The Gospel of Loki

by Joanne M Harris

  ‘I’d be cutting my own throat,’ he said. ‘But gods, for a prize like that . . . I’ll take your offer.’ He spat in his hand, ready to shake with the Old Man.

  ‘Let’s make sure we’ve got this straight,’ I said. ‘Six months. Not a day more. And no sneaky sub-contracting, either. You do the job yourself, right? Alone and single-handed.’

  The labourer nodded. ‘Just me and my horse. Good old Svadilfari.’ He patted the flank of the big black horse that had carried him over Bif-rost. Quite a nice-looking horse, I thought, but nothing out of the ordinary.

  ‘It’s a deal,’ I told him.

  We shook. The race against time had begun.

  LESSON 6

  Pony and Trap

  Never trust a quadruped.

  Lokabrenna

  THE NEXT DAY AT DAWN, the job began. First, the dragging of fallen masonry; then the quarrying of new stone. The horse, Svadilfari, was exceptionally strong, and by the end of the first month he and his master had accumulated more than enough to begin.

  Then came the placing of stone blocks; once more aided by his horse, the mason was able to hoist them to a great height. One by one, the wooden halls of Asgard were remade in stone, with strong, round arches, massive lintels, walls of granite so full of mica that they shone like steel in the sun. There were courtyards paved in stone, turrets, parapets, stairways. The work progressed with an eerie speed that the gods viewed at first with amazement, then, as winter deepened, with dread. Even I began to feel a little nervous as the walls of Asgard grew; most builders underestimate the time it takes to finish a job; in this case it looked as if six months might have been over-generous.

  But the long winter was on our side; snow began to fall in drifts. Still the mason and his horse went on dragging stone up from the plain. Gales and snowstorms and biting cold seemed to have no effect on them; too late, we started to suspect that the mason and his horse were not everything they seemed to be.

  Months passed with dizzying speed. The plain of Ida began to thaw. In Idun’s garden, snowdrops bloomed. Birds sang with sickening regularity. And day by day, Asgard’s walls grew bigger and more impressive.

  Spring approached and, unfairly, all the gods blamed me for the fact that the work was getting on so fast. Freyja was especially scathing, pointing out to all her friends that this was why you should never trust a demon, and even suggesting that I might be in league with the stonemason, as part of a treacherous plan by Surt to take back the fire of the Sun and the Moon and to plunge the Worlds into darkness.

  Balder took the moral high ground and said that folk should give me a chance, whilst assuming that hurt-puppy look of his and asking me if I didn’t feel just a little bit responsible?

  Others were less delicate in pointing out my guilt. No one used actual violence – Odin had made his orders plain – but there was a good deal of sneering and spitting whenever I happened to be around, and even the General, whose people were giving him serious aggravation about his new brother-in-blood and his reasons for adopting me, started to look at me differently, the light of calculation in his one blue eye.

  Well, I wasn’t completely naïve. I knew the Old Man needed to show his authority. There was no point in having an impregnable wall around the Sky Citadel if there was rebellion within. Heimdall was especially combative (besides which, he hated me), and I knew that if Odin showed weakness, then Goldie would be there to take his place as fast as thrice-greased lightning.

  ‘You’re going to have to make a stand,’ I told him, as the deadline approached. ‘Call a meeting of the gods. You have to assert some discipline. If you show weakness now, you’ll never get your people back again.’

  To do him justice, the Old Man knew exactly where I was coming from. Which made me suspect that perhaps he’d been having exactly the same unquiet thoughts. What made mine less so was the fact that I already had a plan, which I’d been keeping under wraps for maximum dramatic effect. I prepared for a killer performance.

  So, on the eve of winter’s last day, the Old Man called his people to an emergency council meeting. The outer wall was almost complete – only the giant gateway remained half built, a massive arch of raw grey stone. One more trip to the quarry would be enough to finish the job, after which the mason could claim the reward I’d promised him.

  That evening, the gods and goddesses all assembled in Odin’s hall. No one wanted to sit near me (except for Balder, whose sympathy was almost as bad as their mistrust), and I felt a little hurt that their faith in me had been so easily lost.

  I don’t wish to brag, but really, folks, the day that I don’t have a plan is the day Hel freezes over. Still, it had to be done in a way that gave Odin back his authority. I knew I was never going to be anything but an outsider in this camp, but as long as Odin was on my side, I was safe. I knew where I stood.

  The meeting began – in Odin’s new hall – and all the gods had plenty to say. The Old Man let them vent for a while, watching through his living eye. The atmosphere darkened progressively as Thor clenched his hairy fists and growled and one by one, my fickle new friends turned their vengeful gaze on me.

  ‘This never would have happened,’ said Frey, ‘if you hadn’t listened to Loki.’

  Odin said nothing and did not move, silent on his high throne.

  ‘We all thought he had a plan,’ Frey went on. ‘Now he’s lost us the Sun and Moon, and Freyja into the bargain.’ He turned on me, drawing his runesword. ‘Well, what do you say? What are we going to do now?’

  ‘I say make him bleed,’ said Thor, taking a step towards me.

  Odin gave him a look. ‘Hands off. No violence from my people.’

  ‘What about my people?’ said Frey. ‘The Vanir never made any promises.’

  ‘Too right, we didn’t,’ said Freyja. ‘I second Thor.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Týr.

  At that I started to back away. I could feel the temperature rising. The little hairs at the back of my neck started to prickle with cold sweat.

  ‘Guys, come on,’ I protested. ‘We all agreed to the deal, right? We all agreed to the stonemason’s terms—’

  ‘But you were the one who told him that he could use his horse,’ Odin said.

  I looked up, startled. The General was standing behind me, tall and stern as the World Ash. His hand fell onto my shoulder. He was wearing iron gauntlets. He tightened his grip, and I recalled how deceptively strong he was.

  ‘Please, it’s not my fault!’ I said.

  Freyja, cold as carrion, eyed me with a baleful glare. ‘I want to see him suffer,’ she said. ‘I want to hear him screaming. I’ll wear a necklace made from his teeth when I go walking down the aisle . . .’

  Odin’s grasp on my shoulder was really hurting now. I winced. I’d set up this situation myself, but even so I was afraid.

  ‘I swear, I’ve got a plan!’ I said.

  ‘You’d better, or you’re toast,’ said Thor.

  The gauntleted hand on my shoulder gripped me harder than ever now, forcing me to my knees. I yelped. ‘Please! Give me a chance!’ I said.

  For a moment the grip held fast. Then, to my relief, it relaxed.

  ‘You’ll have your chance,’ said the General. ‘But your plan had better work. Because if it doesn’t, I promise you’ll be in Nine Worlds of hurt.’

  I nodded, dry-mouthed. I believed him. What an actor.

  Painfully, I got to my feet, rubbing my aching shoulder. ‘I told you I had a plan,’ I said, feeling quite rightly resentful. ‘I promise, by tomorrow night we’ll be in the clear, with nothing to pay, honour and promises intact.’

  The gods looked openly cynical, with the exception of Idun, the Healer, whose view of the world was so sunny that she even trusted me, and Sigyn, Freyja’s handmaid, who just looked soupier than ever. Everyone else muttered and glared. Even Balder turned away.

  Freyja gave me a scornful look. Heimdall showed his golden teeth. And Thor hissed at me as I passed: ‘Till tomorrow, demon boy.
Then I’m going to kick your ass.’

  I blew him a kiss as I went out. I knew I was in no danger. The day a cowboy builder takes Loki for a ride is the day that pigs fly over the Rainbow Bridge and Lord Surt comes to Asgard for tea and little fairy cakes, wearing a taffeta ballgown and singing mezzo-soprano.

  Just saying, in case you had any doubts. Yes, folks. I’m that good.

  The next day I got up early and high-tailed it from Asgard. Or so people thought – those doubters who didn’t believe I had a plan. Meanwhile, the mason and his horse set off across the grassy plain, now only piebald with patches of snow. Spring was trembling in the air. Birds sang, flowers bloomed, tiny furry animals scampered and scurried in the fields and the black horse Svadilfari seemed to have a gleam in his eye that had been absent all winter.

  Above him, Asgard glittered in the sun, its granite walls spackled with mica. It looked truly magnificent; its shining rooftops, turrets, walkways, gardens, sunny balconies. Its twenty-four halls were all different (you notice I still didn’t have one); each made to the specifications of the god or goddess who lived there. Odin’s was the largest, of course, towering dizzily over the rest, with his high seat – a kind of crow’s nest – lost in a ballet of rainbows. The only unfinished section was that massive entrance gateway. Three dozen blocks of stone, no more, remained to quarry and hew into shape – a morning’s work, if that, I thought. No wonder the mason looked cheery, whistling between his teeth as he started to unpack his tools.

  But just as his master was about to start work quarrying the last of the stone, the black horse raised his head and neighed. A mare – a very pretty mare – was standing on the far side of the quarry. Her mane was long, her flanks were smooth, her eyes were bright and inviting.

  She whinnied. Svadilfari replied, then, shaking free of his harness, ignoring his master’s angry commands, he ran to join the pretty mare as she galloped off across the plain.

  The mason was furious. He spent all day chasing his horse from one stand of trees to another. No stone at all was quarried that day. Meanwhile, the horse and the little mare celebrated the coming of spring in the usual time-honoured fashion, and the mason tried to complete the gate with ill-fitting pieces of leftover stone.

  By nightfall, the horse had still not returned, and the mason was incandescent with rage. He stormed up to Allfather’s hall and demanded to see the General.

  ‘You must think I’m an idiot,’ he said. ‘You sent that mare to entrap my horse. You tried to renege on our deal!’

  Coolly, Odin shook his head. ‘You failed to complete the building in time. That makes our agreement void. Just chalk it up to experience, and we’ll part on amicable terms.’

  The mason looked round at the assembled gods and goddesses, watching him from their shining thrones. His dark eyes narrowed. ‘Someone’s missing,’ he said. ‘Where’s that little redhaired rat with the freaky eyes?’

  Odin shrugged. ‘Loki? I have no idea.’

  ‘Cavorting with my horse, that’s where!’ shouted the mason, clenching his fists. ‘I knew there was something about that mare! I could tell from its colours! A trick! You’ve tricked me, you two-faced bastards! You slags! You sons and daughters of bitches!’

  And at that he lunged at Odin, revealing himself in true Aspect at last as one of the tribe of the Rock Folk; massive, savage and lethal. But Thor was upon him in seconds; a single blow from the Thunderer’s fist was enough to crack the giant’s skull. All Asgard trembled from the blow. But the walls held fast – the mason’s claim had not been an empty one. We had our citadel at last – minus half a gateway – and for a very affordable price.

  As for Your Humble Narrator, it was some time before I returned to Asgard, and when I did, I was leading a colt – a rather unusual eight-legged colt of a fetching strawberry hue.

  I blew a kiss at Heimdall as I approached the Rainbow Bridge.

  The Watchman gave me a sour look. ‘You’re revolting, d’you know that? You seriously gave birth to that thing?’

  I gave him my most fetching smile. ‘I took one for the team,’ I said. ‘I think you’ll find that the others will be more than happy to welcome me back. And as for the General . . .’ I patted the colt. ‘Sleipnir – that’s our little friend’s name – is going to be very useful to him. He has his father’s powers and mine; the power to cross over land or sea; to travel with a foot in each World; to span the sky in a single step, faster than the Sun and Moon.’

  Heimdall grunted. ‘Smartass.’

  I grinned. Then, taking Sleipnir by the bridle, I stepped onto Bif-rost and crossed home into Asgard.

  LESSON 7

  Hair and Beauty

  Never trust a lover.

  Lokabrenna

  AFTER THAT, I was more or less accepted into Asgard’s fold. I already knew I would never be part of the popular crowd. But my little escapade had bought me some goodwill, at least, and the chilliness of previous months was replaced by a kind of tolerance. I was back in with the General, and the rest of the gods followed his lead, except, of course, for Heimdall (did I mention he hated me?) and Freyja, who hadn’t yet forgiven me for promising her to one of the Rock Folk.

  Still, I’d cut myself some slack, and made a reputation. People called me ‘Trickster’ now and forgave me my misdemeanours. Aegir invited me to his place for drinks. His almond-eyed wife asked me if I wanted to learn how to swim. Balder magnanimously offered to include me in the next Aesir versus Vanir football tournament. Odin promoted me to the rank of Captain, Bragi wrote ballads about me and the ladies enjoyed my company to such an extent that Frigg, Odin’s motherly wife, started to drop less than tactful hints that I should find a wife of my own before some jealous husband decided to teach me a lesson.

  Perhaps it was the threat of wedlock that made me overstep the mark – or perhaps the Chaos in my blood rebelling against the unnatural peace. Either way, the General should have seen it coming. You don’t bring Wildfire into your home and expect it to stay in the fireplace. And Thor should have seen it coming as well; you don’t leave a wife as alluring as Sif to fend for herself day in, day out. And . . .

  All right. I confess. I was angry. Thor had treated me roughly over that business with Asgard’s wall, and I might have been looking for a chance to pay him back in some way. He just happened to have a pretty wife – Sif, the Golden-Haired, she was; the Goddess of Grace and Plenty. Very pretty, but not very bright, with a promising streak of vanity that made her easy to cajole.

  Anyway, I wooed her a little, spun her a little yarn or two, and one thing led to another. Fine. Thor had a place of his own to sleep, far from Sif’s bedchamber, so the lady’s reputation was safe – that is, until the moment at which Yours Truly decided (in an early-morning moment of madness) to mark his victory by taking a trophy – in the form of the sleeping lady’s hair, which spilled across the pillow like grain.

  So shoot me. I cut it off.

  To be fair, I assumed she could grow it back, or change her Aspect the way I could. My mistake. How could I have known? Apparently, the Aesir can’t change their shape like the Vanir can. But the Goddess of Plenty has a great deal tied up, so to speak, in her hair; it’s where most of her powers lie, and without knowing it, in a single snip, Yours Truly had robbed her, not only of her beauty, but also of her Goddess Aspect.

  Of course that wasn’t my fault – but after due consideration I decided it might be wise to leave before the lady woke up. I left the hair on her pillow; perhaps she could make it into a wig, or something. Or maybe I could make her believe that the damage was somehow the result of one too many peroxide treatments. Either way, I figured that she wouldn’t dare tell Thor about our night of passion.

  Well, I was right about that part. But I hadn’t counted on the fact that Thor, arriving home from one of his trips to find his wife sporting a pixie crop some five hundred years before they came into vogue, would instantly (and unfairly) conclude that I was the probable culprit.

  ‘What happened
to the presumption of innocence?’ I protested, as I was dragged without ceremony to the foot of Allfather’s throne.

  Odin gave me his dead eye. At his side, Sif, in a turban, fixed me with the kind of stare that blights crops at a distance.

  ‘It was a joke!’ I told them.

  Thor picked me up by the hair. ‘A joke?’

  I considered shifting to Wildfire Aspect, but Thor was wearing his fireproof gauntlets. That meant no escape for Yours Truly, whatever form I tried to take.

  ‘You don’t think she looks kinda cute?’ I said, looking appealingly at Sif. Some women look good with short hair. But even I couldn’t bring myself to say that Sif was one of them.

  ‘All right. I’m sorry! What can I say? It’s the Chaos in me.’ I tried to explain. ‘I wanted to see what would happen if—’

  Thor growled: ‘Well, so you know. The first thing that’s going to happen is that I’m going to break every miserable bone in your body. One by one. How’s that for a joke?’

  ‘I’d really rather you didn’t,’ I said. ‘I’m still not good with the pain thing, and—’

  ‘That’s just fine by me,’ said Thor.

  I looked at Odin. ‘Brother, please . . .’

  Odin shook his head and sighed. ‘What do you expect me to do?’ he said. ‘You cut off his wife’s hair, for gods’ sakes, and you deserve to pay for it. Pay, or get out of Asgard. It’s up to you. I’ve done what I could.’

  ‘You’d throw me out of Asgard?’ I said. ‘Do you know what that would mean? I can’t go back to Chaos now. I’d be helpless, at the mercy of every one of the Rock Folk who felt like getting payback for what I did to cheat their friend out of the price of building a wall.’

  Odin shrugged. ‘Your choice,’ he said.

  Some choice. I looked at Thor. ‘You wouldn’t prefer an apology?’

  ‘As long as it’s deeply felt,’ said Thor. ‘And I promise, you’ll feel it deeply.’ He raised a fist. I closed my eyes . . .