The most important of these, of course, was the favour I’d managed to wangle from Hel; a favour based on my promise to somehow deliver Golden Boy into her adoring arms.
Which was why I presently took wing, and went after Frigg on her continuing mission to name and tame everything in the Nine Worlds that might present a threat to her son. Rocks, trees, wild animals; a mother’s love, it seemed to me, was endlessly anxious and tender, seeing danger everywhere, in every spark and splinter. Well, not my mother, obviously. But Frigg was never going to give up until everything – and I mean everything – that might damage her son had been rendered harmless.
‘I name thee Oak, son of Acorn, and command thee and thy folk to obey.’
‘I name thee Iron, son of Earth, and command thee and thy folk to obey.’
‘I name thee Wolf, son of Wolf, and command thee and thy folk to obey.’
And so on, throughout the animal world, the plant world, the mineral world. It was the longest lullaby the Nine Worlds had ever known, and as a hymn to maternal love, was almost enough to touch my heart.
I said almost. I have no heart. Well, not according to history, which called me a number of hard names – Father of Lies being just one of them, as if the Old Man wasn’t telling porkies long before I was a glint in the eye of whatever sparked me to sentience. Well, that’s history for you, folks. Unfair, untrue and for the most part written by folk who weren’t even there.
‘I name thee Wasp, daughter of Air, and command thee and thy folk to obey.’
‘I name thee Scorpion, daughter of Sand, and command thee and thy folk to obey.’
‘I name thee Spider, daughter of Silk . . .’
And so on. And so on. And so on. Words are the building blocks of the Worlds; words and runes and names. And there was one particular name – a name the Oracle had given me – that had a special relevance to my situation; a name that, in the right hands, might even bring down an invincible.
I’d been following her in hawk guise for weeks and months. She was tiring. Her memory was failing her. And the little, half-wilted plant in her hand was so very small and helpless . . .
‘I name thee . . .’
What’s that? Could that be . . .
Mistletoe?
I tried to recall the exact wording of the Oracle’s prophecy.
I see a branch of mistletoe
Wielded by a blind man.
This, the poison dart that slays
Asgard’s most beloved son.
At first, I’d taken the stanza to mean something clever and cryptic. There’s nothing very dangerous about a branch of mistle toe, and the phrase about the blind man had to be some kind of metaphor. But seeing Frigg with her mistletoe shoot, trying in her exhaustion to remember what it was, I felt an inspiration.
I shifted into the Aspect of a poor old woman of the Folk. Shielding my colours carefully, I approached Frigg, slowly, on foot, and greeted her with a toothless smile.
‘What are you doing, my dear?’ I said.
Frigg explained her mission.
‘You’re naming and taming everything? That’s a lot of names,’ I said. ‘Still, I suppose there are lots of things that couldn’t possibly be a threat. That little wilted thing, for instance . . .’ I pointed at the mistletoe. ‘Now how that could ever harm anyone? I’m surprised it even has a name.’ And I shuffled past with a little smile, leaving Frigg with her mistletoe shoot, watching me with a frown between her eyes.
At that moment a snake slithered out from behind a spill of scree. Frigg saw it and dropped the mistletoe, knowing the snake for a venomous one, and uttered the words of the cantrip:
‘I name thee Adder, daughter of dust . . .’
And that, folks, was what I was waiting for; the tiny mistake that would give me what I needed. I waited until Frigg’s back was turned, then shifted Aspect once again and flew back to Asgard, carrying the sprig of mistletoe in my claws. I couldn’t vouch for Balder, but if things went according to plan, that small and insignificant plant might just have bought me a pass out of Hel.
In private, I studied the mistletoe. It didn’t look much. But with a little work, it might make a suitable weapon. I dried the piece of mistletoe and strengthened it with fire. No runes; not enough to incriminate me with traces of a signature, but enough to make a sharpened point. Then I fixed it to a dart, and waited for a suitable time.
It was several months more before Frigg returned from her journey around the Worlds. During that time she had named and tamed everything she had encountered: insects; metals; animals; birds; stones and goblins and demons and trolls. The Ice Folk had given her their pledge, and the Rock Folk, and the Folk of the Middle Worlds. It was a testament to the peculiar affection that everyone had for Golden Boy that even our enemies gave their word that no harm would come to him on their watch.
Remained the gods themselves. Of course, Frigg only approached Yours Truly. The rest were beyond suspicion, as she made only too clear to me, whilst trying in vain to earn my goodwill.
‘Why should I swear?’ I told her. ‘Thor hasn’t had to swear an oath.’
‘Thor is Balder’s brother,’ said Frigg.
‘So? And he’s not dangerous?’
Frigg sighed. ‘I don’t think he’s a threat.’
‘And I am? That hurts me, Enchantress. You’re saying you don’t trust me.’
The Enchantress looked sympathetic. ‘We’d trust you a lot more, Loki, if you gave us a proof of goodwill. An oath of allegiance to Balder, for example.’
‘Oh yes? Because my oath of allegiance to Odin means so much to all of you?’ I said. ‘I’ve given you people no reason to hate and despise me, and yet you do, don’t you? And what if I refuse to swear? What then? You’ll use my true name? Good luck with that, Enchantress. I have rather a lot of names. I doubt you know them all, and I’m not inclined to tell you.’
On came the waterworks. ‘Loki, please . . .’
‘So bring all the others here,’ I said. ‘Make them swear the same oath. Make them all reveal their names. See how they like to be named and shamed. Then, maybe I’ll do what you want.’
She left, red-eyed and angry. Of course she wouldn’t ask them. I could just see Heimdall’s face – of Frey’s, or Thor’s, or Odin’s – at being asked to submit to such a humiliating test of loyalty. She went to Odin and complained, but my brother-in-blood supported me.
‘Loki’s one of us,’ he said. ‘You can’t treat him like an outsider. I know he can be a bit wild—’
‘A bit wild? He’s Wildfire.’
‘I know that. But he’s served us well.’
‘You could make him swear,’ she said.
‘No.’
‘But the prophecy—’
‘I said no.’
Finally, the Enchantress gave up. She came home to a feast of friends; a party in Balder’s honour, with food and wine and party games. Of course, I wasn’t invited. My refusal to swear the oath had ensured that I was persona non grata. Odin wasn’t there, either; I guess he just wasn’t a party person. But pretty much everyone else was there, all celebrating Golden Boy’s quasi-invincibility.
The drink ran freely and pretty soon some of the gods were wanting to demonstrate Frigg’s protective measures. After a show of reluctance, Golden Boy stood up on a chair – shirtless, of course, to make the girls sigh – and smirked as, one by one, the gods threw stones, then knives, and finally swords and spears, none of which did him the least bit of harm.
Some just bounced off Balder’s skin; others vanished like soap bubbles in a flare of runelight. Even Mjølnir, whom Frigg had tamed, refused to perform. The gods all laughed. Honestly, it was revolting.
However, in the mêlée, I’d managed to gatecrash the party unseen, and now I stood in the shadows, watching and waiting my chance to join in.
Don’t get me wrong. I had nothing much against Balder. Except for his looks, his smugness, his popularity and his inexplicable success with women, I had no particular g
rievance – but he was Odin’s youngest son, and after my few words with Mimir, I was beginning to harbour a sizeable grudge against my friend and brother. Besides, Hel wanted Balder – and I knew a way to accommodate her, with significant benefits to Yours Truly, if I managed to pull it off. The only remaining problem was how.
Don’t look at me like that. I thought you understood. I was fighting for my survival in the face of all of Asgard. The Oracle had shown me what fate was to be mine, and this was my only possible chance of escaping it. What could I do? On one side, there was Balder, who, let’s face it, had everything. On the other, Yours Truly, with nothing but his cunning. It was hardly a fair fight and yet I knew that, if it worked in my favour, Golden Boy would get all the sympathy. Not that I was sure it would; and yet, I had to try. Didn’t I?
By now the floor show was in full swing, and even some of the goddesses were vying with each other to see how many objects they could find to throw at Balder. Fruit seemed to be the favourite but however hard they tried, all it did was make him slightly sticky. Some of them wanted to lick him clean, and were kept at bay by Nanna, his wife, who was used to dealing with groupies.
At the edge of the little crowd, I noticed a figure sitting apart. It was Golden Boy’s blind brother Hoder, looking rather mournful. I didn’t blame him. Winter to Balder’s springtime, he’d never been very popular, and Frigg, so proud of her other son, had never managed to hide her disappointment in his stunted, imperfect sibling.
I moved a little closer, still keeping to the shadows. Hoder sensed my approach, and turned his sightless eyes towards me. No one else had noticed me, and no one else was paying any attention to Hoder, who was confused by the laughter and noise, and whom no one had thought to enlighten.
‘What’s up?’ I said. ‘Feeling left out? Wishing you could lob a tomato at Mr Perfect over there?’
Hoder grinned. ‘Well, maybe,’ he said.
‘No problem,’ I told him. ‘Here, take this dart. I’ll show you where to aim. Now – go!’
As I spoke, I handed him the dart tipped with the piece of mistletoe. I watched as he aimed it at Balder, and then . . .
Pink!
The gods fell silent.
‘Did I hit him?’ said Hoder, turning his head this way and that. ‘Hey, where did everybody go?’
In fact, the only one who had left was Your Humble Narrator, who saw the situation and wisely removed himself from the scene. But the mistletoe dart had struck home. Balder fell.
There was silence.
First they assumed he was playing dead. Then, as they realized the truth, it was too late to save him. He died right there, in Nanna’s arms, while Thor, never quick on the uptake, still bellowed:
‘Hey folks, let’s try something else! How about we use my boxing gloves?’
Turns out the dart had punctured a lung, and Balder was dead as he hit the ground. As for Hoder, he never got the chance to find out what was happening. As soon as the others realized who had thrown the mistletoe dart, they were on him like wolves. I didn’t see the result myself but I’d guessed it wouldn’t be pretty, which made me all the more grateful that I had already left the scene.
No one had seen me arrive, or leave, and the only witness to the crime had just been summarily neutralized. Whatever the unforeseen consequences of my little practical joke, the upside was that I was in the clear; and my daughter owed me a favour.
Of course, Balder’s death caused a terrible fuss, not least because they felt guilty about killing an innocent blind man in an irrational frenzy of rage. Not the best publicity for the gods of Asgard – and I made sure that word got round in all the appropriate places. They gave Balder a stylish funeral which, naturally, I did not attend. Nanna, his wife, died of grief and was burnt on his funeral pyre. Hoder too, redeemed by death, was given a rousing send-off. And Odin became even more remote, speaking to no one but Mimir’s Head, and of course his ravens.
As for myself – I found that I didn’t feel as good about all this as I’d expected. I hadn’t entirely believed in the Oracle’s prophecy – and yet Golden Boy had died just as the Head had predicted. That got me thinking about other events that Mimir had predicted, and the likelihood of them coming true. Then there was Hoder’s ugly death – something the Oracle had not predicted but which perhaps I should have foreseen. In spite of everything, I felt just a little responsible.
And now I was trapped, no longer in charge of my personal destiny. Perhaps we were all Mimir’s playthings, pieces on a chessboard. If he hadn’t told me the prophecy, would I still have gone in search of the means of killing Balder?
Probably not. In fact, it wouldn’t have crossed my mind if I hadn’t already known what the Old Man was planning to do to me.
And Odin? His mistrust of me came straight from the Oracle’s prophecy. At the time, the thought of betraying him had never even crossed my mind. I was innocent (well, nearly) until this web of deception descended on me. And now . . . well, now, I had no choice. There was only one path to follow. Admitting my guilt wouldn’t save me. All I could do was carry on and hope that my daughter was grateful enough to offer me a means of escaping the destiny that awaited me.
LESSON 6
Tears
What do I care for Balder?
Don’t expect me to weep for him,
who never would have wept for me.
Lokabrenna
MEANWHILE, the Enchantress marched straight into the Underworld to demand her son’s return from the dead. She found Hel predictably difficult. My daughter had her plaything – though, typically, she still wasn’t pleased. Balder dead was compliant, but dull. The spark had gone out.
Hel was jaded. In her hall of bone and dust, she created a court of the dead, clothed them in glamours, made them dance; and still there was no joy in her conquest. Balder sat staring by her side, as unresponsive as ever.
‘Then give him back to me,’ said Frigg.
But my daughter was stubborn. At least if she had Balder, she thought, then no one else could have him. And maybe she could find a way to make him love her, given time.
The Enchantress raged and pleaded. She promised and cajoled. She said that Hel was the only heart that could fail to be moved by Balder’s death. ‘The Nine Worlds weep for Balder,’ she said. ‘But you – you’re as heartless as your father.’
Hel gave Frigg her dead eye. ‘That sounds to me like hyperbole,’ she said. ‘But if it’s true, then maybe you can change my mind.’
I didn’t rate Frigg’s chances. History is full of cases of folk who have tried to raise the dead, but usually they end in tears. This one also began that way, as Frigg set off to make good her claim.
‘Weep for Balder!’ came the cry.
‘Weep for Balder!’
‘Choose Life!’
The slogans spread like wildfire. Frigg’s story could wrench tears from a stone, and did, throughout the Middle Worlds. At her command, everyone mourned; everyone wept for Balder. Flowers were tied onto trees in his name; women tore their garments; men hung their heads; small animals howled; even the birds played their part.
It was a kind of hysteria; people who hadn’t even met Balder were suddenly stricken with grief at his death; sad songs were written in memory of him; total strangers bonded in grief.
But every trend has a backlash. At the moment of triumph, when all the Worlds wept for Balder, Frigg came upon an old crone living in a hovel in the woods.
‘Weep! O weep for Balder!’ she cried.
The old woman looked at her. ‘Who?’ she said.
‘Balder, Balder the Beautiful. The People’s Paragon. My son.’
‘That’s very sad,’ the old woman said. Her eyes were resolutely dry. ‘But why should I weep for him, eh?’
‘Because, united in grief,’ said Frigg, ‘we can conquer Death itself.’
‘What? So I won’t die?’ said the crone.
‘No,’ said Frigg. ‘But Balder may live.’
‘I’m sorry,’ sa
id the old crone. ‘But this seems quite unfair to me. Why should Balder’s death be any more important than mine? Is it because he was handsome, when I’m just a jumble of tired old bones? Or is it because he was young, and I’m old? I’ll have you know I was young once. And I value my life at least as much as this Balder, whoever he was, valued his.’
‘You don’t understand . . .’ Frigg tried to explain.
The old woman smiled. ‘My dear, no one does. We all get a life, whatever that means. Go home. Grieve for your son. But don’t expect me to weep for him, when he would never have wept for me.’
Frigg’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Who are you?’ She fingered the rune Bjarkán.
The old woman shrugged. ‘I’m no one,’ she said.
‘You’re lying. I see your colours.’
Under the old woman’s cloak, I grinned.
‘Please. By all the gods,’ she said.
‘The gods can hang, for all I care,’ I said. ‘Go away and leave me alone.’ And at that I closed the door in her face and grinned to myself at a job well done.
And that was that; Balder stayed dead, Hel had her due, and I had something to bargain with – something that, three hundred years later, would earn me an unexpected prize.
Still, all that was yet to come. For now, I had other things on my mind. The End of the Worlds, for example, as well as my own imminent death . . .
LESSON 7
Names, II
Sticks and stones may break my bones . . .
Lokabrenna
AFTER THAT, you might have thought I would have settled down for a while. Adopted a low profile, perhaps. Taken up a hobby. But there was something in the air; a scent of revolt, a whiff of smoke. War was coming. I wanted to fight. So shoot me. It’s my nature.
It wasn’t that I was remotely sorry for what had happened to Balder. Sorry isn’t really a word that figures in my vocabulary. All the same, I didn’t feel as good as you might have expected. I found myself growing restless. I couldn’t sleep. I was irritable. I spent too long in bird form, trying to beat my increasing sense of imprisonment. I suffered terrible nightmares in which I was shackled and blinded, surrounded by venomous snakes that crawled all over my naked body.