Norse Mythology Page 3

  “What do you have in mind?” asked Loki.

  “Your head,” said Brokk. “If we win this contest, we get your head, Loki. There’s lots of things going on in that head of yours, and I have no doubt that Eitri could make a wonderful device out of it. A thinking machine, perhaps. Or an inkwell.”

  Loki kept smiling, but he scowled on the inside. The day had started out so well. Still, he simply had to ensure that Eitri and Brokk lost the contest; the gods would still get six wonderful things from the dwarfs, and Sif would get her golden hair. He could do that. He was Loki.

  “Of course,” he said. “My head. No problem.”

  Across the mountain, the sons of Ivaldi were making their treasures. Loki was not worried about them. But he needed to make sure that Brokk and Eitri did not, could not possibly, win.

  Brokk and Eitri entered the forge. It was dark in there, lit by the orange glow of burning charcoal. Eitri took a pigskin from a shelf and placed it into the forge. “I’ve been keeping this pigskin for something like this,” he said.

  Brokk just nodded.

  “Right,” said Eitri. “You work the bellows, Brokk. Just keep pumping them. I need this hot, and I need it consistently hot, otherwise it won’t work. Pump. Pump.”

  Brokk began to pump the bellows, sending a stream of oxygen-rich air into the heart of the forge, heating everything up. He had done it many times before. Eitri watched until he was satisfied that it would all be to his liking.

  Eitri left to work on his creation outside the forge. As he opened the door to go out, a large black insect flew in. It was not a horsefly and it was not a deerfly; it was bigger than either. It flew in and circled the room in a malicious way.

  Brokk could hear the sound of Eitri’s hammers outside the forge, and the sounds of filing and twisting, of shaping and banging.

  The large black fly—it was the biggest, blackest fly you have ever seen—landed on the back of Brokk’s hand.

  Both of Brokk’s hands were on the bellows. He did not stop pumping to swat at the fly. The fly bit Brokk, hard, on the back of the hand.

  Brokk kept pumping.

  The door opened, and Eitri came in and carefully pulled the work from the forge. It appeared to be a huge boar, with bristles of gleaming gold.

  “Good work,” said Eitri. “A fraction of a degree warmer or cooler and the whole thing would have been a waste of our time.”

  “Good work you too,” said Brokk.

  The black fly, up on the corner of the ceiling, seethed with resentment and irritation.

  Eitri took a block of gold and placed it on the forge. “Right,” he said. “This next one will impress them. When I call, start pumping the bellows, and whatever happens do not slow down, or speed up, or stop. There’s fiddly work involved.”

  “Got it,” said Brokk.

  Eitri left the room and began to work. Brokk waited until he heard Eitri’s call, and he started to pump the bellows.

  The black fly circled the room thoughtfully, then landed on Brokk’s neck. The insect stepped aside daintily to avoid a rivulet of sweat, for the air was hot and close in the forge. It bit Brokk’s neck as hard as it could. Scarlet blood joined the sweat on Brokk’s neck, but the dwarf did not stop pumping.

  Eitri returned. He removed a white-hot arm-ring from the forge. He dropped it into the stone cooling pool in the forge to quench it. There was a cloud of steam as the arm-ring fell into the water. The ring cooled, moving rapidly to orange, to red hot, and then, as it cooled, to gold.

  “It’s called Draupnir,” said Eitri.

  “The dripper? That’s a funny name for a ring,” said Brokk.

  “Not for this one,” said Eitri, and he explained to Brokk what was so very special about the arm-ring.

  “Now,” said Eitri, “there’s something I’ve had in mind to make for a very long time now. My masterwork. But it’s even trickier than the other two. So what you have to do is—”

  “Pump, and don’t stop pumping?” said Brokk.

  “That’s right,” said Eitri. “Even more than before. Do not change your pace, or the whole thing will be ruined.” Eitri picked up an ingot of pig iron, bigger than any ingot that the black fly (who was Loki) had ever seen before, and he hefted it into the forge.

  He left the room and called out to Brokk to begin pumping.

  Brokk began to pump, and the sound of Eitri’s hammers began as Eitri pulled and shaped and welded and joined.

  Loki, in fly shape, decided that there was no more time for subtlety. Eitri’s masterpiece would be something that would impress the gods, and if the gods were impressed enough, then he would lose his head. Loki landed between Brokk’s eyes and started to bite the dwarf’s eyelids. The dwarf continued to pump, his eyes stinging. Loki bit deeper, harder, more desperately. Now blood ran from the dwarf’s eyelids, into his eyes and down his face, blinding him.

  Brokk squinted and shook his head, trying to dislodge the fly. He jerked his head from side to side. He contorted his mouth and tried blowing air up at the fly. It was no good. The fly continued to bite, and the dwarf could see nothing but blood. A sharp pain filled his head.

  Brokk counted, and at the bottom of the downstroke he whipped one hand from the bellows and swiped at the fly, with such speed and such strength that Loki barely escaped with his life. Brokk grabbed the bellows once again and continued to pump.

  “Enough!” called Eitri.

  The black fly flew unsteadily about the room. Eitri opened the door, allowing the fly to escape.

  Eitri looked at his brother with disappointment. Brokk’s face was a mess of blood and sweat. “I don’t know what you were playing at that time,” said Eitri. “But you came close to ruining everything. The temperature was all over the place at the end. As it is, it’s nowhere near as impressive as I’d hoped. We’ll just have to see.”

  Loki, in Loki shape, strolled in through the open door. “So, all ready for the contest?” he asked.

  “Brokk can go to Asgard and present my gifts to the gods and cut off your head,” said Eitri. “I like it best here at my forge, making things.”

  Brokk stared at Loki through swollen eyelids. “I’m looking forward to cutting off your head,” said Brokk. “It got personal.”

  II

  In Asgard, three gods sat on their thrones: one-eyed Odin the all-father, red-bearded Thor of the thunders, and handsome Frey of the summer’s harvest. They would be the judges.

  Loki stood before them, beside the three almost identical sons of Ivaldi.

  Brokk, black-bearded and brooding, was there alone, standing to one side, the things he had brought hidden beneath sheets.

  “So,” said Odin. “What are we judging?”

  “Treasures,” said Loki. “The sons of Ivaldi have made gifts for you, great Odin, and for Thor, and for Frey, and so have Eitri and Brokk. It is up to you to decide which of the six things is the finest treasure. I myself will show you the gifts made by the sons of Ivaldi.”

  He presented Odin with the spear called Gungnir. It was a beautiful spear, carved with intricate runes.

  “It will penetrate anything, and when you throw it, it will always find its mark,” said Loki. Odin had but one eye, after all, and sometimes his aim could be less than perfect. “And, just as important, an oath taken on this spear is unbreakable.”

  Odin hefted the spear. “It is very fine,” was all he said.

  “And here,” said Loki proudly, “is a flowing head of golden hair. Made of real gold. It will attach itself to the head of the person who needs it and grow and behave in every way as if it were real hair. A hundred thousand strands of gold.”

  “I will test it,” said Thor. “Sif, come here.”

  Sif rose and came to the front, her head covered. She removed her headscarf. The gods gasped when they saw Sif’s naked head, bald and pink, and then she caref
ully placed the dwarfs’ golden wig on her head and shook her hair. They watched as the base of the wig joined itself to her scalp, and then Sif stood in front of them even more radiant and beautiful than before.

  “Impressive,” said Thor. “Good job!”

  Sif tossed her golden hair and walked out of the hall into the sunlight, to show her new hair to her friends.

  The last of the sons of Ivaldi’s remarkable gifts was small, and folded like cloth. This cloth Loki placed in front of Frey.

  “What is it? It looks like a silk scarf,” said Frey, unimpressed.

  “It does,” said Loki. “But if you unfold it, you will discover it is a ship, called Skidbladnir. It will always have a fair wind, wherever it goes. And although it is huge, the biggest ship you can imagine, it will fold up, as you see, like a cloth, so you can put it into your pouch.”

  Frey was impressed, and Loki was relieved. They were three excellent gifts.

  Now it was Brokk’s turn. His eyelids were red and swollen, and there was a huge insect bite on the side of his neck. Loki thought Brokk looked entirely too cocky, especially given the remarkable things Ivaldi’s sons had made.

  Brokk took the golden arm-ring and placed it in front of Odin on his high throne. “This arm-ring is called Draupnir,” said Brokk. “Because every ninth night, eight gold arm-rings of equal beauty will drip from it. You can reward people with them, or store them, and your wealth will increase.”

  Odin examined the arm-ring, then pushed it onto his arm, up high on his biceps. It gleamed there. “It is very fine,” he said.

  Loki recalled that Odin had said the same thing about the spear.

  Brokk walked over to Frey. He raised a cloth and revealed a huge boar with bristles made of gold.

  “This is a boar my brother made for you, to pull your chariot,” said Brokk. “It will race across the sky and over the sea, faster than the fastest horse. There will never be a night so dark that its golden bristles will not give light and let you see what you are doing. It will never tire, and will never fail you. It is called Gullenbursti, the golden-bristled one.”

  Frey looked impressed. Still, thought Loki, the magical ship that folded up like a cloth was every bit as impressive as an unstoppable boar that shone in the dark. Loki’s head was quite safe. And the last gift Brokk had to present was the one that Loki knew he had already managed to sabotage.

  From beneath the cloth Brokk produced a hammer, and placed it in front of Thor.

  Thor looked at it and sniffed.

  “The handle is rather short,” he said.

  Brokk nodded. “Yes,” he said. “That’s my fault. I was working the bellows. But before you dismiss it, let me tell you about what makes this hammer unique. It’s called Mjollnir, the lightning-maker. First of all, it’s unbreakable—doesn’t matter how hard you hit something with it, the hammer will always be undamaged.”

  Thor looked interested. He had already broken a great many weapons over the years, normally by hitting things with them.

  “If you throw the hammer, it will never miss what you throw it at.”

  Thor looked even more interested. He had lost a number of otherwise excellent weapons by throwing them at things that irritated him and missing, and he had watched too many weapons he had thrown disappear into the distance, never to be seen again.

  “No matter how hard or how far you throw it, it will always return to your hand.”

  Thor was now actually smiling. And the thunder god did not often smile.

  “You can change the size of the hammer. It will grow, and it will also shrink down so small that if you wish, you can hide it inside your shirt.”

  Thor clapped his hands together in delight, and thunder echoed across Asgard.

  “And yet, as you have observed,” concluded Brokk sadly, “the handle of the hammer is indeed too short. This is my fault. I failed to keep the bellows blowing while my brother, Eitri, was forging it.”

  “The shortness of the handle is a minor, cosmetic problem,” said Thor. “This hammer will protect us from the frost giants. This is the finest gift I have ever seen.”

  “It will protect Asgard. It will protect all of us,” said Odin with approval.

  “If I were a giant, I would be very afraid of Thor if he had that hammer,” said Frey.

  “Yes. It’s an excellent hammer. But Thor, what about the hair? Sif’s beautiful new golden hair!” asked Loki slightly desperately.

  “What? Oh, yes. My wife has very nice hair,” said Thor. “Now. Show me how to make the hammer grow and shrink, Brokk.”

  “Thor’s hammer is better even than my wonderful spear and my excellent arm-ring,” said Odin, nodding.

  “The hammer is greater and more impressive than my ship and my boar,” admitted Frey. “It will keep the gods of Asgard safe.”

  The gods clapped Brokk on the back and told him that he and Eitri had made the finest gift that they had ever been given.

  “Good to know,” said Brokk. He turned to Loki. “So,” said Brokk. “I get to cut off your head, Laufey’s son, and take it back with me. Eitri will be so pleased. We can turn it into something useful.”

  “I . . . will ransom my head,” said Loki. “I have treasures I can give you.”

  “Eitri and I already have all the treasure we need,” said Brokk. “We make treasures. No, Loki. I want your head.”

  Loki thought for a moment, then said, “Then you can have it. If you can catch me.” And Loki leapt high into the air and ran off, far above their heads. In moments he was gone.

  Brokk looked at Thor. “Can you catch him?”

  Thor shrugged. “I really shouldn’t,” he said. “But then, I would very much like to try out the hammer.”

  In moments Thor returned, holding Loki tightly. Loki was glaring with impotent fury.

  The dwarf Brokk took out his knife. “Come here, Loki,” he said. “I’m going to cut off your head.”

  “Of course,” said Loki. “You can, of course, cut off my head. But—and I appeal to mighty Odin here—if you cut off any of my neck, you are violating the terms of our agreement, which promised you my head, and my head only.”

  Odin inclined his head. “Loki is right,” he said. “You have no right to cut his neck.”

  Brokk was irritated. “But I can’t cut off his head without cutting his neck,” he said.

  Loki looked pleased with himself. “You see,” he said, “if people thought through the exactness of their words, they would not dare to take on Loki, the wisest, the cleverest, the trickiest, the most intelligent, the best-looking . . .”

  Brokk whispered a suggestion to Odin. “That would be fair,” agreed Odin.

  Brokk produced a strip of leather and a knife. He wrapped the leather around Loki’s mouth. Brokk tried to pierce the leather with the tip of the knifeblade.

  “It’s not working,” said Brokk. “My knife isn’t cutting you.”

  “I might have wisely arranged for protection from knifeblades,” said Loki modestly. “Just in case the whole you-can’t-cut-my-neck ploy did not work. I am afraid no knifeblade can cut me!”

  Brokk grunted and produced an awl, a pointed spike used in leatherwork, and he jabbed it through the leather, punching holes through Loki’s lips. Then he took a strong thread and he sewed Loki’s lips together with it.

  Brokk walked away, leaving Loki with his mouth sewn up tight, unable to complain.

  For Loki, the pain of being unable to talk hurt even more than the pain of having his lips stitched into the leather.

  So now you know: that is how the gods got their greatest treasures. It was Loki’s fault. Even Thor’s hammer was Loki’s fault. That was the thing about Loki. You resented him even when you were at your most grateful, and you were grateful to him even when you hated him the most.

  THE MASTER BUILDER

  Tho
r had gone to the east to fight trolls. Asgard was more peaceful without him, but it was also unprotected. This was in the early days, shortly after the treaty between the Aesir and the Vanir, when the gods were still making a home for themselves and Asgard was undefended.

  “We cannot always rely on Thor,” said Odin. “We need protection. Giants will come. Trolls will come.”

  “What do you propose?” asked Heimdall, the watchman of the gods.

  “A wall,” said Odin. “High enough to keep out frost giants. Thick enough that not even the strongest troll could batter its way through.”

  “Building such a wall,” said Loki, “so high and so thick, would take us many years.”

  Odin nodded his agreement. “But still,” he said, “we need a wall.”

  The next day a newcomer arrived in Asgard. He was a big man, dressed as a smith, and behind him trudged a horse—a stallion, huge and gray, with a broad back.

  “They say you need a wall built,” said the stranger.

  “Go on,” said Odin.

  “I can build you a wall,” said the stranger. “Build it so high that the tallest giant could not climb it, so thick that the strongest troll could not batter through it. I can build it so well, by placing stone upon stone, that not an ant could find space enough to crawl through it. I will build you a wall that will last for a thousand thousand years.”

  “Such a wall would take a very long time to build,” said Loki.

  “Not at all,” said the stranger. “I can build it in three seasons. Tomorrow is the first day of winter. It would only take me a winter, a summer, and another winter to build.”

  “And if you could do this,” said Odin, “what would you ask in return?”

  “I need little enough payment for what I am offering,” said the man. “Only three things. First, I would like the beautiful goddess Freya’s hand in marriage.”

  “That is not a little thing,” said Odin. “And it would not surprise me if Freya had her own opinions about the matter. What are the other two things?”