The Treasures of the Gods

Thor’s wife was the beautiful Sif. She was of the Aesir. Thor loved her for
herself, and for her blue eyes and her pale skin, her red lips and her smile,
and he loved her long, long hair, the color of a field of barley at the end of
summer.
Thor woke, and stared at sleeping Sif. He scratched his beard. Then he
tapped his wife with a huge hand. “What happened to you?” he asked.
She opened her eyes, the color of the summer sky. “What are you talking
about?” she asked, and then she moved her head and looked puzzled. Her
fingers reached up to her bare pink scalp and touched it, exploring it
tentatively. She looked at Thor, horrified.
“My hair,” was all she said.
Thor nodded. “It’s gone,” he said. “He has left you bald.”
“He?” asked Sif.
Thor said nothing. He strapped on his belt of power, Megingjord, which
doubled his enormous strength. “Loki,” he said. “Loki has done this.”
“Why do you say that?” said Sif, touching her bald head frantically, as if
the fluttering touch of her fingers would make her hair return.
“Because,” said Thor, “when something goes wrong, the first thing I
always think is, it is Loki’s fault. It saves a lot of time.”
Thor found Loki’s door locked, so he pushed through it, leaving it in
pieces. He picked Loki up and said only, “Why?”
“Why what?” Loki’s face was the picture of perfect innocence.
“Sif’s hair. My wife’s golden hair. It was so beautiful. Why did you cut it
off?”A hundred expressions chased each other across Loki’s face: cunning and
shiftiness, truculence and confusion. Thor shook Loki hard. Loki looked
down and did his best to appear ashamed. “It was funny. I was drunk.”
Thor’s brow lowered. “Sif’s hair was her glory. People will think that her
head was shaved for punishment. That she did something she should not have
done, did it with someone she should not have.”
“Well, yes. There is that,” said Loki. “They will probably think that. And
unfortunately, given that I took her hair from the roots, she will go through
the rest of her life completely bald . . .”
“No, she won’t.” Thor looked up at Loki, whom he was now holding far
above his head, with a face like thunder.
“I am afraid she will. But there are always hats and scarves . . .”
“She won’t go through life bald,” said Thor. “Because, Loki Laufey’s
son, if you do not put her hair back right now, I am going to break every
single bone in your body. Each and every one of them. And if her hair does
not grow properly, I will come back and break every bone in your body
again. And again. If I do it every day, I’ll soon get really good at it,” he
carried on, sounding slightly more cheerful.
“No!” said Loki. “I can’t put her hair back. It doesn’t work like that.”
“Today,” mused Thor, “it will probably take me about an hour to break
every bone in your body. But I bet that with practice I could get it down to
about fifteen minutes. It will be interesting to find out.” He started to break
his first bone.
“Dwarfs!” shrieked Loki.
“Pardon?”
“Dwarfs! They can make anything. They could make golden hair for Sif,
hair that would bond with her scalp and grow normally, perfect golden hair.
They could do it. I swear they could.”
“Then,” said Thor, “you had better go and talk to them.” And he dropped
Loki from high above his head onto the floor.
Loki clambered to his feet and hurried away before Thor could break any
more bones.
He put on his shoes that let him travel through the sky, and he went to
Svartalfheim, where the dwarfs have their workshops. The most ingenious
craftsmen of them all, he decided, were the three dwarfs known as the sons of
Ivaldi.
Loki went to their underground forge. “Hello, sons of Ivaldi. I have asked
around, and people here tell me that Brokk and Eitri, his brother, are the
greatest dwarf craftsmen there are or have ever been,” said Loki.
“No,” said one of the sons of Ivaldi. “It’s us. We are the greatest
craftsmen there are.”
“I am assured that Brokk and Eitri can make treasures as good as those
you can.”
“Lies!” said the tallest of the sons of Ivaldi. “I wouldn’t trust those
fumble-fingered incompetents to shoe a horse.”
The smallest and the wisest of the sons of Ivaldi simply shrugged.
“Whatever they make, we could do better.”
“I hear that they’ve challenged you,” said Loki. “Three treasures. The
gods of the Aesir will judge who made the best treasure. Oh, and by the way,
one of the treasures you make needs to be hair. Ever-growing perfect golden
hair.”
“We can do that,” said one of the sons of Ivaldi. Even Loki could barely
tell them apart.
Loki went across the mountain to see the dwarf called Brokk, at the
workshop he shared with his brother, Eitri. “Ivaldi’s sons are making three
treasures as gifts for the gods of Asgard,” said Loki. “The gods are going to
judge the treasures. Ivaldi’s sons want me to tell you that they are certain you
and your brother Eitri can’t make anything as good as they can. They called
you ‘fumble-fingered incompetents.’”
Brokk was no fool. “This smells extremely fishy to me, Loki,” he said.
“Are you sure this isn’t your doing? Stirring up trouble between Eitri and me
and Ivaldi’s boys seems like the sort of thing you’d do.”
Loki looked as guileless as he could, which was amazingly guileless.
“Nothing to do with me,” he said innocently. “I just thought you ought to
know.”
“And you have no personal stake in this?” asked Brokk.
“None whatsoever.”
Brokk nodded and looked up at Loki. Brokk’s brother, Eitri, was the great
craftsman, but Brokk was the smarter of the two, and the more determined.
“Well, then we’ll be happy to take on the sons of Ivaldi in a test of skill, to be
judged by the gods. Because I have no doubt that Eitri can forge better and
craftier things than Ivaldi’s lot. But let’s make this personal, Loki. Eh?”
“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, redbearded
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 carefully 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.