seemed, later, to have shrunk.
He wondered if it was the air of Asgard thatdid it, or if it had happened when he drank the water of the pool.
He reached Fat Elfred’s door and he rapped upon it sharply with his staff.
“Who is it?” called a voice.
“It’s me. Odd,” he said.
There was a noise inside the hut, an urgent whispering, then people talking in low voices. Odd could hear the loudest of the voices as it grumbled about good-for-nothings who stole a side of salmon, and how it was high time for someone to be taught a lesson he would never forget. He heard the sound of a door being unbarred.
The door opened and Fat Elfred looked out. He stared at Odd, confused.
“I’m sorry,” he said, in a most un-sorry tone of voice. “I thought my runaway stepson was here.”
Odd looked down at the man. Then he smiledand he said, “It is him. I mean, it’s me. I’m him. I’m Odd.”
Fat Elfred said nothing. The heads of his various sons and daughters appeared around him. They looked up at Odd nervously.
“Is my mother here?” asked Odd.
Fat Elfred coughed. “You grew,” he said. “If that is you.”
Odd just smiled—a smile so irritating that it had to be him.
The smallest of Fat Elfred’s children said, “They got into fights after you went away. She said we had to go and look for you and that it was Dad’s fault you’d run off, and he said it wasn’t and he wouldn’t and good riddance to bad rubbish and she said right then, and she went back to your father’s old house on the other side of town.”
“It is him. I mean, it’s me. I’m him. I’m Odd.”
Odd winked down at the boy, as Thor had once winked at him, and turned around and, leaning on his carved staff, limped through the village, which already seemed much too small for him and not just because he had grown so much since he had left. Soon the ice would melt and longships would be sailing. He did not imagine anyone would refuse him a berth on a ship. Not now that he was big. They would need a good pair of hands on the oars, after all. Nor would they argue if he chose to bring a passenger…
He reached down and knocked on the door of the house in which he had been born. And when his mother opened the door, before she could hug him, before she could cry and laugh and cry once more, before she could offer him food and exclaim over how big he had grown and how fast children do spring up when theyare out of your sight, before any of these things could happen, Odd said, “Hello, Mother. How would you like to go back to Scotland? For a while, at least.”
“That would be a fine thing,” she said.
And Odd smiled, and ducked his head to get through the door, and went inside.
About the Author
NEIL GAIMAN writes books. Some of them are for adults, like American Gods , and some of them are comics, like the Sandman series, and some of them have pictures, like Crazy Hair and Blueberry Girl . He was awarded the Newbery Medal for The Graveyard Book . (Hello.) Other awards he has won include the Hugo Award, the Nebula Award, the World Fantasy Award and, hardest to spell, the Mythopoeic Award. (I bet you could win awards just for spelling Mythopoeic correctly.) His books Coraline and Stardust were made into films. (Does anyone read these biographies?) He is practically fifty years old and has three children. (Help, I am being held prisoner.) He wears lots of black clothes and probably needs a haircut. (They make us write these biographies of authors all day.) He wrote Odd and the Frost Giants for World Book Day in the UK, and thinks there are more stories about Odd he would like to tell. Visit him online at www.mousecircus.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Credits
Jacket art © 2009 by Brett Helquist
Jacket design by Hilary Zarycky
Copyright
ODD AND THE FROST GIANTS . Text copyright © 2009 by Neil Gaiman. Illustrations copyright © 2009 by Brett Helquist. All rights
He wondered if it was the air of Asgard thatdid it, or if it had happened when he drank the water of the pool.
He reached Fat Elfred’s door and he rapped upon it sharply with his staff.
“Who is it?” called a voice.
“It’s me. Odd,” he said.
There was a noise inside the hut, an urgent whispering, then people talking in low voices. Odd could hear the loudest of the voices as it grumbled about good-for-nothings who stole a side of salmon, and how it was high time for someone to be taught a lesson he would never forget. He heard the sound of a door being unbarred.
The door opened and Fat Elfred looked out. He stared at Odd, confused.
“I’m sorry,” he said, in a most un-sorry tone of voice. “I thought my runaway stepson was here.”
Odd looked down at the man. Then he smiledand he said, “It is him. I mean, it’s me. I’m him. I’m Odd.”
Fat Elfred said nothing. The heads of his various sons and daughters appeared around him. They looked up at Odd nervously.
“Is my mother here?” asked Odd.
Fat Elfred coughed. “You grew,” he said. “If that is you.”
Odd just smiled—a smile so irritating that it had to be him.
The smallest of Fat Elfred’s children said, “They got into fights after you went away. She said we had to go and look for you and that it was Dad’s fault you’d run off, and he said it wasn’t and he wouldn’t and good riddance to bad rubbish and she said right then, and she went back to your father’s old house on the other side of town.”
“It is him. I mean, it’s me. I’m him. I’m Odd.”
Odd winked down at the boy, as Thor had once winked at him, and turned around and, leaning on his carved staff, limped through the village, which already seemed much too small for him and not just because he had grown so much since he had left. Soon the ice would melt and longships would be sailing. He did not imagine anyone would refuse him a berth on a ship. Not now that he was big. They would need a good pair of hands on the oars, after all. Nor would they argue if he chose to bring a passenger…
He reached down and knocked on the door of the house in which he had been born. And when his mother opened the door, before she could hug him, before she could cry and laugh and cry once more, before she could offer him food and exclaim over how big he had grown and how fast children do spring up when theyare out of your sight, before any of these things could happen, Odd said, “Hello, Mother. How would you like to go back to Scotland? For a while, at least.”
“That would be a fine thing,” she said.
And Odd smiled, and ducked his head to get through the door, and went inside.
About the Author
NEIL GAIMAN writes books. Some of them are for adults, like American Gods , and some of them are comics, like the Sandman series, and some of them have pictures, like Crazy Hair and Blueberry Girl . He was awarded the Newbery Medal for The Graveyard Book . (Hello.) Other awards he has won include the Hugo Award, the Nebula Award, the World Fantasy Award and, hardest to spell, the Mythopoeic Award. (I bet you could win awards just for spelling Mythopoeic correctly.) His books Coraline and Stardust were made into films. (Does anyone read these biographies?) He is practically fifty years old and has three children. (Help, I am being held prisoner.) He wears lots of black clothes and probably needs a haircut. (They make us write these biographies of authors all day.) He wrote Odd and the Frost Giants for World Book Day in the UK, and thinks there are more stories about Odd he would like to tell. Visit him online at www.mousecircus.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Credits
Jacket art © 2009 by Brett Helquist
Jacket design by Hilary Zarycky
Copyright
ODD AND THE FROST GIANTS . Text copyright © 2009 by Neil Gaiman. Illustrations copyright © 2009 by Brett Helquist. All rights
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