“How do women ever get anything done?” I muttered after the third time I had tripped over my hem.
“They’re smarter than men?” asked Gat, trying to sound innocent.
“If they’re so smart, why do they wear these things?” I asked, shaking my dress at him.
He shrugged. “Maybe men came up with the idea in order to slow them down.”
Despite the dress difficulties, I soon enough had the cart ready. When it was, I went to the back door of Bilskirnir and knocked.
It was Sif who answered. Her golden hair shimmered bright in the noonday sun. “Husband!” she called. “Thialfi is here and the goats are ready.”
Thor came stomping to the door. From the Brising Necklace down, he did indeed look the part of a bride, if a somewhat broad and well-muscled one. But he had taken off his veil. “I couldn’t possibly keep it in place all the way to Jotunheim,” he told Loki later. So from the neck up, the bride had a bristling red beard, a grim-set mouth, and eyes so fierce it seemed they could have knocked a hawk from the sky.
Sif flung her arms around him. “Be careful, my husband-bride,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “I would not want to learn that you had actually wed this giant Thrym!” Then she laughed and pulled him close. As she kissed him, her golden hair—which had been made for her by dwarfs after Loki had stolen her real hair—wrapped itself around his waist and shoulders, drawing him even closer, holding him tight.
Sif’s lighthearted farewell would have made me feel better had I not seen the tear that trickled down her cheek after she released her husband from her embrace.
As if that weren’t enough to tweak my guilt, after Thor stepped out of the house, Sif motioned to me. When I drew close, she put a hand on my shoulder and whispered, “Keep an eye on my husband, Thialfi. I fear his temper will betray him if he is not careful.”
“I promise, lady,” I said, feeling my burden of guilt grow even heavier. “I promise.”
At just after noon on the seventh day from the hammer’s loss, all of Asgard gathered to see us on our way. Stately Odin, tall and gray, stood with Hugin and Munin on his shoulders, and the wolves Geri and Freki at his heels, to bless the trip.
I was about to climb aboard the goat cart when Roskva ran up and pressed a cloth-wrapped packet into my hands. “Here, Thialfi,” she whispered. “Take this.”
“What is it?”
“Just take it! You may need it in—”
“Are you ready back there?” growled Thor.
“Save it for the darkness!” whispered Roskva. Then she kissed me on the cheek and slipped back among the others.
“Ready, master!” I called, tucking the packet into my dress. I didn’t have a bosom to hide it in, but the cord cinched around my waist kept it from falling straight through to the ground.
Thor shouted and shook the reins. At once Gat-Tooth and Tooth-Grinder trotted forward, pulling us through the gates of Asgard and onto the Rainbow Bridge.
I was sitting on the back of the cart, my feet dangling over the edge.
So I was the only one who could see how truly concerned Odin looked as we drove away.
In the three years since I had been working for Thor, I had accompanied him on many of his journeys to Midgard, the world of men. We had even made a few trips to Jotunheim.
But crossing the Rainbow Bridge never ceased to thrill me. A full seven paces wide (god-sized paces, at that), its broad surface looked no more solid than a soap bubble. Yet it was as inflexible as the will of Odin, and the hoofbeats of the goats rang against its surface as if it were made of iron.
It had seven broad stripes of color, as you would expect, but the division between each color was not sharp and hard. Instead, each color merged into the next, so it was hard to tell where red stopped and orange began; where orange became yellow; or yellow, green. The center area of each stripe was the purest color imaginable. But in the mergings could be seen a thousand subtle shades and hues.
I was glad the goats stuck to the middle of the bridge. It stretched across the sky, higher than mere mortals such as me were meant to go, and looking over the edge made me dreadfully dizzy. At the highest point, we were far above the clouds, so thick it seemed as if you could walk across them. Then the slope of the bridge turned downward, and before long we plunged right into the clouds. After that there was nothing to see for a while but the gray mist that swirled around us, and I began to feel as if the world itself had disappeared.
Finally the mist grew thin, the goats trotted into sunlight once again, and I could see the fields and forests of Midgard stretched out below us. My heart twisted at the sight. I loved Asgard, but Midgard was home. I had missed it more than I realized.
The bridge ends in a secret place, and powerful spells protect it from the eyes of men, so there was no one there to greet us.
We traveled swiftly across Midgard, racing along its rutted roads, splashing through streams, bouncing heedlessly across farmers’ fields. It was not here that our business lay, and we had no time to tarry.
Dusk was falling when we came to another bridge, this one wide and made of stone. It stretched across a great gap, and one peek convinced me I did not want to stand at the edge and look down.
“That way lies Jotunheim,” said Loki. “Perhaps we should stop here for the night. We’ll have plenty of time to reach Thrym’s place tomorrow.”
“Sensible enough,” grunted Thor, and pulled the cart to a halt.
“I hope you’re not too tired,” I whispered to the goats as I unharnessed them.
Grinder, of course, ignored me. But Gat butted me playfully and said, “It’s the trip back up the Rainbow Bridge that really wears us out.”
“Well, get a good rest, anyway,” I said, patting his head.
Before I could say more, Thor shouted for me to gather some mushrooms for supper, so I wandered off to do as he ordered.
As before, I found working in the dress to be a bother—at least at first. Then I discovered that by lifting the hem I could make a very convenient place to deposit the mushrooms. It was much easier to carry them this way.
I wondered if this was why women had started wearing dresses to begin with.
When I’d had enough, I started back toward our encampment, feeling well pleased with myself. But as I came trotting through the trees, I saw something that made my blood run cold.
“Thor!” I cried, dropping the mushrooms and racing forward. “Thor, don’t! DON’T!”
It is not good to give orders to a god. Thor turned to me, his eyes blazing with fury, and I feared I might die just from his gaze. But I also feared he was about to make a horrible mistake. I had to stop him.
“Don’t!” I cried again.
Then I flung myself to the ground and covered my head, hoping desperately that I had not just made a fatal mistake myself.
8
Goats Everlasting
For a dreadful moment, silence hung over me. Then Thor growled, “What in Odin’s name is the matter with you, Thialfi? You’ve seen me do this a dozen times.”
By “do this” he meant “slaughter the goats.”
You see, Thor had a very special way of providing meat when he was traveling. At night he would slaughter Gat-Tooth and Tooth-Grinder, skin them, and flense the meat from their bones. Each goat’s bones were carefully wrapped in their own skin and set aside in a safe place. Then Thor and his companions would happily dine on roast goat.
In the morning, Thor would wave Mjollnir over the skins and bones, saying some magic words as he did. The goats would then spring back to life, good as new.
I knew Gat and Grinder hated it—they had told me so several times. But since there was no permanent harm done, they put up with it.
Well, there was permanent harm done once. It was the night Thor and Loki had stopped at our cottage three years earlier, before I knew how all this worked. After Thor had wrapped the bones in the goats’ skins, he ordered that they be left undisturbed. But there were many mouths to feed,
and Loki, I remember, ate with special gluttony. Heeding my mother’s glare, I let the guests have their fill first. (To be fair, Mother did not eat much, either.) By meal’s end I was still hungry—the more so for having watched everyone else eat his or her fill. (Except Mother, of course.) Late in the night, when everyone else lay fast asleep, I was wide awake, hunger gnawing my belly. Finally I crept to the skins. Moving soundlessly, I unwrapped one. Then I took out one of the thighbones, cracked it, and sucked out the marrow. I tucked the bone back into the package, folded the skin over it, and returned to my spot on the floor, where I was finally able to fall asleep.
The next morning my family and I watched in awe as Thor waved Mjollnir over the packets of skin and bones—and cried out in wonder as the goats returned to life.
There was only one problem: Tooth-Grinder now had a very distinct limp.
When Thor saw this, his eyes flashed with rage and his beard curled as if it had a life of its own.
“Who has dared disturb those bones?” he roared. Lightning sizzled through the sky above him and he swung Mjollnir as if ready to slay my entire family.
“It was me!” I cried, throwing myself at his feet. “It was me, Thor. Slay me if you must, but spare my parents and my sister. They had nothing to do with it.”
The hour that followed was the most frightening of my life, as Loki and my parents worked to soothe Thor’s anger. In the end, they negotiated this bargain: In return for my error, Roskva and I were to be sent to work for the gods.
Which explains both how I became Thor’s goat boy and why Grinder had never been very well-disposed toward me. (Though I have to say that by this time, his limp had nearly healed.)
If you were paying close attention to my story, you may have noticed what I thought the problem was now. Hoping I was right, and without raising my head from the ground, I said to the thunder god, “O mighty Thor, I know it has long been your practice to slaughter the goats at night, and bring them back to life come morning.” (One must speak more formally than usual when addressing a god, especially an angry one.)
Thor grunted, waiting for me to go on.
“Please forgive me if I am wrong, master. But whenever I have seen you do this before, it was through the power of your hammer.”
I dared a quick peek up and saw Thor’s eyes widen as the truth sank in: Hammerless as he now was, he would have no way to revive the goats in the morning!
He dropped the stone he’d been about to slam into Gat’s head and held out his hands, staring at them in horror.
Loki, who was sitting nearby, had his mouth covered. He was trying to look horrified, too, but I am quite certain he was simply covering his laughter. I wondered if he would have stopped Thor had I not arrived, or let him slay the goats. With Loki, it was always hard to tell.
Thor lay his hand upon my head. “You have done well this evening, Thialfi. My thanks to you.”
I was glad to have the thanks of the thunder god. I was even happier when later that evening Tooth-Grinder came to me and said, “That was well done, Thialfi Goat Boy.”
The next morning I harnessed the goats again, and we crossed the bridge to Jotunheim.
It was easy enough to tell that we were in the world of the giants. Everything was bigger. Flowers that barely reached my ankles in Asgard here grew almost to my knees, and the bees that swarmed around them were as big as my thumb. I saw songbirds the size of ravens—and ravens the size of eagles. The smallest of the trees that we rode among had trunks wider than the goat cart.
We traveled through this strange country for the better part of the day. In the early evening, as the light was growing dim, we pulled up in front of a wooden house that was both enormous and shabby.
“Well, this is it,” said Thor. “The home of Thrym. Here we shall either regain the hammer, or . . .”
He let the sentence dangle.
“Here also is where you fall silent, O thunderous one,” said Loki. “Remember, I do the talking from this point on. Now, let me fasten your veil in place. Oh, for . . . Thor, look at your bosoms! They’ve gone all lopsided!”
Thor grumbled but let Loki fix the veil, and then his bosoms.
“Good thing they didn’t use the rabbits,” muttered Gat, who had been wildly amused when I told him about that plan.
Once Thor was properly arranged, the mischief maker fastened his own veil, hiked up his skirts, and strode boldly to the giant’s threshold.
“Thrym!” he cried in a high-pitched voice. “Thrym, open the door. Your bride has come at last!”
9
The House of Thrym
The door to the house swung open. By the spill of light from inside I could see a huge figure, taller than Loki by at least two heads, looming in the opening.
“My bride!” bellowed a deep voice. At the same time, a pair of enormous arms reached out to pull Loki in.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” cried Loki, scooting back out of his reach. “Do you think Freya would come alone, come knocking at your door? I am her maid-in-waiting, and you’d best let go of me, you great brute, for my lady is a jealous one. If she sees you holding me this way, it will not go well with you. The fury of Freya is a fearsome thing.”
Beside me, Thor chuckled beneath his veil.
Loki turned to the cart. “Oh, Freya dear,” he simpered. “You can come in now. And you, goat girl! Take the cart around back and find a place for the goats. Thrym, send someone to help our girl, will you? It’s been a long journey, and she’s exhausted.”
“Of course, of course,” rumbled Thrym, sounding confused.
Thor and Loki went inside. The door closed, leaving me in the gathering darkness. I was afraid I had been abandoned, but a moment later a gigantic figure came trotting around from the back of the house.
“I suppose I have to help you,” grumbled a surly voice. “Well, come on, then.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying to sound as prim and girlish as I could. It wasn’t hard to sound shy and frightened, since my head was barely higher than his waist. But when I looked up, I realized that the Jotun they had sent to help me with the goats was only a little older than I was myself. Probably one of Thrym’s younger cousins, I thought. He had the beginning scraps of a mustache, and a scattering of pimples the size of cherries decorated his forehead.
Holding the reins of the goat cart, I followed him around the house. From inside, we could hear shouting and boisterous singing.
“They’ll be startin’ the wedding feast soon,” said the young giant. “I don’t mind telling you, there’s been a deal of fuss since Thrym found out Freya was actually goin’ to marry him.”
“What kind of fuss?” I asked, giving a yank at the reins to hurry Gat and Grinder along.
“Well, his mother—that’s my great-aunt Tilda—and his sisters—they’re my aunties, too, of course—they cleaned the place up something fierce.”
“What did they do?” I asked, giving the reins another tug.
“Oh, they swept the floor, put down clean straw—that sort of thing. Place hadn’t been cleaned for years. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff they found. Old Thrym himself hauled in enough barrels of ale to fill a small pond. I lost count of how many oxen they slaughtered fer the feast.”
“Do the servants get to eat, too?” I asked. I had been getting hungrier and hungrier for the last hour of the journey, and by now my stomach felt so empty I was afraid my belly button was kissing my backbone.
“Sure, we all get fed. And it’s almost ready.” He chuckled. “Good thing you got here when you did. It’s hard to keep that lot at bay when they smell food. They might have started the feast without the bride, and that would have been bad luck!”
And bad luck it will be for all you giants when Thor gets back his hammer, I thought. Remembering my promise to Sif, I said aloud, “We’ll have to hurry. I’m supposed to serve at Freya’s table. She’ll be vexed if I don’t.”
“Sounds to me as if she’s more trouble than she’s worth,”
muttered the boy.
“If you’re very good, I’ll make sure my lady never learns you said that,” I replied quickly. “I wouldn’t risk her wrath if I were you. She’s the scariest woman in Asgard.”
The boy shook his head. “Why my uncle wants to marry one of them goddesses, I can’t tell. She’s got nice buzzums, though.” Looking down at me, he added, “You don’t got much in the way of buzzums, but you’re cute enough. My name’s Hralf. How about a kiss to celebrate the wedding?”
He bent over and puckered his lips, his pimply face looming above me like some great ugly moon.
“Oh no!” I squeaked, pushing him away. “My mistress will whip me if I kiss anyone before the wedding. It’s Asgard custom—bad luck!”
Gat snorted, then tried to cover it up with a fake sneeze.
“Your goat sounds sick,” said Hralf.
“It was a hard journey,” I replied.
He nodded. “Well, here’s the stable. You can put the goats in there. And don’t forget that kiss. I’ll be waitin’. Soon’s the vows are said, I expect to collect!”
There won’t be any vows until the hammer is in Thor’s hand, I thought. And then I won’t have to worry about you. But all I said was, “I won’t forget.”
That was true enough. I was likely to have nightmares about Hralf trying to kiss me until the day I died.
“You can go in through the back way once you’ve got your goats settled,” said Hralf. “They’ll feed you in the kitchen.”
“Oh, I can’t eat until my mistress does. Bad luck, you know. As I told you, I must be the one to serve her. It’s—”
“Asgard custom,” snorted the young giant. “All right, do as you please, long’s you don’t ferget my kiss!”
With that he turned and tromped toward the back of the house.
As soon as he was gone, Grinder broke out laughing.