The Gospel of Loki

by Joanne M Harris

  ‘I’m hurt,’ I said. ‘What makes you think I want anything, other than to pay a visit to my daughter?’

  ‘Because you never visit,’ said Hel. ‘And because the General’s birds were here only a couple of hours ago. I’m guessing you want to know why.’

  I grinned. ‘That may have crossed my mind.’

  She turned her living profile away, subjecting me to the full impact of her dead face. The eye that gleamed from the socket of bone was horribly, darkly sentient. The binding-rope of runes that she wore twisted around her narrow waist reminded me uncomfortably of Skadi’s runewhip.

  ‘You’re none of you immune to Death,’ she told me in her grating voice. ‘The General knows that only too well. Death takes everyone in the end. Heroes, villains, even gods – you’ll all end up as dust one day. Even the General,’ she said, fingering her binding-rope. ‘One day Death will take him too, and there’ll be nothing left of him, or of Asgard, or of you.’

  This was beginning to sound unnecessarily morbid to me, and I said so.

  Hel gave me her twisted half-smile. ‘Balder’s been having dreams,’ she said.

  ‘Dreams of what?’

  ‘Of me,’ she said.

  ‘Oh.’ I was starting to understand. Ever since she’d first seen him, Hel had been crazy for Balder. Balder the Beautiful; Balder the Brave; Balder, Asgard’s Golden Boy. Well, there’s no accounting for taste, but there was no denying that a certain type of female found him irresistible. Skadi was one; Hel, another. But while Skadi had long since accepted that Balder would never belong to her, I guessed that Hel still hoped to see Balder at her side one day.

  Of course, he’d have to die for that – but as she said, everyone dies.

  ‘So, Golden Boy’s been having nightmares?’ I grinned at Hel’s expression. ‘He always was on the sensitive side. Though what that has to do with Odin . . .’

  ‘Frigg has been having dreams as well,’ said Hel. ‘Forebodings of Balder’s death. She wants to know how to protect him. That’s why Odin sent his birds.’

  ‘And?’

  She gave me a look from her dead eye. ‘Odin made me who I am,’ she said. ‘He gave me Death’s dominion. I take my role very seriously, and I can’t make exceptions. Not even if I wanted to,’ she added, with the hint of a smile, most gruesome on that half-dead face.

  ‘But why would Balder die?’ I said. ‘He doesn’t fight. He doesn’t play dangerous sports. He rarely, if ever, leaves Asgard. The only risk he ever takes is that of choking on his own smugness. So tell me, why the anxiety?’

  Hel shrugged a shoulder. ‘I don’t know.’

  Of course, Death and Dream are very close. Their territories intersect, which is why we so often dream of the dead. They dream of us, too, in their watery way, and sometimes they can tell us things; things about the future.

  She was drawing in the sand again. Not a circle this time, but a little heart shape with the runes Hagall for Hel and Bjarkán for Balder written inside. I found it frankly nauseating, but summoned up a sympathetic look.

  ‘How badly do you want him?’ I said.

  She looked up. ‘I’d do anything.’

  ‘Anything?’

  That dead eye again. ‘Anything,’ said my daughter.

  ‘All right,’ I said with a little smile. ‘I’ll help you if I get the chance. But not a word to anyone. And you’ll owe me a favour. Agreed?’

  She gave me her living hand.

  ‘Agreed.’

  And that was how the Queen of the Dead promised me a favour. I couldn’t foresee when I’d cash it in, but I sensed the changing seasons, and I knew that, like Ratatosk the squirrel, it was time for Yours Truly to put away a few supplies for the winter. Everything dies eventually, of course. The operative word is ‘eventually’. And if I could somehow reshape events to suit my own agenda . . .

  Well. Isn’t that what Odin himself did, when he reshaped the Worlds from Ymir’s corpse? Isn’t that what all gods do, in their various ways, to survive?

  LESSON 2

  Deception

  So shoot me. It’s my nature.

  Lokabrenna

  THE NEXT PORT OF CALL for Odin’s birds was the forest of Ironwood, where the second of my monstrous children was causing concern among the wildlife. I hadn’t seen the Fenris Wolf since his mother and I had parted on less than amicable terms. Now he was no longer a cub, but fully grown and ferocious. Although he shared my ability to take a human Aspect, he tended to favour his wolf form, which was why Odin had sent his ravens to check out the danger he might represent.

  This wouldn’t have troubled me at all (I’d never been close to Angie’s brood), except for the underhand way in which the General approached the problem, going behind my back without as much as a word to me. And now, as his ravens brought back news of my son in Ironwood, Odin declared the wolf a threat and called for him to be neutralized.

  ‘Neutralized?’ I said. ‘Does that mean like Jormungand was neutralized? Or were you thinking more of a permanent solution?’

  Odin remained expressionless. I went on:

  ‘I mean, after all this time you suddenly think my son’s a threat? Who to? Since when has he done anything except run amok in Ironwood catching squirrels and, let’s face it, the Worlds could always do with fewer of those . . .’

  No one had mentioned Balder’s dreams, but the connection was obvious. Balder was a Mummy’s boy, spoilt and overprotected; I sensed his mother’s influence now, as Odin outlined his demands.

  ‘I need to see the Wolf,’ he said. ‘I need to know whose side he’s on.’ He fixed me with his coldest stare. ‘Captain, I hope you’re not going to be obstructive about this.’

  ‘Me? Obstructive? Of course not. But I wish you’d tell me what this is about.’

  ‘Later,’ said Odin. ‘Just bring the Wolf.’

  And so I promised to bring my son to Asgard for assessment. I figured that if I helped him out, then Odin might confide in me – or if things went the other way, I’d have a friend in my corner. Besides, I hadn’t seen Fenris in years and, like the Old Man, I wanted to know just how powerful he’d become, and what loyalty (if any) I could expect from the Wolf and his mother.

  And so I flew to Ironwood, in my falcon Aspect. On my arrival, I found Angrboda waiting for me, looking alluring as always, with Fenris, in wolf form, at her side, looking rather less so.

  ‘I should have known you’d be around,’ she said, as I shifted back into Aspect. ‘You and the General always were as thick as thieves. When I saw those birds of his I knew you wouldn’t be far behind.’

  That was unfair. I pointed out, as I had to Hel, that I needed no self-serving excuse to call on my nearest and dearest.

  ‘Is it so hard to believe,’ I said, ‘that I might have wanted to see you? You are the love of my life, you know. And dear little Fenris . . .’ Fenris snarled. ‘How could you think I’d stay away?’

  Angie arched an eyebrow, through which an emerald stud gleamed. ‘Don’t give me that. After fifteen years, you decide to come over all paternal?’ She gave me one of her smouldering looks. ‘What do you really want?’

  ‘Well, apart from the obvious . . .’ I looked down at my state of undress. ‘Some clothes would be nice. Unless you feel like—’

  Angie growled. ‘Not in front of the children, dear.’

  Once more I glanced at Fenris. I remembered him as rather cute – in a slavering kind of way. Now he just looked malevolent and generally unappealing. Still, teenage werewolves are typically foul; hairy, smelly and monosyllabic. Not unlike the human kind, when you come to think of it, although most human youngsters would be incapable of tearing your head off with their bare hands and making it into a buttock sandwich.

  ‘So, what are you into nowadays?’ I asked him, with little enthusiasm.

  Fenris just growled again, showing his teeth. There were rather a lot of them, and his breath was distinctly rank.

  ‘Mostly devouring things,’ Angie said. ‘Although
he quite enjoys killing things, too.’

  ‘Can’t he speak for himself?’ I said.

  She gave the wolf an indulgent smile. ‘You know what they’re like at that age. Fenny, be nice and say hello to your father.’

  The werewolf gave a beastly shrug and shifted Aspect ohso-slightly, becoming a sullen-looking young man with a bad case of acne and thick fur on the palms of his hands. The stench of testosterone was dreadful, as was the stench of his oily hair.

  ‘Whatever,’ said Fenny. ‘Hi, Dad.’

  I forced a smile. ‘That’s better,’ I said. ‘Let’s get you looking presentable. If you’re to have your inheritance, like your brother and sister, then we have to convince the gods that you’re not just a teenage dirtbag. Right?’

  ‘Whaddya mean, inheritance?’ The wolf’s yellow eyes gleamed suspiciously. I could tell he wasn’t stupid; unappealing he might be, but there was intelligence in those eyes. Right now, I wasn’t sure whether this would help my cause or not; I just gave him my broadest smile and launched into my sales talk.

  ‘Well, Jormungand got the One Sea,’ I said, ‘and Hel got the Underworld. It’s only fair that you should have your own lands and dominions, but first you have to let Odin decide what kind of territory you deserve.’

  ‘Ironwood,’ said Fenris, without even stopping to think.

  ‘Well, Ironwood’s certainly a possibility,’ I said. ‘But have you considered—’

  ‘Ironwood,’ said Fenris again.

  ‘I get it. You want Ironwood,’ I said, with a grin to Angie. ‘All right, I think we can manage that. But first, you have to come with me and swear your allegiance to Asgard.’

  ‘My what?’ said Fenris. ‘Wolves don’t swear. Wolves just hang out and . . . and, like, devour things.’

  ‘Well, this time it’s going to be different. I want you to be presentable. I’m not having you turn up in Asgard looking like something from under the bottom of a cave-troll’s shoe. A haircut first – and perhaps some clothes?’

  It wasn’t an easy sell. But at last, with the help of Fenny’s loving mother, I managed to get him to look . . . if not quite presentable, then at least looking vaguely human. I wasn’t expecting him to score much of a hit with the gods, but I thought perhaps if they met him, they’d understand that he wasn’t the monster they thought he was, and they might cut the kid a bit of slack.

  Not so, unfortunately. To be fair, young Fenny was going through a bit of a rebellious phase, characterized by grunting, bad smells, obscene language, loud music in his rooms late at night and a generally uncouth approach to anything of the opposite sex.

  Even Idun, who had declared him ‘cute’ when he first arrived in Asgard, complained about his lecherous comments to her and to her handmaidens. But it was when a practical joke (against Balder, as it happened) went wrong that Frigg’s maternal instinct rebelled, and she went running to Odin to demand that the werewolf be restrained.

  It wasn’t a big thing, really. A youngster’s prank, involving Golden Boy’s lunch, some earwigs and a Chinese burn, but Frigg took the whole thing very seriously, declared that her son had been assaulted, and that if Odin didn’t take action then she would get Thor to intervene in his place.

  Odin had no choice after that. The werewolf had crossed a line. If only he’d come and told me that, then I would have understood completely. But he didn’t. He said nothing, did nothing until I was out of the picture, and then, with Thor and Týr and the rest, he made his move against us.

  I should have known he had something planned. A routine check on the Ice Folk, he said; rumours of a new warlord who might try something reckless. The Rock Folk had been restless, too, gathering in the foothills; perhaps I could find out what had caused their migration. Then there were tales of Jormungand sinking ships off World’s End, and further rumours of Gullveig-Heid, raising the dead in Ironwood. And so on, with a whole list of tasks that would keep me away for at least a week – a welcome break, I thought at the time, from the responsibilities of fatherhood.

  Meanwhile, in my absence, the gods prepared to drop the hammer on Fenris.

  First Odin went to the Tunnel Folk and asked the sons of Ivaldi to forge him a set of magical chains. Then they threw Fenny a welcome party, and when they’d got him nice and drunk, Odin suggested some tests of strength to see what he was capable of.

  Fenny, young and arrogant, saw no reason to suspect foul play. Drink, loud music and the presence of scantily clad female attendants had broken what defences he had. Faced with two thick, Tunnel-Folk chains, he broke them both quite easily, to the feigned admiration of the gods, but the last one was a narrow, deceptive steel band forged by the famous Dvalin himself – embedded with many runes and cantrips – and was almost unbreakable.

  If I’d been there to comment, I would have warned the gods that my son, wild and uncouth though he was, was no fool. His finely tuned senses warned him that some kind of deception was afoot, and before accepting to try the third chain, he demanded a proof of Odin’s goodwill.

  ‘What kind of proof?’ Odin said.

  ‘One of you puts his hand in my mouth,’ said the Wolf with a toothy grin. ‘That way, I have something to bargain with if things start getting heavy.’

  The gods exchanged glances. Finally, Brave-Hearted Týr stood up. Brave-hearted he was, I’ll give him that, but also somewhat weak-brained.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ he said, and slipped his right hand into the wolf’s mouth.

  If I had been there, of course, this would never have happened, but they were too clever – they thought they could handle the situation alone, with the result that, when Naudr bit, so did Fenny, and Týr lost his hand.

  Odin showed no sign of regret. It was a calculated risk, and the gain to Asgard’s security was greater than the loss. Týr got himself an ephemeral hand, all woven from runes and glamours, which, like a mindweapon, could be summoned in battle or at moments of need. The rest of the time he learnt to perform everyday tasks left-handed, and to bear with a lot of clumsy jokes. He’d never been a man of words, so we never heard what he really thought of having been Odin’s sacrifice. But I like to think that, during the long nights, when his stump was itching like mad and the rest of the gods were fast asleep, even Brave-Hearted Týr might have sometimes questioned his loyalty.

  They kept the Wolf in World Below, in a cavern deep under the ground. And when I came home, I realized that all the gods blamed me for the débâcle, whispering among themselves that I had been responsible for bringing Fenny into Asgard in the first place, and greeting Yours Truly with harsh words, cool glances and all the signs of hostility.

  ‘What, no welcoming drink?’ I said, arriving tired from twelve hours’ straight flying.

  ‘Oh, look who’s back,’ said Heimdall. ‘Fathered any more monsters recently?’

  I didn’t give his words much thought, but when Frey turned his back on me, Bragi threw his drink on the ground, Thor saw me coming and growled, and Skadi, who was staying in Asgard on one of her infrequent visits, fingered her runewhip and smiled at me, I knew that something had happened.

  ‘Where’s Odin?’ I said.

  ‘In his hall. He doesn’t want to be disturbed,’ said Frigg, whose generally open countenance was pinched with conflicting emotions.

  Even Sigyn, usually the first to welcome me, seemed distant. ‘It had to be done,’ she told me when I went to find her (hungry after my long flight, and hoping for a batch of jam tarts). ‘That nasty werewolf son of yours was such a bad influence on our boys.’

  Well, yes. I had to admit that was true. Vali and Narvi, so close to him in age, had taken to hanging around with Fenris. Perhaps it was his bad-boy appeal; or the tales he told them of Ironwood. Either way, I noticed that they had started to imitate him; letting their hair grow over their eyes and cultivating a wolfish sneer.

  ‘Oh, they’ll get over it soon enough,’ said Sigyn, finally telling the tale of how the Wolf had been restrained for the good of Asgard. ‘And so will you,
’ she added, with a playful smile, ‘as soon as you’ve had a couple of these lovely jam tarts I baked for you.’

  But suddenly, I was no longer hungry. The nest of wire inside my gut had tightened to an unbearable pitch.

  They’d gone behind my back, you see: that was what really hurt me. They’d decided I couldn’t be trusted, and had sent me off on a fool’s errand, then blamed me for the consequences when their plan had backfired.

  ‘Now, don’t lose your temper, dear. You know that Angie person was no good. The last thing you want is a werewolf brat hanging around, causing trouble, reminding you of what you did to your wife and your real family.’

  My real family. That was a joke. The accounts of Thor’s journey to Utgard had left my sons under the impression that I was a giant loser. Fenny’s incarceration had completed the job: now, in their eyes, I was the Man: a part of the oppressive patriarchal system; unable to understand the needs of a rebellious adolescent.

  This was made abundantly clear to me as I went out to greet them. They’d grown since I last saw them, of course, and though obviously (favouring me), neither was as graceless or as uncouth as Fenny, both had managed to develop some of the werewolf’s mannerisms: the slouch; the grunt; the silent contempt.

  ‘So, how’s it going?’

  Narvi, the first and dominant twin, eyed me from under his long fringe. His eyes were like mine, his hair, too; his colours, wild and rebellious – it was almost like looking at myself when I entered the Worlds from Chaos.

  Vali, the softer, friendlier twin, might have said something if we’d been alone, but in the presence of Narvi simply looked down at the ground in shame.

  ‘No words of welcome?’ I said.

  Narvi shrugged. ‘Hi, Dad.’

  ‘I heard about Fenris.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘I didn’t know what was happening,’ I said. ‘Odin never told me.’

  Too late I understood that having been taken for a fool by the General would do nothing to raise me in my sons’ esteem. I sounded weak and apologetic, which made me more angry than ever. Why did I even feel the need to justify myself to my sons? Since when did I care what they thought, anyway?