The Gospel of Loki (7 page)

LESSON 7

Hair and Beauty

Never trust a lover.

Lokabrenna

A
FTER 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 . . .

And then came inspiration. ‘Wait!’ I said. ‘I have an idea. What if Sif could have new hair, better than she had before?’

Sif gave an indignant grunt. ‘I’m not wearing a wig, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’

‘No, not a wig.’ I opened my eyes. ‘Hair extensions, made of gold, that would grow just like your natural hair. And it wouldn’t need curling, or styling, or bleach, and—’

Sif said, ‘I
don’t
bleach my hair!’

Thor said, ‘I’d rather hit him.’

‘And let her hair grow back on its own? Well, if you’re happy to wait that long . . .’

Thor gave an indifferent shrug. But I could see that Sif was intrigued. She wanted her Goddess Aspect back, and knew that the fleeting satisfaction of seeing me bite the dust was never going to compensate for the loss.

She gave me a look that could have stripped paint, and put her hand on Thor’s shoulder. ‘Before you give him a pounding, dear, let’s just hear what he’s offering. You can hit him
anytime
. . .’

Thor looked doubtful, but let me go. ‘Well?’

‘I know a man,’ I said. ‘A smith. A genius with metals and runes. He’ll spin Sif a new head of hair in no time, and probably throw in some extra gifts for us as a token of goodwill.’

‘He must be a very good friend of yours.’ Odin looked at me thoughtfully.

‘Er, not exactly a
friend
,’ I said. ‘But I think I can persuade him to help. It’s just a matter of offering the right kind of incentive – to him, and to his brothers.’

‘You’re really that good?’ said Thor.

I grinned. ‘Better,’ I said. ‘I’m Loki.’

LESSON 8

Past and Present

Never trust an artist.

Lokabrenna

A
ND SO
I
WAS REPRIEVED
– for a time – and I left Asgard on foot to go in search of the man who would save my skin. Dvalin was his name, and he was one of the sons of Ivaldi, the smith, and he and his three brothers had their forge in the caverns of World Below. They were the Tunnel Folk, delvers of gold, and their reputation was unmatched. More importantly, they were also half-brothers to Idun, the Healer, and I figured that if I claimed friendship with her, they would be sure to oblige me.

Now geography, like history, is subject to cyclical changes. In those days the Worlds were smaller than they are today, and less subject to physical rules. Don’t believe me? Look at the maps. And we, of course, had our own ways of crossing between the boundaries. Some involved working with runes – for instance,
Raedo
, the Journeyman, opens up many a door between Worlds – and some were simply a matter of footwork, wingwork and clever orientation. I set off on foot to convince the gods of the sincerity of my remorse, but as soon as I had crossed Ida’s plain and entered the forest of Ironwood, I found myself a shortcut. The river Gunnthrà ran through it; it was one of the tributaries that linked the nine Worlds to their primal source, and a direct
link to World Below and the Worlds that lay beyond: Death, Dream and Pandaemonium. Not that I planned to go
that
far, but the Tunnel Folk enjoyed their seclusion, and it took me the best part of a day on foot to reach their fetid empire.

I found the smiths in their workshop. A cavern, deep in World Below, where a series of cracks in the earth gave vent to a seam of molten rock. This was their only source of light; it was also their forge and their hearth. In my original Aspect, I would not have suffered, either from the fire or the fumes, but in this body I was unprepared, both for the heat and for the stench.

Nevertheless, I approached the four smiths and gave them my most winning smile. ‘Greetings, sons of Ivaldi,’ I said, ‘from the gods of Asgard.’

In the light of the fiery forge, they turned their faces towards me. The sons of Ivaldi are almost identical; sallow-skinned, hollow-eyed, stooped and scorched with labour. Tunnel Folk rarely go aboveground. It interferes with their vision. They live, work, sleep in their tunnels, breathe the foulest of air, eat maggots and beetles and centipedes, and live only for the things they make from the metals and stones they find in the earth. Not much of a life, I thought. No wonder Idun had left them, taking with her the apples of youth made by her father as a wedding gift.

But now, as my eyes adjusted to the half-light, I saw that the cavern was filled to the roof with examples of the craftsmen’s work. All around there were objects of gold: jewellery, swords, shields; all embossed and gleaming with the soft sheen of beautiful things kept in darkness.

Some were merely decorative – bracelets, rings, headpieces – some intricate to the point of obsession, some starkly, deceptively simple. And some were virtually buzzing with glam; carved and filigreed with runes so intricate that even I could only guess at their purpose.

I’ve never cared that much for gold, but in the hall of the Tunnel Folk I found myself feeling covetous; eyeing those bright
and beautiful things, planning and wishing to make them mine. It was a part of their glam, I suppose; the glam that runs through World Below like a seam of precious metal. It makes men greedy and women corrupt; blinds them with the light of desire. Too long in this place could drive a man mad – the gold, the glam, the fumes from the forge. I had to get out of there, and quick. But not without Sif’s golden hair. And if I could manage to persuade them to give me a little extra . . .

I took another step and said: ‘Greetings, too, from your sister, Idun the Healer, Idun the Fair, Keeper of the Golden Fruit.’

Ivaldi’s sons all looked at me, their eyes shining and skittering like beetles in their sunken sockets. Dvalin stepped forward. I knew him by reputation, and by the fact that his right foot was twisted and lame – an accident, the circumstances of which I may tell in some later tale (not that Yours Truly was involved . . . well, not
very
much, at least). I hoped he didn’t bear a grudge, or better still, that he didn’t recognize me in my current Aspect. I said:

‘Greetings, Dvalin, to you and yours. I bring you marvellous news from Asgard. You and your brothers have been chosen, among all the craftsmen of World Below, to carry out a delicate task, for which your names will be celebrated and your work be known throughout the Worlds. For a limited time only, this opportunity will allow
you
, the sons of Ivaldi, to share in the glory of Asgard; Asgard the golden, Asgard the fair, Asgard the eternal—’

Dvalin said: ‘What’s in it for us?’

‘Fame,’ I said with my broadest smile. ‘And the knowledge that you’re the best. Why else would Odin have chosen you, of all the smiths in World Below?’

That
was the way to draw them in. I knew it from the old days. The Maggots can’t be bought in the regular way, they already have all the wealth they need. They have no passions beyond their craft, but they are very ambitious. I knew they wouldn’t be able to resist a challenge to prove their superior
skill.

‘What do you want?’ said Dvalin.

‘What have you got?’ I said, and smiled.

It took the Tunnel Folk some time to prepare themselves for the task I’d set. I explained about Sif’s hair – omitting the reason for its loss – and the smiths all laughed in their sour way.

‘Is that all?’ said Dvalin. ‘Any child could make that for you. It isn’t a proper challenge.’

‘I also want two special gifts,’ I said. ‘One for my brother Odin, leader of the Aesir, and one for Frey, leader of the Vanir.’

This was a political move on my part; Frey, the Reaper, was in fact only one of the Vanir leaders, but he was influential. In favouring him – over Heimdall, for instance – I would be giving him the edge over his friends. With luck, he would remember that when it came to rewarding me; besides, he was Freyja’s brother, and I needed to get her back on my side.

Dvalin nodded and set to work. His brothers and he worked as a team, smoothly and gracefully. One handled the materials; one cast the runes; one tended the forge. One hammered out the hot metal; one finished the piece with a polishing cloth.

The first of the gifts was for Odin; a spear. It was a lovely piece of work, straight and light and beautiful, carved down the shaft with a ladder of runes. It was a regal weapon, and I grinned inside as I pictured the Old Man’s surprise and pleasure as he received it.

‘This is Gugnir,’ said Dvalin. ‘She always flies true, and never fails to hit her mark in battle. She’ll make your brother invincible, as long as he keeps her by his side.’

The second gift looked like a toy; a little ship, so dainty that it made you wonder how Dvalin, with his big, clumsy hands, was able to handle it with such ease. But when it was finished, he said with pride:

‘This is Skidbladnir, greatest of ships. Winds will always favour her. She will never be lost at sea. And when the journey’s
done, she can be folded up so small that she’ll fit into your pocket.’ And then he uttered a cantrip, and the ship folded up like paper, fold after fold after fold, until it became a silver compass that he dropped into my hand.

‘Nice,’ I said. I knew Njörd’s son would appreciate this gift most of all. ‘And now for Sif’s hair, if you don’t mind.’

At this the sons of Ivaldi brought out a shapeless piece of gold, and while one of them held it in the forge’s heat, another used a wheel to spin it into the finest thread. Another cast runes; another sang, in a voice as sweet as a nightingale’s, cantrips and spells to bring it to life. Finally, it was finished; gleaming and jewelled and fine as spun silk.

‘But will it grow?’ I asked Dvalin.

‘Of course. As soon as she sets it in place, it will become a part of her. More beautiful than ever before, rivalling even Freyja’s.’

‘Really?’ I grinned again at that. Freyja was rather protective of her position as fairest of all. I filed the knowledge away for possible use at a later date. Everyone has a weakness, and I make it my business to know them all. Dvalin’s was pride in his handiwork, and so I praised him to the skies as I picked up the three precious gifts.

‘I have to say I doubted you,’ I told him as I prepared to leave. ‘I knew you were good, but not
how
good. You and your brothers are masters of all the craftsmen in World Below, and that’s what I’ll tell them in Asgard.’

Well, a little flattery never hurt, I told myself. Now to get home with the loot. It was time. I turned my face towards World Above. I was sick as a dog with the fumes from the forge, and I needed a wash like never before, but I was flushed with triumph. This ought to show the General, I thought. And as for that smug bastard Heimdall—

But as I was about to leave, I found a figure blocking my way. It was another craftsman, Brokk, one of Dvalin’s competitors. A squat little bulldog of a man, with eyes like currants and
arms like logs.

‘I heard you gave Dvalin some work,’ he said, looking at me from under his heavy brows.

I admitted I had.

‘You were satisfied?’

‘More than satisfied,’ I said. ‘He and his brothers are incredible.’

Brokk sneered. ‘Call that incredible? You people should have come to us. Everyone knows my brother and I are the kings of World Below.’

I shrugged. ‘Talk’s cheap,’ I told him. ‘If you want to prove yourself better than Ivaldi’s sons, go ahead and match their work. Otherwise, as far as Asgard’s concerned, you’re just another amateur.’

I know. I shouldn’t have baited him. But he was getting on my nerves and I was eager to get out.

‘An amateur?’ he said. ‘I’ll show you who’s the amateur. A wager. I’ll make three gifts for you, Trickster, and come back with you to Asgard. Then we’ll see whose work is the best. Let your General decide.’

All I can say in my defence is that World Below must have clouded my brain. All that gold and glamour – and now was a chance to get some more, and for free. Besides, the children of Chaos can never resist a wager.

‘Well, why not? I’m in,’ I said. Three more gifts for the Aesir, at minimal risk to Yours Truly. I’d be a fool to pass by the chance. ‘And what shall we wager?’

Brokk scowled at me. ‘You’ve damaged my reputation,’ he said. ‘All of World Below now believes Dvalin’s work to be better than mine. I need to make a point.’

‘How?’

‘I’ll wager my work against your head.’ He gave me a very nasty smile.

‘Really? That’s all?’ I was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. These artist types can be very intense, and besides,
what would he do with my head?

‘I’d use it as a doorstop,’ said Brokk. ‘That way anyone coming in or out of my workshop would know what happens to anyone who dares to disparage my craftsmanship.’

Nice, I thought. But a bet was a bet. ‘Fine,’ I told him. ‘But you’ll have your work cut out.’

He smiled, if you can call that a smile. His teeth were like pieces of amber. ‘
I’ll
be doing the cutting,’ he said. ‘If you’re lucky, I’ll use a knife. If not—’

‘Just go ahead,’ I said.

Not really the best choice of words, come to think of it. But I was feeling confident. I had a few more tricks up my sleeve, and besides, when I walked into Asgard, I knew I’d be the blue-eyed boy, and therefore immune to everything.

Just proves how wrong you can be, I guess.