The Gospel of Loki

by Joanne M. Harris

Odin smiled. “I’ve always found that gold covers shame, if used in sufficient quantities.” I thought he was looking at Freyja as he said it, but that might have been a trick of the light. Skadi shook her head. “Gold? My father’s hoard belongs to me now. So does his empty castle. Gold won’t buy me company, or make me laugh as they do.” She looked enviously down the table towards the seated goddesses, all of them beautiful, carefree, at ease. Odin looked thoughtful. “Is that what you want?” Skadi’s eyes flicked towards Balder. “If I had a husband, then perhaps I could learn to laugh again.” Balder looked distinctly nervous. “A husband? Really?” Skadi said, “Yes. If I could choose one of the Aesir . . .” For a moment Odin considered it. Skadi looked at Balder again. I grinned inside as Golden Boy began to look uncomfortable. “Well?” said Skadi. “Is it a deal?” Odin nodded. “All right. As long as this ends the hostility.” Skadi’s eyes lit. “All right. Then I choose — ” “I’ll let you take your pick,” he said. “But on one condition. We’ll stand all our eligible men behind a screen, with only their feet on display. Then you’ll choose. You’ll choose your husband by his feet. Agreed?” I stared at him. I mean, really. His feet? What new perversion was this? But Skadi nodded and said, “Agreed.”

I marshalled all my wits and prepared for some stand-up comedy.

“Got milk?”

“Got milk?” That earned me a snigger from Thor, but Skadi was unaffected. I could see this was going to be a somewhat difficult audience.

I only saw her laugh again once. As it happens, in tragic circumstances, at least for Your Humble Narrator. But that’s another story, one for a darker, colder day.

I suspected she was the kind to bear a grudge, which made me think that the farther I got from her — and from that runewhip — the happier I was likely to be. Turns out I was right, of course — but more of that later.

there is no laughter in Chaos, except for the desperate laughter of those imprisoned in Surt’s Black Fortress. But that was a lesson I had yet to learn.

“Marry in haste and repent at leisure,” as the old wives of Inland say, and, let’s face it, they should know. It’s an open secret that old wives really run everything.

Odin was furious, of course. But even he could hardly blame me for what had happened.

Odin was furious, of course. But even he could hardly blame me for what had happened. He took to spending even more time alone, with only his ravens and Mimir’s Head for company. Sometimes I heard him talking in a low and urgent voice — though whether it was to the ravens, to himself, or to the Head, I could only speculate. As for myself, I’d managed to carry out another covert act of sabotage, and I was feeling pleased with myself — at least until the hammer fell, taking me wholly by surprise. . . .

They don’t call it “wedlock” for nothing.

They don’t call it “wedlock” for nothing. —Lokabrenna

This time, the blow was delivered by Frigg, Odin’s wife, the Enchantress, who, in the wake of Frey and Gerda’s nuptials, now turned her matchmaking eye on me.

Yes, the hammer. I should have known that Odin would find a means of, if not actually punishing me for my part in Frey’s misadventure, then at least of restraining me for a while. This time, the blow was delivered by Frigg, Odin’s wife, the Enchantress, who, in the wake of Frey and Gerda’s nuptials, now turned her matchmaking eye on me.

It was Sigyn, of course. Who else? She’d had her eye on me from the start. What was more, she’d confided in Frigg, who had confided in Odin. The result was one of those female conspiracies that men are powerless to resist, and I found myself under attack from both sides, and helpless.

Ironwood was a good place to hide. Dark as night, and teeming with predators and demons. Most of them had glam of some kind, stolen scraps of Chaos, bartered from other realms or brought into the Worlds through Dream.

And so I went in search of one, telling my wife that I needed space; that it wasn’t her fault, it was me; that I just needed to find myself; and, in my bird Aspect, I ventured out as far as the forest of Ironwood, which stretches over a hundred miles between the plain of Ida right up to the shores of the One Sea. Ironwood was a good place to hide. Dark as night, and teeming with predators and demons. Most of them had glam of some kind, stolen scraps of Chaos, bartered from other realms or brought into the Worlds through Dream. The river Gunnthrà ran through it; it was swarming with snakes and ephemera. It was a dangerous place, but it was as close as I was ever likely to get to Chaos again, and I made for its shelter with relief.

“Now, sweetie, be nice to my little friends,” she would say as I swiped at a field mouse climbing up the curtains. “You never know, one day you might need that little mousie.”

But, idyllic as it was at first between Angrboda and myself, it was inevitable that, in time, our . . . activities . . . would bear fruit. Demons often tend to . . . let’s say exotic progeny, and in Angie’s case, this was especially true. Over our twelve-month liaison, she presented me with three offspring: a cute little werewolf called Fenris, an undead half-corpse daughter called Hel, and Jormungand, an enormous snake, which proved to be the final straw between me and Angrboda.

the World Serpent, spanning the Middle Worlds with his girth, tail in his mouth, biding his time till Ragnarók.

Well, the snake was the easiest. By the time we reached a decision, he’d grown so large that only the One Sea could safely hope to contain him. So that was where we threw him, to lounge in the ocean mud and feed on fish for the rest of his days, and he became the World Serpent, spanning the Middle Worlds with his girth, tail in his mouth, biding his time till Ragnarók.

Odin made a decision and gave Hel her own realm, the Land of the Dead, on the near bank of the River Dream, and waved her merrily on her way.

As for Hel, by the time she was grown, everyone wanted rid of her. It wasn’t that she was evil, as such, she just wasn’t a social animal. She could clear a room in two minutes; her conversation was minimal; everywhere she went, there was gloom; parties fell flat as storm-blown tents. Even so, Odin tolerated her for my sake, at least until she was in her teens, when, as well as developing the most shocking case of adolescent acne, she also developed an equally bad case of puppy love towards Asgard’s favourite Golden Boy, aka Balder the Beautiful. It eventually got so embarrassing that at last Odin made a decision and gave Hel her own realm, the Land of the Dead, on the near bank of the River Dream, and waved her merrily on her way.

My twin sons, Vali and Narvi, with my green eyes and my temperament, whom Sigyn (wrongly, as it happened) assumed would awaken my sense of responsibility.

No, I didn’t abandon her—Frigg would never have let me do that—but I managed to convince her that I needed my personal space. By then she was pregnant anyway, and her energies had been channelled into knitting bootees and little hats. A good time for me to make my excuses, I thought—and after that, she had the boys to occupy her. Yes, the boys. My twin sons, Vali and Narvi, with my green eyes and my temperament, whom Sigyn (wrongly, as it happened) assumed would awaken my sense of responsibility. In fact, they had the opposite effect, with the result that over the next few years I took every excuse to travel as far and as often from my loving family as possible.

What can I say? It’s my nature. Besides, what role models did I have? An absent father in Chaos, and an absent mother in World Above. That’s hardly a wonderful start in life. Still, if I’d done things differently . . .

And if there ever was a time when I wondered what it might have been like to play a game of catch with my sons, or teach them to fly, or shift Aspects, or educate them in such essential life skills as lying, cheating, and treachery, I wisely kept the thought to myself.

Perhaps this is what I was missing. Perhaps I belong here after all. . . .

One day, I flew into Asgard from one of my jaunts in hawk Aspect and saw my sons, aged seven or eight, playing on the battlements. And just for a moment, I almost felt . . . Yes. I almost felt happy. I should have known there was something wrong. Face it, it wasn’t natural. But after years of trying, at last Odin had corrupted me. No, it wasn’t love, of course, but it was a kind of contentment. Suddenly I wasn’t alone. Suddenly I had people. And suddenly the End of the Worlds couldn’t be too far away, as I looked at my sons from afar and thought: Perhaps this is what I was missing. Perhaps I belong here after all. . . .

Suspicion and Survival are twins — lose one, and the other soon follows.

“That signature belongs to Thrym, one of the chieftains of the Ice Folk. He must have found his way in here — he likes to travel in eagle form — and stolen it when you were asleep.”

“I’ve buried the hammer in World Below. You’ll never find it in time,” he said. “But you can have it back as soon as I get the Goddess of Desire as my bride. You have nine days to deliver.”

“Not if she slits his first,” I said. “It all depends on who we send.”

“You think you can fool him?” Heimdall sneered. “As soon as he finds out he’s been duped, he’ll slit the bride’s throat.” “Not if she slits his first,” I said. “It all depends on who we send.”

“I’ll be your handmaid, Thor,” I said. “Don’t worry, I won’t steal your thunder. You’ll make a gorgeous bride.”

Thor has always had a more than healthy appetite. On this occasion he surpassed himself, managing to put away a whole roast ox, eight salmon, and all the little delicacies —

Thor has always had a more than healthy appetite. On this occasion he surpassed himself, managing to put away a whole roast ox, eight salmon, and all the little delicacies—sweets, cakes, biscuits, candied fruit—that had been put out for the women. I tried to warn him, but Thor and food are friends that can’t be parted. And after that, he started on the mead, downing three whole horns of the stuff before I managed to make him see sense.

“Bring the hammer at once!” said Thrym. “I want to be married right now!”

Thunder crashed; lightning blazed; the hammer did its deadly work. “Something borrowed, something blue” — well, they’d borrowed the hammer, I guess, and soon the happy multitude were all going to be as blue as anything. . . .

“if you say another word, I’ll string you across the Rainbow Bridge and use your guts as a guitar. Is that clear?”

Thor had always been popular. Big and strong and good-natured and about as bright as your average Labrador, he was a man the Folk could admire without feeling threatened by his intellect.

“Oh, that’s so Loki”

I was blissfully unaware of the fall that awaited me. . . .

killing his loyal fans would hardly help his public image.

“So, how do you get to be a god?”

“So, how do you get to be a god?” said the father of the family. “Is it something that can be taught? Or is it something you’re born with? Because my son’s always saying that he wants to be a god someday, but I don’t know if there’s a career in it. Not like there is in farming.” Thor assured him that there was. “So, did you train?” said Thialfi. “Or were you, like, recruited?” Thor told him it was a bit of both. “And where do you get your ideas from?” said the mother, addressing me. “All those clever plans you make, I don’t know how you think of them. Do they just come into your head?” I smiled and told her yes, they did.

This was Utgard — the Farthest North. We knew it by reputation, although as far as we knew, even Odin had never actually been there. For six months in the year, we’d heard, the sun never clipped the horizon; everything was frozen, and Northlights danced across the dark-blue winter sky. The summer was brief — barely three months — but during that time, Chaos reigned: The sun never set; monsters roamed; the vegetation grew rampant; and, according to the legends, anything was possible.

The first thing I saw was a pair of feet as large as the average garden shed. Further investigation revealed them to belong to a sleeping figure — a giant of spectacular size, fast asleep and snoring.

But Skrymir wasn’t hard to track; we heard his progress from afar and saw the trail he left through the woods — a broken line of fallen trees.

Thor isn’t what you’d call good at hiding his aggression, and between the mutterings, the gnashing of teeth, the rumbling stomach, and the animal sounds, I could tell he was feeling frustrated.

“Utgard-Loki?” I said in surprise. “He’s the King of World Beyond. What? You thought you were the only Trickster in the Worlds?”

I tried to explain that bravery wasn’t the same as foolishness. A city of giants like Skrymir, impervious to Mjølnir’s blows and ruled by a king who thought the gods were just cute little wannabes — this just happened to be high on my list of things to be avoided.

we headed east, to Utgard, and our downfall.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall? Tell that to the mountains.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall? Tell that to the mountains. —Lokabrenna

“I can run,” said Thialfi. “Back home, I’ve never been beaten.”

“I’ll gladly out-drink any of you.”

Utgard-Loki gave a smile. “That’s right. I was Skrymir.

The valleys are Thor’s hammer-blows.”

“That was an Aspect of Old Age, and she only wrestled you to one knee.” He paused and looked at us all in turn.

“That’s why,” he said, “this is good-bye.

“That’s why,” he said, “this is good-bye. You’ll never see me or my city again. My glamours will hide us for ever. Your people might search a thousand years and still you’d never find us. Let’s chalk this up to experience, shall we? Live and let live, that’s what I say.”

I was quickly running short of places to hide — should I need them. And there was something in the air that told me the time was approaching. . . .

I told you the Worlds had ended before. Of course that isn’t entirely true. The Worlds never really end — just the folk who have made it their own. And Order and Chaos never end, but the balance of power is in constant flux, which is why the General never slept well, and never relaxed his vigilance.