A Hole in Valhalla

By Pamela Love

Surprises are few here in Valhalla, the afterlife Odin has provided for those worthy warriors slain in combat. As a Valkyrie, I know each fighter by name—generally Sven or Bjorn. I know what they want, too—victory or a fresh opponent for battle each day, and more meat or mead during their nightly feasts.

Yesterday, a warrior approached me, dripping on the dining hall’s stone floor. Hardly a rare sight here, except before it’s always been blood, sweat, or spilled mead that rendered the footing sticky or slippery. This man… was clean.

Bards sing of the heroes of Valhalla, of their courage, capability, and cunning. They never sing of their hygiene. I took a deep breath, unable to believe my eyes—or nose. The effect was striking. In Valhalla’s dining hall, between the sweat, grime, and blood from the fighting—all wounds disappear at sunset each day, but the gore remains—and with the lack of table manners or even napkins during the feasts, the stink had seeped into the stone walls.

“Hail, Valkyrie Sigrun! What caused yonder flood to fall upon my brow?” Bjorn the Brave the Forty-Fifth pointed to his empty seat at a nearby table, where a flood was indeed pouring down. Those sitting beside it were likewise getting an impromptu bath, to their noticeable improvement. Less curious than their comrade, they continued to feast.

I turned my gaze toward Valhalla’s roof, which was built of golden shields. One of them was missing. Through that hole flowed a river—one of many—from the antlers of a gigantic enchanted stag, which dwelt on a hill above Valhalla with a mead-giving goat. Yes, I know mead is made from honey. Tell the goat that.

I shrugged. “I knowest not, Bjorn.”

Odin showed up at dawn the next day, sloshing through the ankle-deep water we Valkyries had been trying to ignore. The warriors mostly didn’t care. “I’ve commanded the stag to turn his head until you find the shield. Normally I’d have my ravens solve this mystery, but they have other business. Sigrun, this is your quest.”

“Allfather, it shall be my privilege to serve you.” With a salute, I went to work.

Of course I talked to Loki first.

“You dare accuse me, Valkyrie?”

I shrugged. “Who but the god of mischief would take just one shield?”

Loki raised his eyebrows. “Had I done so, it would only have been to cause the entire roof to collapse. Hmm, now there’s a thought.” With a concerning twinkle in his eyes, he turned away.

Flipping my braid over my shoulder, I sighed. A problem for another day.

Next, I investigated my Thor theory. He had his own dining hall in Valhalla, smaller than that of the worthy warriors, and decidedly less odorous. I hammered my fist on its oaken door and entered when he bellowed to do so.

He sat slouched in a chair beside a magnificent wooden wall carving depicting the time he’d swallowed an ox whole. Ah, art.

I posed my question. Thor blinked. “Why would I steal a shield? I have no need of one.” He picked up his hammer, Mjolnir. “This keeps me safe in battle.”

I nodded.  “I did not say you took it. But besides thunder, you are god of all storms. Might one of your winds have blown the missing shield away?”

Thor frowned. “Tempests near Valhalla are forbidden by Odin. I respect the Allfather’s wishes.”

I sighed. It was time to talk to my third suspect, Sven the Savage the Seventeenth. A newcomer to this realm, ambition radiated from him like heat from the sun.

It was quite a change from the coolness of Thor’s hall to the sun-drenched battlefield. I wended my way through the countless single combats, my boots squishing over the filthy,  trampled turf.

At last I found the Sven in question that I wanted to question. He’d just forced his fifth straight opponent to surrender. Noticing my stare, he dropped his sword and swung around to face me, arms akimbo. “What would you have of me, Valkyrie Sigrun?”

Subtlety was not the way of my people. I stretched out my hand. “Valhalla’s missing a shield. Do you possess it?”

“If I had it, I would not hide it. I now challenge whichever warrior does! I will face him unarmed.” He shook his fists and glared, searching for his unknown adversary. “Come forth, O coward! I shall still triumph!”

The look on his face convinced me. Subtlety wasn’t his way either. Besides, shortly afterward I checked with my sisters and confirmed he’d been at his seat boasting all of the previous evening. Sven the Savage the Seventeenth was a great one for bombast, and the competition was fierce in Valhalla. Between devouring boar off the bone and pouring mead down their gullets, the worthy slain tell endless sagas of their valor.

I bit my lip. I wonder.

Valhalla lacked a true armory. Weapons and shields lay where they were dropped in untidy piles surrounding the battlefield. The largest was close to the dining hall. Beginning my search there, it wasn’t long before I found what I sought—the missing shield, slid into a stack of others of lesser metal, yet equal mettle.

Odin returned that evening. I beckoned to him. “Behold the truant. As part of the hall, it has absorbed myriad tales of courage. No longer will it rest content to be a shingle, however glorious the roof.”

Odin smiled. “Arise, valiant defender!” The shield levitated, quivering in readiness. “Henceforth shall you indeed be borne by a warrior in combat. And on the day of Ragnarok, you will be carried by the hero battling at my side.”

All very noble. Trouble is, ever since then we’ve started having problems with other objects in the dining hall. Even the tankards are demanding to join the fray, Odin help us…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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