THE STORIES WE TELL

The garden is small.

That surprises me.

People build gardens as though beauty requires restraint.

Stone paths.

Wooden benches.

Flowers separated into careful rows.

Lavender.

Rosemary.

Something yellow whose name I do not know.

I could ask.

Perhaps later.

For now, there are six children sitting in the grass.

And Týr Dagrsson is sitting with them.

This presents certain logistical difficulties.

The children sit cross-legged.

Týr attempts the same.

There is considerably more Týr.

One boy has been staring at me for almost thirty seconds.

Eventually, he raises his hand.

“Are you a giant?”

I consider the question.

“Compared to you?”

The boy nods.

“Yes.”

A girl beside him immediately objects.

“That's not a real giant.”

I look toward her.

“What is a real giant?”

She thinks.

“Bigger.”

Reasonable.

“Then no.”

The boy seems disappointed.

I understand.

Giants are more interesting than wrestlers.

One of the adults supervising from beneath a nearby tree looks nervous.

I am unsure whether this is because six children are interviewing a professional wrestler or because the professional wrestler is Týr Dagrsson.

Perhaps both.

I look at the book resting in my hands.

Stories from Norse mythology.

Simplified.

Illustrated.

The cover depicts Thor raising Mjölnir toward something enormous.

The children have already informed me that the illustration is inaccurate.

Apparently Thor needs a bigger hammer.

I respect their expertise.

“I have a question.”

Six faces turn toward me.

“What is a myth?”

A hand shoots upward.

“A story.”

Another.

“An old story.”

A third.

“A story with gods.”

The first child objects.

“Not all of them.”

An argument begins.

I wait.

This seems important.

Eventually the girl who determined I am insufficiently giant looks toward me.

“They're stories people used to explain concepts too enormous for a mind, even a veteran's mind."

Interesting.

“Explain what?”

She shrugs.

“Stuff.”

Comprehensive.

“What kind of stuff?”

Another child answers.

“Thunder.”

Another:

“Winter.”

Another:

“Why people die.”

The garden becomes quieter.

Children do that sometimes.

They wander directly into subjects adults spend decades avoiding.

I look down at the book.

“Do you have to believe Thor literally creates thunder for the story to mean something?”

“No.”

All six.

Immediately.

Interesting.

“Then why keep telling it?”

The boy beside me shrugs.

“Because it's cool.”

Fair.

A girl thinks longer.

“Because Thor can be brave.”

Another child interrupts.

“He's stupid sometimes.”

“People can be both.”

The girl says it with complete certainty.

I look at her.

She looks back.

“Yes.”

I like that answer.

I turn several pages.

Odin.

Fenrir.

Týr.

The wolf.

The hand.

I hold the picture where everyone can see it.

“What does this story mean?”

One child recognizes it.

“He loses his hand.”

“He does.”

“Because Fenrir bites it.”

“Yes.”

The giant expert leans forward.

“But he knew it might happen.”

There.

I look toward her.

“Does that matter?”

She nods.

“Because he did it anyway.”

Another child frowns.

“That was dumb.”

The first girl objects.

“No, because somebody had to.”

“Still dumb.”

“Still brave.”

I listen.

Two ideas.

Existing together.

Perhaps neither destroys the other.

“So which one is correct?”

They argue again.

Brave.

Stupid.

Necessary.

Unfair.

Fenrir was tricked.

Týr kept his promise.

Týr broke his promise.

The gods were frightened.

Fenrir was dangerous.

Everybody made choices.

That last answer comes from the smallest child.

She has said almost nothing.

I look toward her.

“Everybody made choices?”

She nods.

“And then stuff happened.”

I smile.

“Yes.”

That may be the best description of mythology I have ever heard.

---

Twenty minutes later, the book is closed.

The children have moved on.

One is attempting to determine whether an ant can become lost.

Two others are debating whether Loki would be allowed to play Pokémon.

The answer appears controversial.

I remain beneath the tree.

The book rests beside me.

“Vin Halsted does not like mythology.”

One of the children looks over.

“Who's Vin?”

“A wrestler.”

“Is he a giant?”

“No.”

I pause.

“Do not tell him I said that.”

The child giggles and returns to the ant.*

I look toward the camera.

“Vin heard mythology.”

A pause.

“Gods.”

“Odin.”

“Norns.”

“Valkyries.”

My fingers rest against the cover of the book.

“Then Vin decided what those things must mean.”

I look down.

“Týr thinks he is a god.”

My brow furrows.

“No.”

“Týr believes Odin watches his wrestling matches.”

Another pause.

“That would be an unusual use of Odin's time.”

Somebody laughs behind me.

I continue.

“Týr believes Valkyries circle AWS waiting to carry him away.”

I glance upward.

Blue sky.

Nothing.

“Apparently they are late.”

I return my attention to the camera.

“Vin Halsted spent a great deal of time explaining what Týr Dagrsson believes.”

Silence.

“He did not ask.”

There.

No anger.

No accusation.

Just an observation.

“That interests me.”

I pick up the book.

“Because Vin believes mythology is something foolish people use when they cannot understand reality.”

I turn it over.

“But the children understood something different.”

A story.

An old story.

A way of explaining things.

“Stories tell us what people believe matters.”

I open the book again.

“Who was brave.”

A page.

“Who was foolish.”

Another.

“Who was betrayed.”

Another.

“Who survived.”

I close it.

“Who the monster was.”

My eyes settle upon the camera.

“Vin Halsted tells stories too.”

The garden continues around me.

Birds.

Children.

Wind through leaves.

“Twenty-plus years.”

One finger.

“Fifteen federations.”

Second.

“Twenty-four world championships.”

Third.

“Spectre.”

Fourth.

“Týr.”

My hand lowers.

“Vin tells a very simple story.”

I think.

“There was a monster.”

“Vin survived it.”

“Then another monster arrived.”

“Vin will survive that one too.”

My head tilts.

“That sounds familiar.”

I look at the mythology book.

“Beginning.”

“Hero.”

“Monster.”

“Lesson.”

“Ending.”

A pause.

“Myth.”

---

The boy beside the ant has apparently concluded his research.

He approaches.

“Did the ant get lost?”

He shakes his head.

“How do you know?”

“It went somewhere.”

I stare at him.

He stares back.

“That does not answer my question.”

“Yes it does.”

He walks away.

I consider following.

I decide against it.

There are limits even to Týr Dagrsson's curiosity.

I look toward the camera again.

“Spectre.”

The name deserves careful consideration.

“Vin fought Spectre.”

“Vin survived Spectre.”

“Vin defeated Spectre.”

I nod.

“These things happened.”

No qualification.

No dismissal.

“Twenty-four world championships.”

Another nod.

“If the number is correct, these happened too.”

“Twenty-plus years.”

History.

“Real.”

I place the book upon my knee.

“History becomes mythology when somebody decides what the history must mean.”

There.

Vin fought Spectre.

Therefore Vin understands Týr.

Vin survived monsters.

Therefore Týr is another monster.

Vin has not broken before.

Therefore Vin cannot break.

Vin has won championships.

Therefore Vin will advance.

“One event.”

I hold up a finger.

“Then another.”

A second.

“Then a conclusion.”

A third.

“That conclusion is where Týr becomes interested.”

My hand lowers.

“Because the first two things happened.”

Silence.

“The third hasn't.”

---

The smallest child has wandered closer.

She looks at me.

“Are you talking about the wrestler?”

“Yes.”

“Is he mean?”

I think about it.

“Sometimes.”

“Are you going to beat him up?”

Another consideration.

“We have agreed to attempt that to each other.”

She accepts this immediately.

Children understand wrestling contracts surprisingly well.

“Who's going to win?”

There it is.

The easiest question.

The one wrestlers are supposed to answer without hesitation.

Vin already did.

Vin knows.

Vin promised.

Vin Halsted reigns supreme.

Týr bends.

The story ends.

I look at her.

“I don't know.”

She seems confused.

“But you're wrestling.”

“Yes.”

“Don't you want to win?”

“Very much.”

“Then say you're gonna win.”

I smile.

“Would saying it make it true?”

She thinks.

“No.”

“Then we have learned something.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Adults are weird.”

“Yes.”

She runs back toward the others.

I watch her go.

“Vin knows how his story ends.”

My attention returns to the camera.

“Týr does not.”

I stand.

Slowly.

The difference in scale becomes ridiculous again.

One of the children points.

“GIANT!”

The girl immediately corrects him.

“NOT A REAL ONE!”

I look toward them.

“We established this.”

Laughter.

Then I look at the camera.

“Perhaps Vin wins.”

No hesitation.

“Perhaps twenty-plus years taught him everything he believes they taught him.”

“Perhaps Spectre taught him what Týr will do.”

“Perhaps twenty-four championships predict the twenty-fifth.”

I pick up the book.

“Perhaps.”

One step along the stone path.

“But that is not history yet.”

Another.

“It is prediction.”

Another.

“And when prediction becomes certainty before anything happens...”

I stop.

Look at the cover.

Thor.

Hammer.

Monster.

Story.

“...we have another word for that.”

My eyes return to the camera.

“A story.”

I begin walking.

Then stop.

One final thought.

“Vin?”

My voice remains calm.

“Týr Dagrsson does not think he is a god.”

A pause.

“But thank you for telling him what you think he is.”

My head tilts.

“That was useful.”

I walk away.

Behind me, the children resume arguing.

“KRATOS WOULD BEAT THOR!”

“NO HE WOULDN'T!”

“YES HE WOULD!”

I stop.

Slowly turn.

Consider intervening.

Decide some wars are beyond even Týr Dagrsson.

BLACK.