The Gospel of Loki (14 page)

‘Bring the hammer at once!’ said Thrym. ‘I want to be married
right now
!’

It took a few minutes for servants to bring the hammer into the dining hall. Meanwhile, Thor waited impatiently, while Thrym’s sister, who had been watching the fake bride throughout the meal, came to sit down next to us, eyeing the rings on Thor’s hand. They belonged to Freyja, of course, and – of course – they were very beautiful.

‘You’ll need a friend round here,’ she said. ‘Give me those rings on your fingers, and I’ll show you the ropes.’

Thor said nothing, but I could tell he was reaching the end of his patience. I ushered the sister away from him, promising her as many rings as she liked as soon as the wedding was over.

‘I think we should leave Freyja alone,’ I said, with a quelling glance at Thor. ‘She’s very shy and nervous, you know. Let’s respect her modesty.’

At last, the hammer was carried in, with every tedious piece of ceremony you can imagine. Speeches, toasts, and I could
practically
feel
Thor’s temper, frayed to the point of combustion.

‘And now,’ said Thrym, who was very drunk, ‘we can all agree that Freyja has made the right choice. Mjølnir is a mighty weapon, but I think we both know there’s a mightier one. I hear she can’t wait to try it out.’ And he staggered up to Freyja and winked, and placed the hammer on her lap.

Thor’s reaction was immediate. He stood up, grasping the hammer, and flung away his disguise. Unveiled and in Aspect, he was fearsome; his red beard bristled; his torso bulged; his eyes were alight with fury. I just kept out of his way; it’s really the only thing to do when Thor’s on one of his rampages.

Thunder crashed; lightning blazed; the hammer did its deadly work. ‘Something borrowed, something blue’ – well, they’d borrowed the hammer, I guess, and soon the happy multitude were all going to be as blue as anything . . .

Within five minutes the hall of Thrym was piled with broken corpses. You had to admit he was good – not smart, but a death machine on two legs. Men, women, servants, dogs. All fell beneath Mjølnir. And then, when the bloodlust subsided at last, we went back to Asgard together, not speaking a word until we arrived within sight of our battlements.

Freyja was waiting for us there. Thor gave her back her necklace.

Bragi was standing by with his lute. He said: ‘What’s Thrym like?’

‘Dead,’ said Thor.

‘And the in-laws?’

‘Dead,’ said Thor.

‘I guess you got your hammer back, then. That’s going to make a great ballad,’ he said. ‘Or a celebration chant. Or what would you say to a chorus, maybe in the Classical style?’

Thor turned his gaze on Bragi. Reaching out his big hand, he picked up the lute and wrung its neck.

‘If ever I hear a single
note
of a song about this,’ he said softly, ‘a song, or a poem, or even a
limerick
. . .’ He paused to drop the
lute on the floor. There came a sad little splintering sound. ‘In fact,’ Thor said, ‘if you say another word, I’ll string you across the Rainbow Bridge and use your guts as a guitar. Is that clear?’

Bragi nodded, wide-eyed.

And that was the last time anyone dared to mention the episode again.

LESSON 7

Celebrity

Killing your fans. Never the most efficient way to build on your public image.

Lokabrenna

A
FTER THAT, QUITE SUDDENLY
, Yours Truly became almost popular. I’d always been notorious, but now my fame spread through the Middle Worlds like a dose of wildfire. People
loved
that story – the business with Thor in the wedding veil, and Yours Truly disguised as a bridesmaid – and in spite of the fact that Bragi was under strict orders not to spread it around, it became a word-of-mouth success.

Thor had
always
been popular. Big and strong and good-natured and about as bright as your average Labrador, he was a man the Folk could admire without feeling threatened by his intellect. I was just the opposite: no muscles, but too damn smart, and the Folk mistrusted me.

All that changed after Thrym, though. We were now a double-act. People stopped us in the street and demanded their favourite anecdotes. His muscle and my brain were suddenly a winning combination, and I have to admit that I for one felt a certain amount of pressure to duplicate our most recent success.

No, I hadn’t forgotten how much I resented the gods. But being a part of the popular crowd was a new experience, and
in spite of everything, I was rather enjoying it. I despised them still, and yet I now had a kind of reflected shine; an unexpected attraction; an aura of celebrity. Doors that would have been closed to me were suddenly flung open. Total strangers gave me gifts. Women offered themselves to me – and with their husbands’ blessing. I found that I could get away with all kinds of misbehaviour for which I would have been condemned before – drunkenness; deception; acts of malicious vandalism; theft; outrageous practical jokes – and when the culprit was revealed, people shook their heads and laughed and said: ‘Oh, that’s so Loki’, and actually seemed to be
flattered
when they found out I’d taken advantage of them.

This unexpected tolerance even extended to Asgard. There, too, I found my behaviour was suddenly more acceptable. People smiled at my antics, rather than took offence at them. Thor told the story of Sif’s hair as if he’d seen the joke from the start and bellowed with laughter as he did, roaring and clapping me on the back. Bragi reworked the ballad of Idun and her apples so that my character came across more as a victim than a traitor. Even my dalliance with Angie and tales of our monstrous progeny had only served to reinforce my reputation as a sexual athlete. Meanwhile, my twin sons were growing fast – the image of their father now, with my red hair and weird eyes. Not that I felt any more paternal for that. But it kept Sigyn happy, which was all to the good, besides raising my status among the gods.

Heimdall never warmed to me, though; and Skadi – who still came and went in and out of Asgard, spending six weeks in the mountains, then three or four days in Asgard before going back to her hunting grounds – sometimes looked at me coolly from those blue-gold eyes of hers, and I sensed that she was wondering exactly what part I’d played in the death of her father. I might have made her laugh once, but she was still a chilly piece, cold as the heart of the mountains, deadly as a killer whale, and I tried to avoid being
too
popular whenever Skadi was around.

Odin didn’t seem surprised at my new-found popularity. My brother already knew about fame; its fickleness; its transience. And maybe it suited him for me to be a little bedazzled – in fact, thinking back to that time, I wonder if Odin wasn’t the one who’d spread word of my exploits. His ravens, Hugin and Munin, flew off every morning, scouring the Worlds for gossip and news, while Odin himself remained aloof, alone except for Mimir’s Head. Perhaps I should have asked myself just
what
that Head was telling him, and why he seemed so preoccupied with rumours and stories of all kinds, but this new corruption – celebrity – had taken such strong hold of me that I’ll admit, I lost focus. Thrym had been my big break; my entrance into the premier league. And I had started to believe in the myth that had grown around me; to believe I deserved special treatment; that I was beyond the reach of the law. Pride, that most godlike of failings, had me by the short hairs, and I was blissfully unaware of the fall that awaited me . . .

It happened the time that Thor and I set off on a tour of the Middle Worlds. Touring, I’d found, was essential when trying to maintain a profile, and Thor was fond of travelling, while I was always happiest away from my wife’s attentions. We took Thor’s chariot out of Asgard, skirted Ironwood and went east, checking for activity among the Rock Folk. We skirted the Northlands, to ensure that the Ice Folk were still subdued. And then we crossed Inland in disguise, to hear what the Folk were saying about us and to spread a few more stories.

On our first night in Inland, Thor insisted on sampling local hospitality. He’d got it into his head that we should arrive at some hovel in human Aspect, to find out what kind of grass-roots support we really had in the area. I would have preferred a nice inn, with plenty to eat and a decent bed – and maybe some girls to warm it for me – but Thor wouldn’t hear of it, and eventually chose a humble turf-roofed cottage on the edge of a stretch of moor.

It looked ghastly, and I said so. ‘What’s the point of being
famous if you don’t get to stay in the best accommodation?’

‘Ah, come on,’ said Thor. ‘Salt of the Nine Worlds, these farmer types. Besides, imagine what they’ll say when they find out who we are. They’ll be telling the tale for
years
.’

And so we knocked, and asked to share the meal that the woman of the house was preparing. A bit of a clichéd approach, I know, but Thor was in charge, and in his mind that was the kind of things gods were supposed to do. We called ourselves Arthur and Lucky – Thor winking hugely at me whenever he used the alias, so that I was sure we’d be recognized before we sat down to dinner.

Turns out I was wrong about that. The people were rustics from the hills, unable to see behind our disguise. I started to feel impatient. But Thor kept nudging and winking at me, and by then night had fallen, so I resigned myself to spending the night in less-than-luxurious surroundings and concentrated on making the most of the little that was offered me.

The meal wasn’t much. Some kind of stew. The beds were just straw mattresses. But the family seemed nice enough – a middle-aged couple, a teenage son, Thialfi, and a pretty daughter, Roskva – and so Thor had one of his brainwaves, offering to supply the meat that was so sadly lacking.

Now Thor had a couple of goats with him, picked up somewhere along the road. Carried away by his own generosity, he offered the goats to the little family, but warned them not to crack any of the bones – a test of obedience, if you like. Thor was very big on respect. I guess you can afford to be, when you weigh three hundred pounds.

Our hosts were touchingly overwhelmed by the gift of goat meat. The parents were stunned into silence, while the children asked all kinds of questions. Where did we come from? Were we rich? Had we ever seen the One Sea? Thialfi, the teenage son, especially, seemed very curious about Thor, while Roskva, the daughter, watched me from under her lashes.

Well, a good time was had by all, if you enjoy that kind of
thing. We ate, we slept, and in the morning Thor gathered up all the bones from the feast of the previous night and prepared for a breakfast of bread and bone marrow. But on investigating the discarded bones, he saw that a thighbone had already been split, and knew someone had disobeyed.

‘What did I tell you not to do?’ he said, revealing his true Aspect.

Thialfi opened his eyes very wide. ‘Wow. Oh, wow. You’re Thor,’ he said.

‘Yes I know that,’ said Thor.

‘I
knew
it!’ said Thialfi. ‘I mean,
the
Thor. The Thunderer. The thunder god.’

‘Yes,’ said Thor. ‘And if you recall—’

‘Oh, wow,’ said Thialfi. ‘I love your work. That time you dressed up as a bride—’

‘Don’t
mention that!’ said Roskva.

‘Oh. Well, the time you rescued Idun from the Ice People, and—’

‘Actually, that was me,’ I said.

Roskva’s doe eyes opened wide. ‘Oh, my gods, you’re Loki,’ she said. ‘You’re absolutely my favourite of all the gods in Asgard. Thialfi, you dope, this is
Loki
. Loki, the Trickster in person. Thor and Loki, in our house, and we never even
suspected
!’

‘Whatever,’ said Thor, still irate. ‘You disobeyed my specific command. You all deserve to pay with your lives.’

I pointed out that killing his loyal fans would hardly help his public image. By then all the family were bowing, scraping and
I-am-not-worthy
-ing as if they’d never seen a celebrity before. I was frankly revolted, but it seemed to have an effect on Thor.

‘All right, all right. I’ll let it pass.’

Thialfi and Roskva jumped for joy. Roskva brought out a little pink notebook and a stick of charcoal and asked me to write my name inside. Thialfi wanted to feel Thor’s arms, to see if they were as thick as they looked.

‘So, how do you get to be a god?’ said the father of the family. ‘Is it something that can be taught? Or is it something you’re born with? Because my son’s always saying that
he
wants to be a god someday, but I don’t know if there’s a career in it. Not like there is in farming.’

Thor assured him that there was.

‘So, did you train?’ said Thialfi. ‘Or were you, like, recruited?’

Thor told him it was a bit of both.

‘And where
do
you get your ideas from?’ said the mother, addressing me. ‘All those clever plans you make, I don’t know how you think of them. Do they just come into your head?’

I smiled and told her yes, they did.

Father and mother looked impressed. ‘Roskva’s clever, for a girl,’ said the mother fondly. ‘Her head’s so full of ideas, I don’t know where she gets them from. And my Thialfi, he can run like the wind. I’ve never seen anyone faster. Do you think perhaps they might have – you know –
potential
?’

I could see where this was heading. I started to say something about not having enough time to nurture new talent, when I saw Thor’s expression and cursed inwardly. It isn’t often Thor gets an idea, and even less often a good one, but when he gets one into his head it’s almost impossible to shift. And Thor had had an idea, I could tell: his eyes were bright, his face was flushed and his beard was bristling.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ I said.

‘Come on, Loki. They’re so cute. I think I want to keep them.’

‘Absolutely not,’ I said. ‘I mean, what would you
do
with them?’

‘Thialfi could carry my weapons,’ said Thor. ‘Roskva could cook and clean for us. Come on, Loki. They’re only kids. Besides, they think the Worlds of us.’

I pointed out that his
last
two kids had ended up as goat stew. Thor laughed uproariously.

‘That’s
so
Loki,’ he exclaimed. ‘Trust me, this is going to be
fun
.’

And that was how the two of us acquired a pair of followers. Thialfi was Thor’s number-one fan, and Roskva was Yours Truly’s. But in retrospect, I think you’ll agree that it wasn’t the wisest move ever made to take them with us into the unknown. Fans are as fickle as fame itself, and when we allow them to get too close, we risk revealing our feet of clay. First to the followers, then to the foe. And then we all come tumbling down.