Free The Monstrous Child by Francesca Simon Page A

tufts of white hair stuck up on his bald head like horns.
    They had no names, so I named them: Ganglot the Lazybones and Ganglati the Slowpoke.
    ‘Here is your plate – Starving,’ said Lazybones.
    ‘Here is your knife – Famine,’ said Slowpoke.
    ‘Here is your cup – Thirst,’ they said together.
    Fine dining was evidently not going to be their forte.
    When I write that they said these words, I have written them down as sentences. That’s not how they talked. Slowpoke and Lazybones spoke as if they died after every word, and then slowly came back to life to speak one more word before dying again. It took them a day to cross a room, a night to cross back. They moved so slowly they almost appeared not to budge. In the time it took them to set down my plate, knife and cup, I could have staggered up the fog road back to Midgard (if only). Watching them lift an arm to wipe their noses on their crusty sleeves could take an eternity.
    Not exactly first choice for servants.
    But they, like Modgud, were alive. And I loathe the dead even more than I hate the living. I too can only move slowly. And in a world without time, what’s the rush?

23
YOUR WOLF-GRACIOUS HOST

    LL RIGHT. I’M feeling chatty. I’ll throw you a bone, so to speak.
    I’ll tell you what happens when you die. How it all works. Yes, the greatest secrets of all. So there will be no more need to seek spell songs to raise the dead to make them talk. I’m spilling the beans.
    Deal? Good.
    You die. ‘Wah wah wail wail.’ (That’s you by the way.) Don’t kid yourself. No one will miss you.
    If you’re shoved into a grave mound, you rot and stagger down to me looking pretty rough and smelling worse.
    If your body is burned, you waft to me in spirit form. Either way you all end up pouring down the Hel Road.
    At the bridge between the worlds, Modgud checks you’re dead, asks your name and lineage, and quietly you cross over the frosty river and into my melancholy world of sleet and weeping darkness. There’s no turning back.
    The dead whose bodies have burned on pyres pass through a wall of flames. Smoke meets smoke, and the last remnant of their mortal selves blows off, like sparks from a sword being burnished, like ash from sputtering wood.
    Fading, fading, gone. Poof.
    But, once across the bridge, everything changes. The yowling they make, you’d think they were the first who’d ever died. Well, you’re not, so get over it.
    I, your reluctant and wolf-gracious host, will greet you. Greet in the sense that I’ll allow you into my windy hall. Please do not look for any more recognition because expectation will always be disappointed. Don’t imagine you can please me. No one can please me. NO ONE .
    Hopefully, you’re bringing lots of gifts. Remember, grave goods are a tribute for your new lord – me. You will not need anything with which you’ve been buried.
    Please note: I have enough wooden serving platters, buckets, spindles and broken swords to last for eternity. I like goblets, carved ivory animals and brooches. You can’t have too many of those. And gold. I love gold.
    In fact, let me repeat: NO MORE WOODEN PLATTERS. I know some mortals make greedy lists of the gifts they desire when they marry, and circulate this among their kin and their friends and followers. Here’s my list: just gold and silver.
    And, please, no looms. No one’s weaving down here.Leave looms behind. No need to lug a loom down the fog road. Load your wagon with treasure instead.
    Treasure. Sadly, all too rare. Too many relatives planning to place that gold armband in the grave, snatch it back at the last moment and substitute – for shame – a broken old pot. Or a rusty axe instead of a jewelled spear. No wonder there’s so much shrieking and gnashing down here when the dead sift through their possessions and discover a pile of junk.
    My entrance requirements are minimal – that you’re dead.
    That’s it. Modgud, my bouncer, lets everyone into the club.