Narvi shrugged again. ‘Whatever.’
Vali gave me shy look. ‘What are you going to do?’ he said.
I thought about that. ‘I don’t know.’
There was nothing I could do, short of freeing Fenny myself which, even if I could manage it, would hardly improve my standing in Asgard.
Narvi had already worked it out. ‘He won’t do anything, stupid,’ he said. ‘What, and piss off the Old Man?’
Well, he had a point, I thought. I’d lost the one supporter on whom I might have depended if things got ugly in Asgard. Even Thor might have hesitated to lay violent hands on a man with a werewolf at his side.
‘Don’t think I’m scared of him,’ I said. ‘But sometimes it’s better not to jump at the first provocation. I won’t be much good to Fenris if I’m chained right next to him.’
Narvi gave me the look again. You know that look – the one that says: You can talk all you like, old man, but I know better, whatever you say.
Yes, I know that look all right. I may even have worn it myself on selected occasions. That’s why, of all human experiences, fatherhood is surely the most frustrating and pointless – because what’s the point of experience if your children won’t listen to what you’ve learned?
And so I went back to being Asgard’s official whipping boy. If anything happened, it was my fault: from the loss of Týr’s arm to the fact that Bragi’s new ode didn’t scan; to the failure of Sigyn’s cakes to rise; to the fact that the Ice Folk were gathering in Ironwood. I was the wrong note in the symphony; the cockroach on the wedding cake; the bear with its paw in the honey pot; the razor blade in the cookie jar. I’d never belonged in Asgard but never had it been so clear to me how much the gods resented me; hated me; wanted me out. Even my sons. Even Odin . . .
Yes, Odin. Now that he had what he wanted from me, the Old Man had finally dropped his pretence. His coldness towards me intensified; his birds were rarely out of my sight. I was puzzled, as well as hurt: especially as Odin still hadn’t mentioned Balder, or his prophetic dreams. It made me wonder if all this was about something bigger than just me. It made me wonder if Fenris had ever been their primary target. But most of all I wondered how long it would be before someone suggested that the Worlds might be a safer place if I, too, could be kept in chains . . .
LESSON 3
Cake
Most problems can be solved through cake.
Lokabrenna
AFTER THAT, things went downhill fast. In spite of Fenny’s removal, Frigg’s anxiety for Balder had reached a point of near-obsession. If Golden Boy as much as sneezed, her concern went through the roof. She spent her time assessing risk; looking at loose flagstones in case Balder tripped on the parapet; hunting out toxic garden plants, as if Balder were suddenly going to start munching at the flowerbeds; peering suspiciously at items of sporting equipment; knitting vests in case Balder caught cold.
Finally breaking her silence, she set out to canvass everything in the Nine Worlds, seeking out potential threats and extracting from every creature – bear, bee, bramble – an oath sworn on its true name never to harm the Golden Boy.
‘Why?’ I asked her. ‘What’s the point? What do you think’s going to happen to him?’
The Enchantress only shook her head. ‘I don’t know. But there’s a shadow over us. It’s not just Balder’s dreams, or mine, or even the prophecy—’
‘What prophecy?’ I said sharply.
She looked away. ‘Oh, nothing,’ she said.
But when a woman says ‘nothing’, you can always bet there’s something. Mimir’s Head was an Oracle. Had it made a prophecy? And if it had, why had Odin chosen to keep it a secret from me, while telling Frigg all about it?
I remembered the way they had dealt with the Wolf, and decided to step up the scale of my investigation. Clearly, there was more to Odin’s behaviour than a few bad dreams about Balder. Leaving Asgard again so soon would weaken my position still further.
And so I took a more direct approach. Bearing in mind Sigyn’s belief that most problems can be solved through cake, I cut a slice of her fruitcake and went to stand on the Rainbow Bridge.
Hugin and Munin, like all their kind, were fans of sweet and sticky things. A handful of scraps and some patience, I thought, would save me a whole lot of flying around.
Sure enough, I hadn’t been waiting long before the birds came down and perched on the bridge. The largest of the pair – Hugin, I think – strutted up and down expectantly.
‘Where have you been?’ I asked them.
‘Crawk. Crawk,’ said Hugin, flapping his wings and looking at me.
‘Cake,’ said Munin, the smaller bird, with a single white feather on its head. Its speech was clearer than its sibling’s, and its golden eyes were shining.
‘All in good time,’ I told them. ‘Just tell me where you’ve been snooping around.’
‘Ygg. Dra. Sil. Crawk.’ The larger bird jumped onto my shoulder.
‘Crawk. Cake,’ said the smaller bird, and I fed it some of Sigyn’s cake – rather heavy for my taste, but packed with raisins and sugar.
‘What about Yggdrasil?’ I said. ‘Why the sudden interest?’
‘Prophecy,’ said Munin. ‘Crawk.’
‘A prophecy? What did it say?’
‘Cake,’ said Munin stubbornly.
‘Just tell me about the prophecy!’ I said, withholding the piece of cake. ‘After that, you can both have cake.’
‘Crawk. Cake,’ said Hugin.
Munin pecked him on the wing. For a moment both birds fought, flapping their ragged feathers and crawking furiously. Then the smaller bird broke away and came to perch on my shoulder.
‘That’s better,’ I said. ‘Now tell me what you know.’
Munin crawked a couple of times. I could tell it was trying to speak, but the proximity of cake, and the beady eyes of its unruly sibling, seemed to make concentration difficult.
‘I know. A mighty Ash,’ it said. ‘Its name is Ygg – Ygg –Ygg –’
‘Crawk,’ said Hugin, alighting on my other shoulder.
‘Yes, I know its name, thanks,’ I said. ‘So? What about it?’
Hugin pecked at the cake in my hand. I dropped it onto the parapet. Both birds descended upon it, flapping and bickering noisily.
‘The prophecy, please,’ I said sharply.
‘Cake! Stand!’ said Hugin, between beakfuls.
‘What? Cake-stand? What does that mean?’
‘The Aff, Yggdraffil, cakeff where it fftandff,’ corrected Munin, its beak full of fruit cake.
‘Yggdrasil? It quakes where it stands? Why?’
‘Cake.’
‘Oh, for gods’ sakes!’
But I had run out of cake by then, and the birds were losing interest. They pecked up the last scattered raisins and flew off, still squabbling, towards Odin’s hall.
Still, they had given me food for thought. A tremor in the World Ash was a tremor throughout the Worlds. And even if it wasn’t a tree, the news that it was under threat didn’t sound good to Yours Truly. Was this what Mimir’s Head had foretold? The Ash, Yggdrasil, quakes where it stands. Was this why Allfather was so jumpy?
Well, I thought, I’m about to find out. Heimdall had certainly spotted me feeding birds on the Rainbow Bridge, and knowing his enthusiasm for spying on me and telling tales, I knew I could rely on him to take the story to a higher authority. Odin in one of his rages might give away more information than he intended. All I had to do till then was play innocent and wait for the storm to break.
Well, I was right about one thing, at least. Allfather was jumpy. As soon as he heard what I had done, he hauled me up in front of him and gave me the works – the Furious One in full Aspect; lightning, spear, flashing eye, the lot.
‘Spying on me, were you?’ he said. ‘Trying to get inside my mind? Try that again and, brother or not, I’ll thrash the sunshine out of you. I won’t ask Thor or Heimdall. I’ll do it myself. And I’ll make it count. Do
I make myself clear?’
‘Clear as Mimir’s well,’ I said. This was no time for a smart response.
He looked at me with his one blue eye. ‘I mean it, Trickster. What have you heard?’
‘Nothing. Nothing important,’ I said. ‘Just some stuff about trees.’
‘Trees?’
‘Well, Yggdrasil,’ I said.
The blue eye narrowed. Now it looked like a razor blade pushed into his cheekbone.
‘Something’s coming, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Did the Oracle prophesy?’
He gave a smile. Not a pleasant one. ‘Never mind the Oracle. Knowledge doesn’t bring happiness. As for the World Tree, forget it. Just because it loses some leaves doesn’t mean it’s dying.’
Leaves?
Gods, I hated it when the Old Man went cryptic on me. I thought of what the birds had said. The Ash, Yggdrasil, quakes where it stands. Well, that might explain the falling leaves. On the other hand, metaphorically, we were the leaves on Yggdrasil. I didn’t like the sound of that.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘No more questions.’ (In fact, he’d answered all of mine.)
He seemed to relax a little at that. His Aspect went back to normal again, leaving him looking grey and old.
‘You’re looking tired,’ I told him.
‘I haven’t been sleeping much lately.’
‘Well, if you ever need to talk . . .’ I began.
He gave me the evil eye again.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I get it.’
‘Just as long as you do,’ he said.
LESSON 4
Destiny
A man too often meets his Fate whilst running to avoid it.
Lokabrenna
WELL, I TRIED. I really did. But I was far from being reassured. All that talk about Yggdrasil; the Oracle; prophetic dreams . . .
It made me nervous. I needed to know. And so, one night, when my nerves were so drawn I was close to combusting, I went in secret to the spring where Odin kept what was left of Mimir’s Head and looked into the water.
Yes, I know it was dangerous. But I was feeling vulnerable. The coldness of the Aesir; Odin’s refusal to trust in me. I needed a friend like never before.
Instead, I got the Whisperer.
From its cradle of runelight, Mimir’s Head looked back at me. I’ll admit it was alarming. Over the years, the living Head had calcified, becoming stone, although the face was still mobile, expressing amusement and vague contempt.
‘Ha! I thought you’d come,’ it said.
‘You did?’
‘Of course. I’m an Oracle.’
I frowned at the submerged Head. I knew him by reputation but I’d never known Mimir in life. It now occurred to me that I wouldn’t have liked him any more in his original Aspect than I did in his current form.
He eyed me disapprovingly.
‘So you’re the Trickster,’ he commented. ‘I knew you’d come round here eventually. If Odin finds out, you’re toast, of course. He’ll kick you to one end of Asgard and back. He’ll throw you off Bif-rost and watch you bounce.’
‘He will if you tell him,’ I said with a smile. ‘Are you going to tell him?’
The Oracle’s colours brightened. ‘Tell me why I shouldn’t,’ it said.
‘Because you hate him,’ I went on. ‘Because he used you from the start, and lied to you, as he lied to me. And because you want to tell me something.’
‘Do I?’ said the Oracle.
‘Don’t you?’ I said, and smiled again.
The Oracle glowed a little brighter. ‘Knowledge can be a dangerous thing, Trickster,’ it told me. ‘Are you sure you want to know what the future holds for you?’
‘I like to be prepared,’ I said. ‘Now talk. You know you want to.’
And that’s how I was made privy to the Prophecy of the Oracle. Not that it helped me much in the end; prophecies tend to be incomplete, and Oracles have a habit of telling you things you only fully understand after the crisis is over.
Of course, it’s all public knowledge now – Ragnarók, and what happened next. It’s been public knowledge for so long that it’s hard to remember what it was like, hearing it for the first time; the details of the terrible war that would tumble the gods and their citadel, and rewrite their story in bright new runes.
Now comes the final reckoning.
Now come the folk of Netherworld.
Now comes the dragon of darkness, Death,
Casting his shadow-wing over the Worlds.
The Dragon of Darkness. Surt. Oh, crap. In my concern for the immediate future, I’d missed the bigger picture. Surt meant Chaos; which meant Ragnarók, the dissolution of Order. That was why the World Ash was shedding its leaves; that’s what happens when seasons change. I told you all that was a metaphor, but the truth of it was clear enough: the time was coming when Odin’s world would be swept aside, leaving nothing but Chaos behind, from which a new Order would one day emerge . . .
All very poetic, of course, but as a renegade from Chaos, I had some idea of what to expect if Surt ever got hold of me, and it wasn’t mercy. As for the gods, it looked as if the side I’d chosen was set to lose. Where did that leave me? Should I run? Could I hope to escape the carnage?
‘What happens to me?’
‘Be patient,’ said Mimir. ‘I haven’t got to the good part yet.’
‘There’s a good part?’
‘Oh, yes.’
And as I listened in silence to the whispering from Mimir’s spring, I felt a gradual coldness creep like death along my spine, and recognized the sensation as fear – a fear I’d never felt before.
‘Odin would do that? To me?’ I said.
‘Oh, yes,’ replied the Oracle. ‘Why do you doubt it? He’s done it before. He may feel a pang or two of remorse but that won’t stop him from using you when he needs a scapegoat. Face it, Trickster, you’re alone. You’ve always been alone here. Odin was never a friend to you, any more than he was to me. And as for the others . . .’ The Oracle glowed in a way that was almost like laughter. ‘You already know what they think of you. They hate you and despise you. The moment Odin gives the word, they’ll be on you like a pack of wolves. Look what they did to Fenris. Look how they dealt with Jormungand. You know it’s just a matter of time before you’re officially declared an undesirable.’
‘How do I know you’re telling the truth?’
‘Oracles don’t lie,’ it said.
‘Well, how can we stop it from happening?’
Its colours brightened. ‘You can’t,’ it said.
‘But surely—’
‘You can’t,’ it repeated. ‘You’ve heard it now. Loki, this is Destiny. I know it’s hard. But Destiny has a habit of finding you wherever you hide. Sometimes it even meets you as you go running to avoid it.’
‘Is that a prophecy?’ I said.
‘What do you think?’ said the Head.
And so I crept back to my bed, though sleep was slow in coming. I told myself that I didn’t believe in Destiny, or prophecies, or dreams, but the Oracle’s words still troubled me. Could I escape Surt’s vengeance? Could I escape the End of the Worlds? Could I somehow save myself from the Old Man’s treachery?
At last I fell into fitful sleep, and dreamed of snakes. You know I hate snakes. And then in the morning I went out to work, collecting every scrap of news or information I possibly could.
Nuts for the winter, like Ratatosk. That’s all I was really collecting. A man should always be prepared for Last Days, and if Mimir was to be believed, those were the days we were heading for. Not that it showed as yet, no. Asgard’s falltime was golden. There was peace in the Middle Worlds; Ice Folk and Rock Folk were both subdued. No enemy, no warlord, no renegade of the Vanir had come within a hundred miles of Asgard over the past six months, and Thor was getting slow and fat from lack of combat practice. There was nothing (except for Odin’s aloofness and Frigg’s maternal anxiety) to suggest that anything bad was on the cards. But it was. I knew
it was. And knowing it changed everything.
Mimir was right. Knowledge is dangerous. All I could think of was the words the Oracle had spoken to me, words that I now wished I could unlearn. Was this what the Old Man felt? Was that why he was so alone? I sensed that perhaps it was, and if I could have confided in him . . .
But how could I think of doing that, knowing what I did now? No, my only chance was to find a means of diverting the Oracle’s prophecy, or at least of escaping my part of it.
It was futile, Mimir said. I had already heard it.
And if I hadn’t heard it? Would that have made it avoidable? It hurt my head just thinking about that one, which I guess was what Mimir wanted. So . . .
What problem did the Oracle have against Your Humble Narrator? Why was I such an integral part in its vengeance against the gods? I wasn’t even in Asgard when Odin sent him spying on the Vanir. Of all the gods, then, surely I was the least likely candidate to attract his hostility?
Later I realized; it wasn’t me. But I was Odin’s brother-in-blood. Odin cared for me, needed me, which was why Mimir had set me up. Yes, he set me up – and in so doing, taught me the most important lesson I was ever to learn in my life:
Never trust anyone: a friend, a stranger, a lover, a brother, a wife. But most of all, remember this: Never trust an Oracle.
LESSON 5
Names
A named thing is a tamed thing.
Lokabrenna
WHOEVER SAID names can’t hurt you was either drunk or stupid. All words have power, of course, but names are the most potent of all, which is why the gods had so many. To name a being is to subdue it, as I’d learnt on that first day, when Odin called me from Chaos. I’d been Wildfire incarnate, free and in-corruptible. I became the Trickster; Hearth Fire; his creature, named and tamed.
Not any more, however. What I’d heard from the Oracle had given me a different perspective. It made me jumpy; suspicious. It made me lose my happy thoughts. Well, now was the time, I told myself, to start putting to good use some of the supplies I’d put by for later use; the scraps of information; the favours due, the little pieces of armour that would shield me at Ragnarók.