The Lost Gods (10 page)

‘What is this horrible spectacle?' asked Woden. He peered at the screen. ‘Are these berserks in some kind of battle frenzy?'

‘It's called
FAME: Make Me a Star
!' said Freya. ‘Those boys won last time.'

The Gods looked mesmerised. The audience was screaming so loudly it was almost impossible to hear the band.

‘I don't remember a skald ever getting such a response to his poetry,' murmured Woden. ‘No poets singing
my
praises were ever cheered so loudly.'

Thor looked like he wanted to hurl his hammer at the screen.

‘They are worshipping those mortals,' he said. ‘May they all be without luck,' he cursed.

That's it, thought Freya. That's it. She stood very still. We've been doing the wrong thing. Shouting on street corners? How could she have been so stupid? The Gods didn't need worshippers. They needed
fans
. Millions and millions and millions of
fans
. They needed to be adored. They needed to be worshipped as celebrity Gods. Once they'd regained their fame, the Gods would be strong and powerful again.

‘I know what we need to do,' she said, trembling. ‘We need to make you famous.'

‘Yes,' said Woden. ‘Yes. The Hornblower speaks wise words.'

‘But we
are
famous,' said Thor. ‘Who is more famous than the immortal Gods? Who exists who has not heard of my great deeds!' he thundered, eyes blazing, his red beard bristling, ‘I drank the sea! I've slaughtered giants! I unleash storms! I need no more bright fame.'

‘Yes you do,' said Freya. ‘If you want to be worshipped like the god Apple, and the god
David, and the god Brad, and the goddess Angelina, and all the other new gods …'

‘Do they defend the world against monsters?' said Thor.

‘No, but—' said Freya.

‘Do they fight giants?' he yelled. ‘Do they give victory in battle? Can they calm the sea? Or blunt spears? Can they turn themselves into a fish or a snake or a bird? Can they make their battle enemies blind or deaf? When was the last time
they
raised the dead?'

‘When was the last time
we
did, you stupid troll,' bellowed Woden. ‘Without worship we can't do that any more either.'

‘The new gods have no powers other than the ones their followers give them through their worship,' said Thor.

Woden stopped yelling.

‘Exactly,' said Woden. ‘
That's
the power we need. The power we lack.'

‘Yes,' said Freya. ‘And as soon as you are idolised again, you can fight the frost giants.
You'll be renewed. You'll be strong again. You'll be
Gods
again. But you need to be famous like people are famous now,' she added. ‘Famous like – them.' She pointed to the sizzling screen. The Gods listened to the roars and cheers and wild applause as the floppy-haired boy band finished their next song,
Baby, you got what I want. Oh yeah.

‘You need to be celebrities,' said Freya. ‘You said you wanted people screaming and shouting your name? Thinking about you all the time? Dying to know every little thing about you? Dying to meet you, to touch you, to connect to you, to know you. You want to be woven into our lives so we live and breathe you. You need to be in a TV show competition like
FAME
.'

‘
Fame
? A display for heroes?' Thor beamed. ‘At last you have told us something
sensible
,' he said. ‘A contest where heroes and warriors compete for fame everlasting and immortality by doing brave deeds. Like our noble warriors in Valhalla. And the bravest is crowned
and rewarded with fame for them and their descendants as is fitting. Yes.'

‘Not … exactly,' said Freya.

‘What do you mean, not exactly?' asked Woden.

‘People compete for fame by … umm, singing. Or swimming or juggling or dancing with a dog, and—'

‘And then they fight to the death and the bravest go to Valhalla,' boomed Thor. ‘I'll make chopped herrings of them all. Let those fame-seekers beware. Alfi and I will—'

‘No,' said Freya. ‘
Fame
isn't about fighting.'

‘
Not
about fighting?' said Thor slowly. He shook his head. ‘Then how can they do great deeds?'

‘It's not about doing great deeds,' said Freya.

‘I am lost again,' said Thor. ‘Fame-seekers who
don't
do great deeds?'

‘It's about performing,' said Freya.

Woden's grave face lightened. He smiled.

‘Ah. Is this a fame contest for poets then, and
not warriors? Where words are then reddened with blood? I am the God of Poetry and Inspiration, a song-smith like no other. No one can match me.'

The Goddess Freyja rolled her eyes. Thor scowled.

Freya shook her head.

‘Let me see if I understand you,' said the All-Father. ‘The fame-seekers recite poems about the Gods and our triumphs? Sing songs to honour kings and heroes and chieftains, to be rewarded with honour and bright gold?'

Freya winced.

‘Not
exactly
, no. They sing songs, but—'

‘You mean
we
need to find poets and skalds who will travel the world singing of our brave and noble deeds?' said the Goddess Freyja.

‘I write poetry, if a poet is needed,' said Snot.

‘We could bring Egil Skallagrimsson down from Asgard,' said Woden. ‘His poetry always provokes cheers, and he could compose some new songs about our glory.'

‘I'm already here,' said Snot. ‘I wrote this today.' He stood and recited:

Oh Gods, foes of trollwomen
plentiful of feast drink.
Oh Woden! The war-god's wine pours forth
Through my mouth.
How the gold you give
glistens on your warriors' arms,
the grey eagle tears
at your enemies' blood wounds.

Woden beamed. Freya tried to imagine that song getting lots of audience votes.

‘Not … umm … really the kind of songs they sing on
Fame
,' said Freya.

‘But that is how poets and heroes eager for renown achieve lasting glory,' said Woden. ‘The heroes do great deeds, and the poets celebrate them and give them immortality.'

‘Not any more,' said Freya.

‘If the songs are not about great deeds, then
what are they about?' said Thor.

‘Love, mostly,' said Freya. ‘And bad boyfriends. About anything, really. Fireworks. Missing people. Being depressed and hating everyone. Getting dumped. Being beautiful inside when you're ugly outside. And then people vote on who they like the best. Can you dance? It's a bonus if you're a good dancer.'

Woden glared at her.

‘I am the God of Battle and Wisdom. I am the God of Poetry and Inspiration and Magic. I don't
dance
,' said Woden. His voice was like ice.

‘I kill giants,' roared Thor. ‘I don't dance either.'

‘
That's
how to become famous today?' said the Goddess. ‘Singing and dancing like slaves? You're mad.'

‘You dare to say that to have our Fanes filled with the children of Heimdall, to regain our fame and power, we must
sing
about … getting dumped … and
dance
?' said Woden.

‘You can sing about something else,' said Freya.
‘You know, form a band together … I could maybe—'

She stopped, seeing their furious faces.

‘What's happened to fame for great deeds?' said Thor.

Freya shrugged. ‘Times have changed.'

‘So what you are saying,' said Woden, ‘is that people without substance or bravery or skill or wisdom become famous.'

‘Yes,' said Freya. ‘That's the best bit: you don't have to be talented or special or even do anything. Today you can be famous for going to parties or for wearing nice clothes.'

The Gods looked stupefied.

‘And for acting,' continued Freya. ‘And singing. And playing football. And for marrying footballers. And … and … you can be famous for being on a reality TV show, or just famous for being famous.'

‘To each his own way of earning fame,' said Thor, shaking his head.

Woden looked like he was trying to absorb
a very complicated idea and not entirely succeeding.

‘Fame should be earned and rare,' said Woden. ‘Won through deeds which give immortality. How can it be, that
all
can be famous?'

‘While we, who merit fame above all Gods and men, are desperate for reknown,' said the Goddess.

Wasn't everyone? thought Freya. She didn't know anyone who didn't want to be famous.

Gods damn it. I want to be famous, too, thought Freya. I actually deserve to be famous, after all I've done. I saved the Gods. I went on my own to Hel. And no one knows about it, except for some ungrateful deities and three friends who live in Asgard. It's so unfair.

‘Have you quite finished, Hornblower?' said Woden. Oh Gods, she'd forgotten he could read her thoughts. What a shame
that
power hadn't vanished with the others.

‘Everyone should be eager for fame and glory,' said Woden.

‘Everyone is,' said Freya. ‘We all want to be famous.'

‘Who cares about them, how can
we
do this?' snapped the Goddess. ‘How do
we
regain our bright fame? And how can
you
make this happen?'

Freya paused. How did someone become famous? It wasn't enough just to want it. How did fame happen to people? How did you get to that magic place where all your dreams came true?

They needed a fame-maker.

‘We'll need help,' said Freya. ‘We need a publicist … a fame-maker. But a publicist costs money. I don't have—'

Woden snorted.

He pulled a glowing gold armband off his wrist. ‘Draupnir,' he said. ‘Every ninth night another eight rings fall from it. Gold is not a problem.'

‘Who do we summon?' asked Thor.

Freya's mind flashed to the publicists' cards
buried in her shoebox.

‘Wait here … I'll be right back.'

Freya ran upstairs to her bedroom and screamed.

Clare was rummaging through Freya's drawers.

‘Mum. What are you doing in my room? How dare you … snoop.'

Clare carried on searching as if Freya hadn't spoken.

‘Mum. What are you doing in my room?' repeated Freya. ‘I thought you were at a meeting. I didn't hear you come in.'

Clare shut one drawer and opened the bottom one.

What now? thought Freya. Mum's on the warpath. What had she done?

‘Is everything okay?' said Freya in a small voice. ‘If you're angry that I didn't empty the
dishwasher, I was planning to do it after I finished my homework.'

‘Who are these people, Freya?' said Clare. Her voice was cold and brittle.

Freya tensed.

‘I told you, Mum, they're foreign exchange students and their teachers,' said Freya. ‘Remember, I forgot to bring you the letter, and I am sorry, I—'

Clare looked at her. Freya suddenly realised that her mum was furious.

‘I rang your school today and spoke to the head Priest,' said Clare, ‘to find out how long I could expect these foreign guests in my house. And he told me something very interesting. He told me there were
no
foreign exchange students from Iceland named Roskva and Alfi. In fact, there were no foreign exchange students and teachers visiting the school
at all
. You've been lying and lying to me, and I want to know why.'

Freya's mind went blank. She opened her
mouth and wondered what words would come out of it.

‘Well? Who are this Roskva and Alfi?'

‘Runaways,' said Freya.

‘I see,' said Clare. ‘And the beardy weirdy? And his evil-looking “Father” who looks younger than he does? And the Beauty Queen? Who are they?'

Freya stood there silently. She'd dreaded this moment. Why hadn't she thought of a clever answer?

‘Are you in trouble?'

Freya opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it. She felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach, with no breath left.

‘My Gods, Freya, what have you got yourself involved in?' said Clare. Her voice dropped. ‘Who are these strange people?'

‘Our Gods,' said Freya suddenly.

‘Our Gods?' said Clare. ‘What in Asgard do you mean?'

‘I mean, Woden and Thor and Freyja.'

Clare stared at her as if she had just turned into a lizard.

‘Freya, how could you be so gullible?' she wailed. ‘No one has seen the Gods for millennia. What do they want, money? How could you let them into our home?' Clare was red with rage.

‘They're not con-men, Mum,' said Freya. ‘I promise. They're the ones I was with … before.'

Clare went white.

‘Kidnappers?' she whispered. ‘Right, I'm calling the police.'