The Lost Gods (2 page)

‘That went well,' said Freyja.

‘You want to marry a troll?' rasped Woden. ‘Then keep talking.'

‘I told you it wouldn't work,' said Freyja. ‘But did you listen to me, Lord High and Mighty? Oh no, you said—'

‘If you don't have anything good to say, then don't say anything,' bellowed Woden. ‘It's the ill fortune of the unwise that they cannot keep SILENT.'

‘What just happened?' asked Thor.

Woden shook his head.

‘QUIET!' he roared. ‘I must think.'

The circling ravens swooped down, perched on Woden's aching shoulders, and whispered in his ears.

In icy lands heavy with frost there was a steady drip drip drip. Cracks zig-zagged across vast sheets of jagged ice. A giant glacier shuddered, split, and a huge chunk broke off and crashed with an ogre-ish scream. The surging sea exploded, lashing the frozen cliffs as more and more ice poured into the water. The cracks widened across the glistening plains.

‘Freya! Wake up.'

She'd been having the falling nightmare into Hel again.

Freya sat up, shaking. She was at home, twisted up in the blue and white duvet, looking into the sad face of the knitted snowman she'd slept with since babyhood.

Her mum squeezed her arm.

‘It's over, honey. Time to get up.'

‘Was I screaming?' asked Freya.

Clare raised her eyebrows. ‘No louder than usual.'

Half an hour later, Freya sat at the table and ate her cornflakes. Her mum bustled round
with her phone under her chin, making Freya's lunchtime herring sandwiches while trying to sort out the Fane cleaning rota and the food for Woden's forthcoming festival. Freya watched as Clare added lettuce to the sandwich. Once Freya would have objected, and sulked if she thought she'd get away with it, but her food fussiness had vanished since her ‘return'.

That's how her nine-day disappearance last spring was referred to. She'd been ‘gone'; then, thank the Gods, she'd come back. ‘Concussed,' the doctor at Baldr's hospital had said, as if that explained everything.

Did it?
Sometimes Freya wondered. It was a convenient excuse, which explained nothing about what had happened to her. Sometimes, when it all seemed most dream-like, she'd go to the Clark's shoebox she kept hidden at the back of her wardrobe and pull out a thick stack of yellowing newspaper clippings. For a few days she'd been headline news:

 

EVENING STANDARD

FREYA IS ALIVE!
MUSEUM MYSTERY DEEPENS

Missing schoolgirl Freya Raven-Gislason was found earlier today wandering in a confused state by Woden's Temple, near the spot she was reportedly seen nine days ago with two teens in fancy dress. She was bruised, dehydrated and suffering from exhaustion, but otherwise in good health.

Police are continuing their search for the four stolen chess pieces from the priceless Lewis hoard, which vanished from the British Museum last week. A King, a Queen, a Berserk, and a Knight's horse are still missing. Police would only confirm that Ms Raven-Gislason was helping them with their enquiries.

Sunil, the policewoman who first found her on the Millennium Bridge had been kind but insistent. Had she seen who'd stolen the chess pieces? Had
she
stolen the chessmen? No, Freya had said. They stole me, more like, she'd thought.

Had she run away from home or been kidnapped? And what of the two oddly dressed teenagers she'd been seen with on the bridge? Did she know them?

No, she'd said. That wasn't entirely a lie: how could she claim to
know
Alfi and Roskva, mysterious beings from another time and place?

Sunil had persisted: ‘Around the time you were seen on the bridge, there was another incident involving a man wearing a bear skin attacking several cars on Upper Thames Street with a sword. A number of people were injured, some seriously. Did you see this man?'

‘No,' lied Freya. Silently she'd wished the policewoman good luck trying to arrest Snot. They'd pressed her and pressed her to say where she'd been. When she told them she'd been to
Asgard and Jotunheim and Hel, and met the Gods, her mum had intervened and insisted they take her to hospital and get a lawyer if Sunil was going to accuse her daughter of theft. Freya was frightened she'd be arrested, but after the initial questioning, she was never summoned to the police station again. Everyone just treated her like a runaway, and that was that.

Beneath the cuttings, Freya kept a handful of business cards, from all the journalists who'd jostled for exclusive interviews, and the publicists who'd begged to represent her and sell her story. Clare was adamant that Hel would warm up before Freya sold a story to the newspapers, or even spoke to journalists, and Freya had been so bewildered and in shock after her return she hadn't known what to do, so she did nothing.

Eventually, interest died down. People still occasionally pointed at her in school, and whispered about her behind their hands, but that she could live with.

What was hard was that there was no one, absolutely no one, she could tell her story to. Who'd believe her anyway – that she'd been to Asgard, rescued the Goddess Idunn from Hel and restored the Gods to youth? She wouldn't believe anyone who said that, so why should anyone believe her?

Safer to say nothing.

Buried at the very bottom of the shoebox were Freya's greatest and most hidden treasures. An arm bracelet, heavy with gold. Thor's gift to her, when she left Asgard. Alfi's metal brooch, intricately carved and twisted. Freya held them, her hands trembling.

And a single falcon feather, tucked inside an old leather glove.

Freya picked up the falcon feather and shook it. The feather shimmered and became a translucent falcon skin cloak. Freya touched the silky feathers and shook it again. The way it shrank back immediately to a single one always awed her. The tail feathers were still singed
from the fire which had almost engulfed her when she'd spun into the citadel of the Gods, hunted by the eagle giant Thjazi.

Whenever Freya thought she must have dreamt the whole thing, she'd take the feather and shake it out into the glowing falcon skin. Once she'd been tempted to put on the cloak of feathers and take flight, but fear held her back. That, and the nightmares.

The falling nightmares were the worst – where she tumbled into Hel again, down down down into the freezing blackness where Loki waited to trap her and Thjazi, with his rushing wings and outstretched talons, ached to rip her to shreds. She'd be walking down the street, or queuing at the post office, and without warning she'd feel herself swept into a whirling vortex again and feel so dizzy she'd have to run out and get some air, and reassure herself that she was back in Midgard, and safe. She was still worried that, somehow, Loki would find her and take his revenge. But six months had passed,
and he had not appeared. Sometimes Freya felt a prickling certainty that she was being followed, but whenever she spun round, no one was there.

‘You really should be making your own lunches now, you know,' said Clare.

Freya snapped out of her reverie.

‘What?'

‘I said you're old enough to be making your own sandwiches,' repeated Clare.

‘I did offer,' said Freya.

Actually, she liked having her mum make her lunches. It made her feel taken care of. Clare used to run her baths for her, squeezing in just the right amount of bubble bath, but she hadn't done that for a while, not since the divorce. Freya had done it for Clare once, when she was little, but Clare screeched that she'd put in far too much bubble bath and the suds had overflowed the tub, so Freya hadn't done it again.

‘What would Woden say?'

Oh Gods, not a sermon. Who'd have a priestess for a mother?

‘He'd say, “It is good to rely on yourself.” Don't cast Woden's words to the winds.'

‘Yes, Mum,' said Freya. It was always best just to agree with Clare and get it over with. Thank Gods, thought Freya, today's sermon was brief. Sometimes Clare would get carried away and lecture her for ages.

Now was as good a time as any to raise the subject of Hel's shrine. How did you make a shrine to one of the Gods? Pile up a few rocks in a sacred place somewhere? Did she need a priest to bless them? What charms should she recite? She'd promised Hel, and had done nothing. A shrine to the Goddess of Death. Freya shuddered. But a vow was a vow.

Freya opened her mouth to speak, and the conversation she was about to have with her mum passed silently through her mind.

‘Mum, I want to build a shrine.'

‘Darling, that's wonderful. I knew you'd start taking an interest. Right, I can suggest several places where Thor needs—'

‘It's not to Thor.'

‘But He's your protector God. Your first shrine should always be to your protector.'

‘This shrine is to Hel.'

Then Clare would fix Freya with
the
look, as if to say, I saw your lips move and heard your voice say something, but I absolutely cannot believe the words that just came out of your mouth so I won't.

‘Did your father put you up to this, Freya?' Clare would say. ‘Because it's not funny. That is slander against the Gods.'

‘It's nothing to do with Dad,' she'd reply.

‘Freya, you've been behaving strangely. I think you should see a doctor …'

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.