The Lost Gods

by Francesca Simon

  Whatever happened she was already lost.

  The Wolf Way

  The bride, her bridesmaid, and their three mortal attendants walked slowly through the entranceway into the tumultuous, creaking stadium, the high oval walls barely containing the surging storm raging within. Thor and Snot struggled to keep their long skirts from flying up over their heads as the icy, roaring winds pelted them with sleet. Freya would have been swept off her feet in the lashing winds if Snot hadn’t grabbed her arm.

  ‘How do you walk in these horrible flapping things?’ grunted Snot. ‘If I find the person who invented skirts I swear by the Gods I’ll kill them.’

  Freya paused, teeth chattering, at the entrance to the great stadium. Where athletes had performed deeds of wonder on the orange track before thousands of screaming spectators, now the arena was packed with sprawling giants and massive, billowing tents. It was like walking into a giant refrigerator filled with rotting food.

  A terrible voice boomed out over the vastness like hailstones clattering onto steel, then an immense block of ice loomed up out of the stormy blackness.

  ‘She’s here! My Freyja has come. The fairest Goddess of all is mine!’ The ground shook as Thrym shambled up to them, leading the way to the enormous tent pitched over the entire middle of the stadium, bellowing commands as he lumbered.

  ‘Black Tooth, lay on the wedding feast! My bride is here. Lead her to the High Seat. Mouth Cramp, bring mead horns. Iron Hag, see that my bride has everything she needs. Skull-Splitter! Gravel Yeller! Evil Thorn! Everyone, come. Come. Freyja is mine!’

  ‘Remember, both of you, no stomping,’ hissed Roskva. ‘Our lives depend upon it. Think dainty. Dainty.’

  Freya, Roskva and Alfi trailed behind the sturdy bride and her stout attendant as they entered Thrym’s tent. Small lights flickered around the sides, but the place was dark and shadowy. Straw covered the ground and the benches, and bones crunched beneath their feet. Freya gagged. The rank air smelled like the place where seals go to die.

  ‘This way, this way, my petal,’ boomed the King of the Giants. He gripped Thor and gave him a huge slap on the rump. Thor growled.

  ‘My, my, what a fine filly Freyja is,’ bellowed Thrym. ‘I like a girl with meat on her bones. Sit in the High Seat beside me, Freyja,’ ordered the giant, grinning his fishy grin.

  The veiled bride flung himself into the chair of honour beside Thrym, about as gracefully as a whale. Thor’s bridesmaid, Snot, squeezed in beside him. Huge as Thor was, Thrym towered above him. Roskva and Alfi stood watchfully behind Thor, and Freya huddled beside them. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably. It was like standing inside a freezer. Thank the Gods, the place was dimly lit, which would help Thor’s disguise.

  The giants who’d followed them inside the enormous tent immediately sat drooling at the vast table. She looked for Skadi, but couldn’t see her. She was lurking somewhere, Freya was sure, waiting to pounce.

  Freya ducked behind Thor’s high chair and tried to keep out of view. If any of these monsters trod on her she would be squished instantly. She shivered. When would she be grabbed and handed over to Skadi? The giants lumbered about, stinking and slobbering. The noise of guttural voices, raised in drunken victory, billowed through the tent. The drunker they became, the more they drank, spilling mead which flowed unceasingly.

  The long trestle table was piled with vast platters of frost-covered food: oxen, seals, venison, and dozens of salmon. Horns of mead were scattered the length of the huge table.

  Freya forced herself to look at Thrym. His filthy hair and beard were caked with swamp grass and dirt and ice. Bristly tufts sprouted all over his face. His foul breath wilted everything it touched. His greasy hands and knobbly arms were covered in warts, and pus-filled lumps dotted his bull neck. His thick tongue wetted his blubbery mouth.

  ‘And who is my Freyja’s charming bridesmaid?’ boomed the giant.

  ‘Snot,’ came a deep croak beneath the veil.

  Roskva and Alfi went white.

  Aaaarrghh! Snot had given them all away, thought Freya. She gripped the back of Thor’s chair.

  But Thrym didn’t seem to notice.

  Freya breathed again.

  ‘Snot. A beautiful name for a beautiful bridesmaid,’ said Thrym.

  What good fate that Snot’s parents had given him a girl’s name, thought Freya.

  ‘What an alluring low voice she has,’ said Thrym.

  ‘Her voice croaks from singing songs of joy for her mistress,’ said Roskva quickly.

  ‘And is Freyja’s voice just as delicious?’ asked Thrym, poking his bride in the ribs.

  ‘Freyja has taken a vow of silence until the happy moment when she becomes your wife,’ said Roskva.

  Thrym belched.

  ‘What delicacy! What elegance!’

  Roskva was a grump, but she did have quick wits, thought Freya.

  ‘Grit-Teeth! Whale-Head!’ bellowed Thrym. ‘Bring in the plate of dainties for my Goddess and her bridesmaid.’

  Two giants stumbled in carrying a platter with some small roasted birds and a few berries and placed them before Thor and Snot.

  Thor scooped up and ate the ‘dainties’ in one mouthful, then snatched a mead horn and downed it in one gulp, then a second, and a third. Next he shovelled a salmon under his veil into his mouth, then another, and another, swallowing each one in a few chomps, followed by half an ox.

  Thrym stared at his bride with his flaming eyes, his pustulant mouth drooping open, his grisly fangs covered in gristle.

  ‘She can really stuff it in,’ said Thrym, licking his bulbous white lips. ‘I’ve never seen a woman eat and drink so much.’

  Oh Gods. They were rumbled.

  ‘Freyja hasn’t eaten in ages,’ twittered Roskva. ‘She was too excited about her wedding night.’

  Thrym grinned, showing off his rusty spiked teeth.

  ‘I like a woman with a healthy appetite,’ said Thrym, walloping his bride on the back. Thor fell off his seat face forward into his salmon the blow was so powerful and unexpected. Freya saw him clench his fist around his hidden hammer as he righted himself, chunks of salmon clinging to his veil. Roskva brushed it off as best she could.

  ‘… and with some meat on her bones. Ha! No scarecrows for me,’ said Thrym, the icy air filled with his foul breath. The other giants continued stuffing food into their lumpish mouths, their frozen beards filling with meat and grease. They drank horn after horn of mead, roaring louder and louder the drunker they got. Several had passed out and were snoring on the table, their heads buried in bones and fish heads.

  ‘Please, just a little kiss, my petal,’ boomed Thrym, smacking his rubbery lips and reaching out to lift Thor’s veils with his massive, frostbitten fingers.

  ‘NO!’ said Roskva. ‘Not until you’re married. Woden forbids it. It is not our custom for you to see your bride before you’re wed. This is the Goddess Freyja, not some troll. Stand back.’

  ‘Then let’s have the wedding NOW!’ roared the giant. ‘I can’t wait to kiss my bride and admire her peerless beauty.’ He leaned closer to Thor’s face. ‘Jus a lil’ peek …’ he slurred, then he started back as if he’d seen a monster.

  ‘Why are Freyja’s eyes like burning coals? Never have I seen eyes so fierce.’

  ‘What do you expect, Lord?’ said Roskva. ‘She hasn’t slept for many nights, hoping that one day you’d ask to marry her.’

  The giant roared his approval and whacked Thor on the back again. Thor spat out his drink all over the table.

  ‘Not long now,’ Thrym roared, leering at her. The few frost giants who weren’t hopelessly drunk joined in, pounding the table, shouting, ‘Now! Now! Now!’

  ‘We’ll leave right aw—’

  Thor whipped off his veils, leapt to his feet and sent his hammer hurling at Thrym, crushing his skull, then launched his fearsome weapon straight at the row of drunken giants. ‘My hammer will shut your mouths!’ he bellowed, as Snot ripped off his skirts, pulled o
ut his axe and sword and attacked.

  Roskva and Alfi hurled plate after plate of food at the befuddled giants. Freya, uncertain, threw a frozen salmon, then dived under the High Seat. Roskva and Alfi did the same as above them was the whizz and crack of bones, the grunting and howling and shrieking and thudding as bodies fell and benches overturned and the tent’s walls ripped and collapsed as fleeing giants trampled through them. And again and again she heard the whizz thud smash of Thor’s hammer as it found its target and returned to the Thunder God to be relaunched.

  Hidden from the battle, the three clutched one another. Freya prayed as she had never prayed before.

  There was shouting outside the tent and the sound of stamping feet. More giants. She’d thought they’d all been at the feast. Who were these newcomers? Now they’d all be killed.

  Freya opened her eyes. Through the bench legs she saw the pounding legs of the army of Valhalla warriors hacking and hewing their way through the remaining frost giants, who crumbled into rubble as they tried to flee.

  ‘Stop them!’ came Woden’s unmistakable voice.

  ‘You took your time,’ grunted Thor, his hammer whizzing and thunking around the tent.

  And then, finally, there was silence. No wind. No screams. No thuds. Just silence.

  Stunned, Freya, Roskva and Alfi climbed from their hiding place. What remained of the tent was littered with bloody, melting blocks of ice, boulders, rubble, and rocky fragments, while the victorious Gods and Einherjar roamed over the blood-fouled, fuming earth, snatching gold armbands and fine swords.

  Something was different. Freya sniffed. The wintry storms had gone. The sulphurous air had passed into spring mildness. Dawn sunlight streamed through the clouds in bright streaks of tangerine, gold and pink while early morning mist rose from the boulders and slippery rocks strewing the stadium.

  The Gods whooped and cheered. The Valhalla army bellowed and clashed their swords on their shields. The Lewis Chessmen stomped and yelled. Roskva and Alfi beamed at one another. Was she free? thought Freya. Had Skadi been killed? Could she dare to hope that it was not fated that she—

  Suddenly Heimdall stiffened.

  ‘A giantess approaches,’ he shouted.

  At the top of the stands, a helmeted warrior stood in a coat of chain mail, clutching a golden shield and holding aloft a sword and spear. The rising sun lit up the weapons, spiking dazzling rays of light around her like Valkyrie’s wings.

  ‘I have sworn vengeance on my father Thjazi’s murderers,’ she roared. ‘I demand compensation to end my feud with the Gods.’

  Freya’s heart tightened. It was Skadi. She had rejoiced too soon.

  Skadi, squeezed into her armour and with a helmet perched tightly upon her tangled, frizzy green hair, stomped down from the top of the spectator stands to ground level where the Gods gathered. When she reached the bottom she threw aside her round shield, covered in red-beaked eagles with gold eyes, gnawing at a corpse. Freya recoiled. The same hideous warty face. The same, terrible squinting bloodshot eyes. The same long, curved, filthy nails. The same horrible dead fish stench. Skadi. Was there any creature alive who hated her more?

  Thor raised his hammer.

  Woden shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Enough blood has been shed. We wish to be at peace now. Skadi comes for her rightful compensation.’

  Freya’s throat was dry. There would be no victory celebrations for her.

  ‘I made my terms clear,’ said Skadi. ‘Where is my handsome husband?’

  Freya jumped.

  ‘Husband?’ said Woden.

  Skadi looked at the shuffling Gods. Her gaze fixed on Snot.

  She looked more closely at him and laughed her horrible laugh of screeching tyres. ‘Surely you weren’t thinking that bear-breath berserker was a fit husband for me, Skadi, daughter of Thjazi, King of Giants?’

  ‘Say that again and I’ll kill you,’ growled Snot under his breath.

  ‘And what’s she doing here?’ Skadi pointed at Freya.

  ‘The Gods brought me as your compensation,’ said Freya, shaking. She struggled to keep her voice steady.

  ‘You? Why would I want you, you little thief,’ said Skadi.

  ‘Loki said you wanted … me in compensation for your father’s death.’

  ‘You? What kind of lousy reparation would that be, for the death of a King!’ screamed Skadi. ‘You? You?! A scrawny, whiny mortal like you? For what, fishing bait? To clean my snow shoes? What good would that do? Why in Hel’s name would I want you? Once I’d squished you, or hooked you for bait, where would I be?’

  Freya felt as if a tiny bit of blue sky had suddenly emerged from the smothering clouds.

  Was it possible that …

  ‘The Trickster said you wanted me,’ whispered Freya.

  ‘NO!’ howled Skadi. ‘I want PROPER compensation for my father’s death.’

  So Loki had lied. Why wasn’t she surprised?

  Roskva and Alfi gripped her tightly. Freya feared if they hadn’t she would have fainted. Relief flooded her.

  ‘What do you want then?’ asked Woden. ‘Gold?’

  ‘No,’ said Skadi. She spat. ‘I have mounds of gold and piles of jewels. I have so much gold I could cover Thrymheim ten times over and still have storerooms bursting with gems. No gold.’

  ‘Then what will you take?’

  ‘I want a husband. It’s lonely in my beautiful ice palace. My storm-home echoes with loneliness.’

  The Gods murmured quietly among themselves.

  Then Woden spoke:

  ‘The feud between Gods and giants must end. Skadi has a right to compensation. You may choose your husband from among us, but only by his feet,’ said Woden.

  Skadi looked startled.

  ‘His feet?’ said Skadi. ‘Why his feet? Couldn’t I see his—’

  ‘Because that is my decree,’ said Woden. ‘Do you want a husband or don’t you?’

  ‘I do,’ said Skadi. ‘Oh, I do.’ She looked at the handsome Frey, and winked.

  Frey didn’t wink back. He actually looked a little green.

  Frey is probably hoping his feet have cracked nails and bunions, thought Freya.

  Skadi turned her back as the Gods assembled in a row, removing their boots and shielding their faces with their tunics.

  ‘We’re ready,’ said Woden.

  Skadi moved slowly along the line, peering at the Gods’ feet.

  She stopped in front of one, moved on, then slowly returned.

  ‘I choose … him,’ said Skadi.

  The chosen God put down his tunic. It was Njord, Lord of Seafarers and Sea Creatures, with his weathered skin, and sea-salt smell.

  Freya saw him gulp as he looked into the red eyes of his bride.

  Skadi stepped back and grimaced.

  ‘I’ve been tricked,’ said Skadi. ‘I wanted—’

  ‘You could have been given Loki, so rejoice in whom the fates have chosen for you,’ said Woden. ‘A fair reward for your father’s death, and the death of all the frost giants. In fact, you have got the better bargain.’

  Skadi and her husband-to-be exchanged grimaces.

  ‘We’re living in the mountains,’ scowled Skadi. ‘I hate the sea.’

  ‘We’re living by the seaside,’ scowled Njord. ‘I hate the mountains.’

  ‘You can spend nine nights in each,’ said Woden sharply. ‘But before you go, I have one more gift for Skadi, to mark the end of our enmity.’ Reaching into his tunic, the All-Father removed two enormous liquid marbles.

  ‘Those are my father’s eyes,’ said Skadi.

  ‘Watch,’ said Woden, and he hurled the eyes high into the heavens.

  ‘His eyes are twin stars now,’ said Woden, ‘and for so long as this quick world lasts, they will look down upon you, and upon all of us.’

  Skadi gazed into the sky. Then she nodded, and picked up her weapons. Njord, his face white, followed her.

  Four Walk-In Wardrobes

  ‘Poor Dad,’ said
Freyja, applying lipstick to her bee-stung lips.

  ‘Rather him than me,’ said Heimdall.

  ‘That was a close call,’ said Tyr.

  ‘You’re telling me,’ said Woden’s handsome son, Vali. His brother Vidar laughed.

  ‘It’s time we went back to Asgard,’ said Woden. ‘We don’t belong here any more.’

  ‘I’m not going back with you,’ said Freyja.

  ‘What do you mean, you’re not going back?’ said Woden. ‘Our time here has ended.’

  ‘I’m staying in Midgard,’ said Freyja.

  ‘You choose to live with the sons of men?’ said Sif. ‘Instead of the heaven of Asgard?’

  Freyja tossed her head. Was it Freya’s imagination, or had the Goddess put highlights into her glossy gold hair? It had a distinctly metallic hue Freya didn’t remember.

  The Goddess opened her mother-of-pearl compact, and checked her bright red lipstick. Stolen, I bet, thought Freya.

  ‘First of all, there are no shops in Asgard,’ said the Goddess. ‘I was always wearing the same old robes and necklace. Here there are thousands of dresses, millions of jewels. And the shoes! It’s worth staying just for the shoes. What’s there to do in Asgard, except drink and fight and spy on humans? Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Whereas down here … I’ve never had so much fun.’

  ‘But you always said how much humans smell,’ said Frigg.

  Freyja shrugged. ‘I’ve got used to their stinkiness.’

  ‘And the noise? You never stopped complaining,’ said Thor.

  ‘No noisier than all those spears and shields clashing every day, and all those drunken warriors yowling every night.’

  ‘And what about your beautiful hall, Sessrumnir?’ said Sif.

  ‘Puh!’ said Freyja. ‘That old hovel? It’s draughty. It’s cold. It’s just a big old lump of gold and stone. Did you know I’ve got four walk-in wardrobes in my mansion here? Central heating. An indoor gym. A swimming pool. No more dips in those icy rivers for me. I don’t know how I put up with it for all those centuries. I’m a style icon. I’m worshipped. My picture is in every magazine. Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got a manicure and massage booked for this afternoon. I’m being interviewed later this week for Home Beautiful. Then I’m being photographed for Vogue – FREYJA: GODDESS FOR OUR TIME is the headline.’