Bright Fame
Somehow, thought Freya as she trudged home from the corner shop through the mounds of drifting snow, trying not to slip on the icy pavement, it wasn’t going to plan. Thanks to her, the Gods had regained their bright fame, idolised and worshipped as never before. And yet they seemed in no rush to reveal their true selves. Or to return to Asgard. Or to stop the frost giants. Last time Freya had even seen the Gods – and that was a while ago – she’d noticed the glossy estate agent brochures strewn everywhere. What was that about, she’d wondered.
Since then, Thor had actually bought a mansion with his massive football earnings, and she’d heard that all three Gods were living there, protected by 24-hour security guards, crash barriers, and Snot. When they’d left – okay, been kicked out of the Ritz – no one had said anything about her joining them in millionaires’ row, so she’d returned home to find Clare still out clubbing every night and the house a tip and party central.
Why weren’t the Gods doing anything, she thought, as hail and sleet pelted her. The world had shivered through the coldest autumn and winter on record. Now it was April, and the Thames was freezing over. Freya had tried phoning them on their bling-bling, diamond-encrusted smart phones, yet she always went straight to answerphone. Were they avoiding her, she wondered? Or just too busy with parties and famous friends and personal appearances?
They’re our Gods, they must know what they’re doing, thought Freya, her teeth chattering. I’m a kid. Shy. Funny-looking. Not even near the top of my class. Picked last for team sports. What can I do?
She passed the bus stop, covered in images of Thor advertising running shoes, and the newsagent. A headline caught her eye. In fact, several headlines. She stopped, transfixed.
Oh no, she thought. Please no.
Defame
Veronica opened the papers. They did not make pleasant reading. Freyja, her new supermodel, was accused of cheating on several boyfriends. That’s when she wasn’t busy shoplifting. Thor, Veronica’s new footballing superstar, was accused of having kidnapped two children and keeping them as virtual slaves. There was a lurid kiss-and-tell, in fact several kiss-and-tells, about her rock superstar Woden. The internet was buzzing with horrible gossip.
Where did all of these scandalous stories come from, she wondered? Where did these lie-smiths get their facts? Who was spreading these shocking rumours about the Gods? Who wanted to destroy their reputation? And why?
Who was de-faming them?
Her phone rang, the piercing alarm tone she used for her most important clients.
Veronica grabbed it.
A voice screeched in her ear.
‘Sit tight, I’m coming right away,’ she said.
Meanwhile
Up in Asgard, beneath the vast, arching branches of the giant ash tree, Yggdrasil, was a circle of ivory-white stone thrones, their seats worn smooth. The Gods and Goddesses were gathered there in Council, around a glimmering pool of blue-black water.
‘What are they doing?’ said Njord. ‘Every time I sit in Woden’s High Seat to peer into Midgard I see them. The Terrible One, the Father of Battle, is singing and leaping about, or signing pieces of parchment for clamouring mortals. Thor is running up and down a field chasing an inflated pig’s bladder, and my daughter Freyja is – I’m not sure what she’s doing, strutting up and down a walkway each time in different clothes, while people point flashing objects at her.’
‘Have they fallen under a troll’s spell?’ asked Woden’s wife, Frigg.
‘And now the frost giants are on the march,’ said Heimdall. ‘The Wolf Age and the Ice Age will be upon us.’
‘What are we going to do?’ said Sif.
The Immortals sat in silence, heads bowed.
Above them the leaves of the World Tree shimmered in a sudden gust of wind. The great branches swayed and creaked.
The Gods shivered.
Gods Can Do What They Like
There were some advantages, thought Freya, as she let herself into the cold, dirty house, stomping the snow off her scuffed shoes, to having a mother who was rarely home. No one to make her go to school, clean her room, or stop her from going out. On the other hand, she was getting a little tired of eating cereal all the time and the milk being off and having to go through Clare’s pockets for cash when she was snoring off the excesses of a hard night’s partying.
The TV was blaring loudly in the sitting room. Freya walked in to find Clare with dyed pink and orange hair sprawled on the sofa in her filthy hobnail boots watching the Shopping Channel, eating crisps, fiddling with her nose ring and listening to music on her headphones.
‘You still here?’ said Clare, rolling her eyes. She looked absolutely ridiculous in laddered black tights, a silver sequin micro mini skirt and tight red T-shirt with a picture of a man sticking out his studded tongue.
‘I live here,’ said Freya. She looked at Clare’s arm.
‘Mum!’ wailed Freya. ‘You haven’t gone and got a … tattoo. Ick.’
‘So what if I have?’ said Clare. ‘And stop calling me Mum.’
‘It’s horrible,’ said Freya, looking with distaste at the hissing snake wrapped round a wolf’s skull writhing all over her mother’s freckly wrist.
‘Then don’t look at it,’ said Clare. ‘Gods, I’m bored. Why is there never anything to eat in this stupid house?’
‘Because you haven’t gone shopping and I’m busy trying to save the world,’ snapped Freya.
Clare rolled her eyes. ‘Oh yeah, Supergirl. Whatever. Wake me when it’s over.’
When oh when would that apple wear off, thought Freya.
‘By the way something weird happened today,’ said Clare, biting her nails. ‘This priest guy, Karl, came round, said I hadn’t been to Fane in ages and he and the Throng were worried about me. I say, me, but I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. Why would I be hanging around a Fane? I mean, obvs, if Oski is making a personal appearance, then yeah, but otherwise …’ she yawned elaborately.
‘Did he recognise you?’ asked Freya.
‘What do you mean, recognise me? Like from Crimewatch? No. He asked me to tell Clare he’d stopped by. Like I said, weird.’
Freya looked at her mum, who for a moment seemed uncertain and disoriented.
‘The world is full of weirdos, including you, loser,’ said Clare.
There was a frantic pounding on Freya’s front door.
‘Oh Gods, him again,’ said Clare. ‘Tell him I’m out.’ She plugged in her earphones and closed her eyes.
Freya opened the door, scrambling to think of a convincing lie.
It wasn’t Karl. It was Alfi and Roskva. They looked pale and windswept, as if they had run all the way from Asgard to Midgard.
‘Thank Gods you’re here,’ said Freya, hugging them both. At last. She wasn’t alone any more, trying to be the grown-up to a teenage mum.
Only Alfi hugged her in return. His face felt frozen. Roskva held back, stiff as always.
‘Where’s Woden? Where’s Thor? Where’s Freyja?’ they clamoured.
‘Probably being interviewed by ICE magazine or at a nightclub,’ said Freya grimly.
‘What?’ said Alfi.
‘The Gods have sent us to fetch them back to Asgard immediately,’ said Roskva.
‘The frost giants are coming,’ they said in unison. ‘They’ve broken free.’
Freya breathed deeply. She hustled them into the kitchen past her mother and shut the door.
‘What’s going on?’ said Roskva. ‘The Gods are frightened. There’s been no word from the All-Father for months.’
‘What’s happened to them?’ asked Alfi.
‘I don’t know,’ said Freya. ‘I thought fame would make them powerful again, and it has, but they are – changed. Drugged. I think I may have done something terrible.’ She stopped speaking, horrified at the words escaping her mouth.
‘It’s not your fault,’ said Alfi.
‘Then whose is it?’ said Rosk
va. ‘The frost giants—’
‘They wanted fame,’ said Freya. ‘And I got them fame.’
‘And it’s obviously gone completely to their heads,’ said Roskva.
‘They’re worshipped everywhere,’ said Freya. ‘They’re strong and powerful and admired again. But I think all they care about now is whose fame shines brightest.’
‘They never much cared about people before, you know,’ said Roskva. ‘We worshipped them because they terrified us. Thor could have wiped out my family with a snap of his fingers.’
‘They created us, and then forgot about us,’ said Freya.
‘We’ve always been the playthings of the Gods,’ said Roskva.
‘But they need us as much as we need them,’ said Freya. ‘I see that now. In fact, they need us more than we need them.’
Freya shivered at the thought. Alfi blanched.
‘Don’t say that,’ he hissed. ‘You’re wrong. Just wait till the giants come, and see whether we need the Gods or not.’
‘Gods don’t exist unless people worship them,’ said Freya. ‘Well, they worship them now. But for how long? The Gods will soon be yesterday’s news unless they do more to merit their fame. Already the newspapers have started to tear them down. Don’t they owe us something for our worship?’
‘The Gods can do what they like,’ said Roskva. ‘They can help us or not. They can build. They can destroy.’
They looked at one another. Freya saw the terror in their eyes.
‘We’ve got to warn them the frost giants are coming,’ said Freya. ‘They’ll listen to you.’
Meanwhile
The giants lumbered across Asgard’s wide plains, roaring and howling, blasting the green lands with their billowing frost, their hissing breath.
The Gods’ Delusion
Thousands of fans wearing woolly hats and winter coats huddled outside the high stone walls of Thor’s gated mansion on Archpriests Avenue. The noisy crowd, though numerous, was smaller than the screaming hordes which had once gathered outside the Ritz.
Freya saw a familiar glaring face lurking at the back.
‘Snot,’ she said. ‘What are you doing out here?’
‘Woden has made me redundant,’ said Snot. ‘Whatever that means. My services are no longer required, he said. Modernising, he said. I am one of Woden’s berserkers. I am one of the chosen warriors of Valhalla. How can I no longer be needed?’
Roskva patted his arm awkwardly. ‘Stay close,’ she said. ‘The giants are coming.’
Snot’s black wolf-eyes gleamed.
Freya, Roskva and Alfi pushed their way through the tightly packed fans to the entrance, guarded by two security men dressed as berserkers.
Freya’s name was still on the approved list of visitors, and the electronic, wrought-iron security gates opened to admit them. More guards lurked inside, patrolling the frosty manicured lawns leading to the mansion’s colonnaded threshold. Swivelling cameras tracked them as they walked through the massive front door.
‘We have to see Oski,’ said Freya to the smartly-dressed assistant standing in the mirrored entrance hall. ‘It’s urgent.’
Roskva and Alfi gaped at the opulence, the pink crystal chandelier dripping from the second floor, the plush carpets, the bronze statues of boars pawing the ground. The hallway was bigger than her entire house, thought Freya. Several other people milled about, one man with bulging biceps wearing jogging trousers, the others in business suits. One woman pushed a large rack of designer clothes. Another lugged a suitcase full of make-up.
‘Join the queue,’ said the assistant.
Thor’s bellowing could be heard echoing through the building.
‘Who is trying to besmirch our bright fame?’ he roared from somewhere in the house.
‘They’re in a meeting,’ said another assistant. ‘Take a seat,’ he added, pointing to one of the sumptuous cream sofas.
‘No,’ said Roskva. ‘I told you it’s urgent. Tell them that Roskva and Alfi are here.’
‘He’s expecting us,’ said Alfi.
The assistant hesitated, then went upstairs and opened one of the massive closed doors.
‘He said to wait,’ said the assistant, descending. ‘Can I get you a glass of water?’
‘Wait?’ said Roskva. ‘Wait?! May the trolls take you! May your end be horrible. May you never enter Valhalla.’
‘There’s no need to swear,’ said the young man, frowning.
‘We don’t have time to wait,’ said Freya.
Roskva, Alfi and Freya leapt up, dashed upstairs and ran through the closed double doors before the startled assistant could stop them.
‘All-Father. We’re back. The giants are coming,’ they shouted as they burst in.
The startled Gods stopped pacing the marble floor of the sumptuous black, white and gold room. Freya caught a glimpse of extensive snow-covered gardens and iced pools through the floor-to-ceiling French doors.
‘Sit down and shut up,’ said Veronica. Honestly. How was she supposed to crisis manage with all these interruptions?
‘But … but, we have—’ said Freya.
‘Be quiet,’ ordered Thor. Roskva and Alfi cowered.
‘Everyone, stay calm,’ said Veronica. ‘First of all, we’ll deny everything. I mean really, enslaving two children?’
Thor didn’t look at her.
‘What? You did?’ said Veronica. ‘No, stop, I don’t want to know,’ she continued, glancing at Roskva and Alfi. ‘We’ll deny it anyway. Then we’ll threaten libel and demand a retraction. Plus, I can make a deal with the papers. Offer them access to you, in exchange for sitting on any other stories.’
‘More stories?’ shouted Woden. The ravens perched on his shoulders jumped in fright. His eye was impenetrable behind his aviator sunglasses. ‘Who defames us? Who is trying to kill us by destroying our reputation and soiling our names? Who? Why?’
A name floated unspoken in the room.
Roskva broke the silence.
‘Could it be the Wolf’s father?’
‘The Wolf’s father?’ hissed Freya.
‘Loki,’ said Alfi.
Loki.
Freya felt a stab of fear. Loki, the trickster, who had tried to thwart her in Hel, who had stolen Idunn and her apples of youth and almost caused the Gods to die along with her. No one had seen him since Freya had transformed herself into a falcon and left him behind in Hel, cursing her as she flew off. Had he followed her to Midgard?
‘We’ll find him and shut his mouth,’ said the Goddess Freyja.
‘We lost fame once. Now fate has given us a second chance, we will not lose it again,’ said Thor. He was decked in his new lightning bolt tracksuit range with his name emblazoned back and front in huge block letters.
‘We now know the emptiness of life without fame and worship,’ said Woden. ‘We can never go back to how we were before.’
‘I feel young. I feel rejuvenated,’ said the Goddess Freyja. ‘We can’t lose our fame again. I couldn’t bear it.’
‘I said I could make you famous,’ said Veronica. ‘I never promised I could keep you famous. People are fickle, and there are new celebrities coming all the time. That’s the way of the world.’
‘I’ll kill you if I don’t get the cover of GQ next week,’ snarled Thor.
‘No, because I’ll kill her first if I don’t get the cover,’ snapped Woden.
Veronica backed away.
‘I’m much more useful to you alive than dead,’ she said.
‘Lords, the frost giants are coming,’ interrupted Roskva.
‘The other Gods need you back in Asgard right now,’ said Alfi.
‘Loki is on the loose,’ said Roskva.
‘Listen to them,’ said Freya. ‘Please.’
Woden waved his hand.
‘In a minute,’ said Woden, leafing through the latest issue of ICE. His face flickered in annoyance.
‘Veronica,’ he said. ‘Why is there a three-page spread about Thor, and only a s
mall picture of me leaving that launch party?’
The Goddess snatched the magazine. A satisfied smile spread across her face. ‘My holiday snaps look good,’ she said. ‘But maybe I should have worn a different bikini. What do you think?’ she asked Woden. ‘The green stripes or the gold halter-top?’
‘Who cares about your bikinis,’ thundered Woden. ‘I had two pages last month, a photo spread, and a featured interview, and now I have a paragraph about looking tired and jowly. Well, whoever made that decision will regret it. I will not be defamed. I’m taking my spear straight round—’
‘All-Father, please, the frost giants are coming,’ interrupted Freya. ‘You must—’
Roskva poked her hard in the ribs.
Freya gulped.
‘Did you speak, thrall?’ hissed the Goddess.
‘Did you say we must?’ thundered Thor.
Woden waved his hand at her. ‘We’ll deal with them,’ he said. ‘And with Loki. But first things first. Veronica!’ he barked. ‘I need a facial before the red carpet tonight.’
‘I’m not happy with the clothes they sent over for me,’ said Thor. ‘I’m Thor, not some semi-demi D-list celebrity.’
Freya stared at the Gods gazing at their reflections and gabbling into their phones. Facials? Photo shoots? Their new fame had intoxicated them.
The Goddess glanced at her wrist. She was wearing, Freya noticed, a new, diamond-encrusted watch.
‘Must dash, my personal shopper is picking me up at 2,’ she trilled. ‘I’m having a complete wardrobe makeover.’
‘Did you pay for that watch?’ asked Veronica.
Freyja stuck out her newly plumped-up lips.
‘I don’t have to pay, I’m the Goddess Freyja,’ she said. ‘Mortals pay me tribute.’
‘You can’t just steal things,’ said Veronica. ‘If that gets in the papers, your reputation.’
‘That’s your problem, not mine,’ said Freyja. ‘Are the photographers still outside?’
The Lost Gods Page 12