Good boy, Fenrir

Sometimes I get the urge to scrounge a piece of flash fiction or a poem to sling at one publication or another. This is one that I’m fond of but haven’t found a home for. A happy side-effect of launching my own site is that I’ll have no more strays, and I’m buzzing that this is the first onsite.

Good Boy, Fenrir is a prose poem; a love letter to Norse myth and loyal dogs. I hope you enjoy.

Here’s a bit of context for those who don’t know the myth. Fenrir is the “monstrous” wolf of Norse mythology foretold to play a key part in Ragnarök, the prophesied catastrophe at the end of times. In an attempt to cheat fate, the gods challenged Fenrir to a test of strength, goading him to break free of unbreakable bonds. What collateral did he have to prove they’d release him should he fail? The right hand of Tyr. Sadly, Fenrir wasn’t cunning enough to see the guise for what it was, and he waits in his chains until the coming of Ragnarök, when he can take his revenge. Oh, also, Fenrir is Loki’s son. Norse gods be nasty like that.

Good Boy, Fenrir

I taught the wolf a few good tricks. He learnt quick; took after his father. Loki thinks himself clever, but he should have seen his son sit and lie down on command, and how gently he placed a great paw in my hand. No more, I suppose. Both are gone. Fenrir, the hand. I am left with phantom pain; a longing to run my fingers through his silken mane.

They brought the wolf home with his siblings: Loki's half-breeds. Odin dispensed judgement while slouched on his throne, picking his fingernails while he consigned Hel to busywork with the dead.

Cast it into the sea, he said of the snake with a flippant wave.

Only Fenrir of the three, just a pup, gave him pause. Odin stared with his one wicked eye and said, My, what big teeth you have, what sharp claws.

I always wanted a dog, and so begged to keep him.

You must be the one to feed him, warned Odin, at which, the other Gods cawed.

They knew, of course, what Odin had planned. Mischief runs in the family, no matter what Loki might say. We are a cartel of tricksters, comedians, and this joke was on me.

Fenrir grew fast: beanlike paw pads swelling to flagstones; the coarse and oily fur between them thickening from feathers to roofing thatch. Soon, no prey would exceed the size of his bite. He watched the moon, ears alert and flat to his back, and asked, Do you think that is something I could catch?

Odin watched him grow and grow, making no more veiled jokes. I made a show of Fenrir’s tricks. He could walk on his hindlegs, and roll over, and play dead if I mimed firing arrows at his flank, at his head. See, I said, he's obedient. Odin pursed his lips and said, Indeed.

By then, I knew the truth of Odin’s prickly humour. It was not arrogance, but fear. Fate had foretold that in the end the wolf would eat him whole. This was no secret among them. They all knew it from the start. Keeping Fenrir near was the plan, the ruse. But my keeping of him was the prestige.

You are strong, Odin announced to the wolf, perhaps stronger than the rest of your kind.

Perhaps, Fenrir huffed, there is no contest.

You would be surprised. Odin grinned and produced a set of fetters. Could you break free of these?

Fenrir let himself be chained, then broke free with ease. A second set of manacles was soon brought forth — and snapped from his forelegs in course. The wolf sat proudly and looked to me. I recalled holding his head in my lap as he slobbered and retched up the stubborn carcass of a whale.

Odin produced a third, curious fetter that was faint as the spittle of a bird and light as a lady’s beard. Fenrir, again, looked to me.

If I cannot break loose, you’ll set me free?

Of course, dear wolf! Odin spoke for us all. He raised up his hands, cast his voice across the hall and said, We know you may need a firm show of trust, and so, one of us shall place his hand in your mouth. It is called collateral, you see. A sort of guarantee.

Again, the trusting wolf sought the truth in my gaze. But how to tell a beast that he's already bound? I learned this all a little too late. Typically, Thor would say. He forever teased me for a slowness of wit, a giantblood trait, no doubt. It is called patience, I said a thousand, thousand times inside my own head. But I am Aesir too and must now confess to a bent of mischievousness as bad as the rest. Yet while their quick wit and wisecracks are all well and good, I find a perseverant and well-crafted punchline serves best.

Fenrir’s destiny could not be changed, but I had taught him all that he needed to know. So that he could one day eat the moon, the sun, I had taught him to bite on command. This is how I got the reluctant wolf to clamp off my hand. Lastly, I held his thrashing head to mine, both of us wild-eyed in rage at fate. I held him close and whispered, Fenrir, wait.