The Gospel of Loki

by Joanne M. Harris

We’d come in the Aspect of three of the Folk, unarmed and without signs of status.

That was typical Odin. Don’t ask me why; he liked the Folk. Any excuse to talk to them, to pretend to be one of them, he’d take it.

Who wanders through the woods during the hunting season disguised as lunch, for gods’ sakes?

Everyone has a weakness, and his was this sentimentality;

Yes. I’ll admit it. I planned the whole thing. I needed Odin’s gratitude. And, for all his intelligence, he was so predictable—his affection for the Folk, his love for those little valleys and woods. Everyone has a weakness, and his was this sentimentality; it didn’t take much for Yours Truly to guide him to the appointed spot, while letting him think it had been his idea.

“Will this cover it, do you think?” I bent down and covered the whisker with the ring of bloodred gold.

“By the way, Andvari’s curse lies on the ring I took from him. I hope you enjoy it. Serves you right for holding my brother to ransom.”

In ten minutes’ time, the sun will have set, and it will be merciless. . . .

And just like that, it was over. A golden age of godhood, gone, like apple blossom on the wind.

How can you hope to have any friends when you spy on everything they do? How can you enjoy the present when you can see the future? Most of all, how can you love when you know Death lies in waiting?

She turned her living profile away, subjecting me to the full impact of her dead face. The eye that gleamed from the socket of bone was horribly, darkly sentient. The binding-rope of runes that she wore twisted around her narrow waist reminded me uncomfortably of Skadi’s runewhip.

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.

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.

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.

The Ice Folk had given her their pledge, and the Rock Folk, and the Folk of the Middle Worlds.

The Folk call it a flyting, a ritual name-calling ceremony, and it became a tradition. One of my many gifts to the Folk.

Sif gave a wail of protest. “You animal! I do not wear corsets!” That started me laughing, and once I’d started, I couldn’t stop. I went round all the circle of gods, and told them exactly what I thought. The Folk call it a flyting, a ritual name-calling ceremony, and it became a tradition. One of my many gifts to the Folk. Anger is often cathartic, a healing process at moments of stress, although I suppose that, at the time, I should perhaps have given it all just a little more thought.

By the time the hangovers lifted and the sweet light of understanding had dawned, Yours Truly had been unanimously condemned by everyone in Asgard, not just for Balder’s death, but for every crime imaginable.

Now comes a fire-ship from the east, With Loki standing at the helm. The dead rise; the damned are unleashed; Fear and Chaos ride with them.

I looked up at the Old Man and quoted the words of the Oracle: Now comes a fire-ship from the east, With Loki standing at the helm. The dead rise; the damned are unleashed; Fear and Chaos ride with them. “Sound familiar, brother?” I said. His startled look was almost worth the whole distressing episode. “Where did you hear that?” “Where do you think?” He sighed. “You spoke to the Oracle.” “Well, you weren’t about to confide in me. I had to find out for myself.” “And how much did it tell you?” I shrugged. “Enough to wish I hadn’t asked.”

The wretch looks like Loki. Looks like Loki. Looks like Loki. I thought about that for a long time. Why that phrase? I asked myself. To fit the metre of the verse? Or for some other reason, as yet unknown? The wretch looks like Loki. I suffered. I screamed. The wretch looks like Loki. I slept. I dreamed.

Burning buildings and fortresses falling into twilight, visions of the Folk at war, the Maggots, the Rock Folk, the Ice Folk, the gods . . .

Unsuspected by the gods, who still viewed them as little more than a fan base, the Folk had an almost inexhaustible capacity to dream, to imagine, to conjure up the most intricate, the most explicit, the most enduring of fantasies — all of which the Sorceress could weave into the makings of the most advanced army the Worlds had ever known.

This was the place from which our army would come, led by Heidi’s incantations. Beings of all kinds would be summoned there, from the fears and dreams and tears of the Folk. You see, the human race had become a reservoir of power. Unsuspected by the gods, who still viewed them as little more than a fan base, the Folk had an almost inexhaustible capacity to dream, to imagine, to conjure up the most intricate, the most explicit, the most enduring of fantasies—all of which the Sorceress could weave into the makings of the most advanced army the Worlds had ever known.

Heidi showered me with praise, worshipped me with her body, lavished me with extravagant gifts, and placed me on a fire-ship at the head of a battle fleet that would launch, not across the One Sea, but through Dream, Death, and Damnation itself.

Heidi showered me with praise, worshipped me with her body, lavished me with extravagant gifts, and placed me on a fire-ship at the head of a battle fleet that would launch, not across the One Sea, but through Dream, Death, and Damnation itself. That fire-ship. It was beautiful. Slim as a sword, and as deadly, it could glide through anything—air, or stone, or water. Its sail was like St. Sepulchre’s Fire; its skeleton crew was tireless. (And by “skeleton crew” I mean a crew of actual skeletons, coaxed into life by a cantrip of Naudr and press-ganged into my service.) And when I was tired of playing with it, I could fold it up like a pocketknife and carry it wherever I went, or moor it in Dream, where it would wait patiently to be summoned.

Now comes the final reckoning. Now come the folk of Netherworld. Now comes the dragon of darkness, Death

As for the rest of my demon fleet, these were not ships, precisely. Instead they were vessels for my army, a motley assemblage of half bloods, renegade demons, the undead, and assorted ephemeral creatures, all summoned by Heidi through Dream and sworn to my allegiance. The creatures called me General and worshipped me in their slavish way, as I cavorted with Heidi, eating venison, drinking mead, and looking forward to Ragnarók and the End of Everything. Now comes the final reckoning. Now come the folk of Netherworld. Now comes the dragon of darkness, Death This was the only part of the deal that caused me any anxiety. The Dragon of Darkness—aka Lord Surt—finally taking a physical Aspect to enter the Worlds and to cleanse them of that stubborn intruder, Life. Not what you’d call a happy thought. Heidi’s assurances that, when the time came, he would recognize our role in the triumph of Chaos and take us back into the primal Fire all made perfect sense — at least, whenever she was around. When I was alone, I had a tendency to feel rather less certain about the whole thing. I wasn’t even entirely certain that I wanted to go back permanently to my primary Aspect. I’d found too many things to enjoy in this corrupt, confusing world of conflict and sensations. I’d realized that one of the things I enjoyed most was challenging Order and breaking rules — and how in the Worlds could I do that if there was no Order to challenge? Even assuming that it was possible that I could be taken back into the heart of Chaos, that my radically altered being could even survive in that element . . . Did I really want that? Had I ever wanted it?

I had my fire-ship, Gullveig-Heid, and an army of fanatical half-demon worshippers. What more could I want? I thought. What could possibly go wrong?

All right. Call it denial. I was enjoying myself at last. For the first time, I was a real god, and maybe—just maybe—it went to my head. But can you blame me, after all, with everything I’d been through? I was in my element. I had my fire-ship, Gullveig-Heid, and an army of fanatical half-demon worshippers. What more could I want? I thought. What could possibly go wrong?

We had a thousand fire-ships waiting to attack through Dream.

It was rumoured that Angrboda was in hiding somewhere in Ironwood, leading a pack of werewolves that preyed on the Folk that were gathering in numbers on the outskirts of the forest. I didn’t investigate the rumours.

Meanwhile, the Folk were assembling, little bands of warriors, at first—no more than a few hundred at a time, armed with swords and axes and shields and sometimes just farm implements—drifting in towards the southwest. There had been a few skirmishes, but nothing more. The Folk were still uncertain. Rumours of an impending war, omens in the winter sky, nightmares, sudden deaths, ominous flights of migratory birds—all premonitions of bad things to come for Mankind and the Middle Worlds. It was rumoured that Angrboda was in hiding somewhere in Ironwood, leading a pack of werewolves that preyed on the Folk that were gathering in numbers on the outskirts of the forest. I didn’t investigate the rumours. Angie wasn’t my biggest fan, not after the way the gods had dealt with Fenris, and I was in no hurry to introduce her to Heidi.

Meanwhile, the Folk were still gathering, now in greater numbers.

Some attacked the Folk through Dream, sending madness and violence.

The Folk don’t need any help when it comes to massacring one another.

And of course, they blamed the gods. That was the part I enjoyed the most — that the Folk, who had worshipped Odin’s crew in such a fawning, uncritical way should, at the first sign of Last Times, turn against him in mindless rage, razing his temples, toppling his standing stones, cutting down his sacred trees, cursing his name and all his works, and turning instead to whatever crazed comfort was offered them.

Predictably, many of the Folk turned away from the gods of Asgard and started to worship me instead.

To the west, the Folk still stood — or at least, what was left of them after Phase Two — ragged, hungry, and afraid, but stubbornly holding to their gods.

There were demons and trolls, werewolves and hags, goblins and ephemera and human monsters and the undead. I had my fire-ship, my fleet to navigate between the Worlds; I had my crew of skulls and bones.

The Ice and Rock Folk launched a two-pronged assault to the north and east of Asgard, while the rest of our army gathered to wipe up the rest of the Folk, and, as Heidi’s people moved up out of Ironwood to challenge Bif-rost, I, in Wildfire Aspect, at the helm of my fire-ship, led my fleet across the plain to scour the land in a thin red line.

I launched my fire-ship at the Bridge. It cast a bloody pall across the plain. Cutting through Worlds like a razor, slashing between Death, Dream, and beyond, releasing fragments of Chaos into the charged and rapturous air. All that stood between Asgard and us was that Bridge, cloaked in Northlights, gleaming like eternity.

He looked at me from the parapet, his one eye filled with blue fire. And then he raised his battle-spear and launched it at the fire-ship.

He looked at me from the parapet, his one eye filled with blue fire. And then he raised his battle-spear and launched it at the fire-ship. Was he aiming at me? Who knows? If so, he missed his target. I saw the missile coming, swore, slipped back into Wildfire Aspect. The spear, with its shaft of laddered runes, passed right through the fire-ship and struck the fiery plain below in an icy eruption of glam. He took another step forward and slowly drew his mindsword.

From Asgard’s distant parapet came a cheer of victory. But the victory was brief.

From Asgard’s distant parapet came a cheer of victory. But the victory was brief. Thor took nine steps away from the place where Jormungand had breathed his last. Then, overwhelmed by the monster’s venom, the Thunderer collapsed and died, just as the Oracle had prophesied. There goes free will, I told myself. After that, all Hel broke loose.

Having seen their two greatest heroes undone, the remaining Aesir and Vanir gave up any thought of strategy.

I looked up at our battlements, now crumbling beneath the assault. I looked up at Bif-rost, its bright curve sagging with a legion’s weight. Once more assuming my Wildfire form, I left my fire-ship and raced across the bloody battlefield, leaving a trail of fire in my wake, and leapt onto the Rainbow Bridge.

I know a tale, O sons of earth. I speak it as I must. Of how nine trees gave life to Worlds That giants held in trust. That was the first Age, Ymir’s time. There was no land or sea. Just void between two darknesses, No stars by which to see. Till Buri’s sons brought Order From out of Chaos; light From darkness; life from death And shining day from night. The Aesir came. On Ida’s plain The new gods built their kingdom. Here they raised their citadel, their courts, Their seats of wisdom. Gold they had in quantity From the folk in World Below, They shaped the fates of mortal men And sealed their own, so long ago. From the Alder and the Ash, They fashioned the first Folk from wood. One gave spirit; one gave speech; One gave fire in the blood. I know a mighty Ash that stands. Its name is Yggdrasil. It stands eternal, evergreen, Growing over wisdom’s well. I speak now of the Sorceress, Gullveig-Heid, thrice-burned, thrice-born, Seeress, mistress of the Fire Vengeful, bloated with desire. I speak of war, as now I must Of war against the Aesir. The Vanir, Gullveig’s kindred Cry vengeance for their sister. Odin flings his spear. Now war Is fast unleashed upon us. Asgard’s walls are broken down; The Firefolk, victorious. The Aesir meet in council. But oaths are to be broken. The Sorceress has done her work. The Oracle has spoken. But I see more. There Heimdall’s horn Lies underneath the sacred tree. In Mimir’s well, Allfather’s eye Was forfeit. Will you hear me? I see your fate, O sons of earth. I hear the battle calling. Odin’s folk prepare to ride Against the shadows falling. I see a branch of mistletoe Wielded by a blind man. This, the poison dart that slays Asgard’s most beloved son. I speak as I must. The funeral pyre Sends smoke into the fading sky. Frigg weeps bitter tears — too late, Her son sits, silent, at Hel’s side. I see one bound beneath the court, Under the Cauldron of Rivers. The wretch looks like Loki. His wife Alone stands by him as he suffers. I speak as I must. Three rivers converge Upon the gods in their domain. A river of knives from the east; from the north And south, twin rivers of ice and flame. I see a hall on the shores of Death. Acrawl with snakes and serpents. Netherworld, in which the damned Await the time of judgement. In Ironwood, the Witch awakes. The Fenris Wolf will have his day. His brothers howling at the skies The sun and moon will be their prey. Night will fall upon the Worlds. Evil winds will howl and blow. A void between two darknesses — What more would Allfather know? Now crows the golden cockerel To call the Aesir to the foe. And in the silent hall of Hel, A soot-red rooster loudly crows. The wolf at Hel’s gate howls. The chain Is broken; Loki’s son runs free. Ragnarók is come at last, Chaos rides to victory. Now comes the time of axe and sword; Brother shall kill brother. Now comes the time of wolves; the son Will soon supplant the father. Yggdrasil, the World Ash Quakes where it stands. The Watchman Sounds his horn. In Asgard, Odin speaks with Mimir’s Head. The wolf at Hel’s gate howls again. Loki’s second son breaks free. The World Tree falls; the Serpent writhes, Lashing the waves in fury.

Now comes a fire-ship from the east, With Loki standing at the helm. The dead arise; the damned are unleashed; Fear and Chaos ride with them.

Now comes a fire-ship from the east, With Loki standing at the helm. The dead arise; the damned are unleashed; Fear and Chaos ride with them. 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. How goes it with the Firefolk? And with the gods, how goes it now? The day of Ragnarók is here. I speak as I must. Will you hear more? Flames from the south. Ice from the north. The sun falls screaming from the sky. The road to Hel is open wide Mountains gape and witches fly. Now Odin comes to face the foe. Against the Fenris Wolf he stands. He fights; he falls. Need I say more? Thor will avenge the Old Man. Now the snake that binds the world Strikes in rage at wrathful Thor. Thunderer wins the battle, but falls To the monster’s raging maw. Once more the wolf at Hel’s gate greets Asgard’s heroes, one by one. Battle rages, Worlds collide. Stars fall. Once more, Death has won. I see a new world rising. Green And lovely from the ocean. Mountains rise, bright torrents flow, Eagles hunt for salmon

I see Asgard built anew Gleaming over Ida’s plain. I have spoken. Now I sleep Till the world’s tides turn again.

On what was once the battlefield A New Age dawns. Its children Find the golden gaming-boards Of bright Asgard, the fallen. New runes will come to Odin’s heirs, New harvests will be gathered. The fallen will come home. The child Will liberate the father. I see Asgard built anew Gleaming over Ida’s plain. I have spoken. Now I sleep Till the world’s tides turn again.