coincidence that they all happened in sequence in the same country.”
Paddy and Harris conferred together. Finally they said:
“We believe your story because we both read about the death of Socrates in a book and it was exactly as you described. If you weren’t Socrates there’s no way you could have got the details right.”
“Glad you’re not naïve in any way,” commented Castor.
“What will you be reincarnated as next time?”
This was a question Castor didn’t like. “I might make a reasonable guess, based on a tally of my sins against a tally of my virtues, but it would require lots of work and take the mystery out of the process. Reincarnation is an enigmatic business and shouldn’t be controlled too much. I’ve already meddled more than enough with it. Look at what I managed to do with those three sequential lives! I planned my own murder in the first, ended my second as a bottled poison, consumed that poison in the third. It enabled me to kill myself without committing suicide. What else lets us get away with such blatant paradoxes?
“Buy me a drink, I’m feeling generous,” he concluded.
3 It is equal to the sum of the scares on the other two snides.
4 At the words “in today’s money” both Paddy and Harris clenched their teeth and growled.
When Wales Played Asgård
The glory days of Welsh rugby were in the 1970s, everyone knows that, and the general feeling is that such heights of sporting excellence can never be equalled. Castor Jenkins knows better. Not only were they equalled recently, but actually bettered, and he was the man who made the miracle happen. At least that’s what he says, but there’s no evidence to back up his claim, because the bravest game Wales ever played was an away match and took place not on Earth but in the supernatural realm of the Old Norse Gods. Only a return match in Cardiff against the same side will provide conclusive proof.
Castor explains the entire sequence of events in the following manner: “It was just after a crushing defeat against the All Blacks in the Millennium Stadium and I was waiting in the station for a bus back to Porthcawl, feeling rather low, cursing myself for wasting my money on a ticket, when I fell into conversation with a man also waiting in the queue. There was something unusual about him but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Maybe it was the horned helmet, bearskin coat and broadsword slung at his belt, maybe not. Plenty of people use match days as an excuse to dress up in unconventional clothing.
“We boarded the bus and because the vehicle was crowded we ended up sitting next to each other. At first we talked about the game in a half-hearted manner, in the same way one might talk about a broken washing machine or bicycle puncture, but then I forgot the rules of discretion and bewailed the fact I wasn’t responsible for picking the Welsh side. I felt sure I could select a winning team if I was given a chance to do so. The main difficulty, I admitted, was that my ideal team consisted of players already dead. ‘That isn’t necessarily a problem,’ replied my companion, and I arched my eyebrows at that.
“He lowered his voice to a whisper and went on to explain that he wasn’t really a mortal man but Ullr, the god of skill, hunts and duels from Norse mythology, and that he had powerful contacts in Asgård, the Viking version of heaven. I knew in my heart he was telling the truth; there was something compelling about his whole demeanour, and I felt proud to be sitting next to him. I think he was pleased by my easy acceptance, and he grimly grinned in a reassuring way, if I might be permitted a paradox. Then he closed his eyes and recited, ‘Hann er ok fagr álitum ok hefir hermanns atgervi. Á hann er ok gott at heita í einvígi…’ and though I understood not a word, I nodded in agreement.
“‘That verse is about me,’ he said, ‘and comes from the Gylfaginning of Snorri Sturluson. It’s very flattering.”
“‘I bet it is,’ I responded, ‘but I’ve never read any Viking poetry.’
“‘Don’t worry. Sturluson isn’t like so many other poets, obsessed with his own ego, he’s a good sort and won’t give a damn whether you’ve read him or not if you ever bump into him in Asgård.’
“‘Am I going there?’ I spluttered.
“‘Sure. I’m in a position to give you what you want. You’ve convinced me that you can put together a Welsh side greater than the present one, and I think it’s a grand idea, really I do, and I know that Thor, Odin, Loki, Tyr, Baldr and the rest will agree with me. Asgård has its own rugby team, you see, and we’re good, better than the All Blacks in their prime.’
“‘So why watch rugby in Cardiff?’ I asked.
“‘I often come down to Midgard – that’s the world inhabited by men – to check out the sport. I’ve supported Wales for almost one hundred years. All the Norse deities do the same. In fact I noticed Freyja, the ravishing goddess of fertility, in the crowd, rooting for the other side.’
“‘The blonde in the cloak of robin feathers? I noticed her too!’
“‘Listen to me. If I help you, it’s not an act of charity, it’s purely selfish, Odin’s boys need some decent competition.’
“‘Is the Asgård team really so mighty?’ I asked.
“‘We’ve won the Six Million Nations’ Cup six million times in a row… Our last game was against the Microscopic Giants of Microgigans, supreme champions of Happenstance, and we thrashed them 6,567-3. Naturally we had to perform the ‘Rite of the Blood Eagle’ on their manager after the match, but we always do that to the managers of every losing side.’
“‘Is that a pleasant rite?’ I asked gingerly.
“Ullr leered at me. ‘No.’
“I have to be honest here and report that I felt suddenly nervous, but behind the fear was a stronger emotion, a patriotic desire to see Wales beat the best that Odin could throw at us, and I decided to accept the challenge. We formally shook hands on it and then Ullr explained to me how we were going to get to Asgård. Instead of staying on the bus all the way to Porthcawl, we would get off at Bridgend and he would summon suitable transport from there. I had read some Norse mythology when I was younger, not much but enough to remember it featured a ship named Naglfar that was made entirely from the uncut fingernails of dead men. I confided in my new companion that I didn’t care to travel on such a vessel as I feared my itches might be over-scratched.
“He roared with laughter. ‘Even the Norse gods move with the times! We’ll get to Asgård on a bus like this one!’
“I joined in with his laughter but my mouth drooped sourly when we arrived at Bridgend bus station. Ullr raised a ram’s horn to his lips, blew a vibrant note and suddenly a new bus trundled into view – a bus made from fingernails! I boarded with a sigh, chose a seat without any grime, toe-jam or bum-fluff under it, and gazed indifferently out of the window. The passing landscape rapidly grew strange, the familiar Welsh grey skies became blood red, fiery and full of flying shapes, some of them winged women in armour.
“I formed the distinct impression we crossed a rainbow bridge made of solid light, and drove up the trunk of a monstrous tree, quite against the laws of gravity and sanity, before suddenly appearing at the borders of Asgård, the realm of the Gods. Without pausing for a toilet break, we approached
