5
I had never been in the Great Hall of Asgard before. Even from outside, it was the most amazing building I had ever seen, vaster and grander than I could have imagined possible before I crossed the Rainbow Bridge in Thor’s goat cart.
We approached it as a household—Thor; Sif; their two sons, Modi and Magni; the other servants; and me. Loki came with us as well, as he had been waiting at Bilskirnir for Thor to report on his meeting with Freya.
The other gods and goddesses were also arriving, each followed by the mortals who served them. Entering the hall just ahead of us was Baldur. The most beautiful of the gods, and also the most gentle, Baldur was loved by everyone—with the possible exception of Loki.
Close behind us came Tyr, the god of war. His face was grim and stern. Though you would never want to anger him, you could also tell—just by looking at him—that there could be no one better to have at your side in battle.
Striding behind Tyr came Heimdall, guardian of the Rainbow Bridge. If I had not already been convinced that the situation was serious, the fact that Heimdall had left his post would have told me how deep the trouble was.
The great wooden doors of the hall, which were carved with interlocking designs and images of monsters, swung open as if of their own accord. We entered an enormous chamber, though as it turned out, this was only the outer hall, and a mere fraction the size of the main room. The chatter of the gods filled the air. Some were aware of the catastrophe, some just finding out. I could hear scandalized shouts as word of Thrym’s outrageous demand reached each of them.
Then the next set of doors swung open. My heart nearly stopped at the sight. Ahead was the most beautiful room in the world—or, at any rate, the most beautiful I had ever seen. Great beams of polished wood, golden brown, held up the sky-distant ceiling. From those beams dangled gorgeous banners, marked with the insignia of the gods. Along each side of the room were sectors divided by intricately carved rails. In each sector stood one or two beautiful chairs—two if the god or goddess was married, one if he or she had no spouse.
But it was not these sectors that caught and held my attention. At the end of the room sat Odin, and what mortal, seeing him, could tear his eyes away? The Allfather wore a cloak of gray, the gray of the sea, of fog, of stormy skies—all these grays and more, for it seemed to shift and change even as I gazed upon it.
On his shoulders sat the ravens Hugin and Munin. With his one good eye—and who did not know the tale of how he had traded the other for a drink from the Well of Wisdom?—Odin gazed out on the gathering of his children. And in that gaze was such wisdom, and sorrow, and unexpected joy, that I felt tears well up in my own eyes, for I had seen something greater and more wonderful than I even knew existed. But I also shrank back, fearing that his gaze would fall upon me, and he would know my secret sin, and call it out for the gods to hear.
When all had gathered, each in his or her place, each with his or her household, Odin spoke. His voice was deep as a valley, serious as a grave. His words were simple. “We have a problem.”
It was all I could do to keep from bolting out of the room.
“The problem,” he continued, “is this: Thor’s hammer, Mjollnir, which is our greatest defense against the Jotuns, has been stolen. It is being held by a Jotun named Thrym, who has demanded that to ransom it we send Freya to be his bride. This, of course, we shall not do. The question is, what shall we do? We must regain the hammer or all of Asgard is in peril.”
A deathly silence fell over the hall. I longed for someone to speak, to provide a solution.
The silence went on.
Just as I was feeling that if someone did not speak I must fling myself forward with a confession, Loki cleared his throat.
All eyes turned in his direction.
“Yes, Loki?” said Odin.
“Oh, never mind,” said the mischief maker, waving his hand. “I had an idea, but . . .”
Odin sighed. “Let us hear it, Loki.”
Stepping forward, Loki said, “Thrym has demanded a bride. Freya will not go, nor can we blame her. Yet we must gain the hammer. Therefore, one of us must go in her stead.”
Odin wrinkled his brow, as if trying to understand. “What do you mean, sly one?”
Loki spread his hands as if the answer were obvious. “I mean one of us must dress as Freya and go to gain the hammer.”
“Who would do such a thing, Loki?” demanded Tyr. “Dress in bridal clothes! Think of the shame!”
Loki shrugged modestly. “Perhaps he who lost the hammer should be the one to go and fetch it.”
An awful silence fell over the hall, only to be replaced by peals of laughter.
“Aye!” cried Heimdall, laughing so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes. “Aye, let Thor be Thrym’s bride!”
“Let Thor be the bride!” cried voices on every side. “Let Thor be the bride!”
I saw Freya laughing and clapping her hands as she joined her voice with the others.
Thor sprang to his feet, his red beard curling and uncurling. A dark cloud formed over his head as he raged, “This time you go too far, Loki! Thor is not to be laughed at in this fashion, not to be mocked, not to be—”
“Oh, tut-tut, Goat Lord,” said Loki. “If we do not regain what you lost, there will be no laughter in Asgard at all. Do what must be done. I will even go with you. I shall be your bridesmaid, and help you maintain your . . . maidenly modesty.”
I was amazed that Loki would make this offer, until I realized that his love of mischief was such that he would go to any lengths to embarrass Thor—even if it meant putting himself in line for a bit of mocking, too.
And so it was decided: In order to regain Mjollnir, Thor must disguise himself as Freya. Then with Loki as his bridesmaid, he would go to Jotunheim and pretend to marry Thrym.
It went without saying that, as Thor’s goat boy, I would be going with them.