The Lost Gods
Authors: Francesca Simon
The Lost Gods
by the same author
The Sleeping Army
T
HE
H
ORRID
H
ENRY SERIES
Helping Hercules
Don't Cook Cinderella
The Parent Swap Shop
Spider School
The Topsy-Turvies
Moo Baa Baa Quack
Miaow Miaow Bow Wow
Café At the Edge of the Moon
What's That Noise?
Papa Forgot
But What Does the Hippopotamus Say?
Do You Speak English, Moon?
FRANCESCA SIMON
For Martin
First published in 2013
by Faber and Faber Limited
Bloomsbury House,
74â77 Great Russell Street,
London
WC1B 3DA
and
Profile Books Ltd
3A
Exmouth House
Pine Street
London
EC1R 0JH
Typeset by Faber and Faber
Printed in England by Clays, Bungay, Suffolk
All rights reserved
© Francesca Simon, 2013
Illustrations © Adam Stower, 2013
The right of Francesca Simon to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
A CIP record for this book
is available from the British Library
ISBN
978â1â846â68565â1
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Being famous has taken the place of going
to heaven in modern society. That's the
place where your dreams will come true.
Jarvis Cocker
The Lost Gods
is set in modern Britain but in a world where Christianity never existed, so people still worship the old Viking and Anglo-Saxon Gods. Time dates from the birth of Woden 5,000 years ago.
Next Time You Create a World, Do It Better
It's Wodenic to Welcome Strangers
Beautiful Beyond the Dreams of Mortals
Two Minutes to Change Your Life
THE GODS DESCEND
The bright, unbearable reality
when gods appear on earth
not in disguise but as themselves.
Homer
Two men and a woman stood in the middle of the Millennium Bridge in the Thorsday morning rush hour, forcing the hordes of rushing London commuters to dodge round them. One wore a long blue cloak, and hid his grim face beneath a broad-brimmed hat, pulled low over his missing eye. Anyone glancing up would have noticed two magnificent ravens circling above him with easy, dipping swirls.
The other man, tall, red-bearded and muscular, dwarfed him, while the woman stood a bit apart, tossing her golden curls and scowling at the crowds pushing past her. Her nostrils
quivered, as if she'd sniffed an offensive smell. The exquisite gold necklace draping her delicate neck caught the sunlight, writhing and weaving in shimmering patterns over her face.
A teenage girl in stripy apple-green tights, a woollen scarf and Doc Marten boots jostled her with her backpack. The woman recoiled as if she'd been electrocuted.
âIt is time to reveal ourselves,' said the one-eyed man. His rich, deep voice vibrated with emotion. âWe have waited an eternity for this moment.'
âBehold your Gods, mortals!' thundered red beard.
âBow down and worship!' commanded the golden-haired woman.
âMove, you nutters,' muttered a workman hurrying past.
âWe have returned!' boomed the man in the blue hat. âIt is I, Woden, the Father of Battles, God of Inspiration, Giver of Victory, Waker of the Dead. Tremble in awe, mortals, and
worship us! ON YOUR KNEES!'
âOh Gods, the hippie brigade on a Thorsday morning, I can't face it,' groaned a smartly dressed woman clutching two mobiles.
âBOW! WE ARE YOUR GODS!' roared Thor. âWe command you to bow!'
Two girls jogging by began to giggle.
âMove, you're blocking the bridge,' scowled a man, shoving through them.
âWeirdos,' snapped another.
âGods, I hate street theatre.'
âGo home.'
âBloody foreigners.'
The three Gods looked at one another. Thor's mouth gaped open.
âYou are talking to Thor, the Thunder God, you worthless pieces of driftwood!' he bellowed. âHold your tongues, or my hammer will shut your mouths!'
Everyone hurried by a little faster, in case the madness was contagious.
âWhat's going on?' asked Thor. He looked
suddenly shrunken. âWhy aren't they obeying? Why are they â¦
ignoring
us?'
âWhy don't you look where you're going, you fat cow,' snarled a girl as she collided with the gawking, golden-haired woman.
Freyja jerked her beautiful head.
âFat cow?' she gasped. â
Fat cow?
I am Freyja, the immortal Goddess of Love and the Battle-Dead.' Her body shook with rage. âHow dare you,' she hissed. âI'll teach you to call me fat cow, you ugly hag. I'll turn you into a pig.' She began to mutter under her breath. âYou'll smell worse than Ulf the Unwashed.'
âI'll split open their ungrateful heads!' bellowed Thor. âI can bring down this bridge with one blow of my axe.'
âIf only,' muttered Freyja.
âPatience,' said Woden.
âThen
you
do something!' screeched Freyja. âShow them who's boss.'
Woden drew himself up to his full majestic height. His face was cold with fury and his
single eye burned. Should he smite them all? Cause the River Thames to jump its banks and sweep away this ungrateful city? Whip up the northern winds and blow down these huge halls that mortals had built to challenge the Gods during their long absence? Who did these thralls think they were, anyway? They needed to be taught a lesson.
âPestilence and panic overtake you all!' roared Woden. âMay this bridge crumble to rubble. May you run crazed like ants escaping boiling water. May frogs fall from the sky. May you all hurl yourselves into the river and drown!'
He closed his eye and intoned a charm.
For a moment, the teeming crowds froze. Then a frog dropped from the sky and plopped onto Freyja's head.
She squealed and flailed and hurled the frog smack into the face of a passer-by, who reeled and knocked her down. She clutched Woden's tunic as she fell, tripping him and sending him crashing into Thor, as oblivious commuters,
jabbering into their phones, stumbled over them.
The Gods lay prone. Freyja lifted her dishevelled head, her golden curls matted, her robes torn, her necklace glinting in broken pieces around her. She screamed and scrambled about collecting the scattered jewels. Beside her Thor groaned. Slowly Woden picked up his crumpled blue hat and placed it back on his bruised head. He was breathing hard, as if he had just run a marathon.