The Lost Gods (16 page)

I don't think I can watch this, thought Freya.

‘What's your name?' asked Barry.

‘Call me Oski,' said Woden.

A ripple went through the audience.

‘We know that Oski is one of the All-Father's many names – your parents must have thought you were pretty special when they named you,' said Darren.

‘Only a fool chatters,' said Woden. He looked belligerently at the judge.

Veronica sucked in her breath.

‘And why did you audition, Oski?' asked the useless judge.

‘To remind the ungrateful world about the immortal Gods who gave them life, the Gods they have forgotten.'

‘O-kay,' said Barry.

‘What's your dream?' asked Darren.

‘World domination,' said Woden.

‘You want to make it worldwide? What a goal, ladies and gentlemen,' burbled Fliss.

‘What inspired you to audition today?' asked
Lila, a kittenish woman with big red hair tied in a swinging ponytail and heavily made-up eyes, who'd won the show two years before.

Woden looked at her as if she were a snail he was about to squish.

‘To regain my bright fame.'

Lila looked surprised.

‘… and change your destiny?' she prompted.

‘No one, not even I, can change my destiny,' said Woden. ‘What is fated will come to pass.'

Oh Gods, Woden, lighten up, thought Freya. You're trying to make people worship and admire you, not put them off.

‘Oh,' said Lila.

‘So, Oski, how are you feeling right now?' said the host, Fliss.

Freya held her breath.

She knew he'd be feeling like hurling his spear at Fliss and setting fire to the rafters.

Woden glared. ‘None of your business,' he snarled.

The audience gasped. Then they started to boo.

Woden fixed them with his one eye. They immediately fell silent.

‘So, can I ask how you lost your eye? Was it an accident?' asked Fliss.

‘I traded it for wisdom,' said Woden.

Fliss stepped back. ‘Whew, that's intense,' she said. ‘Was it worth the sacrifice?'

‘What do you think?' said Woden.

‘Like all the contestants, you must have been on an amazing personal journey,' said Lila. ‘What can you tell us about your journey here?'

‘I came over Bifrost of course,' said Woden.

Fliss laughed and flicked her tousled blonde hair. ‘Isn't he a character, ladies and gentlemen. Of course, being on stage here tonight in front of millions of people feels like going from Midgard to Asgard.'

Woden fixed her with his baleful eye.

‘Before you show us your talent, is there anyone you want to thank?' she asked.

‘No,' said Woden.

‘Not even your mum?'

Woden's eye flashed.

‘My … mother? Bestla?'

‘Lovely name,' beamed Fliss. ‘You know, your wonderful mum who helped and encouraged you and made all this possible?'

‘Why should I want to thank her?' said Woden. ‘What did she ever do for me? Haven't seen her for millennia.'

‘Of course, she must be so proud of you,' said Fliss, ignoring what Woden had just said.

Woden frowned.

‘I doubt it.'

Freya groaned. Thank someone, she thought. Anyone …

‘I thank the immortal, Almighty Gods,' said Woden suddenly. ‘For whom no praise is enough. To the Gods, givers of victory, to Woden, source of poetry and power, magician and mage.'

The arena was silent.

A look of alarm flickered across Fliss's face, then she recovered herself.

‘Well, that makes a change from thanking your old granny,' she said. ‘Well done, Oski. Always good to be reminded of religion in this material age.'

Woden looked as if he would like to smite her.

No smiting! thought Freya. Remember. You promised.

‘You've got two minutes to change your life,' said Barry. ‘Go for it.'

Woden stood for a moment, looking over the hushed audience.

Freya could scarcely breathe. Please don't let his poetry be booed off the stage, she thought.

Then Woden hurled his microphone into the wings.

Freya jumped. No one would hear him. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a stage hand racing backstage holding a spare mike.

‘I dedicate my performance to Woden, source of all inspiration, All-Father, Mighty One, Bringer of Victory!' he boomed. His unamplified
voice ricocheted around the vast building.

And then, without stopping, he started to sing, softly and quietly, and it was as if a spell had been cast over everyone. His beautiful voice poured out like salted caramel.

Then he began to whirl and leap around the stage, in a heart-stopping, haunting, frenzy of music and song, unlike anything she had ever heard before: melodic, magical, rhythmic, hypnotic. His voice harsh and pebbly one moment, velvety the next.

A murmur cascaded round the auditorium, then the roaring audience leapt to its feet, shouting and cheering. Freya was swept up in the hysteria. To her surprise she found herself joining the others, screaming, ‘Oski! Oski! Oski!' as the stadium erupted in flashing lights from thousands of camera phones.

The judges rose to their feet.

‘That is the most incredible performance I have ever seen in my life,' stuttered Lila.

‘You're individual, you're unpredictable,
you've got charisma; I predict a huge future for you,' gasped Darren.

‘We love the image – the cloak, the hat, the hair,' enthused Barry. ‘You're new, you're different, you're a one-off original – Let's hear it for Oski!'

And as the stomping, screaming audience chanted his name and held out their hands yearning to touch him, as they looked up at him with ecstatic faces twisted in awe, Freya saw Woden shine and shimmer and his presence and power fill the auditorium, and she thought, thank the Gods, we're saved.

A howling hiss, a creaking crunch shattered the silent silver world. Then a gigantic frozen fist punched through the rippling surface and the sheer ice cliffs collapsed into the sea.

The multi-media collage of modern life
makes it hard for an upcoming god to
establish himself without a web presence.

Grayson Perry

Wow, thought Veronica. Wow.

A few months into her publicity campaign for the Gods, and things, if she said so herself (if you didn't blow your own trumpet who would?) couldn't be going better. Not that she wanted to tempt fate, but then, she wasn't superstitious. If it was fated, it happened. If it wasn't, it didn't. End of.

Woden had won
FAME: Make Me a Star
by acclamation – the betting shops had stopped taking money on him winning after that storming first audition. Votes had poured in. And every vote seemed to make him stronger. Each time Woden was mobbed in the streets, or
greeted by screaming, fainting fans, he seemed to grow a little taller. More powerful. Less human.

More, dare she say it, divine.

Woden's record ‘Die for Me' had gone straight in at number one and was the fastest selling single ever to go platinum. The press adored him. Photographers followed him everywhere. He had 30 million Twitter followers … and counting. (Too bad, Lady Gaga!) Twitter, the Geiger counter of fame, was going nuclear. She'd already had to hire a full-time tweeter for him. He had 50 million Facebook friends. His fan site,
Gods-Children.com
got millions of hits every day.

Woden had taken to dropping by his Fanes on Sundays. Amazing, thought Veronica, one mention in
ICE
magazine that he was religious and the fans – she meant worshippers – crammed the empty Fanes just in case Woden showed up.

Last week there'd been a riot when he'd
arrived at one in Kensington, so now he was appearing with snarling bodyguards wearing bear skins. She'd read in the
Daily Mail
that one of them had threatened to kill someone who got too close. Snot, presumably. Well, it all added to the mystique and the hype surrounding him.

Thor had already been proclaimed the greatest footballer ever to play in the premier league. What a moment that was, after his triumphant first game, when the fans all chanted ‘Thor! Thor! Thor!' and Thor had picked up his hammer with one hand and whirled it above his head as if it were a willow twig, to the opening chorus of Woden's number one hit.

‘I love this game!' he'd shouted, dancing around the pitch as the fans roared. ‘Even more fun than bashing giants!'

And as for the Goddess Freyja, she'd been on the cover of
Elle
and
Marie Claire
, done all the big catwalk shows and was a regular fixture in
ICE
and the gossip columns. The picture of her yawning that Pierre had taken had been
on every billboard in Britain. It went viral on YouTube, featured in spoof montages (Freyja yawning in front of the Taj Mahal; yawning while dinosaurs stalked her; yawning beside the Queen; yawning while Mo Farah won gold at the 5012 Olympics; yawning at the Royal Wedding).

Of course, it wasn't all plain sailing. It never was with fame-seekers. There was the terrible incident when Thor got tripped up, picked up his opponent and hurled him across the pitch, screaming that no one would ever set eyes on the scumbag again. The player was still in hospital. It had taken all her skill to spin that as an unlucky accident.

There'd been a hint of a fight in a London nightclub, but she'd quickly hushed that up in exchange for exclusive pictures of Thor's glorious new mansion, complete with indoor and outdoor pools, glass lift to the master bedroom suite, waterproof TVs in every bathroom, a gym, cinema room, spa, sauna, steam room
and armoury. (That was a bit unusual, but no weirder than many of her clients, with their gift-wrapping rooms and basement bars.) Well, they couldn't stay in the Ritz forever, could they, not after Woden's unfortunate room trashing incident (hushed up) and the brawl in the lobby. The tens of thousands of screaming fans camped out in front of the hotel every night, blocking Piccadilly and spilling over the permanent crash barriers into the hotel lobby, hadn't helped either.

Getting them famous friends and being seen in the right A-list company was proceeding nicely: what amazing coverage Thor's birthday party at the Ivy Club had had. An invitation to dinner at Buckingham Palace, or a weekend at Windsor, was just a matter of time.

Long may it last.

If only it wasn't so fiendishly cold.

All over the icy landscape, frost-covered giants erupted through the cracking glaciers. The sea reared up, twisting and writhing, splashing them with sleet.

The largest frost giant stood on creaking, tree-trunk legs and roared, spitting shards of icicles, sharp as daggers, from its mouth.

The shifting ice groaned beneath their stomping feet, as the massed army of giants lumbered towards Bifrost through billowing sheets of snow, exhaling their blizzard breath.