The Tyche Effect

On the final day of his sabbatical, Ananke of Kvantheim sat inside the window of Flat White Noise, Clatterdown’s finest café, basking in blissful equilibrium.

The sleepy, coastal hamlet he’d escaped to following a traumatic ordeal at Axis Spire was his kind of place. Quiet. Slow. Dull with few unruly elements, ones that could be easily tamed. The tide ran on schedule, the weather followed a weekly rhythm, and the library, park, and gallery opened and shut like clockwork, attended by the same faces.

Troy Bucknell, owner of the cafe where Ananke spent his time when he wasn’t meditating or hiking, had a permanently jovial visage. He wore the same tartan pants, red cardigan and sunny yellow apron every day and created perfectly symmetrical patterns on the surface of coffees. He was always in the perkiest of moods and his cafe had a steady flow of custom. Flat White Noise and Clatterdown were accustomed to rhythm and routine, so no one noticed the subtle effects Ananke’s presence wrought.

Order clung to him like his shadow, imposing its will wherever he went, so anywhere he ventured in Midgard had to have minimal disorder. As such, Clatterdown was the ideal place to unwind.

That day–Thursday, cloudy, serene–Ananke, in casual white suit and blue silk shirt, had just settled down to a book and cup of vanilla and lavender tea when the disturbance occurred.

A clatter from behind the counter that made him jump.

A clatter? That was not what this town was known for, despite its name. Clatterdown didn’t clatter. Flat White Noise didn’t clatter. Clattering wasn’t serene.

And Troy knew it.

A barrage of apologies percolated from the barista station to the shop, apologies followed by laughter and then a curiously familiar scent.

Troy bounced out from behind the counter holding a steaming mug, the grin of a man who’d discovered the cure for third degree thong rash proudly displayed beneath his mo.

“‘Nanke!” he gushed, setting the mug before the God. “Cop this, mate! Something new! Some boho rando left a bottle o’ mushroom-pistachio syrup behind before. I chucked in some cinnamon, just for a lark, and… Well, what’s the verdict?”

Ananke narrowed his eyes. “You...mixed cinnamon with mushroom-pistachio?”

“Too right! Tastes like candied pinecones! Kinda gives me Chrissy vibes, like Christmas in… where’d ya say yer from?”

Ananke didn’t reply. He was sniffing the steam wafting from the mug. Cinnamon and mushroom-pistachio. A scent that could only be Yulebark.

His eyebrows twitched. A flavour so obscure it wasn’t even fashionable in Asgard. He hadn’t tasted it in centuries. What were the odds of it being invented here?

His spine stiffened.

No.

He sat up straighter to scan the café.

The man in the corner doing crosswords. The teen blasting synthwave from his headphones. Mrs. Dallow, knitting socks and forecasting rain. They were all here, on cue, faces and habits and patterns, comforting, nice.

Except…Yulebark. Here, now, impossible. Unless…

“Ridiculous.”

He shook his head, lifted the mug to his lips. “It’s just a coinci…”

His arm froze.

“Wait. What boho rando?”

Ananke hadn’t seen any strangers in town. Not today. Not since he’d been here. That was the point, there were and could be no surprises.

“Dunno, mate. Some sheila passin’ through, ordered french toast and garnished it with her own syrup.”

Ananke lowered the cup.

A boho rando, female, Yulebark, coincidence. He didn’t want to think it, but…

The café door burst open with the frantic jingle of a bell.

A small boy–Freddie, nine, fond of chocolate–ran in, wild-eyed and out of breath. “Troy! Deadset, you’ll never believe it. She’s here!”

“Who’s here?” asked Troy.

Who’s she? thought Ananke

“Zandra Velvet!” the boy announced, like the name was a super magic spell. “She pulled up in this limo on Wattle, asked me for directions to Groove Records! Said she’s doin’ random signings in Boodonk towns! Signed me forehead, look!”

He lifted his hair to show off a Sharpie scrawl.

Troy shrieked: “Zandra Velvet?!?”

Ananke exhaled: “Zandra Velvet?”

Freddie raised a brow. “You know her?”

“Know her?” Ananke hopped to his feet. “She’s…the only mortal, um, Australian artist whose music made it to Celestial Rotation. Her third album was endorsed by Queen Clio. When I played her vinyl at the Temple of Echoes, ten Muse interns expired!”

Troy shrugged and tugged off his apron. “Yeah, mate, I have no idea what you said, but fair dinkum! Zandra Velvet’s a legend! I’ve got all her albums on cassette! Right, I’m takin’ my break.” He glanced at Ananke. “You hot to trot?”

“I…” Ananke hesitated. He wasn’t in town for excitement, he was here for a rest. No crowds, no dramas, but...Zandra Velvet?

“Better hurry!” gasped Freddie. “She was on her way straight there, said she ain’t stayin’ long. Sign and run, trying to hit ten towns before noon!”

“Aw, bloody hell,” said Troy, slapping a hand to his forehead. “Me car’s in the flamin’ garage. Don’t suppose you’ve got any wheels, mate?”

Ananke shook his head. No wheels. To go see Zandra Velvet. His favourite artist. Who’d randomly turned up in Clatterdown. On the last day of his sabbatical. His influence should have prevented that. The odds were a billion to one.

And that thought filled his mind with dread.

He stared out the window and open door. Looking for signs. Of her presence. Not Zandra Velvet. Someone else. But he couldn’t see anything obvious. The street sign stayed still. The seagulls minded their business. His mug of Yulebark steamed innocently on the table but its very existence, coupled with Zandra’s arrival, made him almost certain something was…

Just then, a wheezing old campervan sporting a patchwork of sun-faded murals spluttered to a halt outside the cafe.

“Alright, Troy! What’s the goss?” called the driver, a large, tanned woman in a tank top and sunnies who was craning her neck out the window.

“Hey, that’s my cuz!” said Troy, slapping Ananke’s back. “What a stroke o’ luck! Ol’ Darl’ll give us a lift! Right, Darl?”

The woman squinted through her sunnies, sucking on a slice of dried peach. “Sure. What’s the drama?”

“Need a lift to Groove Records! Zandra bloody Velvet’s in town!”

Freddie, vibrating with excitement, shouted: “She signed me noggin, Darl!” before racing off home to tell his friends.

Darl gave him a thumbs-up. “Nice one, legend! Hop in Troy, I’ll fang it.”

Troy took Ananke by the elbow. “Come on, mate! This is divine intervention.”

“That’s…what I’m afraid of…”

Ananke surveyed his surroundings as he let Troy guide him to the van.

“About that sheila. Did she have a lot of red hair?”

“Who knows, mate, I wasn’t payin’ attention! Take a seat.”

Against his better judgment, Ananke found himself being shoved into a rust-bucket that smelled of meat pies, and was soon wedged between Troy and a bag of damp laundry. Somehow, in the blink of an eye, he’d been shunted into a detour of slow-moving chaos.

“Nice to meetcha” Darl said, reaching back to forcibly shake his hand with sticky fingers. “Now hang on tight, I’m not gentle.”

Before Ananke could ask what that meant, Darl spun the van in a wild U-turn and took off towards Amberjack Lane.

“We’ll be there in under five!” she chirped, steering with one hand while passing Troy back a peach with the other. “Unless the bloody parade’s bled outta town.”

“Parade?” Ananke asked, wiping his syrup-glazed hand on his trousers.

“Yeah! Some flamin’ gallah with a crab starts passin’ out harmonicas, and now the whole town square’s boogiein’ to renaissance ska!”

Ananke stared at her face in a loose rear view mirror that wobbled as the van bounced along. “Crab? Renaissance…ska?”

A chill crept down his spine.

It was happening again.

Just like in the Winding Temple, his sanctum of stars, which had first been overrun by an infestation of celestine shellbacks and then commandeered by a troupe of Yggdrasil Buskers, performing a Skaldic Boogie on the same night as a celestial calibration.

And the one responsible for both events?

Tyche.

Queen of Randomness. Empress of Happenstance. Unrelenting stalker of his personal peace who, for reasons unknown, had a crush on him.

“She can’t be here.”

Troy glanced up from his peach. “What’s that, mate?”

“I used a series of nested teleportation sigils, random-number astral drift, and a portal known only to the Fates. She couldn’t have found me, not here.”

The van hit a bump, and the stereo jolted to life playing one of Zandra’s songs—Track 8 on her unreleased acoustic album. The leaked one Ananke illegally downloaded upon arrival and had played incessantly since.

Another coincidence. No doubt now. It was her.

“She ruined my temple. Filled it with Stjarnekrabbur. Turned it into a circus. Then, when I wouldn’t date her, she made the Muses think I stole constellations. I do not steal constellations. Constellations come to me, to be aligned.”

“Wow, that’s some unit,” said Troy, finishing off the dried fruit. “Ya ever think about blocking her number?”

“Or moving Interstate?” added Darla, yanking the wheel and veering into Amberjack Lane. “What’d I tell ya? Dodged the parade. Can ya hear it? Sounds like a clown car dying.”

She wasn’t wrong, the janky horns and blaring brass leaking through the van’s open windows from the nearby Square sent waves of cringe down Ananke’s spine. Luckily, the sight of the crowd outside the small independent record store distracted from both this and the belief that Tyche had again invaded his domain. The shiny black limo, the pull up banner showing Zandra beaming from a cloud–this was a chaos he needed.

“Christ on a bike,” said Darla. “This sheila has her fans”

“An’ I’m one of the biggest!” laughed Troy, reaching for the door. “Thanks, Darl, you can pop us off here.”

Ananke, baffled by what was unfolding, stumbled out with Troy into a buzz of excitement when the van stopped.

“Get a move on, ya morons, you’ll miss your chance!” Darla shouted when Troy slammed the door. “Send us a pic, cuz! Smell ya later!”

“Will do!” Troy called back, as Darla gunned the engine and took off. “Come on, mate! Me pal Jimbo works here, he’ll get us in the back door!”

Before Ananke could answer, Troy had sprinted into an alley next to the store and left him behind. He stood for a moment, debating the obscene lack of order, the absence of decorum around everything that had occurred these last ten minutes. Cheating and cutting in line was anathema to him but…it was Zandra Velvet. His idol. Wasn’t that worth embracing some disorder? Wasn’t that what she always said? Live dangerously, throw caution to the wind.

She.

The annoying cling-on he’d come here to escape, who shouldn’t be named, acknowledged or…

Seen.

Having made up his mind to follow Troy, Ananke cast one last glance at the record store entrance and there she was, just inside, back to him, face concealed but even at this distance, he knew. The mane of red locks. Those curves. That stature. Even in a baggy t-shirt and loose fitting, faded denim jeans, it was unmistakable.

Tyche.

His Mistress of Dismay. His Goddess of Anxiety. His Unwanted Admirer.

Seething, seeing red, fired up like he hadn’t been in aeons, Ananke charged towards the door, brushing past jostling fans, ignoring the shrieks and selfies of teens as he pushed into the shop and grabbed the buzzing annoyance by the arms.

“Think it’s funny?” he snapped, spinning the Goddess towards him. “Upsetting my sabbatical? How many times must I say it, you’re not my type!”

“You’re not mine either, mate,” the gaunt, long haired, not-Tyche rocker before him sneered back. “Rack off!”

A glare, a fist, a punch.

Ananke stumbled, out of the shop, nose stinging, lip throbbing as he fell into the arms of an oversized man.

“Well, look who it is,” a bristly mustache muttered in his ear. “I’ve had my eye on you, sunshine. All that slinkin’ ‘round town, lookin’ sus. Then all of a sudden we’ve got shoplifters puttin’ shit back, road ragers lettin’ folks in an’ bludgers rockin’ up to Centrelink in suits. I knew there was somethin’ up. An’ now you’re here startin’ fights.”

The red-faced copper snapped tarnished cuffs around Ananke’s wrists. “What happened, Rocko wouldn’t buy your crap? What are you dealin’, designer drugs for politeness?”

“No, I… This is a misunderstanding. I don’t deal drugs…”

“What’s this then?”

The big man slapped a meaty palm against Ananke’s leg and peeled off the small plastic baggie filled with strange brown leaves that was stuck there.

Ananke shook his head. “That’s not mine. I was in a van, with a woman called Darl eating peaches, it must have got stuck on… Listen, this is all wrong. It was Tyche, I thought she followed me to make everything go bad. I just need to recalibrate…”

“You can recalibrate in a cell, mate,” snapped the cop, pushing Ananke towards a waiting patrol car. “Along with that ska-incitin’ crab girl. What a bloody day for blow-in weirdos.”

“Crab girl?”

The distraction was enough to allow Ananke be shoved into the back, the door slammed roughly behind him.

“Yeah, make friends, I’m gonna say hi to Zandra Velvet. She’s signin’ in store, can you believe it?”

Ananke groaned and sagged into the sunburnt vinyl as the cop tottered away, flashing his badge to clear a path through the crowd. The audacity. Him—order incarnate—reduced to this insufferable madness.

He closed his eyes, ignoring the woman beside him. Her head hung low, face obscured by tangled hair. She seemed asleep. Perfect. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

But…it wasn’t just tangled hair.

It was red.

Then came the sound, the click-click-clicking of pincers, and his eyes popped open, snapping to the floor between the woman’s legs. There, like a guardian, was an Asgardian Stjarnekrabbur on a leash.

“Niflheim’s anus!” he hissed.

The woman beside him stirred. “Niflheim?”

She peeked up, hair falling away from her face.

Ananke turned his head.

His breath caught and together, at once, they spat each other’s names.

“I knew it!” Ananke fumed. “You followed me to ruin my vacation! Wasn’t what you did in Ordensdal enough?”

“I did no such thing!” Tyche objected, her own cuffs rattling as she lifted her arms. “I just wanted to get out of Asgard. My wheel chose this place at random. It’s a…”

“Coincidence? Of course it is, as always, but I don’t believe it. You’ve never set foot out of Asgard, why leave now?”

“I felt bad about what happened in the temple,” the Goddess sighed. “That wasn’t my intention. I wanted to be quirky and cute. To show you how fun I can be. To show you what fun can be like. But I spun too much and it got out of hand.”

“You don’t say,” Ananke grumped. “And then you did the same thing here.”

“Not to trouble you! This is just… You know what this is? A sign we’re meant to be together!”

“It most certainly is not! Now look, Tyche, if you really feel bad about what happened you can make it up by getting me out of here.”

Tyche brightened. “No problem, but…” She extended her arms, showing a tattoo of the Wheel of Fate on one forearm. “You’ll have to spin it.”

Ananke huffed but complied, placing a finger on the edge of his companion’s flamboyant tattoo and flicking it once to make it spin. To his amazement, his handcuffs clicked open and dropped off. “Faulty,” he muttered, knowing they hadn’t been before.

Tyche’s cuffs clattered to the floor. “Mine too. What a coincidence. Door lock’s faulty too.” She grinned, opened the door, slid out, her cotton dress catching the breeze and fluttering behind her like a pennant.

Ananke waited for her to remove her Stjarnekrabbur before clambering out and setting off towards the town square. There was a ska parade he needed to silence.

“That’s it?” Tyche asked, trailing behind. “You’re just leaving? What about serendipity?”

“No such thing.”

“Ananke!”

“I’m not dating you..”

“Come on, take a chance on disorder.”

“Negative.”

“Then disorder’s gonna take a chance on you.”

That stopped him in his tracks. He could almost feel her flicking her tattoo.

“Tyche,” he sighed, before…

“Nanky? It’s you, ain’t it? Strewth! I only flew out ‘ere ‘cause I got wind Zandra Velvet would be in town. Didn’t expect to be reunited with the possible father o' me sprogs!”

His blood ran cold. He turned to see a large woman approaching, a couple of blond kids in tow. He remembered her, from a tryst they’d had in Kookaburra six years before. He looked at Tyche. The tattoo on her arm rolled to a halt. “I’m not the father…”

She shrugged. “Not judging. But are you sure?”

“Come on, boys, say g’day to your dad! I told you he was awesome-sauce, didn’t I?”

Ananke sighed and dropped his head.

“Fine. We’ll go on a date.”

Tyche chirped and spun her wheel and a tough-looking bloke muscled his way out of Groove Records, straight into the eager mother’s path.

“Stone the crows,” he gasped, rubbing a hand through sun-bleached hair. “Marsha?”

“T-Tommy? I…I thought you copped fifteen to life…”

“Got out early on good behaviour. And the victim bloody came back to life. Don’t ask. I’m just stoked to see ya, babe! Crikey…are these me ankle-biters? Look like chips off the old block!”

Ananke watched as Marsha and Tommy pashed before skipping away with the kids. Tyche sidled up alongside him and hooked her arm into his.

“Bullet dodged, ‘Nanky’.”

The Stjarnekrabbur scuttled between them.

Ananke sighed, letting Tyche pull him into an ambling stroll. Maybe there was some order in disorder.

“So…where are we going on this date?”

Tyche beamed and settled her head on his shoulder.

“Somewhere that clatters louder than quiet Clatterdown.”