I thought he understood my analogy, but I clarified anyway. “Human history has been a lot like that. The things that happened hundreds of years ago got passed down and corrupted over time. The faction in power at the time tells the story the way that suits them best and makes their enemy look worse. The truth of what actually happened is probably a lot different from what we believe. I think that’s how a lot of traditions and cultures died out.”
“Humans have more reliable methods of making records, now,” Thorin said. “Maybe things won’t be so easily forgotten.”
I shrugged. “Information and record keeping have become longer lived, but humans have not. Not really. Maybe we’ve gained a few more decades of life expectancy, but what’s an eighty-year life span compared to eternity? We must seem like fruit flies to you.”
Thorin chuckled. “Fruit flies couldn’t have philosophical discussions, the last time I checked.”
“You know what I mean. When you live forever, what possible influence can a single mortal being have on you?”
Thorin stared into me as if he was seeing more than my exterior. I leaned backward, realizing I had unintentionally drifted toward him. Our relationship was frequently like that—him antagonizing me one minute, drawing me in the next. Was his manipulation deliberate or simply an inherent element of his personality?
Thorin lowered his chin and looked at me through his thick lashes. “More than you could possibly imagine.” He shifted so that a few insubstantial inches separated us, and a current buzzed through all of them. “But if humans have ephemeral emotions, then I assure you that my kind does not. The Aesir’s memories are long and abiding.”
The coffeemaker chimed, signaling it had finished brewing. Talk about saved by the bell. I jumped up and scurried to the kitchenette. When I came back to the living room, carrying a mug for Thorin and a water bottle for me, he had moved into one of the club chairs. I wasn’t the only one who needed some space, apparently.
“How does one go about hunting wolves?” I asked, changing the subject to something less provocative. I passed Thorin his coffee and sat across from him on the sofa. “Especially in such a wide-open space?”
Thorin sipped from his mug and said, “Normally, you would track their signs, search for dens, feeding and kill sites, carcasses, scat, trails, and prints. I don’t want to waste a lot of time, so we might have to set some traps, put out some bait.”
“Maybe you could tie me to a cactus, let me hang out until Skoll catches my scent.”
Thorin cocked his head as if contemplating my suggestion. “It’s not a bad idea.”
I chucked another pillow at him.
After demolishing the rest of my dinner, I went to bed and left Thorin alone with the TV and a late-night talk-show host. I showered, slipped into my pajamas, burrowed under the quilts, and fell fast asleep. The dream that woke me that night wasn’t violent but was still plenty disturbing. My heart thumped and my breath heaved, but not from panic or fear. I left the bed, went to the window, and pressed my forehead against the chilly pane, seeking a draft of cool air to chase away the cloying remnants of the dream, to escape the images of bare skin, hands caressing, lips sampling, teeth nibbling.
Premonition or Freudian expression of latent desires? Either way, I spent most of the night trying to expel Thorin from my thoughts and relax enough to go back to sleep.
Chapter Fourteen
Early the next morning, as the sun crested the horizon, Thorin and I stood beside the SUV, gazing over a desert that stretched for miles in every direction.
“We’ll plan on a two-day hike to start,” Thorin said as we strapped on our packs. “We’ll make a circle and come back to the truck at the end. If we don’t find anything, we’ll restock supplies and go out again, making our path in increasingly wider concentric circles but keeping the truck as the axis.”
“That sounds like a lot of walking,” I said. “Good thing I’ve been working out.”
I considered myself a fit person, but Thorin set a pace that discouraged talking. He kept a handheld GPS in his pack’s side pocket and referred to it every so often to keep us on track.
“How did you do this before?” I asked when we stopped for a water break. “How did you hunt without GPS?”
“Landmarks, stars, intuition. We knew Asgard like an extension of our bodies.”
“So what are you doing in Alaska? Why there, of all places?” I had wanted to ask that question for a long time.
“Alaska is a lot like Asgard: secluded, unpopulated, wild. It reminds me of home.”
“Val said something about not liking large crowds and urban settings.”
“Besides the fact that we are more comfortable when we’re closer to the natural world, it’s easier to avoid complicated questions. People notice, after a while, when we don’t age or get sick or have the life span of the average person.”
Thorin didn’t wait for me to ask more questions. He stowed the GPS in his pack and started off again. The new hiking boots had taken a toll on my toes. I apologized to my aching feet and fell into place behind Thorin. For the first couple of hours, the scenery astounded me: prickly Joshua trees, dry brush, sand dunes, and the Clark Mountains in the distance. My footsteps crunching in sand and loose rock created a numinous rhythm, leading me into a meditative state. I perceived nothing more than my heartbeat, my breathing, and the rocky earth crunching beneath my boots. Like some exercise in transcendentalism, I achieved an altered state of consciousness where grief, fear, and doubt didn’t exist. Okay, so maybe I understand why people like to do this sort of thing, after all.
I lingered in that introspective trance until Thorin froze in midstep, as still as one of the boulders beside our path. “Look,” he whispered.
I followed the direction of his pointing finger and saw a pack of deer, nibbling dry brush without a care for the humans invading their terrain. I gasped. “Deer in the desert?”
“Mule deer. They thrive here.”
We stood and watched as the herd moved away, blending into the environment until I could no longer distinguish them from the rocks.
Late in the afternoon, Thorin and I set up camp in a canyon that produced a view worthy of a “Visit the Mojave!” postcard. To prove I wasn’t completely helpless, I pitched my tent by myself, cranked up the butane stove, and set about reconstituting my dinner.
“You don’t eat much, do you?” I poured boiling water into a bag of freeze-dried tofurkey and rice I had picked up at the camping-supplies store. It weighed next to nothing in my pack and required no refrigeration, which made it perfect for camping. The meal also smelled like old shoes, but I was hungry enough to eat my boots, so the point was moot.
Thorin shrugged. “Can but usually don’t.”
“Why?”
He lounged against a boulder like a model in an advertisement for outdoor wear. L.L. Bean wishes they had a model like him on their cover. He looks good in everything. Probably looks best in nothing at all, if my dream last night was a true indication.
“Don’t have to,” Thorin said. “I eat when I need to appear human or for pleasure. Food tastes good, but it’s rarely necessary for survival.”
“Cold and warmth? Does the chilly air bother you?”
Thorin huffed, and vapor spurted from his nose.
