Asgard

by Fynn F Gunnarson

  The only words Sharp Axe felt he could afford the time to say at that moment were hurried and choked: ‘When he strikes me, run!’

  Sharp Axe closed his eyes, tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and held his breath, waiting for the giant wooden club to descend and bring oblivion...

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Crone

  Sharp Axe was, in his estimation, very definitely staring death in the face. A Frost Giant stood directly in front of him, holding above its head a huge wooden club which looked large and heavy enough to kill him with a single blow. Behind him stood Mithrén, the Elf maiden he was trying to protect. He had closed his eyes, but he no longer needed to see them to know they were both there. Mithrén and Sharp Axe were cornered and the latter’s inescapable conclusion was that one (or probably both) of them was about to die imminently.

  ‘There’s no way out,’ Sharp Axe heard Mithrén say, quite calmly, as if she were now as resigned to having their lives end in Jøtunheimr, as he was. ‘Maybe Thor – ?’ she began, now suddenly sounding a little hopeful. Sharp Axe opened his eyes on the off-chance that Mithrén’s optimism was not misplaced, but immediately saw that Thor would not be coming to their aid: the God of Thunder had once again been forced back against a wall of Utgard’s great hall, where powerful blows from giant clubs rained down on him repeatedly, preventing him from swinging Mjøllnir and, more importantly, keeping his attention away from Sharp Axe and Mithrén.

  As the immense figure in front of him continued to take careful – and, probably, terminal – aim with his club, Sharp Axe called out in desperation to Thor but, in his heart, he knew his cry for help would be neither heard nor answered. Even if Thor had been able to hear, Sharp Axe was not convinced he would have been able to tear himself away from one of his favourite hobbies – fighting Frost Giants – merely to save the lives of his two unwelcome wards.

  The Frost Giant in front of Sharp Axe appeared to tense the muscles in his mighty arms, in order to deliver the killing-blow and the victim closed his eyes once more, cursing silently at the hopelessness of the situation and the unfairness of the match, but grateful that he would not have to witness his beloved elf maiden’s end.

  Mithrén let out a loud but short scream and Sharp Axe now tensed his own muscles, in anticipation of the inevitable.

  Then…

  Nothing happened.

  Nothing happened for what seemed like a long time.

  Sharp Axe tentatively opened one eye. He did not believe what he saw, so closed his eye again, then opened both his eyes, to allow himself a second opinion.

  Something very large was standing between him and the club-wielding giant.

  It was Rind.

  Rind had intervened by blocking the mighty club on its downward journey between her crossed arms, thus preventing the giant from striking his intended victim. The thwarted giant was now staring at Rind incredulously and furiously, but she was returning his stare and standing her ground.

  ‘They are with the Aesir!’ growled the giant unappreciatively and indicated Thor, somewhere behind him, with a short, backward jerk of his head. After a brief, though agonisingly-uncertain pause, he removed the club slowly and reluctantly from the barrier provided by Rind’s arms and lowered it (although, from the look on his would-be assassin’s face, Sharp Axe feared that this would be nothing more than a temporary stay of execution).

  Rind turned to Sharp Axe and said calmly, ‘Go now. Take Thor’s chariot. Get away from Jøtunheimr.’

  Sharp Axe was sorely tempted. There was, however, one small, potential drawback with Rind’s suggestion which he thought he really should bring to the attention of his saviour.

  ‘But Thor will kill me!’ protested Sharp Axe, deciding he ought to bring the potential drawback to Rind’s attention sooner rather than later.

  ‘Hymir will kill you if you stay!’ replied Rind chillingly, almost pleadingly and, in that instant, Sharp Axe was sure he detected kindness, compassion and even concern in Rind’s eyes: qualities apparently lacking in the rest of her race.

  ‘Go to the door – now!’ insisted Rind. She turned back to Hymir and, in an attempt to dissuade him from resuming hostilities, laid a calming hand on each of his shoulders; Hymir still looked resolutely determined to dispose of Sharp Axe.

  The giantess (still watching Hymir, keeping her hands on his shoulders and ensuring her body remained between him and Sharp Axe and Mithrén) now stepped slowly sideways to allow the human and Light Elf to pass by her and run towards the great hall’s enormous wooden door. Hymir looked cheated and not terribly pleased about it, but Rind would not allow him past her. When Sharp Axe and Mithrén reached the door, Rind began to step backwards carefully, never taking her eyes off Hymir, then removed one hand from his shoulder, reached back and felt for the latch, raised it, took another step back and forced the heavy door open just enough to allow the diminutive visitors to squeeze through it and out of the hall.

  ‘Quickly!’ Sharp Axe and Mithrén heard Rind call from the other side of the closing door before it closed shut. ‘Into the chariot!’

  The chariot and the shivering goats who were still lashed to it were a matter of only fifty or sixty paces away from the door of the hall. Though Sharp Axe and Mithrén ran as best they could, it seemed to take an agonisingly-long time to cover the distance, negotiating the deep, heavy snow on the ground and looking back towards the hall door every few strides, fearful that Hymir might yet overpower Rind and charge through it, after them.

  There was, however, to be no pursuit from the angry Frost Giant; Sharp Axe and Mithrén reached the chariot, breathless and trembling but safe, thankful for Rind’s inexplicable, kind intervention and much too relieved and eager to leave Jøtunheimr to consider fully the consequences of their leaving the God of Thunder stranded amongst his most bitter enemies on their home soil.

  *

  Whilst Sharp Axe and Mithrén had been visiting Jøtunheimr, Asgard had, itself, received an unexpected visitor: a small, withered, hygienically-challenged old lady had arrived and tentatively approached the deities who, as usual, were gathered beneath a group of leafy trees, socialising and eating fruit from Asgard’s orchard.

  Displaying little interest in the crone, the Aesir and Vanir continued to talk to one another, until she was amongst them. Finally, they deigned to look upon her, mostly with disdain.

  ‘I seek the goddess Frygga,’ croaked the old woman, as if the words required some effort to force out.

  There was muttering amongst the Aesir and Vanir, almost all of it disapproving, until a gentle voice said, ‘I am she.’

  Frygga had replied wearing a puzzled look; she now walked forward towards the visitor and smiled pleasantly at her. Aware that the other deities’ uncomplimentary and quite audible mutterings were clearly making the old woman uncomfortable, Frygga put a benign hand on her shoulder and led her gently away from them.

  ‘Why do you seek me?’ asked Frygga with polite intrigue, once the pair was out of the earshot of the others. Visitors to Asgard from other worlds, despite the recent appearance there of Sharp Axe and Mithrén, were still far from an everyday occurrence.

  The crone looked up into the goddess’s kind eyes and replied, ‘I have heard you are merciful and charitable… as well as beautiful and wise… ’

  Frygga smiled modestly and tilted her head enquiringly, but did not reply.

  ‘… I am poor… ’ continued the old woman, her eyes beginning to fill with tears and her voice wavering slightly, ‘… I have no family… nowhere to live… nothing to eat… can you find it in your heart to help me?’

  The goddess reached out slowly and returned her hand to the old woman’s shoulder.

  ‘Of course,’ said Frygga comfortingly, moved by the crone’s sad plight. ‘Of course.’

  *

  ‘Go!’ shouted Sharp Axe, for the seventh or eighth time, as Mithrén kept a nervous eye on the door of Jøtunheimr’s great hall. ‘Go on! Home! Back to Asgard!’
/>
  Nothing happened, except that the dumbfounded goats looked gormlessly back at their new, quite obviously-inept driver, then at each other.

  Sharp Axe let out a protracted groan of anger and frustration. He could see that neither of Thor’s goats had been blessed with a particularly-keen intellect and trying to give them detailed instruction, however loudly it might be delivered, was probably never going to achieve the desired outcome.

  ‘Make them go!’ suggested Mithrén unhelpfully, still gazing towards the great hall, panic rising in her voice.

  ‘I’m… trying!’ retorted Sharp Axe through clenched teeth. ‘If you have any constructive ideas, please feel free… ’

  Mithrén reluctantly removed her gaze from the great hall’s door and transferred it to her intended. ‘Well… ’ she began, sounding as though she were planning to make whatever it was she was about to say simple enough for a small, not terribly-gifted child to understand, ‘… what would Thor do?’

  Sharp Axe immediately took Mithrén’s point: there was only one answer to that question. Without a moment’s hesitation, Sharp Axe raised the leather reins he was holding and brought them down as hard as he could, across the goats’ hindquarters.

  The result was immediate, dramatic and, as far as Mithrén was concerned, almost catastrophic.

  The chariot lurched forward sharply, as the startled goats leapt into action. It was all Sharp Axe could do to hold onto the reins; it was all Mithrén could do to hold on to the chariot, to prevent herself from being thrown backwards, out of the back of it, as the now-familiar and sudden violent movement once again managed to take her completely by surprise.

  ‘Everything all right?’ called Sharp Axe, as he fought hard to control the speeding goats.

  ‘Oh, yes, fine,’ shouted Mithrén pleasantly, over the thunderous noise of the chariot’s stone wheels. ‘Let’s promise ourselves to do this more often! Maybe we could get our own goat-drawn stone chariot to take back to Álfheimr!’

  ‘No… I don’t think we’ll be able to do that,’ yelled Sharp Axe, his features contorting under the strain of trying to steer and, more urgently, to slow down Tanngnjóstr and Tanngrisnir.

  ‘Oh – why not?’ replied Mithrén, her curiosity momentarily taking precedence over her fear of the chariot and her annoyance with its power source.

  ‘Because,’ replied Sharp Axe, seriously, ‘if the goats haven’t already killed us by the time Thor finds us ... then he certainly will!’

  *

  ‘Do take something to eat,’ insisted Frygga, who had listened attentively to the crone’s mostly-sad life story, a short walk away from the place they had first encountered each other; the story had not taken long to tell but had, nonetheless, moved the goddess. Now, Frygga was gently guiding the old woman towards the fruit-laden table, next to which the other gods and goddesses were standing, all of them deep in conversation; they appeared to have forgotten that the old woman was there.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ replied the crone in her crackly voice. ‘You are so kind… ’ and she allowed Frygga to steer her over to the table. Just as they reached it, the attention of the gathered Aesir was attracted by something happening a short distance away, on the other side of the trees. One by one, the gods and goddesses deserted the table, leaving Frygga and the old woman alone.

  ‘Please,’ said Frygga, spreading out a hand languidly to indicate several large wooden bowls on the tabletop in front of her, which were overflowing with luscious, fresh fruit, ‘help yourself to anything except the golden-coloured apples. They are… to be eaten only by the gods and goddesses.’

  ‘Thank you… so kind,’ said the crone again, ignoring the fruit and knowing full well that the golden apples to which Frygga had referred were enchanted with magic powerful enough to give the gods their immortality. ‘May I ask, though,’ she went on, looking directly at her hostess with an enthralled expression, ‘where everyone else has gone?’

  Frygga smiled at her, then looked enquiringly through the trees, towards shouts of excitement and noises of approval, although she knew very well what was happening. ‘Come,’ she replied, now looking again at the old woman, ‘I’ll show you.’

  As Frygga led her to the place from which the commotion was coming, a most bizarre sight met the visitor’s astonished eyes: several gods and goddesses were hurling objects – stones, spears, dead tree branches – towards another, more handsome, more radiant god who, far from displaying anxiety or alarm, was smiling fondly at those who were apparently using him for target practice.

  The crone looked dismayed. ‘What… what are they doing?’ she demanded, turning to Frygga. ‘They will hurt him! And he is such a good-looking young man! Do they wish him dead? Do they so envy him his youthful beauty?’

  Frygga smiled again and shook her head calmly. ‘No, no; he is greatly loved by all. Do not be concerned; he will come to no harm…,’ she said with an air of serene confidence, as she turned her gaze towards her beloved son, ‘ ... see how the objects change direction before they reach him?’

  ‘But how can this be?’ gasped the crone, open-mouthed. ‘Do the objects themselves love him so much that they change their flight in mid-air, rather than harm him? Who is this young man? Surely there was never one so fair as he, in all of the Nine Worlds!’

  Frygga laughed joyfully, delighted by the old woman’s compliments and nodded in agreement with all she had said. ‘His name is Baldr ... and he is my son,’ she announced, proudly.

  ‘Then certainly, my lady,’ declared the old woman, with tears in her eyes, ‘you have indeed been blessed! And how the other gods and goddesses must love him, to play this game.’

  ‘Yes ... ’ agreed Frygga, by now almost moved to tears, herself, ‘ ... and see how he smiles… it is his favourite game.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the old woman, in a concerned tone, ‘but there is one who does not join in the game… the one sitting down there, you see?’ and she pointed to a miserable-looking figure, seated a little distance from the others.

  ‘Yes… ’ replied Frygga, now adopting a melancholy expression, ‘… yes, that is Hødr. He is Baldr’s brother… sadly, he is blind and cannot join in the game… though you may be sure that he, too, loves Baldr… and would love to be able to play, if only he could.’

  ‘Oh,’ sighed the crone, who frowned sympathetically and quickly changed the subject. ‘But do you not fear that one of the objects the others are throwing might become envious of Baldr’s great beauty and strike him?’

  It was a question Frygga had been asked before and, each time it had been put to her, she had given a careful reply. On this occasion, however, she saw little need for caution.

  ‘Many years ago,’ she began, looking around instinctively as if to verify their privacy, ‘all objects, throughout the Nine Worlds – living or otherwise – gave me a solemn oath that they would never harm my son, Baldr.’

  ‘ Oh… it must have taken a very long time,’ gasped the crone in amazement, now looking Frygga straight in the eye, ‘to have extracted an oath from every object in the Nine Worlds!’

  ‘Yes… yes… a very long time,’ said Frygga distantly, remembering the experience without much nostalgia. ‘I had to make a list, to keep a record of my work,’ she continued with a wistful sigh. ‘It was to be my legacy… proof of the world’s love for Baldr, in case there came a day when I was no longer here to tell him of it.’

  ‘So,’ pressed the crone, innocently, ‘there is not a single thing, in all the Nine Worlds, which would harm him… that must be very… comforting.’

  ‘Well,’ said Frygga, looking around again furtively, ‘there was one thing which, I later realised, I had… forgotten to ask… but there is none in Asgard, so it was of no importance… and I never got around to extracting the oath.’

  ‘Oh, but even so!’ insisted the crone. ‘If someone were jealous of his radiance and beauty… and wanted to hurt him… Oh, this is terrible – terrible! What was it, my dear?’

  Frygga looked
around a final time before mouthing, silently, ‘Mistletoe’; then she cast another loving glance at the smiling Baldr.

  After a long moment, Frygga turned back to the old woman, to ask whether she would, herself, like to play the game.

  The old woman was no longer there.

  *

  As Tanngnjóstr and Tanngrisnir dragged Thor’s chariot along at heart-stopping speed, the chariot driver finally felt able to offer his passenger some comfort.

  ‘At least we’re going in the right direction!’ shouted Sharp Axe cheerfully, though without completely succeeding in concealing the anxiety in his voice. ‘There’s Bifrost up ahead!’

  The sight of the rainbow bridge might, under different circumstances, have been welcomed by Mithrén. She decided, then, to test whether the present circumstances might be improved.

  ‘Can you slow this thing down?’ she cried, not caring at all how much anxiety was evident in her voice.

  Sharp Axe hesitated before answering. This, in itself, was quite enough for Mithrén not to require an answer to her question.

  ‘Yes… ’ lied Sharp Axe, ‘… maybe,’ he added more truthfully and pulled desperately on the reins. Although this action raised the heads of Tanngnjóstr and Tanngrisnir slightly, the speed of the chariot did not change in the slightest. ‘No,’ he conceded, finally.

  ‘Then we’d better hang on!’ suggested Mithrén, frantically looking around for something onto which she could hold, to reduce her chances of being thrown out of what would soon be a flying chariot, when it eventually hit the ground at the other end of the rainbow.

  Bifrost was getting bigger at an alarmingly-rapid rate which, in Mithrén’s estimation, meant it was being approached at far too great a speed. Sharp Axe continued to haul on the reins, in the forlorn hope that it might make some small difference but finally had to concede that, for all the good it was doing, he might as well save his strength.