Perhaps he slept.
He was walking.
A cold wind tugged at his clothes. The tiny snowflakes were little more than a crystalline dust that gusted and flurried in the wind.
There were trees, bare of leaves in the winter. There were high hills on each side of him. It was late on a winter’s afternoon: the sky and the snow had attained the same deep shade of purple. Somewhere ahead of him—in this light, distances were impossible to judge—the flames of a bonfire flickered, yellow and orange.
A gray wolf padded through the snow before him.
Shadow stopped. The wolf stopped also, and turned, and waited. One of its eyes glinted yellowish-green. Shadow shrugged and walked toward the flames and the wolf ambled ahead of him.
The bonfire burned in the middle of a grove of trees. There must have been a hundred trees, planted in two rows. There were shapes hanging from the trees. At the end of the rows was a building that looked a little like an overturned boat. It was carved of wood, and it crawled with wooden creatures and wooden faces—dragons, gryphons, trolls, and boars—all of them dancing in the flickering light of the fire.
The bonfire was so high that Shadow could barely approach it. The wolf padded around the crackling fire.
In place of the wolf a man came out on the other side of the fire. He was leaning on a tall stick.
“You are in Uppsala, in Sweden,” said the man, in a familiar, gravelly voice. “About a thousand years ago.”
“Wednesday?” said Shadow.
The man continued to talk, as if Shadow were not there. “First every year, then, later, when the rot set in, and they became lax, every nine years, they would sacrifice here. A sacrifice of nines. Each day, for nine days, they would hang nine animals from trees in the grove. One of those animals was always a man.”
He strode away from the firelight, toward the trees, and Shadow followed him. As he approached the trees the shapes that hung from them resolved: legs and eyes and tongues and heads. Shadow shook his head: there was something about seeing a bull hanging by its neck from a tree that was darkly sad, and at the same time surreal enough almost to be funny. Shadow passed a hanging stag, a wolfhound, a brown bear, and a chestnut horse with a white mane, little bigger than a pony. The dog was still alive: every few seconds it would kick spasmodically, and it was making a strained whimpering noise as it dangled from the rope.
The man he was following took his long stick, which Shadow realized now, as it moved, was actually a spear, and he slashed at the dog’s stomach with it, in one knifelike cut downward. Steaming entrails tumbled onto the snow. “I dedicate this death to Odin,” said the man, formally.
“It is only a gesture,” he said, turning back to Shadow. “But gestures mean everything. The death of one dog symbolizes the death of all dogs. Nine men they gave to me, but they stood for all the men, all the blood, all the power. It just wasn’t enough. One day, the blood stopped flowing. Belief without blood only takes us so far. The blood must flow.”
“I saw you die,” said Shadow.
“In the god business,” said the figure—and now Shadow was certain it was Wednesday, nobody else had that rasp, that deep cynical joy in words, “it’s not the death that matters. It’s the opportunity for resurrection. And when the blood flows . . .” He gestured at the animals, at the people, hanging from the trees.
Shadow could not decide whether the dead humans they walked past were more or less horrifying than the animals: at least the humans had known the fate they were going to. There was a deep, boozy smell about the men that suggested that they had been allowed to anesthetize themselves on their way to the gallows, while the animals would simply have been lynched, hauled up alive and terrified. The faces of the men looked so young: none of them was older than twenty.
“Who am I?” asked Shadow.
“You?” said the man. “You were an opportunity. You were part of a grand tradition. Although both of us are committed enough to the affair to die for it. Eh?”
“Who are you?” asked Shadow.
“The hardest part is simply surviving,” said the man. The bonfire—and Shadow realized with a strange horror that it truly was a bone-fire: rib cages and fire-eyed skulls stared and stuck and jutted from the flames, sputtering trace-element colors into the night, greens and yellows and blues—was flaring and crackling and burning hotly. “Three days on the tree, three days in the underworld, three days to find my way back.”
The flames sputtered and flamed too brightly for Shadow to look at directly. He looked down into the darkness beneath the trees.
A knock on the door—and now there was moonlight coming in the window. Shadow sat up with a start. “Dinner’s se
rved,” said Media’s voice.
Shadow put his shoes back on, walked over to the door, went out into the corridor. Someone had found some candles, and a dim yellow light illuminated the reception hall. The driver of the Humvee came in holding a cardboard tray and a paper sack. He wore a long black coat and a peaked chauffeur’s cap.
“Sorry about the delay,” he said, hoarsely. “I got everybody the same: a couple of burgers, large fries, large Coke, and apple pie. I’ll eat mine out in the car.” He put the food down, then walked back outside. The smell of fast food filled the lobby. Shadow took the paper bag and passed out the food, the napkins, the packets of ketchup.
They ate in silence while the candles flickered and the burning wax hissed.
Shadow noticed that Town was glaring at him. He turned his chair a little, so his back was to the wall. Media ate her burger with a napkin poised by her lips to remove crumbs.
“Oh. Great. These burgers are nearly cold,” said the fat kid. He was still wearing his shades, which Shadow thought pointless and foolish, given the darkness of the room.