Work Text:
Late in the year, when the air was thin and cold, some travelers came to the court of Asgard. Nobody would have given them any notice on a bright summer’s day, but it was deep winter and the court was hopeful for any new diversion, however slight.
Frigga’s own mood was brittle. She was heartily tired of all the court entertainers. What’s more, she and Odin had argued through another morning and she was still upset behind her smile. She never wanted to hear another skjaldic poet recite the Allfather’s praises.
In truth, Frigga hadn’t much patience for anything planned for this afternoon. She knew all the skjalds and the musicians waiting their turns. She knew their poems and stories and songs the way she knew her children’s faces. She had every reason to expect the next tale spinner to be just as much in love with Odin as the last one had been.
Therefore, when the strange trio appeared at the entrance, looking more like traveling beggars than guests, Frigga did the unexpected. She quietly signaled that they should be allowed to approach herself and Odin, in place of the next entertainer.
The woman gave Frigga a slight smile and she had the oddest desire to speak to her in private. She knew enough of magic to know that this urge was not a good thing, yet the urge persisted.
She stared at them in growing fascination. The shortest of the three strangers was some sort of part-dwarf or possibly part-frog. He was a pale and twitchy thing, with entirely too many fingers coming out of his mud-stained robe. He seemed more like a fungus than anything that should walk on two legs.
However, his taller traveling companions more than made up for his lack of good looks. Their clothes were as filthy as his: they might have gone swimming in the same swamp on the way to Court. Yet everything about them suggested elegance and beauty. They had rich, dark skin that glowed like varnished wood in the torchlight. Each turn of their limbs was as poised as if they had been carved by a master sculptor.
The man wore a rich man’s garments of leather over silk; and the woman, who might have been his sister, wore satins and silks studded with gems and winking metals. The damp clothing was ripped through in countless places and some of the brighter dyes were running like wet ink. Yet they had a strange glamour about them. Somehow Frigga was almost convinced that they were perfectly groomed and impeccably atired, even as their feet left thick mud on the immaculate floor.
All three bowed to the king, but it was the man who spoke first. He smiled a smile of pure delight, as though he was infinitely glad to meet each one of them and hoped they felt the same. Afterwards, Frigga was never sure of his exact words, but she knew that the whole court was straining forward to hear him as he spoke. Each word was quietly sincere, and it seemed to her that he spoke directly to her. Later, she had only a vague impression that he had described a long journey undertaken at frightful cost. However, she a clear image of his eyes pleading for her assistance.
When the world returned to normal, the visitors had left by way of the Bifröst, apparently with Odin’s approval. At least Heimdall swore it was so, and Odin did not gainsay him.
As for Frigga, she headed to her chamber to think. There was deep magic at work here. She needed to gather her resources to work her own seiðr.
On her work table she found a slim little book she had never seen before. On the cover was written, “Dróttning, we thank you. May your babes benefit from these tales.”
A book of tales? She cast numerous spells on it looking for signs of danger and found none, which of course meant nothing. If anything it meant the book was more suspect, not less. An obvious trap would have set her mind at rest.
Yet, some part of her trusted the book. She did not destroy it. She did not tell anybody about it. She simply sat and looked at it. She considered why they would be giving her thanks when all she had done was give them permission to — Oh! Of course. She had given them permission to enter. There are many magical creatures who cannot enter a home or a hall unless they are invited in. So it was due to her that they had been able to approach Odin for safe passage on the Bifröst.
Still, gift of gratitude or not, she was not giving untested magic to little boys. Magical thanks were sometimes more slippery than they seemed. Well, she was slippery too. And now that she was forewarned, she would not be bespelled again.
She sat down at the table and laid her hands on the book. It was cool to the touch and felt like ordinary leather. Slowly, Frigga opened the book. Instead of inked or painted runes, there was only a simple picture of a sunny pasture dotted with sheep.
That was when the book began speaking. In a deep, resonant voice it declared, “The Boy Who Cried Wolf.”
Once there was a young shepherd boy who worked in the pastures tending his family’s sheep. The shepherd was clever, but he was also easily bored and during the long days he looked for ways to amuse himself. His favorite joke of all was to scream, “A wolf! It’s a wolf!” Then when his brothers came running to help him, he would fall down laughing.
Once, twice, then three times he called them; and once, twice, three times they came. Each time was funnier than the time before. Each time he told them what silly fools they were.
His brothers didn’t find it quite as funny. They got angrier each time. Oh! The faces they made when they found that it was yet another lie.
Then one day a real wolf came down from the hills and dragged off a lamb. The young shepherd screamed and screamed for his family. He yelled till he was hoarse — but nobody came. They weren’t such fools as that. So the wolf ate well that day.
Well, thought Frigga. That doesn’t seem like a bad story for the boys. I’m not sure they will listen to it, though. Yet somehow she almost felt let down by such a harmless story. This was the dangerous object she had checked for traps?
Shaking her head at herself, she turned the page to a black ink portrait of an elegant cat. This time the voice said, “Venus and the Cat.”
Long, long ago, when the worlds were young, there was a cat who fell in love with a man. The cat had much to recommend her. She was a beautiful cat, sleek-furred and long-tailed. She was a brave cat, defending her home from wild rats. She was a graceful cat, flowing like quiet water through the halls of the house. In fact, the man often commented that she was the most wonderful cat.
Yet, the man did not seem to love the cat back. He was kind. He complimented her. But when it came time for love and courtship he turned to human women.
Distraught, the cat turned to the goddess of love. Surely, if the cat were a maiden, the man would love her. She begged as no proud cat has ever begged, and the great goddess took pity on her.
She enchanted the cat so thoroughly that there was no sign of tail or fur. Instead, a beautiful maiden was standing there, sleek-haired and long-limbed.
The man was quite taken by the mysterious maiden. However, the goddess was not quite so sure of the transformation. She watched to see what would happen.
And what did happen? The man courted the young woman as he had never courted before. Soon they were betrothed and then they were married. At the wedding it seemed the dancing would never end.
However, a rat got into the wine and came staggering among the dancers. Before you could count to two, no, before you could count to one, the young woman had pounced on the rat and was attempting to bite though the fur. The enchantment had only worked on the outside. In her heart the cat had always remained a cat.
The goddess shook her head in amusement and waved away the illusion. Now there was only a cat by the dancers’ feet, hissing like water on a hot pan.
Amusing, but a bit pointless, decided Frigga. Still, she was smiling as she turned the page again.
Two solemn girls stood arm in arm by a wide river. Their arms were full of flowers.
“The Two Sisters.” Frigga nodded to herself. Now this was a proper tale. She had grown up with variations of this story.
Not far away, but very long ago, there were two sisters: an older and a younger. The elder sister was born early in winter and she was as dark haired as a raven in shadow. The younger sister was born late in summer and she was as golden haired as bright coins in the sun.
They were as unalike as two sisters could be, yet they loved each other. There was never a secret between them, for they were as close as two blades of grass. In winter they would skate on the river, laughing and flying over the ice. In summer they would pick herbs by the river, singing as they walked.
Then they met a young man walking by the river, and what a handsome young man he was. He smiled at the two sisters. The younger sister was quiet and shy with him, but the elder sister smiled at him. The next day they happened to meet again, and the same the next day. Soon you might have thought they were two sisters and a brother singing together. Yet they were not.
One day when the older sister took ill, the young man and the younger sister went walking by the river. You might have thought they were brother and sister singing together, but they were not. The young man gave the younger sister a pretty ribbon. The young man gave the younger sister a soft, soft smile. The young man gave the younger sister a pretty ring. And the younger sister told nobody.
It was a hard thing, with no good end. Secrets come out when people lie. Secrets come out, river or dry.
Little by little the sisters pulled apart. Now the sisters argued in the winter. Now the sisters quarreled in the summer. It was a sad thing with no good end. Finally, they were barely sisters at all. When the two went walking by the river, the eldest sister saw her chance. She meant to take the pretty ribbon. She meant to take the golden ring. They were hers. They should have been hers.
As they fought, she pushed her younger sister down the river bank. As they fought, she pushed her sister in. As they fought, she pushed her sister under. It was a bad thing with no good end.
The young man went walking by the river, but he found no sisters there. Instead he found a golden hair. Instead he found the wind playing a sad, sad song with a mournful tone. Instead he found a long thin bone. He looked at it and he wondered long.
He kept the golden hair. He kept the sad, sad song. But he carved the bone into something new. He made a flute for playing a mournful tone. It was a flute from her finger bone.
When he played it it would sing only one sad song. “My sister pushed me down. My sister, she pushed me in. My sister, she killed her own kin.”
For the secrets come out, river or dry. For the secrets come out and the bones don’t lie.
For a long drawn out moment, Frigga sat shivering. Somehow the old story wasn’t the friend she had remembered. She was sure that she was just being foolish, but something about the story bothered her, some little thing she couldn’t quite grasp.
Another page turn took her to a little grey birdlet that was more fluff than bird.
“The Ugly Duckling”
It was a beautiful summer, everybody said so. The songbirds sang it loudly. The bees hummed it. Even the pond fish burbled it underwater.
The duck felt in her bones that they were right. Everything was just as it should be. Plump berries hung from the bushes; wonderful crunchy grasshoppers and bugs roamed the land; and the pond was full of succulent minnows. What more could anyone want?
Then, to make it even more perfect, she felt the urge to build a nest and laid twelve beautiful eggs, one each day. She was sure the empress of the world had nothing half so beautiful as those eggs.
One of them did seem slightly odd, but that was probably just a quirk of the light. She talked to them through the hot drowsy days, told them how much she wanted to meet them and what a wonderful world it was.
Soon all but one of the eggs had hatched and they were the fluffiest, loveliest ducklings she had ever seen. She was absolutely sure that they were the finest children in the neighborhood. Yet the last egg refused to hatch. It worried her. It didn’t look healthy. Surely she hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary?
Then the egg hatched and things got worse. Something was wrong with the child. It didn’t look right. It didn’t walk right. It didn’t even sound right. It just wasn’t a normal duckling. The mother duck worried that it would affect the other children and make them sick. She didn’t know what to do.
She put a brave face on things and pretended that nothing was wrong. The other ducks were not so kind. She began to hear whispers about the duckling. They pointed out its deformed size, its sickly grey color, and its strange noises. They called it sick, ugly, and perverted; and they kept their children well away from it.
Soon the poor duckling’s own brothers and sisters were chasing him away. “Go away," they said, and they bit him when they could.
“Such a shame,” said the neighbors.
“Why can’t you try harder?” said his mother.
Finally, the ugly duckling gave up. He trudged away as far as he could, only stopping to find food and rest. He wandered with no plan and no destination. He knew that he was far too strange for anybody to want him. He couldn’t seem to learn how to be a normal duck.
Then one day, long after he had given up, he saw the most beautiful bird he had ever seen. He was sure it must be a swan, but he knew better than to approach it. He had no desire to be chased away. Yet he couldn’t help staring. He wanted to drink in the great bird’s beauty. The swan was as white as the water under a waterfall and it’s neck had the arched grace of a bending reed.
So much beauty made him look down in shame, when what should he see? On the surface of the water was the image of another swan. The ugly duckling stared in confusion. It made no sense, until he realized it was his own reflection. Then joy flooded him. He was a swan! He had never been an ugly duckling at all. He had always been a misplaced swan.
What a foolish mother thought Frigga, but then you can’t expect great things of a simple duck.
There was only one more page in the book. She’d look at it, then head to her bedchamber. It was time to make peace with her husband.
“Oedipus”
Far away, and yet not farther than the reach of this story, lies the realm of Midgard and the kingdom of Thebes. There King Laius ruled with his wife Jocasta. One day he consulted the Oracle at Delphi. he was given a terrible warning from the gods: he would die at the hands of his own son.
Since King Laius had no intention of dying, he decided to have no children and live a long life. Yet fate decided otherwise. He got foolishly drunk one night and spent the time giggling in Jocasta’s bed.
When his wife bore him a son, he studied his fate like a battle map and made his decision. He drove a spike through the babe’s ankles so it could not crawl. Then he left it to die on the mountainside.
A shepherd found the little boy and brought him to Corinth where he was adopted by King Polybus and Queen Merope. They named him Oedipus for his injured foot and considered him their son.
Oedipus grew up believing that Merope had given birth to him. As he grew older, there were clues that this might not be true, but his foster parents lied to him. They lied out of love, and Oedipus believed them out of love. So he stayed with them and grew into a strong young prince, sure he was their son.
He might have stayed always, but strange rumours grew around him. Finally, he sought out the Oracle to know the truth of his parentage. All the priestess would tell him was pure horror: he would kill his father; he would marry his mother.
Oedipus tried to protect himself. He tried to protect his parents. He fled. How could he do better when he had no map and no guide?
He fled blindly, and then, on a narrow spot in the road, he met King Laius. There on the road they quarreled about who should let the other pass, and he struck his father dead.
Then—
Frigga threw the book across the room, lighting it on fire in midair. A present for the boys indeed! Stories about lies. Stories about secrets. Stories about children switched at birth. It was no present at all.
It was an attempt to intimidate her, to, to.... Those scheming, honorless thieves thought that they could shame her into anything. She wanted the book back just so she could destroy it all over again.
Yet, hadn’t she been arguing with Odin about these very things this morning? Frigga stared at the fire unable to think. She wouldn’t cross her husband. She couldn’t cross her king.
All night she argued with the fire.
Then in the morning she sought out little Loki in the nursery. “Child of mine, I want to tell you a story about how you came into my life.”