LESSON 3

Feet

Laughter disarms the fiercest of men.

— Lokabrenna

It wasn’t too long before the news of Thiassi’s death reached the Middle Worlds. I may have had something to do with that; after all, it isn’t every day that Yours Truly turns out to be a hero. The best part of revenge, I found, was earning the enemy’s gratitude: Bragi wrote songs about me; people sang them in roadside inns. Soon, it was common knowledge that Loki had lured the Hunter to an ignominious death. Before I knew it, I was famous; my name was on everyone’s lips. Women loved it — though I’ll admit I could have been more careful.

As it was, I’d forgotten about Thiassi’s daughter, Skadi. She must have heard what had happened, because some three months afterwards, she arrived at Asgard’s gates, armed and ready for combat, demanding recompense for her father’s death and threatening the gods with war.

I have to say, she had a point. Killing Thiassi in battle was one thing. A worthy end for a would-be god. But to be slaughtered and grilled like a chicken — well. It was no less than he deserved for what he’d done to me, of course, but the Ice People were a proud lot, and it must have rankled.

Odin could have sent Skadi packing, of course, but he didn’t want war with the Ice Folk. A friendly foothold in the North would make far more sense than another set of enemies. And so he invited her to talk, and to see if they couldn’t come to some kind of agreement.

It didn’t start well. Skadi was not what you might call the approachable type. One of those chilly blondes, cropped hair, the runemark Isa —ice — on her arm. She arrived all in furs, wearing snowshoes, and carry­ing a runewhip — crafted from thousands of shining strands of woven glam, and barbed with the cruellest of runes — which slithered and hissed in her hand like a snake.

I’ve never been a fan of snakes. And so that whip did nothing to endear her to me. Nor did the fact that when she arrived, she demanded my execution.

“Why me?” I protested.

Skadi gave me a poisonous look. The whip in her hand hissed and slithered. “I know who you are,” she said. “You’re Loki, the Trickster. Everyone’s saying you planned the whole thing. You lured my father into a trap and then you disgraced his memory.”

“It wasn’t exactly like that,” I said.

“Really? You weren’t as modest when you were spreading the tale around the Middle Worlds.”

“That was poetic licence,” I said. “Bragi uses it all the time.”

Odin smiled. “Now, Huntress,” he said. “You should know better than to listen to rumours. Stay here awhile — have a rest, drink our mead — and we’ll discuss how best to handle this.”

Skadi shot me a sideways look. Her runewhip crackled like lightning. But she accepted a cup of mead, and when we sat down all together to feast, she ate six whole carp by herself, and half a barrel of salt herring. Clearly grief hadn’t interfered with her appetite, although she never smiled from one end of the meal to the other.

Still, I thought her attitude softened just a little — the Old Man had gone out of his way to show respect, seating her by his side, with the men, next to Thor and Balder. As you know, Balder was popular, being athletic, smooth-skinned, and with more teeth than brainpower. Ladies liked his floppy hair; men liked the fact that he was good at sports and otherwise nicely unthreatening. I’d never seen the appeal myself, but even I had to concede that the guy was doing a pretty good job of melting Skadi.

She’d downed a good half barrel of mead on top of the carp and the herring. I reckoned if that didn’t soften her, then nothing would. The women were bringing in dessert — honey-cakes, dried figs, giant baskets of fresh fruit — and Bragi was getting out his lute in preparation for some after-dinner entertainment when Odin turned to Skadi and said:

“I’m sorry for your father’s death. I’d like to offer you something.”

She took a handful of figs and said: “Whatever you offer won’t bring him back. Or lift the shame of his passing.”

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 guess she must have been thinking how much you can tell from a man by his feet. Or maybe she wasn’t thinking at all. I’ve seen that look on faces before — that soupy, soft, idiotic look. Oh, Skadi was falling for Balder, all right. Skadi had it big-time. I have to say, I was just a little disappointed. I’d thought better of Thiassi’s daughter. And, although I’d already discarded the idea of allying myself with the Ice Folk, an alliance with the Aesir would make that all the more difficult. I had to hand it to the General: It was a very neat little move.

And that was how, at the end of the meal, all of us found ourselves lined up behind a screen, with nothing but our bare feet on show, while Bragi played power chords on his lute and Skadi moved slowly down the line, trying to work out which pair of feet was Balder’s.

Finally, she came to a decision. “I choose him,” she said, pointing.

Please. Not me. Not me, I thought.

“Are you sure?” Odin said.

Skadi nodded, her iceberg gaze starting to melt as the screen was removed. And then she found herself face to face . . . not with Balder, as she’d assumed, but with Njörd, the Fisherman — whose feet, like those of all fishermen, were clean and white and shapely.

“But I thought . . .”

I began to laugh. Beside me, Golden Boy’s relief was almost as great as my own.

“But I thought . . . ,” she said again.

The gods saw her dismay, and smiled.

“I’m sorry,” said Odin. “But that was the deal. You chose Njörd. Be good to him.”

Skadi’s face darkened. “Is this a joke? Do you see me laughing?” she said. She lifted the runewhip again, its serpent coils seething angrily. “I said I wanted to laugh again,” she said. “You promised me laughter. Now, either someone makes me laugh, or I’ll take the next best thing. Hand-to-hand combat, here and now. All together or one at a time. I don’t care. Who wants a fight?”

Odin looked at me. “Loki.”

“What, me? You want me to fight her?”

“Of course not, idiot. Make her laugh.”

It was a Hel of a challenge. A sense of humour’s one of those things that you either have or you haven’t, and nothing I’d seen of Skadi thus far suggested any sign of one. But laughter disarms the fiercest of men, and besides, there was no way I was going to take on that runewhip. And so I marshalled all my wits and prepared for some stand-up comedy.

There was a little white goat nearby, tethered to a wooden beam. I guessed that Idun had brought it in — she was partial to goat’s milk, and rarely dined on anything more substantial. I untied the leash and stepped forward, bringing the little goat with me.

“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 put on an air of innocence. “Lady, I can explain,” I said. “I was taking this goat to market. . . .”

I yanked at the leash. The goat yanked back.

“See what she’s like?” I said. “Typical goat. Never does what she’s told to do. Plus I had this basket of fruit. . . .” I took one from the table and demonstrated the problem. Every time I brought the basket into the goat’s range, the goat would try to go for the fruit. It was a lively young goat, and I was hard put to control it.

I looked at Skadi. She still wasn’t smiling. I said:

“I need to tether the goat — but to what?” I pretended to look around. “What I could use is some kind of, um — appendage — um, about this long. . . .” I held out my finger and thumb about six inches apart.

Thor, never subtle, sniggered again.

I continued to feign puzzlement. “But where?” I searched my person. Pockets, waistcoat, belt . . .

I paused. Dropped my gaze an inch or two.

Around me, expectant laughter.

I went on with my story. “So — I tethered the goat securely to the only suitable — ahem! — I could find.” I demonstrated with the leash. Once more the little goat tugged on it.

“Ouch!”

Thor’s big face went red with mirth.

“Will you stop that!” I yelped at the goat, yanking at the leash in my turn. Some fruit fell out of the basket. The goat danced nimbly towards it, dragging me along with it.

“Ouch!” More fruit fell out of the basket. I yelped. “Oww-oww! My plums! My plums!”

Now all the gods were laughing. Even the icy Skadi joined in. Turns out the one thing that could make her laugh was the sight of Yours Truly, tied by the balls to a nanny goat.

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.

And so the Huntress joined our ranks — though not for long, as it turned out. She missed the snow of the far North, the howling of wolves, and the icy wastes. As for Njörd, in spite of his wish to make a success of the marriage, he found that he was incapable of living so far from Asgard and his hall overlooking the One Sea, with the sound of the waves and the cries of birds and the soft clouds gathering overhead. And so they agreed to live apart, though Skadi was always welcome in Asgard, and would sometimes call round, in animal Aspect — an eagle or a white wolf or a snow leopard with ice-blue eyes.

I wasn’t sorry to see her go. My clowning around had saved me once, but there was a nasty look in those eyes. 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. For the moment, suffice it to say that though laughter may be the best medicine, there are some folk who can never be cured. Skadi was one, and Lord Surt was another — 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. And of course, the more time I spent in this world of laughter, hate, and revenge, the smaller my chances of ever returning to my primal state of grace. . . .