going on, she’s still in the house, and Rand is outside.”

            Pappa inhaled through his nose and then went as stiff as Saga. “Saga go back to the house. Take your mother and go into the storm cellar and don’t come out until I come and get you. Do you understand?”

            “What about Rand? And Mama Kjersten?” Saga asked.
            “I will go see about Rand and Kjersten! Move!” Pappa stood up and set Saga on her feet. He pointed her in the direction of their house and swatted her behind.

            Saga’s eyes stung. The swat hadn’t really hurt, but Pappa had never hit her before. It was the greatest shock of being seven-years-old.

            “Go Saga!” Pappa pointed toward the house. Fire burned in his eyes as he spoke, and for the first time ever, Saga felt afraid of her father. She turned for the house and ran.

            Saga ran like the wind had caught underneath her heels and lifted her up. She ran like there was a storm behind her. She ran in the hopes that her father would never look at her like that again. 

 

    Kjersten stirred the pot of oatmeal on the stove. Today was shaping up to be a no-good sort of day. She and Rand had fallen asleep in front of the fire the night before. He was still sleeping there, nestled in a burrow of pillows and blankets. It was fine for him to sleep in, of course, she really ought to let him do it more often. The trouble was her assistant from the brewery had called when Kjersten hadn’t shown up to work. 
    “It’s fine, it’s fine.” 
    It really was. Ashley had just been worried, and hoped that nothing had gone wrong. The young woman was perfectly capable of handling things until Kjersten arrived to take over. 
    It was still taking everything she had not to bang her pots flat as she took the oatmeal off the stove and put a pan of water on to boil for eggs. She did not quite succeed, and water sloshed over the edge into the fire, making steam rise up and the fire nearly go out. Kjersten cursed.
    Rand gave a soft cry and he rolled over in his sleep.
    Kjersten inhaled and held her breath for a moment. Rand made no further movements. 
    Seeing him nestled there reminded her of the so many years ago, when gods had walked onto her land. As a favor to a friend she had distracted them, and entirely by her own wanting she made love with them before her large, roaring hearth.
    She turned the fire down and crossed the large, open room, wood floor boards creaking under her feet. Kneeling next to the make shift bed they had made, Kjersten put her hand on Rand’s shoulder. She shook him gently. “Rand,” said Kjersten, keeping her voice low and warm. “Son, it’s time to wake up.” 
    Rand rolled over onto his back, a hand going to his eyes to rub out the sleep. He looked around, blinking, and then he smiled at her. “We fell asleep here last night?”
    “Indeed we did,” said Kjersten, running her hand through his hair to take out some of the static. “I think we’ll have to be careful when we read in front of the fire from now on, won’t we?”
    Rand nodded. “Do you not have to go to work then?” he asked. 
    Kjersten leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “No, I still have to go to work; I’ll just be a little late today. Go get dressed and brush your hair. I’ve got breakfast on the stove and the sooner we finish, the sooner you can go outside and play with Saga.” 
    Rand brightened at the thought of playing with Saga and began to struggle out of the blankets he had cocooned himself in. Every time he unwrapped a piece of himself, Kjersten wrapped up another part of him up with the blankets. Soon Rand was giggling and swatting her away. 
    “Mother!” he said. “Let me go.” 
    “Never!” Kjersten cried. “I’ll never let you go.” She tackled him, careful not to crush her little boy, and began tickling his ribs and peppering his face with kisses all at once. Rand began all out laughing and trying to escape. 
    “Uncle, uncle!” Rand said. “I won’t escape, I promise.” 
    All at once, Kjersten stopped, except for one loud kiss she smacked against his cheek. “Well, then, I suppose I can let you go get dressed so you may go outside and play today.” 
    Together, she and Rand made quick work of the blankets and he bounded out of the room. Kjersten returned to the stove, and was pleased to find that the water had only just begun to bubble. She added salt, lemon and vinegar, stirring the pot up before cracking two eggs inside. 
    As she watched the two eggs cook into their soft white forms, Kjersten thought about what she would need to do today. She needed to call over to the Santiago household to make sure that it was okay that they would watch Rand, and ask that they feed him lunch, and maybe dinner if she wasn’t back in time. Miri should still be at home today, and if not Loki would answer. What a supremely odd thought, the Norse Trickster answering a telephone. She also needed to make sure that Ran put on sunscreen before he went out, otherwise he would burn. As it was, he would freckle beyond belief.
    Kjersten looked at her own skin as she turned the eggs over to finish cooking in the water. She was almost as dark as Miri. Whenever anyone asked, she always said that she was from Finland—yes there were people with brown skin from Finland. Getting angry helped keep the secret that she wasn’t from Finland at all. But then again, she couldn’t very well tell people that her mother was a dwarf and her father an elf. 
    Even with her odd heritage, it disturbed Kjersten how little Rand resembled her. His bright red hair burned against the pale skin, freckled from spending all summer out of doors. But it was more than his coloring. It was the shape of his face, his nose and ears, it was the width and height of his body, which even at seven seemed so different, so much bigger than Kjersten. 
    Perhaps she was over thinking it, she thought, taking the eggs from the pan and dishing them out, each into their own little bowl. Isaaki, her twin, looked almost nothing like her. He was all blonde hair, light brown skin, and tall, statuesque form. Kjersten was dark hair, dark skin, and short, stout body. And still people knew they were twins. Why would they assume that Rand was not her son? For that matter, what reason would they have to assume he was the son of a god?
    When Rand returned, dressed in long sleeves for an autumn day and hair sufficiently combed down, Kjersten had their small table set with two bowls of oatmeal, two eggs, orange juice for him and coffee for her.
    They clinked their glasses together and ate in silence, as Rand wolfed down his food. 
    “Slow down,” said Kjersten as she sipped her coffee.
    No, she thought, no one would think very much of Rand at all. He was a normal little boy, with a healthy appetite. 
    “I’m done!” Rand declared when Kjersten had only half way finished her breakfast. “May I go out and play with Saga now?” 
    “Dishes in the sink,” she reminded him. “But yes, you may go and play. Come in if it starts to rain.” 
    “Yes, Mother!” He raced to put his dishes in the sink before running out of the room. 
    Kjersten shook her head as she heard the backdoor slam some minutes later. She stood, leaving her coffee and her breakfast half finished. Crossing again to the living room portion of the room, Kjersten began sorting out the blankets. She folded each one, stacking them on the couch with the pillows as she went. 
    Returning to the breakfast table, Kjersten upended the egg into her mouth in one go. She took one more bite of oatmeal, before she took her dishes to the sink. She was scraping out the rest of it when she heard Rand scream.    

 

Rand raced out of the back door his soccer ball under his arm. Despite the rain clouds that hung over head, the warmth of the day soaked beneath his shirt and into his skin. 
    He dropped the ball to the ground and kicked it as he ran, looking for Saga as he went. Rand wished he was more like Saga. She always knew where he was and how to find him. But Rand actually had to look for her and find her. 
    Rand turned the thought of Saga looking for him over in his mind and stopped in his tracks. Grinning, he picked up his ball and doubled back toward his house. It would be like a game of hide and seek. Saga would come looking for him eventually. He stopped near a grouping of trees where he could see his house some hundred feet away. In the meantime, he would play by himself and practice his drills and kicking goals.
    They had just finished soccer teams for the year, but Rand’s coach had said it was important to practice even when he wasn’t playing with the team. Rand bounced the ball on his knees and foot, keeping his eyes on it. He let it drop to the ground, kicking the ball between two trees. It went straight through.
    Rand ran to the other side of the tree where the ball lay. He wove the ball in between his feet, running a drill his coach had often had them do during practice. He went away from the tree, and then back towards it. A well-aimed kick, and the ball flew back through the trees.  
    Only this time, when Rand ran to retrieve it, there was someone waiting for him. 
    The man wore a grey trench coat over a plain pair of jeans and a grey long-sleeved shirt. His work boots and beanie cap covering his grey hair made him no different than many of the men that populated their small town. The only real difference was the knarled scar that ran over one of his eyes—as Rand got closer, he realized that there was no eye there at all, just an empty hole, that made his brow sag down and sink into the hole.
    The man held the ball with one hand. He turned it over and over, examining it like he had never seen a soccer ball before. That couldn’t be it, though. Even if their soccer league was small, like the town, everyone had seen a soccer ball before. Tia Miri had once said that soccer was the most played sport in the whole world and the United State was stupid for liking football better.
    “Excuse me,” said Rand. Mother always said to tell an adult excuse me before asking for something. Belatedly, Rand remembered that you were also not supposed to talk to adults that you didn’t know. But he was just asking for his ball back… Rand resolved that just as soon as he got the ball back, he would just go home and wait a little for the man to go away. That was alright, wasn’t it? “May I have my ball back, please, sir?”
    The old man harrumphed, squinting at him. “Nice manners for a boy your age.” He held out the ball to Rand. 
    “Thank you,” said Rand, accepting the ball.
    “For the compliment or for the ball?” the old man asked. 
    “Oh,” said Rand. Did you have to say thank you more than once, if there was more than one thing to say thank you for? “Um, for the ball, I guess. But thank you for the complement too.” 
    The old man harrumphed again. 
    “I have to go home now,” said Rand, gesturing to the house. 
    “That’s odd,” said the old man. “You’ve not been outside for that long. When my boys were your age they said out from dusk until dawn, exercising and training their skills. You’re trying to get away because you’re afraid of me, aren’t you?”
    “I’m not afraid!” said Rand. He frowned at the old man and stood up on his tip toes. “My mother just doesn’t want me talking to strangers that’s all.”
    “And I’m strange, am I? You wound me, little boy.”
    Rand bit his lip. He knew you weren’t supposed to be unkind to others, because it was rude. “You’re not strange,” said Rand. “But you are a stranger. Because I don’t know you, and Mother hasn’t said it’s okay for me to be around you. So I—hey!”
    The old man knelt down and gripped Rand by the shoulders. Rand had not realized how big the strange man was, but even kneeling he was still a head taller. Taking one hand off of Rand’s shoulder, the old man forced him to look up into the old man’s eye. 
    “Let me go,” said Rand. “Let me go, or I’ll scream. Then Mother will come and you’ll be sorry.”
    The old man laughed. “Will I?”
    “Yes,” said Rand. “Mother is powerful and strong and she’s an excellent fighter. She’ll kick your ass—butt. She’ll kick your butt.” 
    The old man laughed again, full and loud. “Oh, boy, you know nothing of the world. You don’t even know who I am, do you?”
    “It doesn’t matter!” Rand wriggled against the man, trying to break free. “LET ME GO! I’ll scream!”
    “Go ahead, boy, go ahead and scream,” said the old man. “I’ll even help you.” 
    The old man took his hand from Rand’s chin and pushed his fingers into Rand’s forehead. 
    And then it felt like Rand was on fire. It started in his head, spreading out through his brain into his nerves, and then through his nerves the fire spread to all corners of his body.  Rand felt the pain only for a moment, before he felt nothing at all. It was almost like he was wrapped up in his favorite blanket, sleeping at his mother’s side. 
    It was not until Rand heard his mother’s voice that he felt anything more. At first it was his throat. His throat ached and scratched each time he swallowed. Then Rand felt wetness on his face. He had been crying and blubbering, he realized—Rand’s face was covered in tears and snot. Pin and needles appeared, pricking his fingers and toes, as he focused on just how wet his face was. 
    “What did you do to him?” Mother asked. 
    Rand realized that he could hear her, but not see her. He couldn’t see the old man either. Rand opened his eyes. He sat cradled in his mother’s lap, with the old man looming over both of him. 
    “You ought to be grateful I didn’t kill the boy outright,” said the old man. “It’s enough that he’s the son of an abomination like you, who should have died out long ago. But I will have no one sullying the name of my sons, certainly not a runt who should not even exist within the greater scheme of things.” 
     The man reached out and pressed two fingers into Mother’s forehead as well. Mother went stiff, hardening herself around Rand. But she did not scream. 
    “Now you both are cursed,” said the old man, taking his fingers away. “Never speak his father’s name, or your son’s heart shall stop. I will be watching, Kjersten daughter of Snorri.”
    He turned and walked away.
    Mother, still stiffly holding him, exhaled and inhaled great puffs of air. When the old man was some yard away from him, she cried out, “ODIN ALLFATHER!”
    The old man stopped, but he did not turn back. 
    “You will regret this, king of the Aesir,” said Mother. “You will regret this, I promise you.”
    “Unless you can see something I cannot, then you are mistaken. I have no regrets.” 
    Rand only realized he had fallen asleep when he woke up in Uncle Loki’s arms. “Mother...”
    “Hush, Rand, your mother is well,” said Uncle Loki. 
    Rand grunted as his uncle shuffled him around, but could not protest as he fell asleep again.

 

Axel hated playing the piano.  Not because he was bad at it--or even because he didn't like practicing--he had been practicing for almost as long as he could remember. He didn't even mind that his mother was a skilled master pianist, who always shouted corrections at him from across the house. 

            No, Axel hated playing the piano because he would always see things when he did. It would start slowly--he would be practicing his Bach or his Beethoven, his fingers flying over the keys. . Then the sight of something--or somewhere--else would overlap his vision. It reminded Axel of the double exposed film that his mother had taken him to see in the museum. Slowly, the notes and the keys would fade away from his sight, like they weren't there anymore.

            He could still see the piano as he played--but it was like his eyes had been moved to another place.

            Today didn't seem so bad. He was watching a boy, playing in field with his soccer ball. Axel could feel his feet swing between the piano and underneath the bench he sat on. He wished he could be in the field with the boy instead of just watching.

            The boy dribbled the ball back and forth, before he kicked it through two trees he was using as a goal. Axel watched as the ball flew through the trees toward a man in a long grey coat.

            Axel felt his heart race--he tried to cry out, "Stay away, don't go near him!" because he could feel a wrongness building up in his stomach. But the other boy couldn’t hear him, and so he ran toward the man in grey.

            In his ears, the piano music rang out faster and faster, and Axel could only watch, as the man in grey grabbed the boy, and pushed his fingers against the boy's forehead. Something came out of his fingers--something without shape or matter, but something that Axel could see was a sickly green color. The thing slithered into the boy's brain--and the boy began to scream.

            "Axel!'

            Axel opened his eyes to see his mother, staring back at him. She had turned him away from the piano and held his hands in hers. Axel could still hear the boy's scream, and he could feel those screams coming out of his mouth. But he couldn't stop screaming, any more than he could stop his bloodied hands from shaking.

            "Oh, Axel..." His mother pulled hum forward into his arms. "Did you see something again?"

            Axel tried to force the words out of his mouth. He still could not speak, but slowly, trying morphed his screams into sobs. He managed to nod against her chest.

            "Do you want to tell me about it?" she asked.

            Axel shook his head. The other boy had been in so much pain! His body ached and shuddered just thinking about it.

            "Okay," said Mom. She rocked him back and forth. "That's okay, honey, just let it all out."

            Axel pressed his face into her shoulder, letting all of the tears go as she began to sing him a lullaby in Tagalog. It took several repetitions of the lullaby for Axel to reduce his sobs to soft hiccups.

            "Feel better?" she asked him after a few minutes of his hiccups.

            "Yes," Axel mumbled. Now that he had stopped crying, Axel could feel a very real throbbing sensation in his hands. "Mom, my hands hurt."          

            "I'm sure they do." She stroked his cheek and kissed his forehead. "Let's go fix those up, okay?" She shepherded him through the house into the bathroom. Axel sat on the toilet seat, trying not to squirm as his mother wiped up the excess blood, and sprayed his hands with disinfectant. She wrapped them with clean, white gauze, tapping it down with the fuzzy tape that itched his skin.

            "Mom?" Axel asked.

            "Yes, sweet heart?" She looked up at him with a big smile on her face.

            Axel tried, but he couldn't smile ack. "Can we go see Father Castillo gain?"

            The smile dropped from Mom's face. "You remember seeing Father Castillo?"

            Axel nodded. "It was years and years ago, when I was still really little, and he washed me with the special water and talked to me in Latin. It was supposed to make me feel better. But it didn't work, did it?"

            "It didn't work, honey, because there's nothing wrong with you." Mom lifted up from where she knelt on her knees and wrapped his arms around her. She rubbed his back as she spoke, ":Axel, there is nothing wrong with you. When you were little though--Mom was just afraid that someone was trying to hurt you with your own body." She pulled back, and rested a hand on his chest above his heart. "But the only person in here is you. Okay?"

            "But then why can't I make them stop?" Axel asked. "They always come--they show me things that I don't want to see. And this time..."

            "What happened this time, honey?" Mom cradled his face in her hands. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

            Axel felt tears spring up in his eyes. "There was a boy--a boy my age. And--and Dad was there."

            Mom's eyes went wide. "You know what your father looks like?"

            Axel nodded. "He's really tall, and he only has one eye. He hurt the boy. The boy wasn't doing anything and Dad just..." Here Axel could not go on, and he began crying again. He fell into his mother's arm, the tears once more over taking him.

            If he never saw his father again, it would be all too soon.

 

Chrys bounced up and down on the window seat. Mam Cherie and her new baby sisters were coming home from the hospital today. Mama Cherie's mama, Tante Marie, and Gramma Bea were in the kitchen cooking up a storm, because the whole family was coming over to get a good look at the new babies.

            "Christopher, you get down from there before you break hat seat!" said Grandpa David from where he was seating, feet up, in Daddy's recliner.

            Chrys frowned. She hated being called Christopher--everyone at school called her Chrys, like the girl in the other first grade class. Except the other Chris was short for Christine instead of Christopher.

            But Grandpa David didn't like to hear back talk, and Chrys wasn't in the mood for a spanking. She hopped off of the window seat, and began walking toward her room. Chrys paused in front of the kitchen door--but she also wasn't in the mood to hear about how she was spoiling her dinner.

            There was a window in Chrys' room that face the driveway almost as well as the one in the living room did--only the window in her room did not have a seat to go with it. Chrys leaned on the sill instead, waiting for Daddy and Mama Cherie to pull up into the drive way.

            From her room she could also hear the recliner creek as Grandpa David put the seat down. She could hear the floorboard shaking and the door open as he went into the kitchen. Grandpa David said, "Beatrice, I swear to you that that little boy ain't right."

            "Christopher is a sweet little boy--I don't know why you won't see that, David," said Gramma Bea.

            "Doesn't matter that he's sweet--there is something that's wrong with that boy."

            "Like what?"

            "Like...he's too jumpy! Always bouncing around, always jumping. No good every come of a boy that's that jumpy. He needs ot toughen up--otherwise there's gonna be trouble for him, you can mark me on that."

            "Alright, David--I'll mark you down for a reality check."

            Gramma Bea and Tante Marie laughed. Chrys pictured the salty look Grandpa David was making.

            Chrys perked up as she heard a car coming. Sure enough, the car pulled up into the driveway. Chrys lept from her post, down the hall and out the front door faster than anyone could catch her.

            "Daddy! Mama Cherie!"

            "Hello, Chrys," said Mama Cherie as she stepped out of the car.

            "Do you have the babies?"

            Mama Cherie gapped like a fish, and tapped a finger against her chin. "You know, I think we left them at the hospital!"

            Chrys gasped, hands flying to her mouth.

            "Cherie," said Daddy, using the voice he used when Chrys was in trouble.

            "Oh hush," said Mama Cherie waving her hand at him. "Chrys, I'm just joking, baby, the babies are in the back seat of the car."

            "Can I see? Can I see?" Chrys bounced up and down in place.

            "Chrys, calm down and go inside," Daddy said as he opened the back car door.  "You can wait with Grandpa and Gramma and everyone will see the babies at the same time."

            Chrys pouted, but Daddy was ducking inside the back seat so he didn't see. Chrys trudged back to the house, where Grandpa was waiting by the open door. As soon as Chrys had made it across the threshold of the house, he smacked her on the rear.

            "Ow! Grandpa!"

            "Anybody tell you that you could go outside?" he asked her. "You give me an answer."

            "No--"

            "No, what?"

            "No, sir, nobody told me I could go outside," said Chrys, rubbing her behind. "But you're in trouble too, sir--Daddy says you aren’t allowed to hit me."

            "What?" Daddy asked as he came in the door, holding one of the babies in his arms.

            "Don't you worry, Hezekiah, the boy's making a big deal out of nothing," Grandpa smiled. "Now give me one of those beautiful babies."

            Daddy gave Grandpa a funny look, but handed over the baby in his arms to Grandpa. "Oh ho ho! Look at this beautiful baby girl!"

            Chrys frowned as the adults all moved as one into the living room, shuffling her to the side in the process. They all crowded around the babies, not even taking a seat for several minutes. She watched as the adults fought over who got to hold the babies and kiss them. Chrys wanted to get closer, to see her little sisters, but her behind still hurt, and it reminded her what would happen when she did something that Grandpa didn't want. Instead, she stood on the edge of the living room, watching.

            Daddy caught sight of her, and looked up with a smile. "C'mere Chrys, meet your new sisters."

            Chrys had to tell herself not to burst and bound over to him. Instead she put one foot in front of the other until she reached her father. The baby lay in his lap and gave her a gummy smile. She wore a frilly dress and a stretchy head band with a flower on it.

            "She's so pretty, Daddy," said Chrys, stroking the baby's head. She bent down and kissed the baby's forehead. "I love her."

            "What a sweet boy," said Gramma Bea, nudging Grandpa David in the ribs."

            "This little sister is called Naomi," Daddy told her. "The little sister Mama Cherie has sis called Ruth"

            "Like in the Bible!" said Chrys. She and Daddy, and sometimes Mama Cherie, read from the Bible every night.

            "That's right, baby,” said Daddy. “Just like in the Bible. Do you want to hold your little sister?"

            Chrys nodded enthusiastically. Daddy patted the seat next to him on the couch, Chrys hopped up in between him and Gramma Bea. “Now hold out your hands,” said Daddy. Chryss opened her hands, stretching out as far as her arms would go. Daddy laid Naomi into them—one hand under her head and the other under Naomi’s rump.

            “Stay very still, baby,” Gramma Bea told her. “Don’t jostle her, okay?”

            “Kay,” Chrys agreed. “When will she be big enough to play with me?”

            Her question made all the adults laugh.

            “Not for a long while, baby,” said Daddy. “Here, Chrys, give sister back now. She’s getting a little fussy.”

            Naomi had indeed begun to struggle in Chrys’ hands. She held her sister out, trying to be as gentle as she could. Daddy took the baby back and placed her against his chest to get her to stop gurgling.

            “Daddy, can I have one of those?” Chrys asked, watching him rock Naomi.

            “A baby?” Daddy asked, making all the adults laugh again.

            “No one of those clothes like the babies’ have.” Chrys tugged on Naomi’s dress. “A clothes like this. They’re very pretty.”

            The smile dropped from Daddy’s face. “You want a dress, Chrys?”

            “Uh huh,” said Chrys. “The other kids at school wear them sometimes too. But I don’t have any.”

            “Christopher, boys don’t wear dresses,” Daddy told her.

            Chrys frowned. “But aren’t I like the sisters? Aren’t they little girls?”

            “They are, but you’re not a sister—you’re a brother. You’re a little boy, Chrys.”

"I told you there was something wrong with this boy," said Grandpa, getting to his feet. "This boy's a f**!"

            "Dad!" Daddy exclaimed.

            At the same time, Mama Cherie stood up and got up into Grandpa David's face. "You will not use words like that in this house!" She backed away when Ruth began to whimper in her arms. Bouncing the baby up and down against her chest, Mama Cherie continued. "Chrys just sounds a little confused, is all. All kids ask questions like that. It's perfectly normal."

            "It's normal that he wants to be a girl?" Grandpa David asked, raising his voice louder than before. He unbuckled his belt, and slid it out through his pant loops in a smooth motion. "I'll tell you what's normal: little boys want to be little boys, and little girls want to be little girls. All of the others that get confused ought to have it beaten out of them!"

            Chrys trembled at the sight of the belt. Daddy had never belted her before, and he rarely even spanked her. But Grandpa was a mean old soul, and Chrys knew he would do it. She wished with all of her heart to make the belt disappear so that he couldn't touch her.

            Instead the belt burst into flames.

            "Sweet Jesus!" Grandpa cried dropping the belt from his hand. He began stomping on the belt, trying to put out the flames. Daddy passed Naomi to Gramma Bea, and began stamping out the flames too.  After a minute, when it still was not all out, Tante Marie grabbed a pillow from the couch and began beating it with them. 

            When Daddy squashed the last of the flames, the adults all stood around panting. Both Naomi and Ruth were crying in the arms of their caregivers, as if they knew something was wrong. There was a moment of silence, save for the babies, where all of the adults caught their breath.

            Then, once Grandpa was able to breath, he turned and pointed a finger at Chrys. "That boy has got the devil in him. Call for a priest!"

            Daddy just sighed. "Chrys, go to your room please."

            Chrys leapt over the couch and ran down the hall, but she could still here Grandpa as she went.

            "I done told you when his scarlet woman of a mother dropped him off on your doorstep that you ought to put that boy in a home  —  that no good would come of keeping him  —  but you went and did it anyway. And now the boy has a devil inside of him."

            "I'm not going to give up my child, there's nothing wrong with him. There's... Nothing. It's nothing..."

            "If you were smart, you'd do it. You can still give him away. "

            Chrys pressed her hands against her ears, willing all of the sound to go away. Chrys peeled her hands away from her ears when there was no longer any noise in her ears. Running to her closet, she grabbed her backpack. Opening up her drawers, she grabbed her clean clothes and shoved them into the bag. On the very top, she placed her favorite stuffed bear and zipped it up, She pulled on her shoes and coat. Opening up her window, Chrys slung her backpack at the screen, knocking it out. Pulling her back pack on, she slipped out of the window and onto the ground three feet below.

            If her father was calling for her to come back, Chrys still couldn't hear him.

            Chrys ran down the street, trying to remember which direction the park was in.  She picked the west most direction, following the setting sun and kept running. She wiped at her cheeks, wet with tears, and her nose as it ran in the cold.

            Her daddy didn't love her, her Daddy wanted to give her away. Grandpa David was a mean old fart, and Chrys HATED HIM!!

            Her legs began to burn from running. Chrys wiped at her eyes one last time as she slowed down. She could see the park coming up about two streets in the distances. She didn't know what she would do when she got there. Maybe she could try to find a police officer. In school, they always said Police officers would help you if you were in trouble or if you were lost. It sort of felt like Chrys was both right now.

            Still sniffling a little, she entered the park and found a nearby bench to rest on. After her long run, and now as she was resting in the cool autumn air, Chrys began to feel quite sleepy. She could feel her head drop back, almost like it was too heavy for her neck to hold up. Her eyelids acted the same way  —  it was a struggle just to keep them open, and for Chrys to watch the sun go down. As it went, Chrys began to feel the autumn cold settle on her skin, as the air grew colder and colder for lack of like. At last her eyes closed, adn she could not make them open again.

            Someone warm sat down next to her. Chrys sighed and snuggled into them. THe person laughed. "Oh, my chrysanthemum, you've had a rough evening, haven't you?"

            Chrys was too sleepy to speak, but the thought of everything that had happened over the past few hours made her whimper.

            The someone stroked her head and pulled Chrys closer to her. "Oh, my chrysanthemum, yes you have had a rough evening. But let me ease your mind, my child. You are very loved. You are very special. You are an amazing child, and I love you very much. Your father and your Mama Cherie love you very much. I want you more than anyone else in the world."

            Chrys felt the someone cradle her in their arms, they were moving, but the someone was so warm, and held her so close, that Chrys didn't care, she was already falling asleep.

            The last thing that she heard as she slept was Daddy's voice asking, "Do you want to come inside?"

            "It's probably best that I don't. Chrys won't be seeing very much of me, and...I don't suppose it would be fair that I just breeze in and out of her life." The warm someone held her out, and Daddy took her up into his arms.

            "You don't have to stay away," said Daddy. "You can come 'round more often if you want."

            "I do want to. I simply can't...it...it doesn't work that way. I'm sorry Hezekiah. "

            The warm hand stroked her cheek. And then Chrys fell asleep completely.

 

Loki sat whittling on the porch when Freyja approached. It was not the best use of his time, certainly. Rand could use some more attention, and so could Kjersten if he were honest. But Loki wasn’t sure he was the best person to give them that attention. In all of the time that he had lived, he had never been much of a healer. His specialty had lain in causing havoc, not cleaning it up. The whittling gave his hands something to do while he planned his next course of action.

            He looked up into the dark when he felt her approach, like fire in the cool autumn night. Freyja walked out of the dark, wrapped in a woolen coat and long, dark skirt. Her eyes looked forward to him, but a glaze had formed over the blood-shot white and brown globes.

            “You look dead,” he remarked, turning back to his whittling.

            She blinked and looked up at him. “I had to give my child up again. I had him in my arms, and then I had to give him away.”

            “You’re doing what’s best for him,” said Loki, making a face in the small idol.

            “I hope you’re better at comforting your child than you are your friends,” said Freyja stepping onto the porch. She collapse into Miri’s rocking chair.

            “Are we friends, Freyja?” Loki asked.

            “I don’t know,” she said, curling her feet under her. She gesture to the raised, black iron fire pit Miri had dragged between the two chairs, which was filled with fresh coal and kindling. “May I?”

            “If it would make you feel better,” he said.

            Freyja waved her hands above the pit and the kindling combusted. She fed several more large sticks into the fire to keep it going until the coals began to catch. The crackling of the still moist sticks filled the night air between them. “Do you think we can keep this up?” Freyja asked after a time.

            “Odin was here today,” said Loki. He met Freyja’s eyes and watched them go wide.

            “Did he discover you?” Freyja asked.

            “No — he discovered Rand instead.” He drew his knife down the center of the idol and whittled into a pair of legs. “He cursed the boy never to speak his father’s name. Kjersten too.”

            “But…why?” said Freyja. “He has his own son. He knows of my child.”

            “If I had to guess,” said Loki. “But Kjersten said something about sullying the names of his sons.

            “Well, now we know who his father is,” Freyja grumbled. “Who is Odin’s favorite son after all?”

            “I’m not sure,” said Loki. “Kjersten never told Miri or me.” He set aside his carving and sheathed his knife in his boot. “Saga told me today that she can sense the world around her. I don’t yet know the extent of Rand’s abilities. He appears stronger than Saga and sometimes even stronger than Kjersten. What of your child?’

            “He lit a belt on fire today,” said Freyja, warming her hands over the fire. “His grandfather threatened to beat him and so Chrys made it combust. I’ve not checked on my stepson in some time.”

            “I don’t know if they’ll be enough, Freyja,” said Loki, leaning over the metal pit. “I worry that I’m raising my daughter for the slaughter. I don’t know if I can save Fenris or Jörgmandr or Hela.” He looked her in the eye again. “What if we aren’t doing enough? What if everything goes as it always does?”

            Freyja looked away from him. She squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again, the fire flaring as she did. “This morning when I awoke with Odin to my bed —”

            “Not such an odd occurrence,” said Loki.

            “No,” Freyja agreed. She stoked the fire. An image began to appear there of two lovers entwined in the sheets. “He spoke to me, saying that he had seen an image which greatly saddened him, but he knew he must let come to pass. I asked him what he feared was to come and he said it was the death of his favorite son. I begged him to stay with me, but he said that he must go. I feared what might occur, for we have worked so long to prevent this time. I thought for certain you had gone back on your oaths.”

            “Never,” said Loki. “I spent the day, like many with my daughter and her mother.”          

            Freyja nodded and the image in the fire shifted to a great outdoor pavilion. “Odin returned to me later and said that though he had waited all day, Hothr never arrived nor did you. There were those who threw their objects at Baldr for their fun, but nothing came of it.” Freyja looked up at him. “That was when he came looking for you and found young Rand instead.”

            “So the change has at last begun,” said Loki, leaning back in the rocking chair. The rockers pushed him back and forth for a second before he steadied the chair with the heel of his boots. “Without the death of Baldr, Ragnorak cannot begin.”

            “But this began a long time ago,” said Freyja. “Chief among all changes is the births of our children.”

            The front door opened, and Miri stepped out onto the porch with three mugs in her hand. “Coffee,” she said. “I heard you talking and thought you might like a cup.”

            “Thank you, darling,” said Loki, accepting a mug from her.

            Miri handed a cup off to Freyja and took hers sitting in the lap of Loki. He placed an arm around her to keep her steady as Miri reclined into him.

            “So whatever plans the two of you are making, I ought to be included in them,” she said. Her tone sounded casual, but she stated it with such assurity it brokered no arguments. “When Kjersten is enough recovered we bring her in as well. Are there others we need to tell about the fate of the children?”

            Freyja hesitated. “Miriam, I mean nothing against you, I don’t, but sometimes there are only certain things mortals can understand.”

            “You need to children to stop the end of your world,” said Miri. “That much I understand perfectly well. There’s a certain bit of fate here that we cannot avoid. I don’t like it, but I will accept it. What I will not accept is sending our children to the slaughter. I won’t accept it of your child either, Lady Freyja, or any other who’s to be involved in this plot. They ought to be taught how to use their gifts, and how to control themselves. If you want to win your war, you do not send your soldiers to die, you send them to fight.”

            Loki kissed his lover’s neck. “She does make an excellent point my Queen.”

            “That you do, Miriam,” said Freyja. She brushed aside the loose strands of red hair from her face. “I’m not sure how well my own child’s mortal parents will take their son learning the magic and war fair. I know little of my stepson’s mother and how she would react to the whole affair.”

            “But to leave them in the dark would be a catastrophe, would it not?” asked Miriam.

            “Perhaps,” said Freyja. “Though perhaps not. There is, as you said, a certain bit of fate we cannot avoid. There are things that change in my visions of what’s to come because of what is and every choice we make. But one thing I know for certain is it will be many years yet before the four of them can come together.” She sighed, drinking deep from her mug. When she finished she gasped and settled her breath. “I will do what I can. You have my word for that.”

            With that, Freyja stood and nodded to them both. “I will leave protections here to deter Odin’s eyes. Until another time.”

            “Until then,” said Loki, nodding back her. “Safe travels, my Queen.”

            Freyja raised her hand over her head in a wave as she walked forward into the dark night.

            “You’re teaching our daughter to fight,” said Miri, as she rested her head on his shoulder.

            “I was never the best fighter,” said Loki with a hum. “That task might be better suited to Kjersten, when she is well. I will teach Saga and Rand cunning, and what little I have learned of magic. They will be alright, dearest.”

            “Don’t make me promises, my love,” said Miri. “Just hold me for now.”

            “Yes, dear,” said Loki.

            He rested his head onto the top of hers and watched the fire crackle against the black night.

 

Axel honestly had no interest in how to diagram a sentence. They were all words. As long as you could put them together in a reasonable string, who cared what the different kind of words were called? He didn’t. He puffed out a sigh and let his head loll back. He tapped out a chord on the desk as if he were keying the piano.

    “Am I boring you, Mr. Ocampo?” Mr. Johnson asked from the front of the room.

    Axel leaned forward, dropping his head back down to its normal level. “Is there any answer to that?”

    Mr. Johnson furrowed his brows. “Beg pardon?”

    “If I say no, then you’re just going to do something like call me up to the board to do the problem. If I say yes, then you’re just going to give me detention. So no matter how I answer, I lose,” said Axel waving his hands around in spirals. “There’s no real answer that would suit me, sir.”

    Mr. Johnson rolled his eyes. “Well, I think you’ve given yourself an excellent ultimatum, Mr. Ocampo. Please come up to the board and diagram this sentence, or you can join the dinner club for detention this afternoon.”

    Axel grumbled but got to his feet and shuffled to the board, ignoring the silence around him as his classmates just stopped and stared. It was better, anyway, than the whispers that started up a moment later.

    The sentence on the board was a little more complicated that the ones they had started the section with. It had one of the words ending with -ing, which Axel could never remember if it was a gerund or a participle. One of the two had both -ing and -ed words, and the other only had -ing or -ed words. He always got them confused.

    Still, he was doing the problem, the worst that could happen would be that he would get it wrong. Axel wrote, in hasty cursive, the parts of speech above each word in the sentence, and then various parenthesis around the different clauses. When he turned to Mr. Johnson, the teacher was frowning, which meant that Axel had gotten the question right.

    “Alright Mr. Ocampo,” said Mr. Johnson. “Go ahead and take your seat.”

    Axel, he was proud to say, did not smirk at the teacher before returning to his seat, though it was a near thing. When Axel had settled in his seat, Mr. Johnson picked up a pack of papers off his desk and began dividing them up for the different rows of desks. He handed a smaller stack to the person at the beginning of each row. “Pass these around. I want you to take apart these ten sentences for your homework tonight. After you have your work sheet, pull out your copies of Romeo and Juliet. We’ll go over last night’s reading just as soon as I pass back your quizzes from last week.”

    Axel bit his lip to hold in his groan. If there was one thing more useless than diagramming sentences, it was Romeo and Juliet. If they had to study Shakespeare, couldn’t it have been one of the cool ones where people die? Or at least the funny one where the guy got turned into a donkey? But no, they had to read the kissing book. If only they didn’t have to. He glanced at the books appearing on people’s desks, and the one on Mr. Johnson’s desk he knew to be the dreaded play.

    He squinted his eyes at it, willing the book to disappear. Then the book moved. It was less than an inch at first, but then it began sliding across the desk. Axel felt his eyes go wide as he watched the book slide down the side of Mr. Johnson’s desk and across the floor, out the open classroom door.He looked around to the books of his classmates. They trembled and then followed the leader out the door.

    “Mr. Ocampo.”

    Axel looked up at Mr. Johnson who was standing over him, holding Axel’s quiz paper. “I realize,” said Mr. Johnson, “that staring off into space is your favorite activity, but please try for some restraint. Twice in one period is too many times to be reminded, Axel.”

    “Um, yes, sir,” said Axel. He took his paper, the last in Mr. Johnson’s hands, from the teacher.

    Mr. Johnson nodded and returned to his desk looking to the spot where he had all of his books stacked. He stared for a moment at the book on the top of the stack. Then he slid it off of the stack, followed by each book until all that stared back at him was the metal surface of the school issue desk. He spun around in a small circle, before turning back to the class. “Did anyone take my copy of Romeo and Juliet?”

    Several of his classmates piped up a chorus of “no”s.

    “Hey!” said one of the girls in the class, as she lifted up her binder to clear her desk. “My copy’s missing too!”

    Echos of “hey, me too,” erupted over the class, and soon everyone realized that their copy of Romeo and Juliet was missing.

    “Alright, alright!” Mr. Johnson raised his hands. “Quiet everyone. There’s got to be an explanation for all of this.” He zeroed in on Axel, striding back down the row to Axel’s desk. “Mr. Ocamp, please turn out your bag.”

    “You think I hid twenty-two copies of Romeo and Juliet in my bag?” Axel asked.

    “No,” said Mr. Johnson. “But you might have mine. And if you have yours, it might mean you forgot to hide that too, in your haste.”

    Axel shrugged. He turned out the contents of his bag (three mechanical pencils, a highlighter without a cap, several paper clips, his math book and notebook for next period). He did not have his own copy of Romeo and Juliet. It was still on his nightstand at home (thank God). Mr. Johnson frowned. “Very well, Mr. Ocampo, you are cleared of my suspicions.”

    “Thank you, Mr. Sherlock,” Axel replied, making his classmates giggle.

    Mr. Johnson frowned and he opened his mouth, almost forming the word “detention,” when there came a knock at the door. He turned to see another teacher standing in the doorway. “Yes, Shirley?”

    “Hi, Charles,” said Ms. Shirley, holding onto the doorframe so she could lean into the classroom. “I was just wondering, do you know why there are about twenty or thirty copies of Romeo and Juliet in the hallway? Isn’t your class going over that play right now?”

    Before anyone could stop them four of the boys from the class were up and out of their seats, quickly followed by another three. They breezed past Ms. Shirley and into the hallway. One of the last ones out the door quickly ducked back in. “They’re really all out in the hall!”

    “Stay in —” but Mr. Johnson never got to finish as everyone jumped up from their seat and raced into the hall. Ms. Shirley had wisely stepped aside and let everyone go.

    Axel joined his classmates in the hall, grinning as they looked on to the classroom copies of Romeo and Juliet which had stacked themselves, somewhat miraculously, into the form of a man. The man shape, the more Axel looked at him, appeared to be missing one eye. Axel tilted his head to one side as he looked at the man shape — why he thought that he couldn’t say. Really, it didn’t look like the book sculpture had eyes at all.

    One of the boys in the class stepped forward and kicked the man shaped stack of books with a loud, “Kyiah!” But the sculpture didn’t crumble. Instead, it moved forward, almost like it was walking. Everyone jumped back and a few people screamed. “Ghosts! Ghosts!” one girl cried out. Teachers began stepping out of their classrooms at the noise. Book man took another step and one boy began running away saying that he had left all of that back in Catholic school. Teachers, who had come into the hall, began cursing in awe.

    Then, the sculpture looked Axel dead in the eye (with the eye/s it did not have) and winked. Then the books teetered, falling to the ground like nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened with them.

    The whole class looked to Mr. Johnson who swallowed hard. He stepped forward, through the crowd, and retrieved his copy of Romeo and Juliet from the stack of fallen books. Turning back to the class he said, “Everyone get a book and go back to your seats.”

    “But they’re haunted,” the girl who had been shouting about ghosts said, a whine tainting her voice.

    Now,” Mr. Johnson said.

    “Charles!” Ms. Shirley stepped forward, hands on her hips, arms akimbo. “There’s no need to be so cruel, that was rather...strange. The kids are just a little freaked out, cut them a break.”

    “Shirley, may I speak to you alone? Kids, get back in the classroom, with your books.” Ms. Shirley and Mr. Johnson stepped inside of her classroom, speaking in too loud whispers that almost everyone could hear.

    “Somebody touch one,” said one of the girls in the class.

    Axel only shrugged, stepped forward, and began stacking the books on top of one another. He made two stacks of ten, pressed them together spine to spin, lifted them with both hands and walked into the classroom. Everyone gave him a wide berth as he entered and set the plays on Mr. Johnson’s desk. Then he returned to his seat and packed up his bag. One of the few who had followed him into the classroom shook her head at him. “Mr. Johnson will get mad that you packed up early.”

    “There’s ten minutes left of class and Mr. Johnson likes to argue,” said Axel. “I have piano lessons right after school, and I’m not going to be late just because he can’t get his stuff together.”

    Slowly, everyone trickled back into the classroom. Five minutes went by and everyone began to mimic Axel and pack up their bags. Mr. Johnson returned with a minute to spare. He was about to ask why everyone had packed up their things when the bell rang and covered up his question. Mr. Johnson frowned for what must have been the tenth time that class period — pretty good, but not the record twenty Axel had once inflicted on him. “Alright, just go,” said the teacher, waving his hand at them.

    Everyone leapt from their seats and trickled out of the classroom.

    Axel pretended he didn’t hear Mr. Johnson calling after him, and disappeared into the crowd of his peers.

 

           Rand grunted as he hit the sod on the soccer field for the fourth time this practice.

           “Jordan!” called Coach Joe from the side lines. “On your feet!”

           “Yeah Jordan,” called one his team mates. “Stop tripping over your own gay feet.”

           The whole team laughed, some even pausing from their drills to over exaggeratedly point him out.

           Rand jumped to his feet, a scowl coursing over his face. Mud and grass stains covered his knees and his uniform. He looked up to the grey clouds overhead, and prayed he could be a little bit more like Saga. Saga never took an insult to herself too harshly. She would simply shrug and say, “Well it’s true.” Then she would move on with whatever she had been doing.

           It was absolutely true that Rand was gay. He knew he wasn’t even quite thirteen yet, but somewhere deep and down in him he just knew. Rand had never wanted to kiss Chelsea Hannigan, or the other pretty girls in their grade like Marissa Walker or Leah Benjamin. He had not gained the urges to paste posters of women in bikini’s on his wall. Instead, Rand had a (small) photo of a shirtless Commander Apollo, who he watched every week in Battlestar Galactica with his mom. And before he had started tripping Rand during practice, Rand had wanted to kiss Michael Pratt, who was probably the best looking boy in their grade.

           Rand looked at his teammates all running drills together, now ignoring him. It was true he was gay — he just wished it didn’t mean that everyone started treating him so awful.

           It began to pour down rain.

           “Alright boys, hit the showers early!” Coach Joe shouted as everyone ran for cover.

           Rand ran to the bench where he had left his duffle bag and ran for the locker rooms just off of the field. Coach Joe stopped him at the door. “Listen, Rand, I think it’s best if you wait to change until you get home.”

           “But —”

           “You don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable, do you?” Coach Joe asked.

           “Well, no…” said Rand. “But I’m wet too. I just want to get changed, how will that make anyone uncomfortable?”

           Coach Joe sighed. “Listen, Rand, just trust me. It’s best if you just change at home from now on.”

           “Can I —” Rand didn’t get to finish asking if he could wait inside at least, since it was so wet outside, as Couch Lennox went inside ignoring anything else he had to say. The lock clicked into place when the door closed behind them.

           Outside of the shelter that the roof over the locker room provided, it began to rain harder.

           Rand sighed and walked around to the far side of the change rooms, where he could see the parking lot. Maybe Mom would see that it was raining and come to get him early. Mom was always a little late getting him from practice though. She probably couldn’t even tell it was raining from inside of the brewery. If he had a phone, he would have called Aunt Miri or Uncle Loki, but there was no phone nearby, and Rand didn’t have a cell phone.

           The slapping of wet feet on the concrete of the change areas drew Rand’s attention to behind him, where Coach Dustin had ducked under the overhang of the change rooms. “Woo!” he said. “It’s really coming down now, huh?” he asked. He grinned, pulling off his cap and wringing it out.

           His smile fell when he got a good look at Rand. “Hey, what’s wrong? You didn’t want to get changed?”

           “Coach Joe said it would make people uncomfortable,” said Rand. He wrapped his arms around himself, praying that the mud on his clothes would dry soon so he could put on his hoodie.

           “What utter bull—” Coach Dustin cut himself off when he looked back at Rand. “Bull puckey,” he said. “What about a great kid like you could make anybody uncomfortable?”

           “Um, well, he seemed to think it’s ‘cause I’m gay,” said Rand. He dropped his head, not wanting to look at Coach Dustin. Rand didn’t really care what Coach Joe thought of him. He had only started playing on Coach Joe’s team this year, but every year since he turned seven, he had been on Coach Dustin’s team. It was Coach Dustin who taught him all of his drills, how to kick a ball, how to run and how to exercise. Coach Dustin even had red hair just like Rand. He didn’t want to see how Coach was going to look at him just like everyone else had looked at him when they found out he liked boys.

           Rand felt a large hand grip his shoulder. Coach Dustin knelt in front of him and tilted Rand’s chin up. Rand still couldn’t meet his eyes. “C’mon, Rand, look at me, please.”

           Rand looked him in the eye.

           Coach Dustin squeezed both of Rand’s shoulders in his large hands. “Listen to me, Rand: there are always going to be things that make people different. One of the things that makes you different is that you like boys instead of girls. All it means is that sometimes you’re going to feel a little differently from other boys your age. But I’ll tell you what it doesn’t mean. It doesn’t mean that other people get to treat you worse because of it. What Coach Joe is doing is wrong. If anyone picks on you because you like boys then they are wrong. Okay?”

           “Okay,” Rand agreed.

           “And you are one hell—heck, heck of a great kid,” Coach said, ruffling his hair.

           “Thanks Coach,” said Rand. “I’d give you a hug, but I’m kinda covered in mud and stuff.”

           Coach Dustin laughed and wrapped his arms around Rand. “I’m not exactly clean, either kiddo, it’s okay.”

           Rand gripped him tight. Despite Coach Dustin being soaked as well and the ache still in his heart, Rand felt a little better.

           Coach pulled away from him. “Now come on. Let’s get you changed.”

           Coach Dustin grabbed Rand by the hand and led him back around the building to the front door of the changing rooms. He pushed on the door, which must have been unlocked now, because it gave way without much resistance, before leading him inside. Rand followed, though somewhat unsurely.

           Coach Joe did a double take when he saw the two of them. “Magnus, I told him to stay outside!” Coach Joe hissed.

           “I don’t care, Lennox,” said Dustin. “Rand, go ahead and find some place to clean up and change.”

           “Yes, Coach,” said Rand. Despite the glares from his team mates, Rand went into one of the bathroom stalls. That he happened to pick the bathroom stall closest to the two coaches was pure coincidence, Rand told himself.

           He pulled a wash cloth out of his bag and wet it with his water bottle and used it to bathe himself of the mud and grassy grime while listening in to the two coaches speak.

           “That boy,” Coach Joe was saying.

           “That boy,” said CD. “Is just a boy, Lennox. He doesn’t deserve to be punished because of the prejudice of an old man. The boys on your team don’t deserve to learn such hateful things from a young age, so they can inflict that hate on their peers, because they’re too young to understand otherwise.”

           There was a pause. Rand struggled out of his uniform and wet underclothes as he listened. He toweled off and began to dress as he again picked up one what the adults were saying.

           “He’s on my team,” said Coach Joe. “That means I decide how to deal with this problem.”

           “Yes that’s right,” said Coach Dustin. “But how you’re choosing to deal with a problem that doesn’t really exist is discrimination. It’s against the law, Lennox. If you keep doing things like this Mrs. Jordan will go after you for it, and I’ll back her up.”

           “You do that, you’re fired.”

           “That’s quid pro quo and black mail — they’re also illegal.”

           “You listen to me, Dustin Magnus — I’ve been coaching boys’ soccer in this town for over twenty years. I’m not going to let a little upstart like you and some freak of a fag —”

           Coach Joe cut off. The whole locker room went silent.

           Rand pulled his hoodie over his head and stepped out into to the main changing area with his duffle bag in hand. The coaches weren’t saying anything. They weren’t even touching, as far as Rand could see — it wasn’t like in a movie, as if Coach Dustin had thrown Coach Joe up against the wall. All that seemed to be happening was Coach Dustin was looking Coach Joe right in the eye.

           “You might be dead inside,” said Coach Dustin. “But that doesn’t mean you get to take it out on everyone else. You will not use that word again, especially not around children. Fire me, do whatever you like. My career here might be finished, but you just know, Joe Lennox, that your soul was toast a long, long time ago.”

           Coach Dustin turned to Rand, his brown eyes full of nothing but warmth. “Are you ready to go, Rand? I’ll take you home.”

           “Okay,” said Rand.

           Coach Dustin offered out his hand, and Rand walked forward, around several of his teammates to take it. “Don’t look back,” said Dustin as they walked out of the change-room proper. “Don’t look back and you’ll be fine.”

           Rand nodded to the older man. But he blinked when he saw Coach Dustin open the door leading back outside. From this side of the door, Rand could clearly see that the lock was still bolted. As he passed by the open frame, Rand could see that the bolt was still wedged into the frame — or at least half of it was. Someone hadn’t unlocked the door while he waited outside. Coach Dustin had ripped the lock in twain when he had opened it to let Rand inside.

           “You know something,” said Rand, as they walked out to the car park. “My mom doesn’t really like it when I’m home by myself. Maybe you could take me to her brewery? It’s close by.”

           “Whatever you want, kiddo,” said Coach Dustin, leading him to his car.

           Rand kept his duffle between his legs. He fiddled with the lock, smiling at his Coach to make it seem like a nervous habit, but at the same time he tried to remember how to duck and roll out of a moving vehicle.

           “What kind of music do you like?” Coach Dustin asked.

           “Whatever is okay,” said Rand. “But I like rock music.”

           “Okay, let me know if it gets too warm,” said the coach, fiddling with the knobs on the radio and the temperature.

           Rand nodded, but wondered if he could get to his knife quickly enough if the coach tried anything. But the ride went surprisingly smooth. Coach Dustin only occasionally asked for directions, but other than that appeared distracted with his own thoughts. By the end of the ride, Rand supposed that was fair. Even if Coach Dustin wasn’t a god, he had still probably lost his job.

           They pulled into the brewery parking lot some ten minutes after leaving the soccer field and Rand got out of the car no trouble. He ran for the building’s front doors, which were covered by an awning, but still heard the slap of large feet against wet pavement. Coach Dustin following behind him still made Rand nervous. Rand stopped under the awning and turned back to him.

           Coach Dustin only gestured to the building. “Well, uh, this is it,” he said. He laid a hand on Rand’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Rand tried not to flinch. “Listen, Rand, you might not see me at soccer anymore. But don’t worry, okay? I’ll get bye.”

           “You’re a great coach,” said Rand. He felt like he had to say something, even if something wasn’t much, and he still had his hand on where his knife was hidden in his duffle.

           Coach Dustin just smiled. “Thanks, kiddo. You’re a great player. I hope you keep going, all things considered. And just remember: nobody has the right to hold you back, you understand? Absolutely nobody.”

           “I’ll remember,” said Rand.

           Coach Dustin jerked his head toward the building. “Now go get your mom. I’m sure she’d like to hear about your day.”

           “Bye Coach,” said Rand, gripping the strap of his duffle bag even tighter.

           Coach Dustin didn’t reply, but waved a hand at him as he ran off into the rain.

           Rand turn and raced into the brewery. He didn’t stop until he got to his mother’s office and poured out the whole story, about the trips and the discrimination, but also about the busted lock. Kjersten calmed him down as best as she could, and made him repeat the whole story. Then she made him promise to be careful around Coach Dustin from now on.

           It didn’t matter; Coach Dustin didn’t return to soccer. In fact, Rand never saw him again.

 

Chrys looked in the mirror, running a hand over the bristly curls sprouting up in a short afro. The bright red stood out against her black skin. The hair had been growing since this morning, when Dad had shaved her head again. He might abide by her occasionally and accidentally setting fire to things; he even simply shook his head when he caught Chrys kissing the neighbor girl behind their shared shed. But somehow, Chrys’ hair growing long disturbed him, and so Daddy took the shears to it every few weeks.

        Today had been a little different. Because today, after Daddy had finished with her, Chrys got to hating how short her hair was, and how she wished it was back to normal. Then the next time she checked in the mirror, it was like her hair had never been cut at all.

        The red curls have grown back in a couple of hours, like Chrys was some kind of child wizard, and it now stored an inch off of her head. It made Chrys wonder if she could grow her hair back in an accident could she do other things on purpose? Because as far as Chrys could see she didn't look like the other girls at school. Chrys spent a lot of time studying the other children, now that they were all eleven and hormones have begun coursing through their veins. And when she looked in the mirror it was almost like a boy he looked back at her.

        Chrys focused on her hair, staring in the mirror – hoping it didn't burst into flames. It didn't, and to Chrys's great delight her hair began to grow. In less than a minute a big, goofy Afro sprouted from her scalp. Chrys laughed.

        Looking down the hall to check and see if anyone was around, Chrys stripped off her shirt. She had lost a lot of fat over the past year. She was skinny with some muscle showing in her arms and on her packs. Chrys tried to think about what the other girls looks like, they weren't all big boobed as the eighth graders or the high school girls. A little bubble had begun to curve on their chests coming out of where their packs work and they weren't quite as skinny as the boys.

        She watched as her chest bubbled out, just like the other girls at school, making two small buds grow out of her pecs. Her stomach fleshed out and is Chrys thought about it, her hips flavored just a little.

        "What are you doing?"

        Chrys gassed as Mama Cherie appeared over her shoulder. She grabbed her T-shirt pulling it back over her head but it got caught in her big hair. "I didn't know you were home," Chrys said, trying to get the cotton clothe unstuck from her hair.

        Mama Cherie cool hands took the T-shirt away from her. She got it it around Chrys's suddenly big hair and over her shoulders. "Should I ask what you were doing?" said Mama Cherie. "I think I have you figured out."

        Chrys had plenty of words she wanted to say, but she couldn't force them out of her mouth. It was like someone have glued her lips together. All she could bring herself to do was stare at the floor.

        Mama Cherie he side. She held out her hand to her. "Come with me, Chrys."

        Chrys took her mother’s hand and let Mama Cherie lead her through the house into the master suite. Mama led her to the bathroom or she sat Chrys in front of the toilet before routing through the drawers. When she had located the bottle she had been looking for, Mama Cherie straddled the toilet and begin working oil through Chrys's hair.

        "So tell me something," said Mama Cherie. "And I'm asking because I'm trying to get my head around this. You really want to be a girl?

        "It's more than that, Mama," said Chrys leaning back to look up at Mama Cherie. "I am a girl. I don't think I've ever felt like I was a boy."

        "Hmm…" said Mama Cherie. "Well I'll tell you it's not as easy being a woman Chrys. People will tell you how to act and how to be more than if you were a man. Your dad he acts like it doesn't happen between the two of us at work, but it absolutely does. And I'll tell you something else.

        "If you're going to live as a woman, there's going to be a couple of rules. "

        “Like what?"

        "Well, baby, there's one thing that you have to understand in all of this. You are black. You can change your body if you want to, if you need to, but you still have to understand that you are black. You will not light in your skin. If you want to have White hair will do it the same way every other black woman have to, with a weave or with relaxer. You have to take care of yourself, but in order to take care of yourself you will remember that she wore black you understand me, Chrys? Chrystine? Chryssie? How do you want to be called anyway?”

        "Yes, ma'am, I understand." Chrys grinned and Mama Cherie who promptly tilted her head back down so she could braid the hair out of Chrys's eyes. "And actually, I've been thinking about what I want to be called. I really like the name Chrysanta. It's from the–”

        "The chrysanthemum flower," said Mama Cherie, but she sounded breathless as she spoke.

        "That's right, said Chrys. "How do you know that, Mama? I found that in this old book of baby names at the library."

        Mama Cherie went silent for a few minutes as she reads the ring around the crown of Chrys's head. "Chrys, honey, what do you know about your birth mother?"

        "Not much, said Chrys. "I know she is white and she had red hair. Grandma B said she was Scandinavian ones because she has such a funny name. But she wouldn't actually tell me what it was"

        “Mmhmm,” said Mama Cherie. "Well then, I think we need to sit down and have a talk with your daddy, about your birthmother and well about a lot of things."

        Chrys had a strange feeling welling up in her gut. It was almost like she was boiling water to make steam right inside her belly. The talk of her mother made her feel beyond warm inside, almost like she was burning, but the burning felt good. It reminded Chrys of how the preacher in church would talk about refining gold--that the gold would have to be melted down and made so hot so that the impurities could be scraped off of the top. Chrys felt a lot like gold, thinking about her mother.

        And thinking about her mother felt a lot like change.  

 

           By far, the worst part of Saga's day was the three hours she spent at the local junior high. How she wished her parents had been like Aunt Kjersten and just let do all of her schooling at home. Aunt Kjersten had just shrugged when Mama confronted her with keeping Rand from socialized and said, "He still has boy scouts, guitar and soccer. He'll be plenty socialized."

           For her part, Saga didn't understand why things like typing and drawing were so important when it meant she had to put up with people like Chelsea Hannigan. Who was in her typing, art and gym electives.

           Chelsea was probably a nice, normal girl to most people. In fact, as far as Saga could tell, most of the teachers loved her. She had dirty blonde hair, flawless skin (aside from a few freckles dusted across her nose), and the brightest green eyes. Not all of the kids liked Chelsea, especially since she liked to talk dirt about people, but if you pretended to like Chelsea, she wouldn't talk dirty about you.

           Saga was not so great at pretending.

           She was also immune to most of Chelsea's name calling, which included but was not limited to "brownie," "dirty," "Mexican," "slut," "ho," and "literal bastard."

           Saga didn't react to any of it. Anything Chelsea said to her was either true or so outlandish that Saga didn't even feel a tingle of shame or anger. She did have brown skin, and Saga loved the color of her skin. Besides, weren't girls like Chelsea always spending the summer getting a tan anyway. She was never dirty, always showering after evening exercises with Aunt Kiersten. Saga chose not to take offense at being called a Mexican, but rather that it was used as an insult in the first place. Even though Mama was from Argentina, she said that the people of Mexico had their own traditions and culture and were not to be made fun of. She had never even kissed a boy yet, much less been paid to do so. As for being a literal bastard, Saga couldn't contest.

           But then the day came when Saga's blood did boil.

           She was sitting in typing — it was a normal day as any. Saga was always ahead of her work in typing, and so the teacher was having her retake the practice games to get a faster score time. Saga had always been good at touch typing, especially after Mama gave her a typewriter that had once belonged to Abuela — you couldn't take back mistakes on the typewriter.

           Chelsea sat in the row below Saga in the raised computer lab. She was whispering to her best friend for typing class (as Saga had observed through middle school, Chelsea had a best friend for each class). "I heard that Rand kid got kicked out of boy scouts."

           Saga froze at her keyboard. Even if Rand hadn't been to public school since the fifth grade, everyone still remembered him — after all there were only forty or so kids there age in the whole town, and Rand still hung out with a lot of his old friends from school at boy scouts and soccer.

           She had noticed that Rand was no longer attended boy scouts a few weeks ago, when Rand came over to do homework together a couple of Thursdays ago. "Isn't tonight a boy scout night?" Saga asked as she wrote out how to find the volume of a weird shape.

           Rand froze over his five-paragraph essay on THE OUTSIDERS. "I'm not going to scouts anymore," he said, his voice only crackling a little. Rand cleared his throat and went back to writing.

           Saga, being the good friend that she was, didn't pursue it further, and intead just offered him a twizzler from her contraband that she bought when she walked back from the middle school each day (as rebellion for having to be there in the first place).

           "What happened?" asked Lorraine, Chelsea's best friend for typing class.

           "You'll never believe this," said Chelsea. She leaned in closer and then proceeded to talk louder. If people were typing anymore, Saga was sure it was just pretend, so they didn't get in trouble while listening to Chelsea's gossip. "You remember how cute everyone always thought Rand was? I heard from Joey that everyone in scouts is saying he got kicked out because he's a fag."

           Saga jumped to her feet.

           The keyboards in the room came to a halt.

           "Do you have a question, Ms. Santiago?" asked the teacher.

           Saga didn't even have the presence of mind to bristle at not being called Ms. Skywalker (for some reason, all of the teachers at school thought she was faking that name). "Yeah, I do," she said, turning to Chelsea. "What did you just say?"

           Chelsea snickered and stood up. "I said Rand Jordan got kicked out of scouts because he's a dirty faggot."

           Snickers and whispers erupted all around the classroom.

           The teacher sighed and rolled her eyes. "Chelsea, we don't use language like that in this school, am I understood?"

           Chelsea smiled, innocent as white bread. "Yes, ma'am." She turned around to face Saga. "Any further questions?"

           "Yes," said Saga. She felt as if any moment her insides would boil up so high, they might explode out of her mouth. "Who tore you down so far, you feel like you have to bring others down with you?"

           The classroom went silent again.

           For a moment, Chelsea stared at her, eyes wide and mouth open. Then, as she began to understand, her eyes narrowed, and her face burned bright "You can't talk to me like that!" She turned to the teacher. "Miss Soenzo, she's making fun of me."

           "Saga, go to the front office," said Ms. Soenzo. "Chelsea's right, you can go making fun of people."

           "I'm not making fun," said Saga, not moving from her spot. "She's cruel and hateful, and that's not funny, it's a fact. Since you won't do anything, somebody's got to." Saga stared right at Chelsea, who stared right back. "You're like the Wicked Witch of the West," Saga declared. "And it's about time that somebody ought to melt you down."

           "Saga!" said Ms. Soenzo. "Front office, right now, or you'll have a week of after school detention. Move it!"

           Saga shut down the computer at her work station (not bothering to close the programs first — take that, Ms. Soenzo!) before grabbing her bag and heading to the front office.

           The secretary only looked over her glasses as Saga entered. Despite the fact that Saga had never been to the front office to get in trouble before, the secretary asked, "And what are you in for today, Ms. Santiago?" as if Saga were there all the time.

           "I asked another girl in the class some questions, and when she responded with bigotry and hatred, I got in trouble," said Saga. "Can I call my dad to come get me?"

           The secretary rolled her eyes a little. "Fine. I suppose you were almost done for the day anyway." The secretary turned the phone toward her. "Dial 9 to get out."

           Saga picked up the phone and dutifully dialed nine before she punched in her home phone number.

           "Hallå?" said her father when he picked up.

           Taking her cue from him, and possibly because she didn't want the secretary listening in, Saga continued the conversation in Swedish. "Pappa, I need you to come pick me up from school."

           "Are you sick?" he asked.

           "No...I sort of got into trouble."

           There was a pause. Saga could practically see her father grin and then chide himself into being a proper parent. "Why did you get into trouble, Saga?"

           "There was a girl in my typing class — she was being really rude, Pappa, she called Rand an awful name."

           "Ahh, there it is — someone said something mean about Rand. Well, Mama had to drive into Denver today, you remember? So after I come get you we'll go and get an early supper and talk about this, okay?"

           "Okay. I'll see you soon?"

           "Of course you will, darling. Adjö."

           "Adjö."

           "What was that?" the secretary asked, when Saga hung up the phone. She immediately turned the phone around to face her again.

           "Swedish," said Saga. "My dad speaks it, so I've grown up speaking it."

           "I thought you were Hispanic?"

           "My mother is from Argentina, but Dad isn't," said Saga. She looked up as the bell rang. "Since that's the last bell, and I'm not technically in trouble for anything other than speaking my mind, may I wait outside?"

           "It's cold out there today," said the secretary. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather wait in here?"

           "I'm sure," said Saga. She was already zipping up her coat, and pulling on her ear band and her gloves. "I normally walk home anyway."

           "Fine," said the Secretary. She waved a finger at Saga. "But you can't come back inside once you've gone out."

           "Suits me," said Saga with a shrug. She left the front office and strode out the door with the rest of the student body. There was a line of cars already waiting to pick up the children. Saga just pressed herself up against the school's brick wall that stood maybe five yards from the car pool lane. She knew it would take her father at least twenty minutes to get here, and he would spend ten of them looking for the car keys. That was, if he didn't use some other means to arrive. He didn't really do things like that very often — he said it was dangerous and reckless of him, and he would be a fool to endanger her. Saga just thought it was cool when he did things like that.

           She told him that once, that he ought to use his powers more often. It was one of the rare times Dad got completely serious with her. He looked her dead in the eye and said, "Saga, to endanger you would not be cool. It would be very awful of me. I am your father, and I am supposed to protect and cherish you. I'm not cherishing you if I'm putting you in danger. It's taken me a long time to figure that lesson out, but it's one I intend to uphold. Do you understand, my darling?"

           Saga didn't. But she didn't mention that to her dad.

           She watched as the traffic moved all around her — kids streaming out of the building, toward the buses, cars and their walking paths home. She hummed a little song, and closed her eyes. She reached out to Rand, and was delighted when she heard the soft strums of his guitar as he practiced. The strumming stopped after a moment, and then she felt him moving around. It was probably time for soccer. That was a shame, Saga wished she could have heard more music. She sighed, letting her head drop against the bricks,

           But then, slowly growing louder, Saga heard the tickling of piano keys. When the piano reached a high enough volume, someone began singing. Whoever she was, she wasn't singing the same song as the piano was playing, but somehow it still sounded lovely together. She began to hum along with them, the music slowly coming together to complement one another — the piano change its rhythm and the singer changed her key.

           A scream rang out in the school courtyard. Saga gasped, her eyes flying out and the music fleeing from her ears. She was just in time to see Chelsea Hannigan stalking toward her, his skin entirely green.

           Saga couldn't help it. She, much like everyone else in the courtyard, began to laugh. "You  —  you're green!"

           "Make it stop!" Chelsea demanded, stopping her foot.

           "Well, what could I about it? It's not my fault you're green!"

           Chelsea stamped her foot again. "It is your fault! You called me the wicked witch of the west and then I started turning green!"

           Oh. Well...that sort of made sense. Except Saga had never done anything like this before. It was true, she could sense the life around her, she was stronger than most children her age (and sometimes the adults), and she never got cold easily. It was entirely possible this was yet another gift she had inherited from her father. But Saga had never changed the nature of something before.  She honestly had no idea how to change Chelsea back.

           But Chelsea didn't need to know that.

           "You have to promise to stop gossiping," Saga said. "And you can't go around being so mean all the time. And you have to stop being a bigot, and then your skin will change back to normal."

           Chelsea leveled a finger at Saga. "That is blackmail, and you know it, Skywalker! You, you... you witch!"

           Everyone who had been snickering at Chelsea's predicament turned to Saga to see how she would react.

           Saga only grinned. "At least I'm not a wicked witch."

           The noise that came out of Chelsea's mouth was not human. Saga knew this for certain — she was, after all a half-giant. The way Chelsea swung at Saga was all too human though, and Saga had been through too many training sessions with Aunt Kjersten not to dodge that fist. She moved slightly to the side, and then Chelsea’s fist connected with the brick inside of Saga’s face.

           Chelsea screamed and brought her fist into her chest, cradling it with her other hand. Saga pressed herself into the brick work, trying to disappear. She and Rand had never hurt themselves much when fighting. Heck, she had seen Rand and Aunt Kjersten break solid brick without much trouble. But not only did scraps ooze blood from Chelsea’s hand, but one knuckle looked like it had been pressed flat, while another stuck out completely. And Chelsea just kept screaming.

           A woman ran out of her mini-van toward her. “Sweetie, are you okay?” She took Chelsea’s hand and pulled it away from her chest.

           Chelsea, through all of the tears and screaming, pointed to Saga with her good hand. “Mrs. Garrett, she hurt me!”

           Saga no longer felt bad for the crying girl. “You punched a wall trying to hit me! I didn’t do anything but stand there.” Almost true, she told herself.

           Still, Mrs. Garrett glared at Saga. She turned back to Chelsea, and brushed the tears from the girl’s green, freckled face. “Don’t worry, honey, we’ll get you sorted out. It’ll be okay.”

           Saga felt someone grip her upper arm. She looked up and saw the principal holding onto her bicep. “I think you ought to come to my office Ms. Santiago.”

           Saga retched away from his grip, making the both of them stumble. “Not without my father, we don’t.”

           The principal snarled at her. “You can wait for your father inside, because you are in big trouble, young lady. You assaulted another girl.”

           She assaulted me.” Saga looked him dead in the eye and refused to move. She tried to picture herself as a giant, as a glacier, as something that would not be moved until it wanted to be moved — or else it would take the force of the whole earth to move them.

           More and more parents were climbing out of their vehicles. There were still plenty of kids loitering from when Chelsea had made her big scene about being green. Except now, there were teachers and the office workers trying to clear them out, telling them to go home, or go to their buses, or to get into their parents’ car and drive away. But even as they watched and did nothing, Saga could hear them whisper, “Chelsea got served…Chelsea has bad aim.”

           But the parents were crowding the side walk and getting rowdier and rowdier, demanding their version of justice. The principal made another lunge for Saga, who simple stepped to the side. The principal miss stepped in his aim to capture her and fell flat on his face. A mother screamed when he got back on his feet and blood coursed down his face. He whirled at Saga and snarled more than her brother Fenrir did when Hela brushed out his matted fur. “YOU ARE IN VERY BIG TROUBLE,” he said to Saga, his arms out stretched, legs contracting to spring again.

           A soft voice cut through the furor. “What in all Midgard is going on here?”

           The sea of people parted, and there her father stood in his Dickey’s coat and cowboy hat, work boots pressing against the pavement without a sound. He looked around at everyone and they just sort of froze into place. His eyes stopped at Chelsea, who was still green, and had reduced herself to whimpering in all of the chaos. “Oh my,” said Pappa.

           He took a step or two, landing right in front of Chelsea who shrank back into the arms of Mrs. Garrett and a woman Saga assumed to be her mother. Pappa moved undeterred however, and pressed his index finger into Chelsea’s forehead. From his finger outwards, going in a sort of circle, the green began to clear from her complexion.

           Chelsea stopped sniffling and began looking at her hands as they turned her normal pale pink. Pappa smiled at her, and he took her injured hand in his. “This will hurt a little more, but only for a moment, like a shot.”

           Chelsea opened her mouth to protest and managed to get as far as, “But I don’t like shots,” before she let out a singular shriek. Then Pappa nodded and backed away, looking at the hand. As far as Saga could see, it was still a little bloody, but mostly due to what she had bled out before. Chelsea’s jaw, and the jaws of the parents around her, dropped as she moved and flexed her hand.

           “All better then?” Pappa asked.

           “Um, yes,” said Chelsea. “Uh, thank you, I guess.”

           “You’re welcome, dear,” said Pappa, a smile coursing over his face. “Though, when you punch something, you ought to use the first two fingers, they can take the most force. And you really shouldn’t hit something you can’t break, because the force breaks you instead. Alright?”

           Chelsea nodded, clasping her hands, eyes still wide, and said nothing.

           Pappa turned to Saga and held out his hand to her. Saga ran the few feet to him, taking his hand in hers. Pappa felt cold, like an icepack on a swollen cheek. He looked up at the principal, whose nose had only just stopped bleeding. “Well, then, we’ll be going now. You ought to have that looked at.”

           The principal sputtered, trying to form words without dripping blood into his mouth or moving his nose too much. “She! No! She’s in trouble!” he said, jamming his finger in Saga’s direction.

           Pappa only laughed. “Foolish, little man: you can’t trick a trickster. Saga has done nothing to warrant trouble. It’s all of you who have made your own mischief. Deal with it, and leave my daughter alone.” Pappa grinned again, but it was like no face Saga had ever seen him make. It made her want to look away, just to be rid of the sight, yet she could not tear her eyes away. The principal suffered a worse fate, and his face went so white he looked like he might fade away into nothing at the sight. “Do we understand one another?”

           “Y-yes, yes of course!” he said.

           “Good,” said Pappa, the smile dropping from his face. “Come, Saga, we have to get to supper.”

           “Yes, Pappa,” said Saga. She squeezed his hand as they walked from the school’s concrete courtyard to the asphalt parking lot.

           “You turned her green, hmmm?” Pappa asked as they left the crowd behind them.

           “Yes,” said Saga. She buried her face into the side of her father’s jacket. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even know I had done it until she came after me.”

           “Hmmm,” said her father. “Well, I can’t say that I ever changed anyone else like that. My talents always lay in changing my own shape. I would say that definitely came from your uncle’s blood.”

           “What does that mean?” Saga asked. She tugged on his hand to stop him as they reached their Land Rover.

           Pappa leaned down and kissed her forehead. “It means, sweetness, that you are more demi-god than we previously believed.” He tapped her nose. “It also means I won’t be able to teach you how to develop this new skill.” Letting go of her hand, Pappa headed around to the driver’s side of the car.

           Saga raced to open the passenger door of the car. “What do we do then? I’ve got to learn to control it don’t I?” The questions burst out of her as she climbed into the seat and buckled herself in.

           “It means, dearest, that we get creative.”

           Pappa smiled at her, and despite not knowing what would come of turning Chelsea Hannigan green, Saga felt like everything would be okay.

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