The Lost Gods (5 page)

‘No!' wailed Freya. ‘My phone.'

‘What is that thing?' hissed Woden, stepping back. ‘How did you hide a dog inside it?'

‘It's a phone, it lets you talk to people wherever they are,' said Freya. ‘Look what you've done. The picture. And Mum's table. She'll kill me, what can I tell her?'

‘The Hornblower can hear people at a distance,' said Woden. ‘Like Heimdall. Can you hear the frost giants?'

‘Not unless they have phones,' said Freya. ‘What about
my
phone? It was my birthday present. What about Mum's table?'

‘You see how much we need a guide,' said Woden. ‘This new world bewilders us. To be restored to power we must understand it better. We need to study people, walk among them. We learn fast. You will guide us.'

There was a long moment of silence. Freya's mind was spinning. She felt dazed.

‘No,' she said, shaking her head. ‘You are definitely asking the wrong person. You must speak to the Queen or the Prime Minister. I can
help you send a letter, maybe my Mum can …'

‘You alone can know our secret,' thundered Woden. He towered over her. ‘You are the Hornblower. You are fated. You will do as your Gods command. We need to make people worship us again. We need to understand this strange new world and become like new Gods.'

Because the Gods commanded, did that mean she had to obey? She looked at him. Why is it always
me
? she thought. Can't someone else do the Gods' dirty work?

‘Not me. Not this time,' she pleaded. ‘I have to go to school, I—'

‘We created you, and we can destroy you,' bellowed Woden. ‘Don't imagine that I am
totally
powerless. I can no longer send earthquakes or flood Midgard, but I can certainly bring destruction to one hearth.'

He looked around her sitting room.

‘One charm from me and death and sickness will dwell here,' said Woden.

‘Then who would help you?' asked Freya.
She was taken aback by her own belligerence.

‘If you don't, you and everyone in Midgard will die when the frost giants arrive,' said Woden. He looked at her fiercely. ‘And since you murdered the giant Thjazi, you will be the first.'

Freya went rigid. ‘But I didn't—'

‘His death won't go unavenged.'

Freya's mind flashed to the giant's murderous claws, his hideous daughter, the fire and the blood.

‘Skadi, icy with fury and burning for vengeance for her father's death, will join the frost giants on the rampage,' said Woden.

‘Skadi?' squeaked Freya. She'd hoped no one would ever mention that revolting giantess again. ‘Can't you
do
something? You're the Gods. I did it for you. You can't just let them kill …' Freya couldn't finish the sentence.

‘You are not important,' said Woden. ‘The giants are rising to re-conquer their ancient kingdom. They must be stopped. If you don't help us, the world ends … for us all.'

Freya hung her head.

Was there any way she could wriggle out of this?

‘No,' said Woden. ‘No one can defeat fate.'

Freya started gnawing on her sleeve, the familiar hollow fear in her stomach starting to squeeze her guts. How could one girl have made so many enemies? Speaking of which …

‘Where is Loki?' whispered Freya. She didn't even like speaking his name out loud.

‘Keeping well out of sight,' said Woden. ‘Beware. When Loki makes an enemy he never forgets.'

Suddenly the Goddess let out a piercing scream. Freya jumped. Had Loki glared through the window? Was an iceberg ploughing down the road? Had the frost giants arrived?

‘Look at me,' gasped the Goddess, rushing over to the gilt mirror hanging over the mantelpiece. ‘I can
see
myself! What magic is this, I must have one of these, I—' Freyja's voice trailed off as she gazed in wonder at her
reflection. ‘I look a
mess
. My hair! My face! My clothes!' she wailed. ‘I bet I smell like a stray donkey. Tell your slaves to heat up the stones in the bathhouse immediately and fetch water.'

‘We don't have a bathhouse,' said Freya. ‘But—'

‘How did I guess?' wailed the Golden One. ‘What is this filthy place you've brought me to?' she snapped at Woden. ‘I want to go back to Asgard and my lovely palace.'

‘There won't
be
an Asgard to go back to unless we succeed here,' said Thor.

‘I can run a bath for you if you like,' offered Freya. Anything to stop her whining.

‘Run a bath?'

‘Fill a tub with hot water,' said Freya. She wished she dared to just put in cold.

‘An indoor hot spring,' said Freyja. She brightened. ‘Well, go on then,' she added. ‘I've never seen such shocking hospitality. I keep waiting for you to bring me hot water and a towel. What dreadful times you live in.'

Grimacing, Freya trudged upstairs to the bathroom and turned on the taps. The bathtub wasn't the cleanest, she was pleased to see. Should she put in some bubble bath? What the Hel, she thought, squeezing in a few squirts of Body Shop Jasmine. Not that Freyja deserved any.

She found a towel – why were all their towels so stiff and threadbare – and shouted down.

‘Bath's ready.'

The Goddess flounced in and eyed the steamy white and grey tiled bathroom with the wood-panelled tub and the wallpaper peeling around the door.

‘First good smell I've sniffed since I've been down here,' she said, inhaling the jasmine. ‘Who will wash my back?'

‘You're going to have to wash it yourself,' said Freya, and she walked out, shutting the bathroom door behind her.

She found Thor and Woden examining the television.

‘What is this?' asked Woden.

‘A television,' said Freya.

‘Is it a weapon?' asked Thor, inspecting it gingerly. He lifted it up in one hand as easily as if it were a cardboard box. ‘Do you hurl it at your enemies to crush them?'

‘No,' said Freya. ‘It's a … it's a magic box. Could you – could you put it down?' It was like looking after toddlers.

Thor dropped it. The TV thudded back onto its stand. Freya prayed it wasn't broken.

‘What magic does it do?' asked Woden. ‘I am the father of magic, and I am mystified.'

Freya grabbed the remote and switched on the television.

The Gods jumped as the TV thrummed into life and the sound radiated into the room. They stared at the screen. Thor cautiously crept over to peer behind it, as if someone noisy might be hiding there ready to leap out.

‘Ooh, bad shot,' said the sports commentator.

‘What magic is this?' gasped Thor. ‘You
are seeing people who are not here. Are they ghosts? Are their spirits trapped within this magic box?'

‘No,' said Freya. ‘It's just moving pictures of something happening somewhere else. It's called a TV. It's for fun. Watch.'

Click! Freya switched channels.

‘Wot do you mean, the baby isn't mine? Then who's the father?'

Click!

‘Fold in your egg whites very gently, or all the air will go out of them,' said the glamorous TV chef.

Click!

‘You see, Inspector, I nearly went out of my mind after Bruce vanished.'

‘So you too can peer into other worlds,' said Woden softly. ‘Before only I could.'

‘Everyone has a TV now,' said Freya.

‘
Everyone?
' asked Woden. He looked pale.

‘Well, yes,' nodded Freya. ‘Almost everyone.'

‘I can see anything I like from my High Seat
Hlidskjalf,' said Woden. ‘Does this magic box allow you this? Can you see the frost giants? Can you see the future?'

‘No,' said Freya. ‘It mostly shows you things which have already happened, or are happening now.'

Woden brightened. ‘Ah, so some powers are still reserved for the Immortals,' he said.

Freya clicked off the TV.

‘Look, I've been thinking … why don't you just tell people who you are?' said Freya. ‘That you have returned? Everyone will flock to you again … job done.'

Woden looked at her.

‘Weak as we are, the children of Heimdall won't believe us,' said Woden. ‘We saw that on the bridge. Once we are powerful again, we will reveal ourselves at a time of our choosing.'

There was a loud banging on the front door.

Freya jumped as if it were Skadi herself come to kill her.

‘Open it,' ordered Woden.

Freya obeyed, trembling.

Two familiar people stood there. One smiling. One scowling.

‘Alfi,' breathed Freya. ‘Roskva. Amaze-balls.'

‘Is our master here yet?' asked Roskva.

Freya nodded. She was so surprised she could barely speak. How many more visitors would she be having?

Roskva was wearing a dress with a skirt over it and a pair of trousers beneath both. Nothing fitted quite right.

She scowled at Freya.

‘Why do I have a bad feeling about this?' she said.

Alfi beamed.

‘Freya! You made it home safely from Bifrost. Sorry, that was a stupid thing to say, I'm just so glad to see you.'

He hugged her.

‘Although probably not for long,' said Roskva. ‘Not if Skadi and the giants …' Alfi kicked her.

‘Ouch,' squealed Roskva. ‘I'm just saying the truth.'

‘What are you doing here?' asked Freya.

‘We go where our master goes,' said Roskva. ‘Where is Thor?'

Freya pointed to the sitting room. Then she ran to the kitchen and got out a packet of digestive biscuits. Should she serve them on a plate? In the packet? How did you entertain Gods in your home?

Back in the sitting room, Thor had stretched out and removed his gigantic leather boots. A dreadful stink of unwashed feet filled the room. Freya tried not to gag.

‘Ooof, that's better,' said Thor, flexing his toes. He scooped up all the biscuits and swallowed them in one gulp. ‘What do you call these things?'

‘Biscuits,' said Freya. She glanced at the clock. Yikes. Clare would be home any minute. How could she get them to leave?

‘I'll come and meet you tomorrow,' said
Freya. ‘Bring some ideas about getting you more worshippers. Where are you staying?'

‘Here of course,' said Woden.

Oh Gods. Oh no. Not that, anything but that.

‘You can't … my mother … how would I explain you?' asked Freya. She stopped as Woden's face darkened in fury.

‘You dare to—'

A key turned in the front door lock.

‘Freya, I'm home,' came Clare's voice, as the door slammed.

‘Don't tell her who you are,' hissed Freya.

‘Gods are always recognised,' said Woden. ‘If we choose to reveal—'

‘Oh my Gods, how did the hall light break? Freya. Why haven't—'

Clare walked into the sitting room and stared at the dishevelled, oddly dressed strangers in their flowing cloaks and tunics crowding her small front room.

‘Can I help you? Are you rehearsing a play or something?' Then she saw the coffee table. ‘Freya, what's happened to my table?' wailed Clare.
‘And Granny's chair. And my picture frame … Have we been robbed? Are you okay? Freya, what's going on?'

‘Uh, Mum, I don't know, the table must have been cracked, it just shattered when I … when I … sat on it,' said Freya.

‘You
sat
on the table?' shrieked Clare. ‘Or
jumped
on the table? It looks like it's been smashed. And I'm sorry,' she turned to the strangers, ‘are you waiting for me? I don't normally see members of my Throng at my home without an appointment …' Her voice trailed off. ‘I'm afraid I don't recognise you. Are you new Throngers?'

‘The Hornblower's mother is my priestess,' muttered Woden to the others. ‘Obviously doing a
terrible
job.'

‘Sorry?' said Clare. She looked at Freya. ‘Who
are
these people?'

‘Mum, they're from Iceland. They're foreign exchange students and their teachers,' said Freya. She had no idea how that lie popped into her head.

Clare's face cleared. ‘Oh.'

‘This is Roskva and her brother Alfi, and their teachers. And … and I'm … we're … hosting them. Didn't you see the letter from Priest Ivar asking for volunteer families?'

She avoided looking at her mother. She was a terrible liar.

‘What letter?' asked Clare.

‘You know, the one I brought home.' How could Clare not see her sweaty hands?

‘No I didn't,' said Clare. ‘Freya, can I have a word?'

Freya, her heart sinking, followed her mum to the far end of the sitting room. Casually, she pushed her crushed phone under a bookshelf.

‘You
volunteered
to host guests from abroad without asking me?' said Clare. Her voice rose sharply.