And before Freya could say anything more she’d be bundled off to the GP who’d refer her to a psychiatrist, and there’d be endless worried conversations about all her dark thoughts…
Perhaps, thought Freya, it would be better to google ‘How to build a shrine to the Gods’, and then find a secret spot on Hampstead Heath and create it there. Or in a little corner of Highgate Cemetery, tucked away among the grave mounds. What was one more secret, among so many?
The Today programme on BBC Radio 4 was on in the background. Clare liked listening as she bustled around getting ready for work.
‘Well we have Thor to thank for the stormy skies all over the south-east today,’ said BBC newsreader Zeb Soanes. ‘The unseasonably frosty autumn weather is continuing throughout the British Isles. The worst weather will be in Scotland with thundery showers and the risk of flooding across the region lasting through Fryggday … boy, what has Thor got against the Scots?
‘Coming up: Woden’s ravens leaving the Tower of London for the first time in history – coincidence or bad omen – email us and tell us what you think. And, while Europe continues to be blanketed in snow, we’ll be talking to scientists who report that the progressive shrinking of the Arctic sea ice is bringing colder, snowier winters to the UK and other parts of Europe, North America and China.
‘First, what the papers say. The Guardian leads on “NHS crisis as cuts bite” while the Daily Mail’s headline is: “So much for global warming – September shaping up to be the coldest in 200 years.”
‘Cold? Huh. Try Jotunheim if you want cold,’ muttered Freya.
‘What?’ said her mum.
‘Nothing,’ said Freya.
‘… while The Sun’s lead story is “Pay up, scum! 87% of Sun readers demand that compensation for robbery and unlawful killing be increased”, while the Telegraph goes with “Queen leads tributes to her ancestor, Woden, in victory celebrations at the Cenotaph”.
‘Fane attendance is down to its lowest level since records began, and fewer than 1% of the population now attend Sunday worship. In our studio today we have the Archpriest of York. Welcome, Archpriest. To put it bluntly, is the Wodenic faith finished in Europe? Why do you think religion plays such a small part in people’s—’
Clare switched off the radio.
‘He’s not telling me anything I don’t know,’ she said.
‘You’re doing a great job, Mum,’ said Freya.
Clare sighed. ‘Yeah, well, I try. How long I’ll have a job is another matter. When it is fated that …’ She didn’t finish her sentence. ‘Anyway, I’ll be a bit late tonight, will you be okay on your own?’
‘Yes,’ said Freya. She rolled her eyes. She’d been to Hel and back, she could be alone in her own home for a few hours. Honestly. Mum still thought she was four years old.
‘I’ve got the Youth Choir practice … you don’t want to come, do you?’
‘No,’ said Freya. ‘Sorry. Too much homework.’
Her mum was always trying to drag her into Fane activities. It was bad enough that Clare forced her to attend Fane every Sunday when she’d so much rather sleep in or watch telly.
‘If you ever change your mind, we could really use some extra bodies,’ said Clare. ‘Could you ask around at school?’
‘Okay Mum,’ agreed Freya. As if she’d spend her time recruiting for her mum’s choir. She was considered enough of a weirdo already, without have the Gods-squad label stamped on her back.
‘Make sure you wear an extra jumper,’ said Clare, gathering up her papers, ‘it’s cold outside.’
Eager for Fame
The worst thing about attending a Fane of England secondary school, thought Freya, the very worst, was the daily RE assemblies which went on forever, led by the dour school priest, Ivar Fairhair, the most boring man in Britain. While Priest Ivar droned on, her fingers itched to get out her mobile and check for text messages, but if she was caught she’d be in big trouble.
He was in particularly grim form this morning. ‘Everyone must endure the ending of life in this fleeting world. The only thing which never dies is renown for noble deeds. As Woden the All-Father teaches us, “We are all mortal. Yet words of praise will never perish, nor—”’
To block out his monotone exhortations, which she’d heard a million billion times before, Freya read the nine commandments carved in painted gold letters into the large wooden scrolls that hung behind the head’s lectern.
The Nine Commandments
1. We are the Lords your Gods. Thou shalt have no other gods before us
2. Thou shalt remember the Gods’ Feast days
3. Thou shalt not slander the Gods
4. Thou shalt not steal
5. Honour thy children for they alone will carve thy name upon the gateposts
6. Thou shalt not kill. Murder leads to blood feuds
7. Thou shalt offer hospitality to strangers
8. Thou shalt not bear false witness
9. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbours’ gold hoard, nor any thing which is his
Now it would be, ‘don’t covet your neighbours’ telly, or her designer handbag, or his flash car’. Freya didn’t care at all about handbags, but thought she’d quite like to covet a gold hoard. Those old commandments just put ideas into your head, she thought, and then blushed, and was glad no one here could read her thoughts.
Unlike Woden. She’d hated that he’d been able to see inside her head. Thank the Gods no one else could.
‘And what is Woden’s nature?’ rumbled the priest, making her jump.
Grumpy, thought Freya.
She was the one who’d actually met the Gods. So far as she knew, the only human who had for centuries. But no one would ever believe her, so she kept quiet. It was tough though, when priests talked as if they knew the Gods personally, and were so quick to say, ‘Woden would want you to do such and such,’ and ‘Frey, full of grace, brought you prosperity …’ Then she’d think, ‘If you only knew … you think you’re such a smarty-pants when in fact …’
It was hard to keep so big a secret, even harder not to boast about what had happened. But Freya knew if she breathed one word she would be ridiculed. Even her best friend Emily knew nothing. Sometimes having secret knowledge you couldn’t share was worse than knowing nothing.
‘The All-Father is Lord of Poetry,’ intoned Priest Ivar. Oh Gods, when would he finish? thought Freya. ‘He is so fair and full of majesty that all the Gods who sit with him in Asgard quail in his presence. As the prophet Snorri declares, “He is the cleverest of all the Gods, and from Him all who are inspired learned their art and skill.”’
Hmmm, thought Freya, wonder how inspired they’d all be if they’d seen him as a tottering ghost like I did?
‘Now, what are Frey and Freyja’s attributes? As the prophet Snorri writes …’
Her fellow students shifted restlessly around her. No one, even at a Fane school like hers, paid much attention to all the Gods talk: most of them only pretended to be religious to get into the Fane school because it got better results than the comp down the road. Religious chatter was just so much background noise while people got on with the important things in their lives like comparing mobile phones, watching reality TV shows, and discussing which celebrity had the most cellulite.
*
Mr Borg, her Citizenship teacher, stood in front of the white board, marker in hand. This was her least demanding class, a bit of discussion at the end of the day. Easy to daydream in.
‘Right, everyone. Let’s share career ambitions. Grisla, you start. What do you want to be when you grow up?’
‘I want to be famous,’ said Grisla, giggling.
‘Excellent,’ said Mr Borg. ‘You should all be eager for fame. Famous for what?’
Grisla looked blank.
‘Famous for great deeds? Famous for accomplishments? Famous for—’
‘Famous like on telly,’ said Grisla.
‘Okay, how many of you want to be famous?’ asked Mr Bo
rg.
Every hand shot up.
Freya put her hand up then slowly put it down. What was she thinking? She’d had her brief brush with fame when she’d returned from her ‘disappearance’ to the flurry of media interest and everyone thinking she’d either been kidnapped or run away. That wasn’t the kind of fame she wanted.
Her friend Emily shot her a quick glance. Freya raised her eyebrows and grimaced.
Of course she’d love to be famous. But famous in the fun, celebrity way, wearing gorgeous clothes, living in a fabulous house and going to swanky parties. Not the infamous of people whispering about her and thinking she was a liar and a thief.
Mr Borg caught Freya’s eye. Please, please don’t call on me, she thought.
‘My question remains, what do you all want to be famous for?’ asked Mr Borg. ‘Famous poet? Famous scientist? Famous teacher, anyone? Who wants to be a good actor or run a successful business or be a talented chef? No one? Will only being a famous actor or a famous businesswoman or a famous chef do?’
Duh, thought Freya. Mr Borg was an idiot.
‘Freya? How about you? What do you want to be famous for?’
Freya shrugged. She wanted to be famous for being, not famous for doing.
‘Just famous,’ said Freya.
What Bad Fate Was Hers?
Freya let herself into the empty house, stamping her feet to warm up and dumping her heavy coat over the bicycles that cluttered up the hallway. I’m a latch-key kid, she thought. That was supposed to be a sad thing, but she always liked having the place to herself. She could blast her music as loud as she wanted, drink milk from the bottle if she felt like it, sneak a bag of crisps, watch rubbish telly and not do her chores. The moment Mum spotted her, the inquisition would start: ‘Have you done your homework? How was the maths test? Why haven’t you put away the laundry? Did you write and thank Granny for the birthday cheque? You haven’t? What would Woden say?’ Sometimes Freya regretted leaving her bedroom; at least there she was safe from being hassled.
She and Clare had stayed in the small North London terraced house near her mum’s Throng after her parents got divorced. Now her dad, when he wasn’t away working in Dubai, rented a tiny flat nearby converted from a disused Fane, which was ironic considering how much Mum deplored how many old fanes were being deconsecrated. Or maybe that was why he’d done it. Freya tried to stay out of their sniping fights.
Right, she thought, walking down into the untidy kitchen, still piled with the breakfast plates and the remains of yesterday’s dinner. She and her mum had a long-standing unspoken war to see who could leave the dishes lying around the longest without washing and putting them away. Clare usually cracked first.
Yummy chocolate biscuits first, then she’d check Facebook and ring Emily to make plans for the party at Jenny’s and to find out who she was voting for on Strictly Come Baking. You were supposed to be 13 to have an online profile, but she would be, soon enough, and everyone she knew was on it, so no big deal. Just so long as her parents didn’t find out, because then it suddenly would be a big deal.
What they don’t know won’t hurt them, she thought, making herself comfortable at the rickety wooden kitchen table, pushing aside the stacks of letters, Fane leaflets, and books littering it. There’s so much my parents don’t know, anyway. She looked around to see if Clare had left one of her bossy notes, detailing all of Freya’s unfinished chores and what she needed to do before Clare got home. No note, just a copy of the Fane magazine, open to the forthcoming events page, written in her Mum’s usual upbeat, exhorting style. Freya read it idly while munching on her biscuits.
The traditional procession of the Idols of Woden and Thor and Freyja and Frey and Tyr will take place next solstice to celebrate the Feast of the Unconquered Sun, and it would be great to have a big turnout to follow the cart as it travels through Holloway. We’ll be setting off at 1:30 pm from our Fane and walking in a circle. The cows will be hitched at 12:45 and anyone who wants to help decorate our cart the day before is welcome. Children are urged to come dressed up as their patron God – or perhaps as the Wolves who try and fail, thank the Gods, to swallow the sun and moon – and there will be a prize for best costume. Our hospitality committee will be providing tea and biscuits back at the Fane when the cart returns.
Remember to sign up for our annual pilgrimage to Woden’s temple at Uppsala. And of course, the Fane flower rota needs more volunteers. Please email or—
The doorbell rang.
Oh Gods, it’ll be someone trying to get me to sponsor them for their charity run, thought Freya. Should she pretend she wasn’t home and not answer it?
The bell rang again, loud and insistent. Freya flung open the front door.
‘I’ve already spons—’
Two people pushed their way into the narrow hallway and slammed the door behind them.
‘No!’ screamed Freya.
The one-eyed, craggy-faced man glowered at her beneath his battered blue hat. The golden-haired woman held up her clenched fists as if to strike her.
Freya backed away, crashing into her bicycle, which toppled over.
‘NO!’ she screamed. ‘I went to Hel for you. I restored your youth. I was almost eaten by a dragon and ripped to shreds by a giant. I’ve done my bit. Go away! Please go away. You don’t belong here. Please.’ Her breath came in harsh pants.
Why couldn’t they leave her alone? Hadn’t she done enough?
The one-eyed God looked down at her coldly. His head nearly touched the low ceiling.
‘That is how you greet your Gods?’ said Woden. ‘Are you eager to enter your grave mound? I’ve killed people for less …’ He fixed her with his dark, terrible eye.
Freya cowered in the narrow hallway and stared at the Gods. Their robes were torn, covered in mud and dirt. Their faces were bruised and scratched. Freyja had muddy footprints on her tunic and her golden hair hung in snarled knots. Woden’s single eye was swollen.
‘Lords,’ whispered Freya, swallowing. She bowed her head. ‘What are you doing here?’ Her heart was beating so fast it was difficult for her to speak. She felt sick. ‘I did what you asked … I brought back Idunn and her golden apples, you are all young again … why are—’
Woden glared at her.
‘We, the sacred people, do not answer questions, we ask them.’
Freya shrank back against the stairs.
Maybe the Gods just had a little question or two for her, and then they’d go back to Asgard, no harm done. Maybe they were just checking how she was, a social call. Yes, a friendly visit, to thank her, finally, for saving them and restoring their youth. Thanks for all she’d done for them had been sparse, Freya recalled.
‘Please come in,’ she said, wishing her voice sounded stronger.
The Goddess snorted. ‘I wondered when you would recollect what is owed to guests,’ she said. She looked around the small house as if she were surveying a stinking pigsty. Her nose crinkled.
Freya opened the door to the small sitting room, and stood back while the two Gods entered. The worn wood floor trembled beneath their feet.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The knocking was so loud it sounded like the door would shatter.
‘Answer it,’ said Woden.
Freya felt faint.
She pulled open the door and a red-bearded giant limped past her, knocking into the hall chandelier and sending it swaying back and forth and smashing repeatedly into his head until he tore it off the ceiling and flung it to the floor. Thor tried to lift the hammer he was dragging behind him before lowering it and breathing hard, as if the weight had been too much to bear.
‘Where are they?’ he growled.
Freya squeezed against the wall and pointed to the sitting room. Thor stomped in. Freya heard the sound of splintering wood and another crash.
Oh my Gods. This wasn’t happening.
She peeked round the door to see Thor kicking away the pieces of the wooden chair he’d shattered. Freya winced. Th
at chair had belonged to her gran. Thor moved to the dusty green sofa beside the Goddess Freyja, squashing her as his huge body took up most of the space. The battered couch sagged alarmingly under his weight. Freyja’s plump lip quivered as she perched cautiously on the sofa’s edge, avoiding the flat throw cushions. Freya could see a tomato stain on one from the pizza she’d secretly eaten in front of the telly the night before, as her mother forbade her to eat in the sitting room. The Goddess gathered her tattered robes tightly around her.
‘I saw no offering to the Gods outside your doorway,’ she said. ‘I’d have expected at least a cow.’
‘Offering?’ said Freya.
‘Where is your mother’s loom?’ continued the Goddess.
‘No loom,’ said Freya. Clare could barely sew on a button.
The Goddess’s beautiful glacier-blue eyes widened.
‘No tapestries. No gold or silver,’ she muttered, as if taking an inventory. ‘And where is your sleeping bench?’
‘We have two bedrooms upstairs,’ said Freya.
‘And where are your pigs and chickens?’
‘We don’t—’ began Freya.
‘Enough with your inane questions,’ snapped Woden. ‘They change nothing.’
‘This is a dump,’ muttered the Goddess. ‘When I think of my beautiful hall Sessrumnir in Asgard …’
Woden remained standing. Freya, unsure what to do, stood also. What bad fate was hers? Should she offer them some biscuits? A cup of tea? Crisps? What did Gods eat, anyway?
Woden looked around her sitting room, with its orange Ikea armchair and the faded yellow and brown Turkish rug. The room felt tiny with these giants in it.
‘Your hall is bright,’ he said. ‘But where is your hearth?’
Freya swallowed. ‘We don’t have one, we have central heating,’ she said. ‘It’s on at the moment, even though it’s September, because it’s so cold outside.’
Woden touched the radiator, then leapt back.
‘The metal is hot to the touch,’ he murmured. ‘Yet I see no fire or heated stones.’
Thor grunted. ‘Dad, get on with it and stop wasting time,’ he growled. ‘We can explore Midgard later.’
The Lost Gods Page 2
