LIGHTS! CAMERA! ACTION! RATATOSKR!

"Wake up, Roland!"

My eyelids were pried open by tiny furred, clawed fingers.  "WAKE UP!"

I suddenly realized I was no longer in my bed but was slumped in my chair at my table at Meilori's, the haunted French Quarter jazz club.

"Aw, Ratatoskr!  I haven't slept since Friday night."

Perched on my table, the Asgardian squirrel inhaled an entire bar of Melkesjokolade chocolate in a single bite.  "Sleep?  Sleep!?  I never sleep!"



He poured the contents of an entire sugar bowl into a glass of ice tea and gulped it down in three swallows, and I muttered, "What a surprise."

A ghost slowly materialized beside me in a director's chair.  I stiffened as Alfred Hitchcock intoned to the Asgardian squirrel, "You promised me an epic, rodent!"

[Photo courtesy of Stan Osborne]


Another ghost formed beside him.  Aw, jeez.  A young man in wig, Victorian dress, and long, long knife.



"You promised I would be entertained," shrilled the man in a falsetto voice.

Ratatoskr reared on his hind legs outraged, "You doubt Ratatoskr?  You will see an Epic!  An Epic!"

Meilori's darkened much to the displeasure of everyone else in the club, and a misty image of a book's cover enlarged to fill the room:



"Jack," gravely intoned Hitchcock.  "if that cover is not soon replaced with an epic, you may have  ...  fun with the squirrel and the scribbler."

"Ratatoskr!" I snapped, grabbing the squirrel by the throat and shaking him.

The Squirrel chittered, "I am not in need of fluffing, Roland!"

The knife flashed up.  Ratatoskr wiggled out of my fingers and gestured with his own.  Siv Maria's cover was replaced by flowing images and music:

Hitchcock nodded ponderously, "Interesting. Evocative. But no dialogue."

'Jack' shrilled, "No sex!"

And with that, the ghost took off after a yelping, scampering Ratatoskr. 

Hitchcock turned to me and sighed, "Modern audiences these days.  All they want is sex and blood."

Follow Siv this week to see what the Norse gods have to say.

 http://sivmaria.blogspot.com/

Each day this week Siv will be giving away prizes which include an autographed copy of Secrets of the Ash Tree

including a print of the Freya illustration, a 15 dollar gift certificate from Amazon, assorted norwegian chocolates and trolls.

Come back tomorrow for a peek at what a few Norse Gods think of the Secrets of the Ash Tree and another glimpse of the most unusual club, Meilori's.

NORSE NIGHT AT MEILORI'S

Did you know there are no ceilings in Meilori's?

Most times you can only see rolling layers of mist.  Other times you catch glimpses of sparkling, swaying branches, their leaves chiming in songs old when first the angels flew.

If you peer closely you will see the fluttering wings of Vedfolnor,

the eagle who is thinking of new insults for Ratatoskr to fling at the dragon, Níðhöggr (Malice Striker)

who eternally gnaws at the roots of the World Tree, Yggdrasil.

I was alone at my table at Meilori's, trying to recover from my interviews with Jeremy Hawkins and Alex Cavanaugh when I heard tapping BENEATH the floor to my right.

Yes, there are floors at Meilori's.  Mostly crimson carpet with random squares of mirror cast like stars in a dappled night sky.  (Elu gets hungry).

I looked down at the mirror which seemed to be vibrating like a  boiling steam kettle. 

Suddenly, a large red squirrel burst from the mirror, sending sharp shards up in a deadly cloud of razored light.

"Ratatoskr!" I exclaimed.  "That's 7 years of bad luck."

Ratatoskr happily chittered as he scrambled up onto my table top.  "Your superstition not mine.  Not mine!"

He eyed my glass of ice tea and took it in his two front claws and gulped. 

He made a face as if poisoned --"Pooie!"

The red squirrel snatched the sugar bowl and emptied its whole contents into my glass, taking a deep, sloppy gulp. 

"Peeerfect!"

"Now I know why you're so hyper!"

Ratatoskr reared up on his hind legs.  "Hyperion?  You are thinking Olympus.  I am of Asgard.  Asgard!"

He scrambled up on my shoulder and leaned his ear next to mine.  "OOOOH!  I hear the sounds of the sea!"

"Very funny."

Ratatoskr snickered, "I thought so.  I am too late for Siv Maria's interview?"

I groaned, "That's coming October 8th and 9th!"

Ratatoskr shook his tiny left wrist at me.  "Watches I do not carry."

"You mean calenders."

"Those either," he gleefully chittered.

"Ratatoskr, you're supposed to have a question I can give Siv to answer, too."

The huge red squirrel scampered all about the table and stopped to take another huge gulp of the ice tea so full of sugar, the contents looked as if a snowstorm was swirling in its amber depths.

"Oh, I have a question: 'What did one dragon say to the other?"

"What?" I said with dread.

"Mother said there would be knights like these!"

Ratatoskr fell on his back giggling and holding his furry tummy.  He scampered back to his rear legs.

"Oh, I have another one -- What did Níðhöggr say when he saw St. George?"

"I don't want to know."

Ratatoskr answered anyway.  "Oh, no!  Not more tinned food!"

My table shook violently, and I was hurled from my flying chair.  An emerald head the size of a Mack truck thrust up from the splintering floor. 

"I HEARD THAT, YOU FURRED RAT!" roared Níðhöggr.

Ratatoskr yeeped and scampered at the speed of light up the massive trunk of Yggdrasil that suddenly shimmered to my left.

Without having seen her arrive, Alice Wentworth, her hands billowing acid mist, was at my side and murmured,

"Dragon, I wonder how your eyes will taste?"

Victor's mother, in long black robes, her face an eternally laughing skull, spoke in the sounds of crushed, withered leaves,

"Níðhöggr, do not rush your time."

The dragon grumbled something about hiding behind women's skirts and went back under the floor of Meilori's.

Samuel McCord strolled up to me, and I groaned inside, but he only winked, "I'm gonna have to charge you extra for all that sugar, son."

BE HERE OCTOBER 8TH AND 9TH

FOR SIV MARIA'S

NORSE GODS BLOGFEST

RAGNAROK WILL SEEM MILD

COMPARED TO THOSE POSTS!

***

TOMORROW:

HER BONES ARE IN

THE BADLANDS