Hephaestus and the Valkyries

By H.H. Morris

A nor’easter kicked up waves, the gale howling across the resort’s beach. I shrugged off my windbreaker as I entered Dionysus’ Pub and looked for congenial company. Thor motioned from a corner table. A tankard of mead sat in front of him. He teased Hebe while she served a quartet of slumming Oreads at the adjacent table. Joining Thor, regardless of his mood, beat Hades out of watching Apollo hit on Ganymede, the bartender.

“Hey, Hephaestus,” he said, “who’s going to win the mayoral election?”

“Osiris,” I told him.

“That Egyptian is a dark horse. Everyone says the race is between Odin and Zeus.”

“You mean the papers say so. Loki writes in The Weekly Aesir about a struggle between the good Odin and the evil Zeus. Hermes counters in Olympia Redux by printing examples of Zeus’ Olympian munificence versus Odin’s malfeasance in Valhalla. The voters are tired of both candidates.”

A hungover Valkyrie in tight jeans took my order. Thor insisted that I drink mead on his account. Storms make him remember the old days. When the big blonde brought the tankard, I patted her large rump.

“Not tonight,” she said, tossing her braids. “Not this week. I had a date with Priapus last night.”

“Your little buddy has a date with all four of the Oreads later tonight,” Thor told me.

Priapus isn’t my little buddy. Simply because we both worked the Roman Empire doesn’tmake us friends. At least I’ve made myself useful in this resort. I run the local hardware store and oversee three quarters of the maintenance at the beach hotels. Thor handles the other quarter. Priapus is a gigolo, the male equivalent of Aphrodite’sillegal escort service. I didn’t correct Thor. The Aesir are parochial. That’s how Loki’s runic newspaper stays in business.

“There’s the new guy,” Thor said, nodding toward the door.

The newcomer hadn’t bothered with a jacket. It was too cold for his shorts and tee shirt, even if they’d been dry. He’d earned his fame by wading barely dressed through a raging torrent, though, and hadn’t been retired to the resort long enough to learn that old uniforms meant nothing here.

“Invite him over,” I suggested.

“He’s gloomy.”

“You’re gloomy lots of nights, Thor.”

Thor waved him over. Chris joined us and looked around the smoky pub.

“I wish more from my area came here,” he said. “Of course, they eat a lot of pizza.”

Pizza delivery, straight from Mama Ceres’ oven to your doorstep, kept Chris employed. He also worked as a lifeguard during the summer months. The area he referred to, forgotten saints, consisted of those who’d never been gods. Any worship of them had been accidental. Then the priests had declared that certain saints had never existed. Chris had lasted longer than most of the group booted off the official roster, but his last worshiper died a couple of years ago and he wound up in the same resort as us outdated gods.

“One for the new man and a refill for you two boys?” asked a Valkyrie who’d just started her shift.

I gave her a pinch. She rapped me over the head hard enough to make me momentarily dizzy. She liked me. Thor laughed as I shook my head to clear it.