Land of Lost Things

by Cat Weldon

  Frigg, the Goddess of Family, walked with long strides, her skirts flashing green and blue in the candlelight. Her honey-blonde hair twisted into a thick plait supporting a curved headdress. Together they joined Glinting-Fire in the space in front of the Class Three Valkyries. Glinting-Fire said something to Odin, who laughed. Lotta’s hands went slippery with sweat.

  Silence fell as a third figure entered.

  ‘All right, Freyja?’ called a hopeful voice from the back.

  Frigg rolled her eyes.

  The Goddess of Love and Sorcery tossed her black twists and swept through the room, a cloud of cat hair following her. Lotta fought down a sneeze. A gold necklace flashed against the brown skin of Freyja’s throat, and multicoloured gems decorated the many rings on her fingers. ‘Let’s get on with it, shall we?’

  The judges took their seats. Freyja produced a kitten from out of a pocket and placed it on her lap. Lotta’s eyes started to sting. The other trainees shuffled nervously, but the kitten didn’t seem to be making anyone else itchy. Lotta wiped her nose. Typical – just another way in which she was the odd one out.

  Scold marched into the centre of the space and held out her hands for silence. Gradually the hall quietened. A dish clattered to the floor from somewhere in the back.

  ‘Sorry!’ called out a small voice.

  ‘Gods, Goddesses, warriors and Valkyries!’ Scold began, her voice echoing around the enormous hall. ‘Welcome to the Annual Asgardian Poetry Contest!’

  There was a groan from the collected warriors. Someone muttered, ‘I hate poetry.’ Scold glared.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘As I was saying –’ Scold continued to glare at the poetry hater – ‘we are going to have a POETRY contest and the winner will get the opportunity to serve Odin by delivering a package. So, no talking. Understand?’

  The warriors muttered and shuffled their feet.

  ‘I said: UNDERSTAND?’

  There was a reluctant chorus of, ‘Yes, Scold.’

  ‘Let the contest BEGIN!’

  ‘So he crushed his enemy’s head between his mighty elbows –’

  The trainee droned on, her skin tawny-brown in the candlelight. Lotta was sure several lifetimes had passed since she’d started speaking.

  ‘– and the puddles of blood and goo, which dripped –’

  Flay was openly snoring. It shouldn’t be possible for war poetry to be THIS dull.

  ‘– ravens, and slugs, and badgers, and other animals came to feast –’

  Flee poked her sister awake as Scold stepped forward.

  ‘Yes, thank you. I think we’ve heard enough.’

  The girl slunk off to find a seat. Freyja looked relieved. Odin smiled.

  Most of the trainees had already presented their poems. Only Flee and Lotta were left. Flee sat straight up, radiating keenness. Lotta chewed her thumbnail worriedly. She was sure the cup would come up with something . . .

  Scold turned back to the group. ‘Enemies-Flee-Before-Me, let’s hear what you’ve got.’

  Flee stood up self-importantly and strode into the centre of the circle, stomping on Lotta’s toe on the way. ‘I would like to present, The Saga of Wiggo the Wild!’

  Odin leaned forward; even the warriors looked interested. Lotta groaned inwardly. Wiggo the Wild was a really good poem. If Flee got all the way through, she would be hard to beat.

  Flee took a deep breath. Her chest puffed out so far that her feet almost lifted off the floor. ‘LISTEN!’ Several bats fell from the rafters.

  To the Saga I now tell.

  There was once a Man named Wiggo,

  Who had the most enormous Collection of Cabbages!

  Flee stalked up and down, gesturing wildly. Lotta slumped in her chair; there was no way she could beat this.

  And so Wiggo did Hack at the Intruders,

  ‘I will use their Bones to support my Peas and Beans,

  Their ruined Armour to build Scarecrows,

  And their Tears to Water my Cabbages!’

  . . .

  Flee jumped on to a table for her big finish, her arms raised high in the air.

  Never will they Gaze upon another Cauliflower.

  Thus ends the Saga of—

  From the side of the hall Glinting-Fire gave a meaningful cough. Flee scrunched up her face as if in pain and proclaimed: ‘WEIRDO the MILD!’

  A giggle came from the back of the room.

  ‘Did she just say Weirdo the Mild ?’ Akrid, a Class Two Valkyrie with long dreadlocks, whispered.

  Flee dropped her arms, her pale face turning bright red. Although whether this was from embarrassment or the effort of screaming for the last twenty minutes, Lotta couldn’t be sure. One of the tables of warriors burst into laughter. Flay hid her face in her hands. Lotta pushed down a giggle, trying to disguise it with a cough.

  ‘Amateurs,’ the cup huffed.

  Flee stamped her foot. ‘I said Milbo the Filed! No, Filbo the Piled! No—’

  Raising her hands for silence, Scold stepped forward. Glinting-Fire smiled to herself and ticked something off on her clipboard. After a few moments everyone quietened down.

  ‘Thank you, Flee,’ Scold said as Flee slunk back to her seat. Her face blazing. ‘That was . . . unusual.’

  Someone at the back barked a laugh and was quickly shushed.

  ‘Now for our final competitor, Brings-A-Lot-Of-Scrapes-And-Grazes!’

  There was a murmur from the warriors in the audience. As well as upsetting the Valkyries, Lotta’s adventures with Whetstone had not gone down well in Valhalla. The Heroes and warriors were very touchy about who was allowed to join them and, even though Odin had said he was a Hero, Whetstone’s craftiness made them uncomfortable.

  Lotta squared her shoulders and stepped forward.

  ‘Just repeat exactly what I say,’ the cup muttered into Lotta’s ear.

  Lotta swallowed her nerves and nodded. Flee and Flay peered at her. If Lotta hadn’t heard Flee just make a big mistake, she would’ve thought they looked – smug?

  ‘I would like to present,’ the cup prompted.

  ‘I would like to present,’ Lotta recited woodenly, fixing her eyes on Odin’s left ear to control her nerves, her mouth dry.

  ‘A riddle.’

  ‘A riddle.’

  Frigg leaned forward. ‘Is that allowed?’ she asked her fellow judges. ‘This is supposed to be a poetry contest.’

  ‘A riddle means it will be over quicker,’ Freyja replied, stroking the kitten.

  ‘In that case, yes, it is allowed,’ Frigg announced quickly. ‘This chair really is uncomfortable. Proceed, Brings-A-Lot-Of-Scrapes-And-Grazes.’

  Lotta gulped and crossed her fingers.

  ‘I am round, but I am not a wheel . . .’ the cup began.

  Lotta echoed it word for word.

  I am made of flour, but I do not grow.

  I am hard, but I crumble in water.

  You can hold me and my brothers in your hand.

  What am I?

  Frigg glanced at Odin, who wrinkled his forehead in thought. The warriors around them screwed up their faces. They were in Valhalla for their fighting skills, not their thinking ones. Odin’s ravens took off, searching the hall for clues.

  Akrid, the Class Two, furrowed her brow in concentration. What was the answer to the riddle? Did anyone know?

  ‘This is ridiculous!’ Flee snorted. ‘Brings-A-Lot-Of-Snots-And-Bogeys cannot have come up with a riddle we cannot answer.’

  ‘Oh, I get it!’ said her sister, smiling. ‘The answer is—’

  Flee elbowed her savagely in the ribs.

  After a few moments, Odin leaned forward. ‘I think you have us stumped,’ he said, his low voice causing a plate to vibrate off the end of the table. ‘What is the answer?’

  Lotta grinned, her shoulders sagging in relief. ‘It’s a biscuit.’

  The muttering intensified.

  ‘But a biscuit isn’t round like a whee— Oh!’ Akrid began.


  Glinting-Fire tutted.

  ‘Wonderful!’ cried Odin, striding forward to shake Lotta by the hand. The girl’s whole arm was yanked up and down. ‘I shall have to remember that one.’

  Jiggling around inside Lotta’s scabbard, the cup squeaked with excitement.

  ‘I think your Epic Poetry score might have just gone up a bit,’ Scold said, crossing her arms and trying not to smile. ‘Glinting-Fire has prepared the parcel. You’re to take it straight to Njord in Midgard. And – please – don’t bring anything back with you this time.’

  As Lotta was grudgingly congratulated by the other Valkyries, Flee and Flay skulked in the shadows.

  ‘Well done, girls.’ Glinting-Fire approached them, scribbling something on her clipboard. ‘Phase One is nearly complete.’

  ‘Yeah, no thanks to big mouth,’ Flee sniffed. ‘I didn’t just humiliate myself in front of all of Valhalla for you to solve Lotta’s riddle.’

  ‘At least I knew the answer,’ Flay retorted.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Glinting-Fire snapped. ‘The important thing is that Lotta won the contest.’

  Flay tipped her head. ‘But how could you be sure Lotta would win? She’s usually rubbish at poetry.’

  Glinting-Fire’s lips went as tight and wrinkly as a cat’s bum. ‘She’s been corrupted by the humans. I knew she couldn’t resist cheating. She stole the magic cup.’

  Flee raised her eyebrows in surprise.

  ‘That mangy cup knows more poems about biscuits than you can shake a stick at. It’s why it got kicked out of Asgard. It’s supposed to tell people their fate, but it wouldn’t stop reciting biscuit recipes: two handfuls of oats, four spoonfuls of honey, a scoop of crushed ant eggs—’

  ‘Yuck!’ Flee screwed up her face.

  ‘Exactly. That last one gave Frigg a dodgy tummy, and she loves biscuits. But the cup plus biscuits equals a win for Lotta.’ Glinting-Fire smirked. ‘Now Lotta is off to Midgard, and you two know what to do.’

  Flay looked at her sister and grinned. ‘Leave it to us. If Lotta likes Midgard so much, we’ll see that she stays there.’

  Chapter Four

  A World of Adventure

  As the sky lightened and the birds started to sing, Whetstone wrapped himself in his cloak and crept away from his hiding place. His face pale and eyes heavy, he had spent a restless night fretting about Vali’s message: He’s coming. There was only one person that could mean – Loki. Whetstone couldn’t wait for Lotta any longer; he had to get out of Krud now. Even Vali had left, and he was made of rock!

  Whetstone followed the narrow path down the cliffs towards the beach. The longboat lay peacefully on the shingle, its sail the only moving thing in the early morning breeze. Boats looked so calm – when they were on the shore. His stomach churned at the thought of bouncing through the waves on one.

  Whetstone reached out to touch the curved wood. One way or another, he was going to get on that boat and leave Krud today. Then, when he was safely away from Loki, he could concentrate on finding his way to Helheim. Somehow.

  A dark shadow loomed round the carved figurehead. Whetstone almost screamed in surprise, expecting Loki’s twisted smile and scarred face to appear out of the sea mist. Instead, he was confronted by an enormous glossy ginger beard. Whetstone almost collapsed in relief.

  The longboat man stroked his thick beard and regarded Whetstone carefully. ‘A young man like you doesn’t want to be cooped up in a place like Krud.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ asked Whetstone weakly. He tried not to stare at the beard; it really was spectacular.

  ‘No! You want to be out seeking Fortune and Glory in a World of Adventure! Don’t you want everyone to know your name?’

  A shiver shot down Whetstone’s spine: once that had been all he’d wanted, and it was how Loki had manipulated him into stealing the cup. He peered suspiciously at the man. Loki was very fond of disguises, after all . . .

  ‘Join our crew and you can visit places you’ve only dreamed about.’

  ‘Oh yeah, like where?’ Whetstone tilted his head, trying to see if the beard was held on with string.

  The beard smiled conspiratorially. A gold tooth appeared. ‘To the edges of Midgard and beyond.’

  Whetstone’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You’re trying to leave Midgard? Why?’

  ‘Muspell, Niflheim and Helheim.’ The man rubbed his freckled hands together. ‘Imagine the adventures we could have in the Lower Worlds.’

  Whetstone’s heart thumped loudly – this was better than he had hoped. If the longboat crew knew how to reach Helheim, he could be on his way to finding the first harp string in no time! He licked his dry lips; he didn’t want to appear to be too keen. ‘But you can’t. You can’t go to Helheim – only the Gods can travel between worlds.’

  ‘Is that so?’ The man winked. He leaned in closer. ‘There are weak points in every world. If you push through in just the right place, you find yourself somewhere else.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I happen to know a point that will lead us straight to the Land of Lost Things.’ The man tapped the side of his nose. ‘Ever lost something you wish you could find again, kid? It’s all there, held by the Queen of the Dead.’

  Whetstone gulped.

  ‘Our names will go down in history.’ The beard slapped Whetstone on the back. ‘What glory is there in exploring Midgard? Everyone’s been there. No – we’re going to be the crew who visited Hel and came back again. I can hear the stories now.’

  Whetstone’s fingers twitched in excitement. So much for waiting for Lotta! He could join the longboat and have a whole crew of Vikings to help him in Helheim! Relief washed over Whetstone. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to complete the quest and be the Hero everyone thought he was, just that – well – it was the Land of the Dead. Who wanted to go there alone?

  ‘So what do you say? Fancy joining our Happy Band of Explorers, or is there something better waiting for you here?’

  Whetstone stilled, thinking of Vali’s warning. He was pretty sure this man wasn’t Loki, and even if the longboat crew turned out to be as mad as a box of frogs, he would at least be out of Krud. ‘Awfulrick won’t let me leave easily, not when I’m his “Good-luck Charm”.’

  The man attached to the beard held out a freckled hand. It was long-fingered and oddly slender. ‘I’m Ulf,’ he said as Whetstone shook his hand. ‘And don’t worry –’ the beard twitched into a smile – ‘I can get you out. No problem.’

  ‘WHERE’S THAT BOY GONE NOW!’ Awfulrick bellowed a couple of hours later as the sun rose higher in the sky. ‘HE’D BETTER NOT BE SNEAKING OFF AGAIN.’

  Whetstone wiggled his shoulders. He had spent the morning dozing uncomfortably inside Ulf’s cramped sea chest on the beach next to the longboat. Raindrops hammered on the lid and trickled in through the cracks, filling the small space with the scent of damp clothes and unwashed boy.

  ‘WHETSTONE!’

  The boy instinctively ducked his head.

  ‘I’VE GOT A MESSAGE FOR YOU FROM THAT VALKYRIE GIRL!’

  Whetstone shook his head. That was impossible. He would’ve known if Lotta had come to Krud. It was obviously a sneaky trick to lure him out. Anyway, he didn’t need Lotta; he had Ulf now.

  Whetstone bit back a yelp as the box was suddenly lifted into the air and tossed on the longboat’s deck. Next came the crunch of shingle. Men’s voices, shouting and cursing, surrounded him. With a wobble, the sea took hold of the boat. Whetstone closed his eyes and gulped, trying to ignore the rocking as the longboat men climbed aboard.

  ‘Goodbye, Krud, and thanks for everything!’ Ulf the Bearded yelled, thumping his fist on top of Whetstone’s box, making him wince.

  Then there was nothing but a rhythmic creaking and the splash of oars. Salt filled the air. Seagulls screamed overhead. Whetstone closed his eyes and resisted the urge to throw up on his boots. Being a Hero could be really rubbish sometimes.

  Time passed slowly in the box. How long had he been in there?
Hours? Days? Whetstone was just wondering if he should knock when the chest’s lid opened, leaving the boy blinking in the sunlight. Above him waved the sail with the dark sea serpent on it, now repaired. Whetstone wheezed as a wave of seasickness washed over him.

  ‘It’s a stowaway!’

  Whetstone peered out of the chest only to see Bragi. He was holding an oar. Whetstone groaned.

  ‘He’s not a stowaway.’ Ulf grinned through his wobbly beard. ‘And he’s our good-luck charm now.’

  The boat gave a sudden lurch – so did Whetstone’s stomach. He hiccupped.

  ‘That’s it, kid. Breathe in that salty air. You don’t get air like that in Krud.’

  Whetstone climbed out of the chest on legs like jelly.

  ‘I can’t believe this,’ Bragi snapped. ‘Just when I thought I was getting away from you.’ He poked Whetstone with his oar. ‘Don’t get in my way – you’re not the only one who can have adventures, you know.’

  Whetstone opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it quickly. If words came out, so might . . . something else. Instead, he gripped the side of the boat and watched Krud vanish over the horizon.

  A wooden bucket smacked Whetstone on the shoulder. He twisted round to see a man whose face reminded Whetstone of a lump of gristle. A long scar ran down one cheek, narrowly missing his eye.

  ‘Oi, stowaway,’ the man called. ‘You have to earn your passage like the rest of us. There’s water in the bottom. Start bailing.’

  Bragi snorted a laugh.

  Rubbing his shoulder, Whetstone picked up the bucket. He made his way to the stern of the boat, where a few inches of water had collected. He tried to balance one foot on either side of the puddle to keep his boots dry, but water splashed him in the face instead. The scarred man laughed as Whetstone wiped his face with his sleeve. Resentment bubbled inside him.

  He wouldn’t have to do this if Lotta had come back to help like she’d promised. She could travel between worlds; they could’ve gone straight to Helheim if she’d brought her flying horse.