The Lost Gods

by Francesca Simon

  Loki made a rueful face.

  ‘But you didn’t. That was not your fate. And it would not have mattered if it were. But let’s focus on now. The frost giants are coming. You need me. Big time.’

  Freya stared.

  ‘Oh, you do. My father was a giant. I can talk to them. Make a truce. Bribe them to leave Midgard alone. They know I hate the Gods. Hated,’ he corrected himself. ‘They trust me. Meanwhile, I’ll really be on your side. And the Gods’. A double agent.’

  Freya laughed. ‘Why should I trust you?’

  Loki smiled at her with his strange eyes.

  ‘You’re right. Why should you? I could be a triple agent.’ His mismatched eyes glistened for a moment. ‘But look at me,’ he said, coughing. ‘I’m an old, old, drooling, stinking, arthritic, rheumatic stumbling bone bag. The Gods have something I want. Idunn’s apples. I’ve got something you need: my wiles. I’ll help you beat the giants; you’ll help me regain my immortality so I can return to Asgard. It’s a win/win. Great expression, win/win.’

  ‘What makes you think the Gods would take you back?’

  Loki snorted.

  ‘Oh, believe me it’s much better to have me in Asgard pissing outside the walls than outside pissing in,’ he said, wolfing down some brownies and gulping back a smoothie.

  Freya flinched again. Was Loki really offering to help?

  ‘It was you who tried to defame the Gods, wasn’t it?’ said Freya. ‘All those malicious tweets and horrible stories …’

  Loki looked sly. ‘I had to eat,’ he said. ‘As you can see. Newspapers, websites – now that’s a thing, a website – pay for gossip. When I think we relied on Woden’s two ravens for all our news,’ he added, shaking his head. ‘And at the moment I am not getting any younger.’ He wheezed a barking laugh. ‘Quite the opposite in fact. I can’t even turn myself into a fly. Great for eavesdropping, though, being a fly.’

  Freya chewed on her sleeve. She could feel her brain whirring, straining to take all this in, trying to understand what he was – and was not – saying.

  ‘You have Idunn’s apples don’t you,’ said Loki suddenly. ‘Oh, don’t deny it, I saw you jump. And I’ll bet you’re being ever such a good girlie, guarding them, keeping them safe, giving their shiny golden skins a polish every now and then, and never ever being tempted to take a little bitty bite. But why shouldn’t you be a goddess, Freya? Why shouldn’t you be immortal? You’re more heroic than they are. Bet they never even rewarded you for your services last time.’

  Freya bit her lip and said nothing.

  Loki looked at her shrewdly. ‘Thought so. Those sons of mares. So typical. The Gods love you when they need you, and then – poof. Hasta la vista baby, and on to the next thing.’

  Since when did a God say hasta la vista? thought Freya. Was this the weirdest conversation she’d ever had?

  ‘Those ungrateful swines,’ murmured Loki.

  Loki was right, thought Freya. The Gods were ungrateful. They asked for everything, and gave … nothing. Well, not nothing, exactly. They’d given life, which, let’s face it, was a big gift, but then it was take take take, do this, do that, worship us, sacrifice to us, obey us, praise us, honour us … or else. Wasn’t it time the Gods gave something back? Or was it time for humans to look after themselves?

  ‘Just imagine for a moment,’ said Loki softly. ‘You and me. Think what we could do together. Remake the world … haven’t you always thought how good things would be … if you were in charge?’

  ‘No,’ lied Freya.

  Who hadn’t dreamt of ruling the world? She’d get rid of hunger, disease, war, beetroot and football. And her enemies, the whole mean girl clique.

  Empress Freya. Freya the Immortal. Fabulous Freya.

  ‘Of course, we can do this another way,’ murmured Loki. ‘Don’t forget. I’m half giant. But so is my brother Woden. And Thor. The giants have had a terrible press. What makes you think they’re so awful, anyway?’

  ‘Because they’re coming to kill us all?’ said Freya. She shook her head to shake off her reverie.

  Loki considered. ‘Maybe you’re no longer the Gods’ biggest fan. Maybe they’re unworthy of worship now. Maybe we need better gods. We could link up with the frost giants.’

  ‘What?’ said Freya.

  ‘Just saying. No harm in saying. Once they’ve got rid of the Gods, you could rule down here, I could rule Asgard … all it would take is one little bite of an apple, Freya …’

  Why was she listening to him? She knew exactly what happened when a mortal ate one of Idunn’s apples. She’d probably regress to being a baby in nappies … forever. Like Clare, stuck in a teenage horror land.

  Freya stood up.

  ‘I’ve heard enough. Your mouth is full of lies.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Freya.’

  ‘I’m going.’

  ‘When you change your mind you can find me—’ he screeched after her.

  But Freya didn’t wait to hear. She just wanted to get as far away from him and his weasel words as possible. She ran to the Tube, the harsh wind wet and raw on her face, through the eerily silent snow-smothered Russell Square Gardens. There were no squirrels. No pigeons. No sparrows.

  The birds and animals had fled. There was only snow.

  Meanwhile

  Thor stopped dead doing his signature ‘lightning bolt’ gesture as he paraded around the bitter cold Arsenal football pitch after scoring yet another goal. Woden froze while signing autographs on a sleet-soaked red carpet. Freyja paused mid-sip at a champagne reception. Her feet in their six-inch-high gold Manolos wobbled, then she toppled over.

  Earthquake

  Freya jolted awake, shivering. What a horrible nightmare she was having. Then she realised it wasn’t a nightmare.

  What was that rumbling noise? It sounded like an explosion. Or an earthquake. There aren’t earthquakes in Britain, she thought, as the house began to shake and her bed trembled violently. Every ornament on her chest of drawers oscillated back and forth, back and forth, a few shattering as they hit the floor. Her pictures swayed on the undulating walls as the air crackled around her and car alarms wailed up and down the road. All the street lights went out.

  Freya’s bed juddered to a halt as she clutched the quivering wooden headboard. Her breath came in gulps. What a time to be alone in the house. Where was her mum? Out. Always out.

  A tumult of voices, commanding, insistent, came from below her window. Then the banging and pounding on her front door started up.

  ‘Freya! Let us in! FREYA!!’

  Oh Gods, it was Clare. She’d locked herself out again and had brought back a club-full of losers at 3 am. She tumbled down the stairs to the door.

  ‘Mum, this is the THIRD time this week you’ve forgotten your keys,’ she shouted through the front door. ‘I think we’ve just had an earthquake.’

  Freya undid the chain and opened the door. Gods and Goddesses pushed through. They looked wild-eyed and panicked as they streamed in, jabbering and clamouring.

  ‘Where are they? Where is the All-Father? The frost giants have rampaged through Asgard!’ they shouted as they packed into her house, spilling into the sitting room and running up and down the stairs.

  Last time she’d seen them they were dying wraiths. Now they were young again, but frantic and frightened.

  ‘Without Thor and Woden and Freyja we couldn’t stop them,’ said Njord.

  ‘We’ve left 800 Valhalla warriors at the bottom of Bifrost,’ panted Thor’s wife, Sif. ‘They will hold off the giants as long as they can.’

  Last through the door was Heimdall, the watchman of the Gods. He carried the great ivory horn he must have ripped from the British Museum slung round his massive shoulders, the broken chains trailing and clanking behind him. In his right hand he clutched a red fire extinguisher.

  ‘How did you—’ began Freya.

  ‘I stole my horn back from those thieves,’ said Heimdall. ‘Gjall is mine. What a load of old junk i
n that hoard. Cracked cauldrons and rusted swords and bits of old boat I wouldn’t bury a dwarf in.’

  ‘They’re valuable because they’re old,’ said Freya.

  ‘Bah,’ snorted the God. ‘Where’s the gold? The silver? Though I did find this flame-quenching potion,’ he said, brandishing the fire extinguisher. ‘Now that’s treasure.’

  ‘Where are Woden and Thor?’ shouted Njord. ‘Where is the Goddess of Battle?’

  ‘It’s a long saga,’ said Freya.

  ‘Make it a short one,’ said Tyr.

  Our Gods

  Freya’s sitting room looked as if it was about to burst. Gods and Goddesses squashed onto the saggy sofa, perched on the sofa arms, and squished onto every chair in the house. Tyr and Njord sat glaring and cross-legged on the rug. Woden’s handsome, armour-clad sons hunched by the doorway; Sif and Frigg and Bragi perched on the bay window sill; Idunn sat in her husband’s lap; Heimdall skulked by the fireplace; Freyja’s brother Frey slumped on the floor. Weapons cluttered the tables and leaned against the walls.

  The front door banged shut. The Gods looked up. Freya saw the hope in their glinting eyes.

  Clare strolled in, with mascara running down her face, her tights laddered, one broken-heeled shoe in her hand, and clutching a large bag of greasy chips. She was swaying slightly.

  ‘Oh cool, a Viking costume party,’ she giggled. ‘Kinda boring, everyone just sitting around wearing old clobber. Come on, who wants to dance? Where’s the beer?’

  ‘Not now, Mum,’ said Freya.

  ‘Who is this mortal?’ demanded Sif. Her lip curled.

  ‘My mother,’ said Freya, blushing.

  ‘Your … mother?’ said Frigg.

  ‘This person dishonours us,’ said Frey.

  ‘Speak for yourself, weirdo,’ said Clare. ‘Have a chip.’ And she danced in place, swaying to music only she could hear.

  Should she confess? What did it matter now?

  ‘She had a bit of an accident,’ said Freya. ‘With one of Idunn’s apples.’

  The Gods fell silent and stared at Clare. An angry hum filled the room.

  Freya cringed. Would they kill her? Enslave them both?

  ‘Wot?’ said Clare. She continued munching.

  Idunn, keeper of the apples of youth, went up to Clare and touched her forehead with her cool fingers.

  ‘Mum,’ moaned Freya.

  Clare shuddered. The chips dropped from her hand and spilled over the floor. She blinked rapidly, and her body trembled from head to toe. Her suddenly too tight mini skirt ripped.

  ‘Mum?’ said Freya tentatively.

  ‘Freya,’ mumbled Clare. ‘I feel so dizzy.’ She looked down at herself. ‘Why am I dressed like this? Why is it so cold? Who are these …’

  ‘Mum, no time to explain, these are our Gods, the frost giants are coming, we—’

  ‘And I’m tattooed!’ she shrieked. ‘Freya, why do I have a snake tattoo on my wrist?’

  ‘Mum, sit down and be quiet,’ said Freya. ‘Did you hear me? These are our Gods.’

  Clare stared at the glowing Immortals. Their tall, bright, unearthly majesty filled the room.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No … it can’t be.’

  Hurricane

  Clare, ashen-faced, her tense shoulders drawn up to her neck, kept to the edge of the room while the Gods argued, darting anxious glances at Freya every now and then. For once she looked completely out of her depth.

  ‘Sorry there aren’t enough chairs, my lords,’ she said timidly. ‘My hospitality is not what it should be. Crisps, anyone? Or I could send out for pizza,’ she faltered.

  ‘We will eat after we have fought and won,’ said Njord. ‘There will be feasting in Asgard.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said Clare. ‘You keep out of this, Freya,’ she added.

  ‘I can’t keep out of it,’ said Freya. ‘I’m already in it.’

  Clare shot her a look.

  Freya’s phone rang. It was her father, calling from Dubai. She backed out of the room to answer.

  ‘Uh, hi Dad,’ she muttered. Bob’s timing was always terrible.

  ‘Freya, are you all right?’ he said. ‘I know it’s the middle of the night—’

  ‘No, I’m up,’ she said.

  ‘It’s about the hurricane, I’m just checking to see you’re okay.’

  ‘What hurricane?’ asked Freya.

  ‘It’s all over the news, turn on the TV,’ said Bob. ‘There’s a category 10 hurricane heading straight for London. It’s sprung out of nowhere. Wind speeds of 140 miles per hour and rising off the scale. The Home Office is urging everyone within the flood zone to move to higher ground or leave London. There’s going to be massive flooding. The Thames is rising and going to burst its banks, and people are being evacuated and … Freya are you there?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said faintly.

  ‘Freya, there’s more …’ Bob hesitated. ‘There’ve been explosions at the Cloisters Museum in New York, the chess pieces are missing …’

  Freya gulped.

  ‘Dad, this isn’t a good time, we’ll be careful, I promise.’

  ‘Go to the top of the house,’ he said. ‘Get candles ready. Block up the front door with—’

  The front door smashed down.

  Freya screamed.

  ‘Freya!’ shouted Bob.

  Thor burst in, then Roskva and Alfi. Gusts of wind rattled through the house. Freyja, Goddess of the Battle-Slain, followed, her hair wild.

  ‘I’m here,’ bellowed Thor, holding aloft his massive hammer in his iron gauntlet. ‘Where are the giants?’

  ‘You took your time,’ snapped his wife, golden-haired Sif.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Bob. ‘It sounded like—’

  ‘It’s okay, Dad, gotta go,’ said Freya, hanging up.

  ‘My door,’ said Clare, then turned to see Woden materialise in the middle of the sitting room in all his glory, wearing his gleaming golden helmet and brandishing the rune-laden spear which never missed and always returned to the hand that hurled it.

  Clare went white. Then she bowed.

  Woden ignored her.

  ‘We heard Heimdall’s horn,’ said Woden. ‘We are battle-ready.’

  ‘Except I didn’t blow it,’ said Heimdall.

  Freya opened her mouth and then closed it. Her phone rang again but she ignored it.

  ‘The frost giants are heading for the rainbow bridge,’ said Tyr. ‘They’ll be here by dawn. Without Thor’s hammer and Woden’s spear we weren’t strong enough to hold them off in Asgard.’

  Thor’s face flushed. ‘We’ve been busy here, you know,’ he boomed. ‘Noticed all the worship we’re getting now? Look at you. The bright fame of the Gods is restored.’

  ‘It seems to me it’s been restored for a while,’ said Njord.

  ‘Shouldn’t we call the airforce?’ said Freya. ‘The army?’

  ‘To do what?’ said Woden. ‘Fight against storm and sleet and whirling winds? Because that is all mortals will see. This is a battle between Immortals. The tornado coming—’

  ‘Why have you ignored us for so long?’ said Clare suddenly. ‘All these centuries, praying and supplicating … and now you just turn up …’ Freya saw her hands shaking, as her mother clutched the mantelpiece.

  Woden frowned.

  ‘Who are you to ask for attention from the mighty Gods?’ said Woden. ‘Does the ant burrowing in the ground demand your interest? Do the salmon swimming in the river cry out that you have forgotten them? We gave you life and that’s enough. Rejoice in that great gift. If anything we were over-generous when—’

  ‘Hush,’ said Heimdall.

  The Gods and Goddesses froze.

  The Wind-shield of the Gods, who could hear the grass growing, cocked his head.

  ‘The frost giants are marching down Bifrost,’ said Heimdall.

  ‘Take up your weapons and prepare for war,’ said Woden, grabbing his spear. His radiance filled the room. ‘The time of blood-we
t spears is upon us. Shields will be gashed. Shafts will sing as arrows bite. Swords will clash under the battle-storm.’

  Freya began to slink from the room.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ demanded Woden. ‘Put on your cloak of falcon feathers. We will need your eyes.’

  Then Freya remembered. ‘Loki is here,’ she said. ‘I saw him. He wants Idunn’s apples.’

  ‘Of course he’s here,’ said Woden. ‘The Wolf’s father is always around when there’s trouble. Give me the eski. We don’t want any more accidents.’

  Battle-Bright Warriors

  Freya flapped her falcon wings and landed on top of the high, hammer-shaped steeple of Woden’s Temple. The biting wind blew fiercely and she had to grip tightly with her talons to keep her balance. Her juddering bird’s heart pounded inside her feathery chest as her sharp falcon’s eyes surveyed the hushed city below. The foggy, pre-dawn light was no obstacle: she could see for miles along the River Thames, then she turned to look past the London suburbs to the south, over the snowy hills of Surrey, glowing pinky-grey in the mist, across the meadows and fields and ancient woodlands of the Kent Downs all the way to the chalky cliffs of Dover and the choppy English Channel and beyond.

  She shivered. What did she know of battles and tactics and armies? She couldn’t even beat her younger cousin at chess. She hated computer games. Could Woden have made a worse choice for his eyes and ears?

  Just look, came Woden’s cold voice inside her head, and I will see with your eyes. Where are my chosen ones, my warriors?

  Freya surveyed the iron-helmeted ranks of the Einherjar, the battle-bright fighters of Valhalla, spread out in front of the Tate Modern around the base of the Millennium Bridge. They grasped their shining swords and axes, their spears and bows, their gleaming shields. Their red-gold coats of mail, flecked and battle-scarred, glinted in the swirling snow.

  There’s Snot, thought Freya.

  Good, said Woden. We will need him.

  Snot, grim-faced, wearing his filthy bear skin cloak, was at the head of a phalanx of berserkers on the north side of the bridge, clutching his battle-axe. Icy water drops dripped from the edge. Other warriors gripped their long spears, ready to rain down a shower of blood on the first giants to surge off Bifrost onto the bridge. In the still cold air the only sound in the empty city was the eerie clink-clank of armour as the warriors shifted from foot to foot, waiting. Waiting, in a thicket of spears. The murky Thames, studded with floating chunks of ice, slopped high against its banks, as if to escape the coming battle. Overnight, London had been hurled into the winter of winters.