‘The frost giants are coming and we need the Gods to protect us!’ yelled Alfi.
I’m pretty good at this, thought Freya. She’d never realised how all those endless sermons she’d listened to over the years had sunk in.
‘Cattle die, kinsmen die. The self must also die. But glory never dies. Come back to the Gods!’ she hollered into the crowd.
‘I don’t think anyone is listening,’ said Roskva.
‘Shut up and listen, you scum,’ roared Thor, snatching up a passer-by and holding him in the air by his jacket, ‘Or my hammer will shut your mouth. I’ll hurl you all into Hel so no one will ever have to look at your ugly faces again!’
The man began to kick and scream. Thor dropped him suddenly, and he ran.
‘May your end be horrible. May you never enter Valhalla,’ shouted Thor after him.
Freya watched the crowds scurrying away from the furious Gods. A bus hurtled through a massive puddle in the flooded street, drenching them with water.
Slowly she lowered her sodden placard.
‘I’m sorry, this isn’t working,’ said Freya.
Meanwhile
Buried deep inside a glacier, jagged and raw where chunks had crashed into the curdling sea, was the outline of an ice-locked giant.
A Display for Heroes
Freya slumped on the sofa. The Gods slumped with her. Wet clothes steamed on every radiator and sodden boots and shoes lined the hallway. Clare, fortunately, was out at a Fane Council meeting, so wouldn’t see everyone eating fish and chips on the sofa. They’d have to take some gold to a pawnbroker tomorrow, thought Freya, and get more cash, because they were eating Clare out of house and home. She’d given Freya several meaningful looks when she’d opened the fridge this morning and found it empty. She was already asking when the guests were leaving and when Freya would be returning to school.
Freya’s legs ached from parading up and down Oxford Street. Her arms ached from holding up the placards. Her heart ached because her fate was so bad.
All her plans had failed. How the Gods thought shouting and shoving and sneering would get them worshipped she had no idea. The truth was, the Gods were much more appealing the less you knew them. Tears pricked her eyes. Her task was hopeless.
‘I told you this was foolish, asking a mortal to guide us,’ said the Goddess, picking a piece of battered cod out of her teeth. ‘We might as well have asked a sardine.’
‘Then what’s your counsel?’ snapped Woden. His grim face looked dark as flax.
The Goddess scowled at him.
‘Return to Asgard and fight the frost giants,’ said Freyja.
‘Then we will all die,’ said Woden. ‘And a corpse is no use to anyone.’
Suddenly Woden shivered.
‘The fabric of the worlds is tearing,’ he said.
Everyone stopped talking. The Goddess went pale. Thor gripped his hammer.
Woden beckoned to Roskva and Alfi. ‘Journey back to Asgard and look over the worlds from my High Seat,’ he ordered. ‘Return and tell me when the frost giants have broken free.’
Alfi and Roskva nodded and went upstairs to collect their things.
‘They’re my servants, you know,’ said Thor. ‘What am I supposed to do without them?’
Woden glared at him.
‘We don’t have time for this,’ said Woden. ‘The world is unravelling, and you talk to me about slaves?’
Thor glowered and clicked on the TV.
The thunderous noise of a screaming arena crowd poured out, as five floppy-haired boys danced and sang to a packed audience.
‘You make my heart go boom boom boom!’ sang the boy band, prancing around the stage in leather jackets and dark jeans. The crowd screamed and punched the air. Lights flashed and whirled across the stage, arcing and crossing above the singers and platinum-haired backing dancers twirling around them. An avalanche of squealing girls hurled themselves at the stage, hands outstretched to their idols.
‘What is this horrible spectacle?’ asked Woden. He peered at the screen. ‘Are these berserks in some kind of battle frenzy?’
‘It’s called FAME: Make Me a Star!’ said Freya. ‘Those boys won last time.’
The Gods looked mesmerised. The audience was screaming so loudly it was almost impossible to hear the band.
‘I don’t remember a skald ever getting such a response to his poetry,’ murmured Woden. ‘No poets singing my praises were ever cheered so loudly.’
Thor looked like he wanted to hurl his hammer at the screen.
‘They are worshipping those mortals,’ he said. ‘May they all be without luck,’ he cursed.
That’s it, thought Freya. That’s it. She stood very still. We’ve been doing the wrong thing. Shouting on street corners? How could she have been so stupid? The Gods didn’t need worshippers. They needed fans. Millions and millions and millions of fans. They needed to be adored. They needed to be worshipped as celebrity Gods. Once they’d regained their fame, the Gods would be strong and powerful again.
‘I know what we need to do,’ she said, trembling. ‘We need to make you famous.’
‘Yes,’ said Woden. ‘Yes. The Hornblower speaks wise words.’
‘But we are famous,’ said Thor. ‘Who is more famous than the immortal Gods? Who exists who has not heard of my great deeds!’ he thundered, eyes blazing, his red beard bristling, ‘I drank the sea! I’ve slaughtered giants! I unleash storms! I need no more bright fame.’
‘Yes you do,’ said Freya. ‘If you want to be worshipped like the god Apple, and the god David, and the god Brad, and the goddess Angelina, and all the other new gods …’
‘Do they defend the world against monsters?’ said Thor.
‘No, but—’ said Freya.
‘Do they fight giants?’ he yelled. ‘Do they give victory in battle? Can they calm the sea? Or blunt spears? Can they turn themselves into a fish or a snake or a bird? Can they make their battle enemies blind or deaf? When was the last time they raised the dead?’
‘When was the last time we did, you stupid troll,’ bellowed Woden. ‘Without worship we can’t do that any more either.’
‘The new gods have no powers other than the ones their followers give them through their worship,’ said Thor.
Woden stopped yelling.
‘Exactly,’ said Woden. ‘That’s the power we need. The power we lack.’
‘Yes,’ said Freya. ‘And as soon as you are idolised again, you can fight the frost giants. You’ll be renewed. You’ll be strong again. You’ll be Gods again. But you need to be famous like people are famous now,’ she added. ‘Famous like – them.’ She pointed to the sizzling screen. The Gods listened to the roars and cheers and wild applause as the floppy-haired boy band finished their next song, Baby, you got what I want. Oh yeah.
‘You need to be celebrities,’ said Freya. ‘You said you wanted people screaming and shouting your name? Thinking about you all the time? Dying to know every little thing about you? Dying to meet you, to touch you, to connect to you, to know you. You want to be woven into our lives so we live and breathe you. You need to be in a TV show competition like FAME.’
‘Fame? A display for heroes?’ Thor beamed. ‘At last you have told us something sensible,’ he said. ‘A contest where heroes and warriors compete for fame everlasting and immortality by doing brave deeds. Like our noble warriors in Valhalla. And the bravest is crowned and rewarded with fame for them and their descendants as is fitting. Yes.’
‘Not … exactly,’ said Freya.
‘What do you mean, not exactly?’ asked Woden.
‘People compete for fame by … umm, singing. Or swimming or juggling or dancing with a dog, and—’
‘And then they fight to the death and the bravest go to Valhalla,’ boomed Thor. ‘I’ll make chopped herrings of them all. Let those fame-seekers beware. Alfi and I will—’
‘No,’ said Freya. ‘Fame isn’t about fighting.’
‘Not about fighting?’ said Thor slowly. He shook his h
ead. ‘Then how can they do great deeds?’
‘It’s not about doing great deeds,’ said Freya.
‘I am lost again,’ said Thor. ‘Fame-seekers who don’t do great deeds?’
‘It’s about performing,’ said Freya.
Woden’s grave face lightened. He smiled.
‘Ah. Is this a fame contest for poets then, and not warriors? Where words are then reddened with blood? I am the God of Poetry and Inspiration, a song-smith like no other. No one can match me.’
The Goddess Freyja rolled her eyes. Thor scowled.
Freya shook her head.
‘Let me see if I understand you,’ said the All-Father. ‘The fame-seekers recite poems about the Gods and our triumphs? Sing songs to honour kings and heroes and chieftains, to be rewarded with honour and bright gold?’
Freya winced.
‘Not exactly, no. They sing songs, but—’
‘You mean we need to find poets and skalds who will travel the world singing of our brave and noble deeds?’ said the Goddess Freyja.
‘I write poetry, if a poet is needed,’ said Snot.
‘We could bring Egil Skallagrimsson down from Asgard,’ said Woden. ‘His poetry always provokes cheers, and he could compose some new songs about our glory.’
‘I’m already here,’ said Snot. ‘I wrote this today.’ He stood and recited:
Oh Gods, foes of trollwomen
plentiful of feast drink.
Oh Woden! The war-god’s wine pours forth
Through my mouth.
How the gold you give
glistens on your warriors’ arms,
the grey eagle tears
at your enemies’ blood wounds.
Woden beamed. Freya tried to imagine that song getting lots of audience votes.
‘Not … umm … really the kind of songs they sing on Fame,’ said Freya.
‘But that is how poets and heroes eager for renown achieve lasting glory,’ said Woden. ‘The heroes do great deeds, and the poets celebrate them and give them immortality.’
‘Not any more,’ said Freya.
‘If the songs are not about great deeds, then what are they about?’ said Thor.
‘Love, mostly,’ said Freya. ‘And bad boyfriends. About anything, really. Fireworks. Missing people. Being depressed and hating everyone. Getting dumped. Being beautiful inside when you’re ugly outside. And then people vote on who they like the best. Can you dance? It’s a bonus if you’re a good dancer.’
Woden glared at her.
‘I am the God of Battle and Wisdom. I am the God of Poetry and Inspiration and Magic. I don’t dance,’ said Woden. His voice was like ice.
‘I kill giants,’ roared Thor. ‘I don’t dance either.’
‘That’s how to become famous today?’ said the Goddess. ‘Singing and dancing like slaves? You’re mad.’
‘You dare to say that to have our Fanes filled with the children of Heimdall, to regain our fame and power, we must sing about … getting dumped … and dance?’ said Woden.
‘You can sing about something else,’ said Freya. ‘You know, form a band together … I could maybe—’
She stopped, seeing their furious faces.
‘What’s happened to fame for great deeds?’ said Thor.
Freya shrugged. ‘Times have changed.’
‘So what you are saying,’ said Woden, ‘is that people without substance or bravery or skill or wisdom become famous.’
‘Yes,’ said Freya. ‘That’s the best bit: you don’t have to be talented or special or even do anything. Today you can be famous for going to parties or for wearing nice clothes.’
The Gods looked stupefied.
‘And for acting,’ continued Freya. ‘And singing. And playing football. And for marrying footballers. And … and … you can be famous for being on a reality TV show, or just famous for being famous.’
‘To each his own way of earning fame,’ said Thor, shaking his head.
Woden looked like he was trying to absorb a very complicated idea and not entirely succeeding.
‘Fame should be earned and rare,’ said Woden. ‘Won through deeds which give immortality. How can it be, that all can be famous?’
‘While we, who merit fame above all Gods and men, are desperate for reknown,’ said the Goddess.
Wasn’t everyone? thought Freya. She didn’t know anyone who didn’t want to be famous.
Gods damn it. I want to be famous, too, thought Freya. I actually deserve to be famous, after all I’ve done. I saved the Gods. I went on my own to Hel. And no one knows about it, except for some ungrateful deities and three friends who live in Asgard. It’s so unfair.
‘Have you quite finished, Hornblower?’ said Woden. Oh Gods, she’d forgotten he could read her thoughts. What a shame that power hadn’t vanished with the others.
‘Everyone should be eager for fame and glory,’ said Woden.
‘Everyone is,’ said Freya. ‘We all want to be famous.’
‘Who cares about them, how can we do this?’ snapped the Goddess. ‘How do we regain our bright fame? And how can you make this happen?’
Freya paused. How did someone become famous? It wasn’t enough just to want it. How did fame happen to people? How did you get to that magic place where all your dreams came true?
They needed a fame-maker.
‘We’ll need help,’ said Freya. ‘We need a publicist … a fame-maker. But a publicist costs money. I don’t have—’
Woden snorted.
He pulled a glowing gold armband off his wrist. ‘Draupnir,’ he said. ‘Every ninth night another eight rings fall from it. Gold is not a problem.’
‘Who do we summon?’ asked Thor.
Freya’s mind flashed to the publicists’ cards buried in her shoebox.
‘Wait here … I’ll be right back.’
Freya ran upstairs to her bedroom and screamed.
Something Awful
Clare was rummaging through Freya’s drawers.
‘Mum. What are you doing in my room? How dare you … snoop.’
Clare carried on searching as if Freya hadn’t spoken.
‘Mum. What are you doing in my room?’ repeated Freya. ‘I thought you were at a meeting. I didn’t hear you come in.’
Clare shut one drawer and opened the bottom one.
What now? thought Freya. Mum’s on the warpath. What had she done?
‘Is everything okay?’ said Freya in a small voice. ‘If you’re angry that I didn’t empty the dishwasher, I was planning to do it after I finished my homework.’
‘Who are these people, Freya?’ said Clare. Her voice was cold and brittle.
Freya tensed.
‘I told you, Mum, they’re foreign exchange students and their teachers,’ said Freya. ‘Remember, I forgot to bring you the letter, and I am sorry, I—’
Clare looked at her. Freya suddenly realised that her mum was furious.
‘I rang your school today and spoke to the head Priest,’ said Clare, ‘to find out how long I could expect these foreign guests in my house. And he told me something very interesting. He told me there were no foreign exchange students from Iceland named Roskva and Alfi. In fact, there were no foreign exchange students and teachers visiting the school at all. You’ve been lying and lying to me, and I want to know why.’
Freya’s mind went blank. She opened her mouth and wondered what words would come out of it.
‘Well? Who are this Roskva and Alfi?’
‘Runaways,’ said Freya.
‘I see,’ said Clare. ‘And the beardy weirdy? And his evil-looking “Father” who looks younger than he does? And the Beauty Queen? Who are they?’
Freya stood there silently. She’d dreaded this moment. Why hadn’t she thought of a clever answer?
‘Are you in trouble?’
Freya opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it. She felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach, with no breath left.
‘My Gods, Freya, what have you got
yourself involved in?’ said Clare. Her voice dropped. ‘Who are these strange people?’
‘Our Gods,’ said Freya suddenly.
‘Our Gods?’ said Clare. ‘What in Asgard do you mean?’
‘I mean, Woden and Thor and Freyja.’
Clare stared at her as if she had just turned into a lizard.
‘Freya, how could you be so gullible?’ she wailed. ‘No one has seen the Gods for millennia. What do they want, money? How could you let them into our home?’ Clare was red with rage.
‘They’re not con-men, Mum,’ said Freya. ‘I promise. They’re the ones I was with … before.’
Clare went white.
‘Kidnappers?’ she whispered. ‘Right, I’m calling the police.’
‘No!’ squealed Freya. ‘I had to help them.’
‘I forbid you to see them ever again,’ said Clare. ‘They are out of this house immediately. And you will go straight back to school tomorrow. I’ll phone your dad. For once he’ll say the same thing.’
‘Mum, you don’t understand,’ said Freya. ‘I have to see them again. I have to look after them. My life depends on it. All our lives …’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ said Clare. ‘Who are these people? Why do they have such a hold on you? Is this some kind of cult?’
Woden appeared. Had he silently walked in, or just materialised? Freya wasn’t sure.
Clare blinked. She made the sign of the hammer.
‘I don’t know how you did that, and it’s all very well playing tricks on an innocent schoolgirl,’ said Clare. ‘But I am Woden’s priestess. You won’t be tricking me.’
‘Bow,’ said Woden. ‘Few mortals have gazed upon me.’
Clare stood very straight.
‘Woden is a shape-shifter,’ said Clare quietly. ‘If you are Woden, prove it. Change shape.’ Her voice rose.
‘Mum,’ said Freya urgently. ‘Don’t push him. Please.’
‘I’m only asking, Freya. No harm in asking.’
‘Oh yes there is,’ said Freya.
Don’t hurt her, she thought at Woden.
Woden glared at Clare. ‘I am Woden, Lord of Victory. I do not need to give proof to mortals.’
Clare snorted. ‘A very convenient excuse,’ she said. ‘Now pack your things and get out of here before I phone the police. I have worshipped Woden all my life. Don’t you think I’d recognise him if I saw him? Just because you have one eye and call yourself by one of Woden’s sacred names doesn’t make you a God. Anyway, joke’s over. I want you to leave my house. And keep away from my daughter.’
The Lost Gods Page 7