The Sleeping Army (19 page)

‘The chess pieces we left behind. In the museum? The sleeping army?'

‘Their time will come, when the forces of darkness rise up at the fated end of days and another world begins,' he murmured.

‘
There afterwards will be found in the shining grass

Wondrous chess pieces

Treasures which the Gods possessed in ancient times
,'

he recited.

‘… and until then?' said Freya.

‘They sleep,' said the All-Father. He fixed her with his piercing single eye.

‘Why are you still here?' said Woden. ‘Asgard is forbidden to mortals. Alfi! Take her to Bifrost. Hornblower, go home.' And he staggered off to join
the others, straightening up little by little as he drifted away, becoming more and more the All-Seeing, All-Powerful, All-Father again with every step.

Freya stood. The Gods had already forgotten her. Well, what did she expect? A crown? A gold arm ring? Thanks?

Freya heard shouting and the clank of metal. Asgard's newly green meadows suddenly gleamed with shields and swords as heavily armoured fighters jousted and clashed, laughing as they died.

‘Woden's warriors fight again in their playground,' said Alfi. ‘There will be feasting tonight in Valhalla when they all come back to life.'

‘And tomorrow?' said Freya.

‘They fight and kill each other all over again,' said Alfi. ‘And so on, and so on, until the end of days.'

‘Out of my way, you stinking son of a mare!' bellowed a familiar voice as a giant Bear-Man thundered across the battlefield, wildly swinging his sword. ‘I'll rip out your guts and stuff them in your face!'

‘Snot?' said Freya. ‘Snot? Snot!' she screamed.

The Bear-Man paused for a fraction of a second and raised his sword, saluting them. Then he charged back into battle.

‘The Valkyries fetched him,' said Freya. ‘I'm glad.'
She breathed deeply, drawing in Asgard's faint perfume of fresh grass and honey and sun-dried linens.

Alfi walked her to Bifrost across the flower-filled meadows. There was too much to say, and nothing to say.

‘Well …' said Freya.

‘Well …' said Alfi.

‘What will happen to you now?' asked Freya.

Alfi shrugged. ‘Wallop giants with Thor, watch out for Loki, dodge flying bones in Valhalla. Skadi will want vengeance for her father …'

‘Same old,' said Freya.

‘Same old,' said Alfi. ‘Is that what people say now?'

‘Yeah,' said Freya.

‘I have a lot of catching up to do,' he said.

They stood on the edge of Bifrost, flames leaping around them.

‘Will I ever see you again?' said Freya.

‘If that is our fate,' said Alfi.

She hugged him. ‘I hope it is.'

‘Me too,' said Alfi. ‘Here. Take this.'

He handed her an arm bracelet, heavy with gold. ‘From my Master,' he said. ‘And this,' he added, offering her an intricately carved brooch, ‘this is from me.'

Freya beamed and took the jewellery. Then she saw
his grave face.

‘Will you be all right?' said Freya. ‘Do you have friends here?'

‘I quite like Woden's ravens,' said Alfi after a long pause. ‘And the wolves … after they've been fed.'

‘No one else?' said Freya.

Alfi shook his head. ‘Just Roskva.'

Did a sister count as a friend?

‘We'd be friends if I lived in Asgard or you lived in London,' said Freya suddenly.

Alfi smiled. ‘We would,' he said. ‘And I'll remember that, always.'

He was there, and then he wasn't.

Freya unbuckled Snot's bear-skin cloak and left it lying on the ground. Then she set off on the long walk down Bifrost, alone.

London and the Thames stretched out before her, oblivious to the flaming bridge above it. London, crisp and shining in the sunlight, had never looked so beautiful.

Freya stumbled off the Gods' rainbow road. Her feet touched the hard surface of the Millennium Bridge and she jostled the horde of French schoolchildren
hurrying to the Tate Modern, pointing at her and jabbering.

Freya exhaled deeply. She'd been to Hel and back. She'd escaped giants, fled fire, outwitted dragons. She'd been terrified and half-drowned and near death.

And now, thank Gods, it was over. She could go back to her normal, boring life, shuttling between her parents, losing her gym kit, and being told off for leaving her junk all over the kitchen.

How wonderful.

Freya smiled and switched on her mobile.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Her phone was filled with messages. She clicked it open.

‘Uhhh … Dad?' said Freya.

Light bulbs flashed. ‘Freya! Over here! Freya! Smile! Freya! Freya! Freya!'

All around her journalists and onlookers and photographers swarmed on to the Millennium Bridge, pushing and shoving and shouting questions at her. Where had they all come from? She'd only just spoken to her dad, and he'd yelled: ‘Wait there! Don't move. We're coming! Just stay on the phone with me …' and then her battery had died and she was standing on the bridge leaning against the side watching the boats and thinking of nothing when she was suddenly surrounded.

‘Did you steal the chessmen?' ‘Who kidnapped you?' ‘Who stole the chessmen?' ‘Was that you with those kids in fancy dress?' ‘Where'd they take you?' ‘Why'd you run away?' ‘Where've you been hiding?' ‘Where are the chess pieces now?'

Freya shrank back under the barrage of questions, blinking at the flashing, clicking cameras, the noise, the honking cars and the hustling-bustling scrum of people arguing and thrusting phones at her.

‘We'll BUY your story – don't give it away!' screamed a bald man waving a cheque book.

‘He's a crook – talk to us, Freya!' shrieked a woman with black, lacquered, swept-up hair.

Everywhere she turned there were more and more people yelling and gabbling into microphones. Freya heard odd snatches – ‘horse', ‘looks a right mess', ‘Runaway or victim – you decide!' Camera crews pulled up, blocking traffic, followed by an ice-cream van.

Three police cars, sirens wailing, screeched to a halt.

Through a tiny gap in the jostling crowd Freya saw her parents' faces pressed against the back window of the middle car. Then they started waving frantically.

‘MUM! DAD!' she screamed, struggling to get to them.

Clare burst from the car and shoved her way
through the mob. Bob followed. Two police officers, an older man and a younger woman with dark brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, shouldered their way towards her.

‘It's all right, Freya, we'll take over from here,' yelled the policewoman. ‘I'm Sunil, and I'll be looking after you.'

Clare pushed past Sunil and flung her arms around Freya.

‘Thank Woden! Thank Thor!' said Clare, clutching her. ‘Praise Njord! You're safe!'

‘Freya! My Gods, Freya, where have you been?' shouted Bob, trying to hug her as well.

The cameras snapped frantically.

‘I've been to Asgard and Jotunheim and Hel. I've met the Gods. I've saved them, and I've saved the world,' she thought, then suddenly realised she'd spoken out loud. She covered her open mouth with her hand.

‘Concussed,' she heard Sunil murmur to her parents. ‘We'll take her straight to Baldr's hospital to be checked out before interviewing her.'

‘And a bath,' muttered Clare.

‘Are you arresting her?' shouted a reporter.

‘Everyone get back,' ordered the policeman. He pulled out his radio.

‘Am I in trouble?' said Freya.

‘Don't say anything. We're getting a lawyer. It will be fine,' said Clare, hugging her again. She tightened her fingers on Freya's bruised arm. Freya winced.

‘Get out of the way please,' said Clare. ‘My daughter needs to rest,' she added firmly. ‘She doesn't know who stole the chessmen, and she will be making a full statement to the police. Now move.'

‘Come on, leave her alone, we'll hold a press conference later at Snowhill Street Station,' said the policeman. ‘Back off, show's over, move along.' He guided them into the back seat of the first police car and slammed the door.

Freya sat between Bob and Clare as Sunil drove off. She leaned her head back and slumped. Someone else was in charge. Someone else was making decisions for her. She felt a great sense of relief.

Bob put his arm around her shoulder. Clare clutched her hand. Will they pull me apart? thought Freya.

‘Freya,' whispered Bob, glancing at Sunil to make sure she couldn't hear, ‘I saw something … odd the night you vanished.'

‘What?' said Freya.

‘I saw you … spinning through the air with the chess pieces. And then you – and they – vanished. I
know it sounds crazy, but that's what I saw.'

Clare rolled her eyes.

‘Shut up, Bob,' said Clare. ‘One of the great joys of being divorced from you is that I get to ignore rubbishy statements like that.'

‘Well, Freya?' said Bob.

Freya reached into her pocket and touched the falcon feather, the arm band, and Alfi's brooch.

‘Dad,' whispered Freya. ‘It's a long saga.'

I'd like to thank Andrew Franklin of Profile Books, and Stephen Page of Faber, for inviting me to write whatever I liked, an enticing and irresistible offer. Andrew also stopped me when we were discussing possible ideas to point out that there might be a book in the Lewis Chessmen.

I'm extremely grateful to Professor Eric Stanley, Professor Mary Clayton, and Dr Emily Lethbridge, who kindly cast aside all scholarly reticence and answered endless questions about what a non-Christian world based on the Anglo-Saxon and Norse gods might be like.

This book would never have been written without the help and encouragement of my wonderful writer friends Steven Butler and Emily Woof. My special thanks to Steven for asking for the first paragraph as his birthday present, and for being my first reader, and to Emily for the world-shattering suggestion that
Christianity never happened.

I'd also like to thank Rosemary Sandberg, Martin Stamp and Joshua Stamp-Simon for thoughtful comments and good cheer.

Anyone who wants to find out more about the Norse gods must read Kevin Crossley-Holland's brilliant, poetic re-telling in
The Penguin Book of Norse Myths
.

The Lewis Chessmen are still sleeping in the British Museum and the National Museum of Scotland.