The Lost Gods (15 page)

And of course her big fancy houses, and chauffeur-driven cars, and designer clothes and famous friends wouldn't change her a bit.
She'd keep it real. She'd still eat fish and chips on the sofa in her multi-million-pound mansion. ‘Isn't it amazing how down to Midgard Freya is,' her fans would marvel, ‘considering just how very famous and fabulous she is?'

‘Well, you know,' Freya would explain modestly in her umpteenth interview, ‘I'm just so grateful to all my fans, so proud to be where I am, so humble to be where I am, so proud and yet so humble to be …' Oh well, she'd have loads of time to work on her soundbites later.

And why the Hel not? Wasn't it true that all you needed was a dream you wanted badly enough for it to come true?

‘Freya,' snapped Veronica. ‘We're waiting for you.'

Freya's fame reverie went ‘pop' and she blushed. How long had she been standing there daydreaming? She followed Woden and Veronica through the magic door. Snot also followed, grimacing.

They entered the vast backstage area of the
chilly arena. Everywhere she looked people were singing, dancing, twirling, juggling, texting and chattering. TV monitors let them watch what was happening out front. The place stank of sweat and hairspray and the floor was sticky.

Freya recoiled at the avalanche of weeping and wailing as the spangled rejects hurtled off the stage into the arms of their sobbing friends and family while others high-fived and whooped. It was like being initiated into a grisly secret club of mourners and gladiators.

‘
This
is where the bards gather, to compete for glittering fame and life everlasting?' Woden's lip curled. ‘The noise is worse than five hundred drunken warriors clattering their spears and shields.'

‘Take a seat over there,' said one of the many clipboard-holding assistants, all wearing radio mikes and burgundy T-shirts with I'LL MAKE YOU A
STAR
embossed on them. He waved to a roped-off area of rows and rows of chairs and tables, packed with nervous contestants
and their fluttering families.

‘There?' said Woden. ‘With the cattle?'

‘You haven't made it
yet
, mate,' said the assistant. ‘Plenty of time to make diva demands later.'

Wisps of conversation drifted over as they took their seats.

‘… Always wanted to be a star …'

‘I'm just following my dream …'

‘I was born to do this, I can't …'

‘When I'm famous I'll …'

‘My nan says …'

‘Just be glad you've been fast-tracked,' said Veronica. ‘You could be waiting in the pens outside for 12 hours. This way you'll go straight in front of the judges.'

‘And in front of the world on the magic box?' asked Woden.

‘Of course. I'm going out on a limb here for you; I told the producers you were marvellous. They are having you on sight unseen so don't let me down.'

Woden glared at her.

‘Now remember, the producers will want to know all about your background, hear your family history, so ladle on the sob stories, okay?' said Veronica. ‘I told them a bit about you, not everything of course, and they were
very
interested.'

Probably for the weirdo crazy nutter group, thought Freya. The loonies they put in front of the audience so everyone could laugh at them. She shuddered. Oh Gods what was Woden going to do? Recite his poetry? He'd be laughed out of the arena.

The judges will insult him, and then he'll kill them, thought Freya.

This was not a cheerful scenario.

She looked at him to see if he'd concealed his spear under his cloak. But knowing Woden he could probably still kill people with a look or a charm.

And what would he perform? Would he sing, dance, do magic, raise the dead? Gods,
that would be quite a scene, the corpse invasion of the
Fame
set, the audience screaming and struggling to escape while the zombies staggered about …

Woden had refused to rehearse or even to discuss what he was planning to perform in front of the judges.

‘I sacrificed my eye for wisdom. I have summoned the dead to gain knowledge. I am Lord of Inspiration. I will do what I need to do to regain my fame,' he'd said.

Most likely it would be poetry, thought Freya. But if it were anything like the awful poetry Roskva and Alfi had recited to her on their quest to restore the Gods to youth, then he was in trouble.

‘So what's your sob story?' asked Jay the researcher, coming up to Woden.

‘My
sob
story?' said Woden. He stood up, towering over the skinny young man, who took a nervous step back.

‘Yeah, the story that will make the fans care
about ya,' said the researcher, hopping from one red plimsolled foot to the other. ‘Dead granny? Divorced parents? Brother with incurable disease?'

‘One of my sons killed the other,' said Woden. ‘My blind son, Hod, killed my second son, Baldr.'

The researcher stared. ‘So, you have a
blind
son, and he
killed
his brother,' said Jay. ‘That's heavy. What, like on purpose?' he gasped.

‘An accident,' said Woden.

‘Gods,' said the researcher, writing furiously. ‘So, were they like, little kids when this happened?'

‘No,' said Woden.

‘Wow,' said the researcher. ‘I like it. Really Eddic.' He went off to the next table to interview a scary-looking woman with teased blue hair, wearing a bathrobe and high-heeled shoes.

‘Great story about the kids,' said Veronica. ‘The producers will love that. Make sure you dedicate your performance to the dead one.'

*

Oh Gods, thought Freya. How much longer would they have to wait? It felt like she'd spent her whole life in this place.

Woden stared off into the distance. He looked like a warrior who had found himself trapped in a sewing circle.

‘I'm going to be a star. End of,' announced a balding man sitting nearby squeezed into a leotard. ‘That's not my dream, it's my reality.' Then he repeated, ‘I'm going to be a star. I'm going to be a star. My album will be a massive number one bestseller. This is my fate. This is my fate.'

‘It will be your fate to be drowned head first in a barrel of fish guts if you don't shut up,' snarled Woden.

Veronica looked pained.

‘Snapping at people is not going to win you any fans,' said Freya.

‘I'll talk to people any way I like,' said Woden.

‘Save that for when you're famous again,
then you can be as horrible as you want,' said Veronica. ‘But right now you need to woo people. You can't just smite them into submission.'

Woden looked sullen.

‘But he's got to be himself …' said Freya.

She trailed off. If Woden were himself he'd never get a single vote.

‘And you're going to have to smile occasionally,' said Veronica.

‘Smile?' said Woden fiercely. ‘
Smile?
I'm the All-Father. The Wand-Wielder. The God of Victory. I don't
smile
.'

‘I'm sorry,' said Veronica, ‘but you have to be appealing. Just like us, but better than us, born to rule but, you know, caring.'

‘No I don't,' said Woden. ‘I'm a God. It's enough that people are scared of me and do what they're told.'

Veronica pretended she hadn't heard.

‘We have to practise that smile,' she said.

‘No.'

‘If you don't smile no one will vote for you, and this is all about getting fans,' said Veronica. ‘Isn't it?'

Woden's mouth twitched.

‘That wasn't a smile. That was someone with rigor mortis,' said Veronica.

Woden bared his teeth.

‘The judges will think you intend to eat them,' said Veronica. ‘Smile.'

Woden curled his lips. He looked like a wolf about to chow down on a slaughtered deer.

‘It is fortunate to be favoured with praise and popularity,' said Woden. ‘It is dire luck to be dependent on the feelings of men.'

‘You haven't mentioned his talent,' said Freya timidly. ‘His talent will make him stand out. And he's … unique.'

‘Originality is good, and reciting poetry is certainly that,' said Veronica. ‘And you've got plenty of confidence, but … not sure about your attitude.'

Well. She'd worked with less promising
material before, and had managed to mould the sullen clay into something approaching shiny gold – at least for a few moments. She wasn't the best fame-maker in the business for nothing. She glanced at her notes.

‘Oh yes, what stage name are you going to use? We're holding back Woden for the big reveal.'

Woden considered.

‘I am blessed with many names. I am Draugadrottin, Lord of the Dead. Valfodr, Father of the Slain. Hangi, the Hanged One. Vidurr, the Killer.'

‘I'm getting a theme here, but not a very alluring one,' said Veronica. ‘Anything a bit more cheerful?'

‘Itreker, Splendid Ruler?'

‘Too vain.'

‘Audun, Wealth-friend?'

‘Perfect for when you launch your get rich quick schemes, but not now.'

‘Sidskeggr, Drooping Beard? Hrossharsgrani,
Horse Hair Moustache?'

‘Too silly,' said Veronica. ‘We're talking worldwide fans here.'

Freya thought. She'd had to memorise all of Woden's names once for a school competition, but unfortunately had come 53rd …

‘Oski?' she said. The name he'd told Clare.

‘Wished-for,' said Veronica. ‘I like it.'

‘Oski,' said Woden.

The audience waited expectantly, then the four judges, in a hail of lasers and lights, took their seats.

‘Welcome to
FAME: Make Me a Star
, the show where talent makes dreams come true,' gushed the host, Fliss Griffiths, a former reality TV star turned presenter.

Freya couldn't sit still she was so nervous. She'd bitten all her nails. She paced the backstage holding area, heading back to her seat and then wheeling out and going to the loo one absolutely last final time. So much depended on this. Her life, and the lives of everyone around them, if they only knew.

‘You're on!' hissed the stage manager, pushing contestant 2,724 onto the stage.

‘I want to follow my dreams and be a singer,' announced the sweaty man in his 40s. ‘I used to be a postman, but the job was getting in the way of my singing and song writing.'

‘Not getting in the way enough,' snapped the cruel judge, Darren, a soap star who'd had a hit record in 5008.

‘My gran got a message from the Gods telling me to audition so here I am,' said a baton-twirling girl. ‘I've been waiting my whole life for this.'

Four no's from the judges.

‘I'm singing for my mum, who passed away last year,' said a wood-chopping puppeteer.

‘That really pulled at my heartstrings,' said Bitty Kitty, the soppy girl band singer.

The a cappella choir sang their version of a recent number one.

‘Out of this world,' said Barry, the useless judge. ‘You're through to the next round.'

Then there were the opera rappers. The mini-rockettes. The Singing Chef. So many competitors that after a time they all blended into one. Freya's head ached.

‘You smashed that,' said Bitty Kitty to the twins with their dancing dogs. More tears and screams than Freya had heard in her life.

The numbers ticked down, getting closer and closer to Woden.

Next up were a hip-hop marching band.

‘We're called Sure Thing because that's what we are. A sure thing. Our destiny is to be stars.'

‘I think you need a new fortune teller,' said Darren.

Next up was a dancing juggler.

‘I'm dedicating this performance to my dead horse, Rooster,' said the juggler. ‘And to my granddad who is having a hernia operation.'

‘I just love you all so much,' gushed the next contestant, a yodelling ballerina. ‘Thanks to everyone who votes for me, because without you I am nothing.'

Right up before Woden were two duelling trombonists.

‘You and the trombones owned that stage,' gushed Bitty Kitty. ‘Wow.'

‘Can the stage be bought?' said Woden, bristling. ‘Why didn't you tell me?'

‘It's just an expression,' said Veronica.

‘You're up next,' hissed the Assistant. ‘3-2-1 – you're on.'

And he pushed Woden through the curtains.

The God stood blinking and scowling in the flashing lights. Unlike every other contestant, who had tried to engage with the judges and audience, he did and said nothing. He just stood there, frozen. He looked like a bewildered sailor, shipwrecked in some far-off land, scanning the horizon for monsters heading his way. The audience tittered.

Freya gripped her chair and moaned softly. Veronica grabbed her arm.

‘Whatever happens, let me handle it,' she hissed. ‘He's on his own now.'