The Lost Gods (4 page)

‘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. That 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.'

Woden sighed.

‘So much time has passed since we last visited Midgard, this shrouded world I created with my brothers,' said Woden, ‘and everything has changed. I do not recognise my creation. While Asgard has been frozen in time, Midgard has moved on. The dwelling places of men, their chariots, their halls, their garments, all has changed.' He shook his head. ‘I granted them boldness and wisdom, and I marvel at what they have created. They have made roaring metal tubes which fly without a falcon skin. How did they discover such magic? They have light and heat without fire. Their towns are monstrous and filled with trollish screeches. It's a strange
new world we have awoken to. At least there is still war.'

‘That's
one
good thing,' said the Goddess Freyja. ‘Plenty of fresh supplies for the Choosers of the Slain to bring back to Valhalla.'

Freya looked carefully at the Gods. Last time she'd seen them they'd been dying, tottering ghosts, clothed in fluttering rags. Now they were young again. Their cloaks and tunics were weird, about 5,000 years out of date, but then what could you expect? What in the name of the Gods were they doing in her sitting room? They should be in Asgard, not here in London plonked on saggy sofas and scowling like sulky teenagers sitting on a wall outside an off-licence.

Then, remembering that Woden could read her thoughts, she blushed and looked away.

The Goddess Freyja clicked her spectacular necklace of twisted gold, frowning. Thor looked out of the bay window and drummed his fists on his muscular legs. Was it her imagination,
or did they seem strangely reluctant to speak?

‘We don't want to be here in Midgard,' said Woden after a long silence. ‘Asgard is our home. But we are … desperate.' He winced.

Desperate?
That was a shocking word for a God to use. Freya could not hide her astonishment.

‘Our worlds are in danger. Grave, terrible danger,' said Woden. Freya felt chilled. She chewed on her sleeve. The ticking of the old carriage clock on the mantelpiece suddenly sounded very loud. ‘We would not be here otherwise.'

Why did I have to let them in? thought Freya. Why of all days couldn't I have been somewhere else? I should have gone to Mum's Fane choir.

‘Your fate catches you wherever you are,' said Woden sharply. ‘Listen carefully.'

Must I? thought Freya. She'd learned the hard way that whenever Gods ordered her to listen, it was to tell her things she didn't want to hear.

‘Long, long ago, in the age of Ice, frost giants trampled over the earth, which we had formed from the body of Ymir, the forefather of all giants,' said Woden. ‘We defeated those evil destroyers, and buried them deep in layers of ice and frost, tightly bound in frozen fetters. But now the glaciers are melting. Drip. Drip. Drip. The frost giants are stirring and breaking free of their icy bonds. Once they are free they will march here, slicing through the land to reclaim their kingdom. Thrym. Fornjot the Destroyer and his fearsome offspring: Jokul the glacier. Jarnhaus the Iron Skull. Kari the north wind. And countless others. The giants are
unleashing their fury, howling for vengeance against Gods and men. This world will once again be burning ice, bitter winds, and biting flame. ‘Can't you smell them?' He sniffed. ‘The ice in the evil air.'

The Gods shuddered, as if trolls had trampled on their grave mounds.

Freya thought about the freezing cold summer, the freakish storms, the pictures of polar bears clinging to tiny shards of icebergs, the eerie sounds of cracking ice.

The murderous giant Thjazi, who'd so nearly killed her, flashed into her mind. She flinched.

‘Why don't you fight them? You're the Gods. You can't let the world freeze over.'

Woden's baleful eye blazed.

‘We have made a tactical retreat.'

Freya gasped. ‘You've
run away
?' This was getting worse and worse.

‘I said, a
tactical
retreat,' roared Woden.

‘You talk too much, mortal,' snapped the Goddess.

‘The battle-brave warriors of Asgard, the fallen heroes, the Einherjar, will fight them first,' said Woden. ‘Shields will be split. Swords will gnaw like wolves through armour. But alone they will be helpless before the might of the giants.'

What was he saying? That the Gods had abandoned Asgard and Midgard to an army they knew could never win? Freya thought her head was going to explode with dread.

‘You said you defeated the frost giants once before,' said Freya. Her voice quivered. ‘So why don't you do it again? Why aren't
you
stopping them?' What are you doing in my sitting room when you should be defending Asgard? she wanted to scream.

‘Tell her,' said Thor. Freya was shocked to see him brushing away a tear. His gigantic fist clenched his hammer.

The Goddess rolled her eyes as she nervously clutched and unclutched her ringed hands.

‘As you can see, our youth is restored,' said Woden. Freya waited for the ‘thanks to you',
which didn't come. ‘But our divine power has not returned. Thor can barely lift his hammer. Heimdall cannot hear the grass growing or fish breathing. I cannot see into the future, or raise the dead. I cannot even paralyse my enemies in battle or blind them. With the last of my strength I tried to sow panic on the bridge between our worlds this morning, and … did not succeed. I can't even turn into a hawk or a boar any more.'

‘Our strength kept our enemies bound; our weakness has released them,' growled Thor. His face flushed an angry red.

‘But I don't understand,' said Freya. ‘
Why
are you weak?'

She had a sinking feeling she didn't want to hear the answer. What did their troubles have to do with her? Let them find someone else for once, she thought fiercely.

‘It seems we need—' Woden's brow furrowed as if he had just waded through sewage ‘—the worship of the sons and daughters of men.'

Thor and Freyja wrinkled their faces in disgust and horror.

‘This is so demeaning,' muttered the Goddess. ‘So inglorious.'

‘But you are still worshipped,' said Freya. ‘My mother is your priestess. The Queen of England is head of your Fane. Britain is a Wodenic country. I go to a Fane school. Want me to recite the nine commandments?'

‘NO!' said Woden.

‘Be quiet, you ugly herring,' hissed Freyja. ‘The All-Father is speaking.'

Freya resisted the urge to stick out her tongue at the snapping Goddess. Why oh why had she been named after such a mean shrew?

‘I've sent my ravens far and wide to bring me news of what this world we created so long ago has become,' continued Woden. ‘And what I have learned is that we are no longer woven into its warp and weft. How could this happen? Why has this happened? There is no fervent hum of worship and love and fear, no stream
of savoury sacrifices reaching our nostrils. Our idols and temples are neglected. We are rarely in people's thoughts. During our long absence, for reasons I do not understand, mortals began to live without us.'

‘The ungrateful trolls!' spat Freyja. ‘After all we did for them, this is how they thank us? They never pray, they never sacrifice, they—'

‘We never gave the children of Heimdall much thought,' interrupted Thor. ‘So long as they worshipped and built temples and brought offerings, all was well. We gave them good harvests – mostly – wealth to the lucky few, Valhalla for the brave, the chance to win glory which alone outlives death, victory to one side or the other in battle, and everyone seemed happy with the arrangement.'

‘Actually, I blame you, Woden,' said the Goddess. ‘Next time you create a world, do it better.'

Woden glared at her.

‘You think you're so smart let's see you try it.'

‘I still can't believe we have to kowtow to mortals,' said the Goddess, flicking her hair and glaring at Freya. ‘
So
beneath us. How did we ever give the driftwood such power over us? Humans are so frail, so fragile, so momentary, and the Wolf and the Snake can swallow them all – and yet only their worship makes us truly divine. Aaarrrghhh! It seems we are fated to n-n-need them,' she added, stumbling over the word.

You'd think she was saying she needed a head transplant, thought Freya angrily.

‘Gods without worshippers are just legends. Nothing more,' explained Thor. He looked woefully at his hammer, trailing on the floor. ‘Fate is harsh.'

‘
We
will not dwindle to stories told round a hearth fire,' said Woden. ‘We have seen off other gods, false gods, those Greek weaklings – ha. And don't get me started on those Roman and Egyptian sons of mares …' He snorted and his one eye blazed. ‘Jupiter. Minerva. Osirus.
Amun-Ra. They're all sleeping with the trolls now. Our Temples built on top of theirs, as they should be.'

Woden glared fiercely out of the window, as if seeing his mighty Temples looming above Jupiter's crumbling stones.

‘But now
we
are weak,' whispered Woden. ‘We are lost Gods. We need worshippers. Lots and lots and lots of worshippers. We NEED to be revered and feared and idolised, and for our names to be on everyone's lips and engraved upon everyone's hearts. You must help us regain our followers. Once we recover our divine strength, no frost giants can withstand us. You will be our guide to this strange new world.'

The three Gods looked at her expectantly, as if all she had to do was open the door and a stream of devotees would pour in. Freya stared at them, open-mouthed. Were they mad? Had they lost their minds as well as their powers?

‘How am
I
supposed to get more people to worship you?' asked Freya. Who did they
think she was? A guru? A televangelist? She was just a schoolgirl. She had a vision of herself with a whip, lassoing people on Oxford Street like runaway steers, forcing them into Fanes, corralling stragglers and pushing them inside.

‘You must find a way,' said Thor. ‘It's not your place to question us. It's your place to obey.'

‘We DEMAND to be worshipped,' screeched Freyja. ‘We are the Lords, your Gods. We created you from driftwood. We demand recompense.'

Freya cowered under the onslaught.

‘But … you can't
make
people worship you,' said Freya.

‘Oh yes we can,' said Woden. ‘Just watch. I'll unleash such floods …' Then his shoulders slumped. ‘In the good old days we would have smited you all for your neglect; sent tsunamis and hurricanes and pestilence but … we can't any more.'

‘You want to
force
people to worship you?' asked Freya. ‘
Scare
people into worshipping you?'

‘The ways of Gods are not to be understood by mortals,' said Thor.

‘Frankly, we don't care
why
we're worshipped,' said the Goddess. ‘But worshipped we must be. We all know what happens to Gods when people stop fearing them. They just fade away, fateless. Maybe a rustle in a bush somewhere, or a breeze.' Her lip curled.

Freya's mobile phone, which she'd left on the coffee table, lit up, with the ring tone of a barking dog. It was her father, calling from work in Dubai.

‘It's alive!' the Goddess Freyja screamed.

Thor leapt up, raised his hammer and smashed the phone and the coffee table with one crashing blow. Then he picked up the flattened phone as if it were radioactive and hurled it across the room into a picture, shattering the frame. He dropped the hammer to the floor, breathing heavily. His red forehead beaded with sweat.