The Sleeping Army

by Francesca Simon

  ‘Concussed,’ she heard Sunil murmur to her parents. ‘We’ll take her straight to Baldr’s hospital to be checked out before interviewing her.’

  ‘And a bath,’ muttered Clare.

  ‘Are you arresting her?’ shouted a reporter.

  ‘Everyone get back,’ ordered the policeman. He pulled out his radio.

  ‘Am I in trouble?’ said Freya.

  ‘Don’t say anything. We’re getting a lawyer. It will be fine,’ said Clare, hugging her again. She tightened her fingers on Freya’s bruised arm. Freya winced.

  ‘Get out of the way please,’ said Clare. ‘My daughter needs to rest,’ she added firmly. ‘She doesn’t know who stole the chessmen, and she will be making a full statement to the police. Now move.’

  ‘Come on, leave her alone, we’ll hold a press conference later at Snowhill Street Station,’ said the policeman. ‘Back off, show’s over, move along.’ He guided them into the back seat of the first police car and slammed the door.

  Freya sat between Bob and Clare as Sunil drove off. She leaned her head back and slumped. Someone else was in charge. Someone else was making decisions for her. She felt a great sense of relief.

  Bob put his arm around her shoulder. Clare clutched her hand. Will they pull me apart? thought Freya.

  ‘Freya,’ whispered Bob, glancing at Sunil to make sure she couldn’t hear, ‘I saw something … odd the night you vanished.’

  ‘What?’ said Freya.

  ‘I saw you … spinning through the air with the chess pieces. And then you – and they – vanished. I know it sounds crazy, but that’s what I saw.’

  Clare rolled her eyes.

  ‘Shut up, Bob,’ said Clare. ‘One of the great joys of being divorced from you is that I get to ignore rubbishy statements like that.’

  ‘Well, Freya?’ said Bob.

  Freya reached into her pocket and touched the falcon feather, the arm band, and Alfi’s brooch.

  ‘Dad,’ whispered Freya. ‘It’s a long saga.’

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to thank Andrew Franklin of Profile Books, and Stephen Page of Faber, for inviting me to write whatever I liked, an enticing and irresistible offer. Andrew also stopped me when we were discussing possible ideas to point out that there might be a book in the Lewis Chessmen.

  I’m extremely grateful to Professor Eric Stanley, Professor Mary Clayton, and Dr Emily Lethbridge, who kindly cast aside all scholarly reticence and answered endless questions about what a non-Christian world based on the Anglo-Saxon and Norse gods might be like.

  This book would never have been written without the help and encouragement of my wonderful writer friends Steven Butler and Emily Woof. My special thanks to Steven for asking for the first paragraph as his birthday present, and for being my first reader, and to Emily for the world-shattering suggestion that Christianity never happened.

  I’d also like to thank Rosemary Sandberg, Martin Stamp and Joshua Stamp-Simon for thoughtful comments and good cheer.

  Anyone who wants to find out more about the Norse gods must read Kevin Crossley-Holland’s brilliant, poetic re-telling in The Penguin Book of Norse Myths.

  The Lewis Chessmen are still sleeping in the British Museum and the National Museum of Scotland.