The Lost Gods (8 page)

‘Amaze-balls,' said Thor.

‘Amaze-balls?' repeated Woden.

‘That's what people in Midgard say now,' said Thor. ‘I heard it on the magic box last night. We have to keep up with the times.'

‘We do not,' said Woden. ‘
We
are eternal Gods.'

‘If we're not careful, we will soon just be worshipping one another,' said the Goddess Freyja, ‘because no one else will care.'

‘What chieftain lives in that great hall?' asked Woden, pointing across Green Park.

‘Your descendant, Queen Elizabeth,' said Freya. ‘The High Priestess-Queen of Britain.'

‘Buckingham Palace has been the London home of Britain's monarchs for nearly two centuries,' said the recorded commentary. ‘The Palace has 775 rooms, including over 200 bedrooms and 78 bathrooms.'

‘
We
should be staying with the Queen,' muttered the Goddess. She held her dainty hands over her ears as an ambulance roared by, followed by two police cars. ‘The noise,' she shuddered. ‘Worse than a thousand clashing shields and clanging swords. The chariots belching smoke like chimneys on wheels. Horrible. The fires without flames. The painted images which keep changing. The stink of humans – Gah. I like the clothes though … not
yours
,' she added, wrinkling her face at Freya's leggings and jumper. ‘And the
shoes
,' she added. ‘I do like those clicky-clacky shoes. The heels on spikes! The sparkles! I've never seen anything like them.'

‘They're called high heels,' said Freya. ‘Hard to walk in, though.'

Freyja sniffed.

‘I think I'd manage it,' she said.

‘Give you bunions,' said Freya. ‘That's what my mum says, anyway.'

‘You must suffer for beauty,' said the flaxen-haired Goddess. ‘And it's obvious to all that
you
aren't brave enough. I don't like these carriages,' she added, as the bus jolted to an abrupt stop outside Marble Arch, ‘I much prefer my chariot drawn by cats. It's a lot more –
Who
is that God?' she gasped, swivelling and pointing to a huge advertising hoarding of a muscular, heavily tattooed man in his underwear. ‘And where are his clothes? How can a God be so poorly clad?'

‘That's David Beckham,' said Freya. ‘He plays football. He's not a God.'

‘So you have built a shrine to another human,' said Woden. His face darkened.

‘Not exactly a shrine,' explained Freya. ‘He's a celebrity. He's selling underwear.'

‘Cele-bri-ty,' said Woden, as if he were
tasting the word. ‘Cel-e-brity. So that is a new cult in Midgard … the cult of
celebrity
. Humans worshipping other humans … instead of worshipping us.'

‘Hmmm,' said the Goddess. She turned to Woden. ‘After his next battle, we must send the Valkyries for him. I'd like to have him in Valhalla.' She smirked.

As the bus headed down Regent Street, Freya saw a huge queue waiting outside the massive arches of the Apple store. Despite the cold, several customers had set out chairs and laid out sleeping bags. Woden stiffened. Thor craned his neck as the bus went slowly past the packed shop, staring at the people crowding around the laptops inside, heads bent over the screens like devotees bowing before altars.

‘What is that temple?' asked Thor.

‘What God are those people waiting to honour?' asked Woden.

‘That's the Apple store,' said Freya. ‘They're queuing to be first to get a new computer.'

‘That's no market place,' said Woden. ‘That temple houses the God of the Bitten Apple.' He pointed to the white Apple logo. ‘Don't lie. We can see the crowds flocking to his ice temple, bowing low and worshipping before his shining altars.'

‘Apples are the symbol of
OUR
immortality,' said Thor. ‘How dare another God presume in this way.'

‘The bitten apple insults us,' said Woden fiercely. Snot clenched his axe.

‘They're not altars, they're computers,' said Freya. ‘People are working, not worshipping.'

The Gods looked at one another.

How could she explain computers to them?

‘A computer is … a tablet of wisdom,' said Freya. ‘A seeress of numbers.'

Woden's eye flashed.

‘I sacrificed my eye for wisdom,' he murmured. ‘I hung on the windswept tree Yggdrasil for nine nights, stabbed with a spear, to gain secret knowledge and magic runes. And now you say
that these tablets are available to … all?' He looked sick.

‘Well, yes,' said Freya. ‘Anyone who can afford to buy one.'

‘Can these seeresses tell you how to make a dead man speak?' demanded Woden. ‘Or see the future? Or tell men's fates? Can they take wisdom and strength from one person and give it to another, as I can with one charm?'

‘No,' said Freya.

Woden smiled. ‘Thank the Almighty Gods for that,' he said.

‘Who are those people lying in the doorways of the great halls?' asked Alfi.

‘They're homeless,' said Freya. ‘They have nowhere else to go.' Her face brightened. ‘Maybe Woden could help them.'

Woden turned away.

‘The weak must fend for themselves,' he said. ‘All have a chance to win wealth and glory. Those without luck, those who fail, do not concern us.'

‘Oh,' said Freya. For a moment she felt bleak and wintry. She hoped she would not be one of the luckless ones, scorned by fate, and beneath the Gods' notice.

‘We are now approaching Woden's Temple, which alone survived the Blitz in World War Two,' said the bus commentary. ‘It was built in the English Baroque style by the famous architect Sir Kotter Wren in 4677. The 85-metre high dome is one of the largest in the world and has dominated the London skyline for centuries. The earlier Temple was destroyed in the great fire of 4666.'

‘That's my Temple?' said Woden, craning to see the tall domed building as the bus snaked its way towards All-Father Square. ‘I approve.'

‘A Temple dedicated to Woden has existed here for fourteen centuries, and services are held hourly,' continued the commentary.

Suddenly Woden stood up.

‘Get off the chariot,' he ordered. ‘I want to see my Temple and appear before my worshippers.
We will go inside and witness the devotions.'

They got off the red tour bus and headed across All-Father Square to the wide entrance. Freya prayed that a bigger Throng would gather here than her mother managed to drum up in Holloway.

Woden frowned at the tents and banners spread out in front of his great Temple, filling the piazza in front. The Goddess Freyja held her dress tightly to her side, as if the protestors and campers might contaminate her.

‘OCCUPY LONDON,' read Woden. ‘BANKS GOT BAILED OUT, PEOPLE GOT LEFT OUT!'

‘Who are these people desecrating my Temple?' he asked. Snot growled and gripped his axe.

‘They're protesting against greedy bankers making themselves rich,' said Freya.

‘Why?' said Woden. ‘How did they get wealth? Farming? Trading? Fishing? Raiding?'

‘Raiding,' said Freya. ‘They stole our money.'

Woden's eye gleamed.

‘So Vikings are called
bankers
now. Ha. Viking spirit lives on in
bankers
. Good for them. Are they keen raiders?'

‘Yes,' said Freya.

‘Glad to hear it,' said Woden. ‘Smashing and grabbing, just like the old days.'

‘But they've stolen from the rest of us,' said Freya. ‘We had to bail them out, and they've kept the money.'

‘So demand that your chieftains steal it back.'

‘It's not so easy,' said Freya.

Woden snorted. ‘You live in soft times. Hail bankers! Hail the strong!' His voice boomed around the square, as if magnified by a thousand megaphones.

‘Hail bankers! Hail the strong!' roared Thor. A flock of startled pigeons hurtled skyward as the protestors stared.

‘We must send the Valkyries for bankers when they die in battle against the Occupiers,' said Woden, racing up the wide steps and
bounding into the hushed Temple.

Freya looked around the cavernous stone interior, milling with a few tourists, with the carved, red-timbered high altar at the far end covered with offerings of fruit, vegetables, trinkets and flowers. ‘Offerings are like paying protection money to a sacred Mafia,' her dad liked to say when he wanted to annoy Clare in the dying days of their marriage. Above the altar was the famous Turner painting of Woden hanging on the World Tree Yggdrasil. Stained-glass windows depicting Woden raising the dead, Thor wrestling with the world-serpent, and Tyr sacrificing his hand to the wolf Fenrir, were blurry with dirt and let little light into the gloomy interior. Statues of Woden clutching his spear which never missed its target, accompanied by eagles and ravens, and the heroes of Valhalla performing valorous deeds of dragon-slaying and troll felling ringed the side shrines, candles flickering before them.

Huge marble busts of Valkyries stood on either side of the high altar. The hushed damp smell of incense and wax hung over the rows of mostly empty wooden pews, decorated with unlocking fetters and runic inscriptions, the shuffling boy choir in their worn vestments, and the flowers already wilting from a recent baby naming or wedding.

Woden scowled. ‘This empty barn is my greatest temple?' he hissed. ‘
This
is where my raven-rites are performed?'

Freya nodded.

‘Why isn't it full of worshippers like the Temple of the Bitten Apple?' he demanded, striding up the gloomy nave past marble statues of all the Immortals. ‘What does that god have that I don't?'

Better advertising? thought Freya. Customer service? Phones?

The Goddess Freyja stopped before a marble statue showing her standing in her cat-drawn chariot.

‘Is that ugly sow supposed to be me?' she shrieked. ‘I'm much more beautiful than that.' Her jarring voice rang through the Temple.

Freya counted the Throng assembled in the small, roped-off area at the front, waiting for the service to start. Only seven, not including her and the Gods. It was just like Clare's Fane, with another old Mrs Kelly already sound asleep in the front row, her wispy iron-grey hair sticking out from under a beanie hat she probably never took off. There was one family who no doubt needed to prove regular Fane attendance in order to get their whiny child into the local Fane school. Freya saw that the dad had already hidden his mobile in his lap. Once they had the school place, they'd never come back.

‘Hopefully more people will be along any minute,' Freya said as brightly as she could. ‘Often there's a rush just before the services start.'

Woden surveyed the pitiful Throng.

‘Where's today's sacrifice?' he said.

‘We don't do sacrifices,' whispered Freya.

‘What?' shouted Woden.

The old lady dozing in the front row woke up, turned round and glared at him.

‘SHHHH!' she hissed.

‘No sacrifices,' said Freya. ‘That stopped ages ago.'

She shrank back as Woden's face turned purple and red with rage.

‘Not even an ox?' said Woden.

‘A goat?' said Thor.

‘A chicken?' said Freyja.

Freya shook her head.

‘What kind of worship is this?' asked Woden.

‘No wonder we've lost our powers,' said Thor.

‘What do you expect from such creatures?' said the Goddess.

‘You created us,' said Freya.

Thor sniffed. ‘What's on the oath ring?'

Freya looked at the large plaited silver ring
kept on the high altar, reddened with wine from earlier oaths.

‘Wine,' she said.

‘Wine?
Wine
?' bellowed Thor.

‘Shhh,' said Freya. ‘You're not supposed to yell in here. It's red wine.'

‘Not sacrificial blood? What kind of useless oath is that?' growled Thor.

The Priest, in his long white robes, appeared from a side door and stood before the Throng. He beckoned them to rise.

‘We are gathered to give praise to Woden, the all-wise and all-powerful, who gives victory and riches and wisdom, according to his will, inspiration to poets, following winds to sailors. And we give thanks to all the Immortal Eternal Gods, mighty protectors, providers of bread and wine, for their many gifts.

‘Praise is cheap,' muttered Woden. ‘Where are the drowned slaves?'

‘And what about Thor?' asked Thor.

‘Restore us, oh Gods, let us find favour in
your sight. You made us in your image—'

‘I most certainly did not,' said Woden.

‘Fate is stronger than everything, even stronger than the Gods,' intoned the Priest. ‘This brief life is all we have; the world to come is reserved for our bravest warriors, and the righteous, and the poets, who will have their own place in Asgard, as our archpriests decreed. Be mindful of your reputation. Our shrouded Life is brief, but fame is forever.'

‘So far, not
nearly
good enough,' hissed Woden.

‘What is the purpose of life? The Gods teach us it is to worship them and to gain renown by brave deeds. While the Immortals cannot always keep us from danger, we give thanks for the blessing of courage to face whatever fate decrees and the chance to gain our place in Valhalla.

‘Now, my assistant Priestess will get out her guitar, and let's all sing together, hymn 27 in your Eddas, “Woden loves us every one”.

Woden loves us one and all;
Thor protects in stormy squall—'

‘You call this heap of mare droppings worship?' said Woden loudly. ‘This
mewling
? Where are the hanged men pierced with spears?'

‘Where's my altar of sacred rocks?' grunted Thor.

‘Where are the sacred groves?' asked Freyja.

‘
Where
are all the worshippers?' shouted Woden.

‘Shush!' hissed a middle-aged woman in a hat in front of him, singing loudly. ‘Show some respect.'