The Lost Gods

by Francesca Simon

  ‘I’m going to be a star. End of,’ announced a balding man sitting nearby squeezed into a leotard. ‘That’s not my dream, it’s my reality.’ Then he repeated, ‘I’m going to be a star. I’m going to be a star. My album will be a massive number one bestseller. This is my fate. This is my fate.’

  ‘It will be your fate to be drowned head first in a barrel of fish guts if you don’t shut up,’ snarled Woden.

  Veronica looked pained.

  ‘Snapping at people is not going to win you any fans,’ said Freya.

  ‘I’ll talk to people any way I like,’ said Woden.

  ‘Save that for when you’re famous again, then you can be as horrible as you want,’ said Veronica. ‘But right now you need to woo people. You can’t just smite them into submission.’

  Woden looked sullen.

  ‘But he’s got to be himself …’ said Freya.

  She trailed off. If Woden were himself he’d never get a single vote.

  ‘And you’re going to have to smile occasionally,’ said Veronica.

  ‘Smile?’ said Woden fiercely. ‘Smile? I’m the All-Father. The Wand-Wielder. The God of Victory. I don’t smile.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Veronica, ‘but you have to be appealing. Just like us, but better than us, born to rule but, you know, caring.’

  ‘No I don’t,’ said Woden. ‘I’m a God. It’s enough that people are scared of me and do what they’re told.’

  Veronica pretended she hadn’t heard.

  ‘We have to practise that smile,’ she said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you don’t smile no one will vote for you, and this is all about getting fans,’ said Veronica. ‘Isn’t it?’

  Woden’s mouth twitched.

  ‘That wasn’t a smile. That was someone with rigor mortis,’ said Veronica.

  Woden bared his teeth.

  ‘The judges will think you intend to eat them,’ said Veronica. ‘Smile.’

  Woden curled his lips. He looked like a wolf about to chow down on a slaughtered deer.

  ‘It is fortunate to be favoured with praise and popularity,’ said Woden. ‘It is dire luck to be dependent on the feelings of men.’

  ‘You haven’t mentioned his talent,’ said Freya timidly. ‘His talent will make him stand out. And he’s … unique.’

  ‘Originality is good, and reciting poetry is certainly that,’ said Veronica. ‘And you’ve got plenty of confidence, but … not sure about your attitude.’

  Well. She’d worked with less promising material before, and had managed to mould the sullen clay into something approaching shiny gold – at least for a few moments. She wasn’t the best fame-maker in the business for nothing. She glanced at her notes.

  ‘Oh yes, what stage name are you going to use? We’re holding back Woden for the big reveal.’

  Woden considered.

  ‘I am blessed with many names. I am Draugadrottin, Lord of the Dead. Valfodr, Father of the Slain. Hangi, the Hanged One. Vidurr, the Killer.’

  ‘I’m getting a theme here, but not a very alluring one,’ said Veronica. ‘Anything a bit more cheerful?’

  ‘Itreker, Splendid Ruler?’

  ‘Too vain.’

  ‘Audun, Wealth-friend?’

  ‘Perfect for when you launch your get rich quick schemes, but not now.’

  ‘Sidskeggr, Drooping Beard? Hrossharsgrani, Horse Hair Moustache?’

  ‘Too silly,’ said Veronica. ‘We’re talking worldwide fans here.’

  Freya thought. She’d had to memorise all of Woden’s names once for a school competition, but unfortunately had come 53rd …

  ‘Oski?’ she said. The name he’d told Clare.

  ‘Wished-for,’ said Veronica. ‘I like it.’

  ‘Oski,’ said Woden.

  Two Minutes to Change Your Life

  The audience waited expectantly, then the four judges, in a hail of lasers and lights, took their seats.

  ‘Welcome to FAME: Make Me a Star, the show where talent makes dreams come true,’ gushed the host, Fliss Griffiths, a former reality TV star turned presenter.

  Freya couldn’t sit still she was so nervous. She’d bitten all her nails. She paced the backstage holding area, heading back to her seat and then wheeling out and going to the loo one absolutely last final time. So much depended on this. Her life, and the lives of everyone around them, if they only knew.

  ‘You’re on!’ hissed the stage manager, pushing contestant 2,724 onto the stage.

  ‘I want to follow my dreams and be a singer,’ announced the sweaty man in his 40s. ‘I used to be a postman, but the job was getting in the way of my singing and song writing.’

  ‘Not getting in the way enough,’ snapped the cruel judge, Darren, a soap star who’d had a hit record in 5008.

  ‘My gran got a message from the Gods telling me to audition so here I am,’ said a baton-twirling girl. ‘I’ve been waiting my whole life for this.’

  Four no’s from the judges.

  ‘I’m singing for my mum, who passed away last year,’ said a wood-chopping puppeteer.

  ‘That really pulled at my heartstrings,’ said Bitty Kitty, the soppy girl band singer.

  The a cappella choir sang their version of a recent number one.

  ‘Out of this world,’ said Barry, the useless judge. ‘You’re through to the next round.’

  Then there were the opera rappers. The mini-rockettes. The Singing Chef. So many competitors that after a time they all blended into one. Freya’s head ached.

  ‘You smashed that,’ said Bitty Kitty to the twins with their dancing dogs. More tears and screams than Freya had heard in her life.

  The numbers ticked down, getting closer and closer to Woden.

  Next up were a hip-hop marching band.

  ‘We’re called Sure Thing because that’s what we are. A sure thing. Our destiny is to be stars.’

  ‘I think you need a new fortune teller,’ said Darren.

  Next up was a dancing juggler.

  ‘I’m dedicating this performance to my dead horse, Rooster,’ said the juggler. ‘And to my granddad who is having a hernia operation.’

  ‘I just love you all so much,’ gushed the next contestant, a yodelling ballerina. ‘Thanks to everyone who votes for me, because without you I am nothing.’

  Right up before Woden were two duelling trombonists.

  ‘You and the trombones owned that stage,’ gushed Bitty Kitty. ‘Wow.’

  ‘Can the stage be bought?’ said Woden, bristling. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘It’s just an expression,’ said Veronica.

  ‘You’re up next,’ hissed the Assistant. ‘3-2-1 – you’re on.’

  And he pushed Woden through the curtains.

  The God stood blinking and scowling in the flashing lights. Unlike every other contestant, who had tried to engage with the judges and audience, he did and said nothing. He just stood there, frozen. He looked like a bewildered sailor, shipwrecked in some far-off land, scanning the horizon for monsters heading his way. The audience tittered.

  Freya gripped her chair and moaned softly. Veronica grabbed her arm.

  ‘Whatever happens, let me handle it,’ she hissed. ‘He’s on his own now.’

  I don’t think I can watch this, thought Freya.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Barry.

  ‘Call me Oski,’ said Woden.

  A ripple went through the audience.

  ‘We know that Oski is one of the All-Father’s many names – your parents must have thought you were pretty special when they named you,’ said Darren.

  ‘Only a fool chatters,’ said Woden. He looked belligerently at the judge.

  Veronica sucked in her breath.

  ‘And why did you audition, Oski?’ asked the useless judge.

  ‘To remind the ungrateful world about the immortal Gods who gave them life, the Gods they have forgotten.’

  ‘O-kay,’ said Barry.

  ‘What’s your dream?
’ asked Darren.

  ‘World domination,’ said Woden.

  ‘You want to make it worldwide? What a goal, ladies and gentlemen,’ burbled Fliss.

  ‘What inspired you to audition today?’ asked Lila, a kittenish woman with big red hair tied in a swinging ponytail and heavily made-up eyes, who’d won the show two years before.

  Woden looked at her as if she were a snail he was about to squish.

  ‘To regain my bright fame.’

  Lila looked surprised.

  ‘… and change your destiny?’ she prompted.

  ‘No one, not even I, can change my destiny,’ said Woden. ‘What is fated will come to pass.’

  Oh Gods, Woden, lighten up, thought Freya. You’re trying to make people worship and admire you, not put them off.

  ‘Oh,’ said Lila.

  ‘So, Oski, how are you feeling right now?’ said the host, Fliss.

  Freya held her breath.

  She knew he’d be feeling like hurling his spear at Fliss and setting fire to the rafters.

  Woden glared. ‘None of your business,’ he snarled.

  The audience gasped. Then they started to boo.

  Woden fixed them with his one eye. They immediately fell silent.

  ‘So, can I ask how you lost your eye? Was it an accident?’ asked Fliss.

  ‘I traded it for wisdom,’ said Woden.

  Fliss stepped back. ‘Whew, that’s intense,’ she said. ‘Was it worth the sacrifice?’

  ‘What do you think?’ said Woden.

  ‘Like all the contestants, you must have been on an amazing personal journey,’ said Lila. ‘What can you tell us about your journey here?’

  ‘I came over Bifrost of course,’ said Woden.

  Fliss laughed and flicked her tousled blonde hair. ‘Isn’t he a character, ladies and gentlemen. Of course, being on stage here tonight in front of millions of people feels like going from Midgard to Asgard.’

  Woden fixed her with his baleful eye.

  ‘Before you show us your talent, is there anyone you want to thank?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ said Woden.

  ‘Not even your mum?’

  Woden’s eye flashed.

  ‘My … mother? Bestla?’

  ‘Lovely name,’ beamed Fliss. ‘You know, your wonderful mum who helped and encouraged you and made all this possible?’

  ‘Why should I want to thank her?’ said Woden. ‘What did she ever do for me? Haven’t seen her for millennia.’

  ‘Of course, she must be so proud of you,’ said Fliss, ignoring what Woden had just said.

  Woden frowned.

  ‘I doubt it.’

  Freya groaned. Thank someone, she thought. Anyone …

  ‘I thank the immortal, Almighty Gods,’ said Woden suddenly. ‘For whom no praise is enough. To the Gods, givers of victory, to Woden, source of poetry and power, magician and mage.’

  The arena was silent.

  A look of alarm flickered across Fliss’s face, then she recovered herself.

  ‘Well, that makes a change from thanking your old granny,’ she said. ‘Well done, Oski. Always good to be reminded of religion in this material age.’

  Woden looked as if he would like to smite her.

  No smiting! thought Freya. Remember. You promised.

  ‘You’ve got two minutes to change your life,’ said Barry. ‘Go for it.’

  Woden stood for a moment, looking over the hushed audience.

  Freya could scarcely breathe. Please don’t let his poetry be booed off the stage, she thought.

  Then Woden hurled his microphone into the wings.

  Freya jumped. No one would hear him. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a stage hand racing backstage holding a spare mike.

  ‘I dedicate my performance to Woden, source of all inspiration, All-Father, Mighty One, Bringer of Victory!’ he boomed. His unamplified voice ricocheted around the vast building.

  And then, without stopping, he started to sing, softly and quietly, and it was as if a spell had been cast over everyone. His beautiful voice poured out like salted caramel.

  Then he began to whirl and leap around the stage, in a heart-stopping, haunting, frenzy of music and song, unlike anything she had ever heard before: melodic, magical, rhythmic, hypnotic. His voice harsh and pebbly one moment, velvety the next.

  A murmur cascaded round the auditorium, then the roaring audience leapt to its feet, shouting and cheering. Freya was swept up in the hysteria. To her surprise she found herself joining the others, screaming, ‘Oski! Oski! Oski!’ as the stadium erupted in flashing lights from thousands of camera phones.

  The judges rose to their feet.

  ‘That is the most incredible performance I have ever seen in my life,’ stuttered Lila.

  ‘You’re individual, you’re unpredictable, you’ve got charisma; I predict a huge future for you,’ gasped Darren.

  ‘We love the image – the cloak, the hat, the hair,’ enthused Barry. ‘You’re new, you’re different, you’re a one-off original – Let’s hear it for Oski!’

  And as the stomping, screaming audience chanted his name and held out their hands yearning to touch him, as they looked up at him with ecstatic faces twisted in awe, Freya saw Woden shine and shimmer and his presence and power fill the auditorium, and she thought, thank the Gods, we’re saved.

  Meanwhile

  A howling hiss, a creaking crunch shattered the silent silver world. Then a gigantic frozen fist punched through the rippling surface and the sheer ice cliffs collapsed into the sea.

  PART 3

  CELEBRITY GODS

  The multi-media collage of modern life

  makes it hard for an upcoming god to

  establish himself without a web presence.

  Grayson Perry

  Die for Me

  Wow, thought Veronica. Wow.

  A few months into her publicity campaign for the Gods, and things, if she said so herself (if you didn’t blow your own trumpet who would?) couldn’t be going better. Not that she wanted to tempt fate, but then, she wasn’t superstitious. If it was fated, it happened. If it wasn’t, it didn’t. End of.

  Woden had won FAME: Make Me a Star by acclamation – the betting shops had stopped taking money on him winning after that storming first audition. Votes had poured in. And every vote seemed to make him stronger. Each time Woden was mobbed in the streets, or greeted by screaming, fainting fans, he seemed to grow a little taller. More powerful. Less human.

  More, dare she say it, divine.

  Woden’s record ‘Die for Me’ had gone straight in at number one and was the fastest selling single ever to go platinum. The press adored him. Photographers followed him everywhere. He had 30 million Twitter followers … and counting. (Too bad, Lady Gaga!) Twitter, the Geiger counter of fame, was going nuclear. She’d already had to hire a full-time tweeter for him. He had 50 million Facebook friends. His fan site, Gods-Children.com got millions of hits every day.

  Woden had taken to dropping by his Fanes on Sundays. Amazing, thought Veronica, one mention in ICE magazine that he was religious and the fans – she meant worshippers – crammed the empty Fanes just in case Woden showed up.

  Last week there’d been a riot when he’d arrived at one in Kensington, so now he was appearing with snarling bodyguards wearing bear skins. She’d read in the Daily Mail that one of them had threatened to kill someone who got too close. Snot, presumably. Well, it all added to the mystique and the hype surrounding him.

  Thor had already been proclaimed the greatest footballer ever to play in the premier league. What a moment that was, after his triumphant first game, when the fans all chanted ‘Thor! Thor! Thor!’ and Thor had picked up his hammer with one hand and whirled it above his head as if it were a willow twig, to the opening chorus of Woden’s number one hit.

  ‘I love this game!’ he’d shouted, dancing around the pitch as the fans roared. ‘Even more fun than bashing giants!’

  And as for the Goddess Freyja, she
’d been on the cover of Elle and Marie Claire, done all the big catwalk shows and was a regular fixture in ICE and the gossip columns. The picture of her yawning that Pierre had taken had been on every billboard in Britain. It went viral on YouTube, featured in spoof montages (Freyja yawning in front of the Taj Mahal; yawning while dinosaurs stalked her; yawning beside the Queen; yawning while Mo Farah won gold at the 5012 Olympics; yawning at the Royal Wedding).

  Of course, it wasn’t all plain sailing. It never was with fame-seekers. There was the terrible incident when Thor got tripped up, picked up his opponent and hurled him across the pitch, screaming that no one would ever set eyes on the scumbag again. The player was still in hospital. It had taken all her skill to spin that as an unlucky accident.

  There’d been a hint of a fight in a London nightclub, but she’d quickly hushed that up in exchange for exclusive pictures of Thor’s glorious new mansion, complete with indoor and outdoor pools, glass lift to the master bedroom suite, waterproof TVs in every bathroom, a gym, cinema room, spa, sauna, steam room and armoury. (That was a bit unusual, but no weirder than many of her clients, with their gift-wrapping rooms and basement bars.) Well, they couldn’t stay in the Ritz forever, could they, not after Woden’s unfortunate room trashing incident (hushed up) and the brawl in the lobby. The tens of thousands of screaming fans camped out in front of the hotel every night, blocking Piccadilly and spilling over the permanent crash barriers into the hotel lobby, hadn’t helped either.

  Getting them famous friends and being seen in the right A-list company was proceeding nicely: what amazing coverage Thor’s birthday party at the Ivy Club had had. An invitation to dinner at Buckingham Palace, or a weekend at Windsor, was just a matter of time.

  Long may it last.

  If only it wasn’t so fiendishly cold.

  Meanwhile

  All over the icy landscape, frost-covered giants erupted through the cracking glaciers. The sea reared up, twisting and writhing, splashing them with sleet.

  The largest frost giant stood on creaking, tree-trunk legs and roared, spitting shards of icicles, sharp as daggers, from its mouth.

  The shifting ice groaned beneath their stomping feet, as the massed army of giants lumbered towards Bifrost through billowing sheets of snow, exhaling their blizzard breath.