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There is a tale, she began, once told by Norsemen long ago. Now mind you, this is an explanatory tale, although more satisfying than any other Midgardian reasoning that I've come across. This is a story about the God of Lies and of Deceit and of Chaos. He is also a God of Stories, so it is appropriate that this telling honours Him.
Long ago, far to the north of the Bridge, was a village. This village was called Ird and there was no other settlement further north of the Norse capital than Ird.
It was the solstice; the start of the darkness that affects all arctic places, and the villagers were feasting on what was left of the best things from the autumn's harvest, even though the snow had lain thick on the ground for months.
Loki Wolfgod was out for a bit of fun, determined to find the most amount of amusement for the least amount of effort. He stumbled upon Ird in the throes of merriment and decided that this place was as good as any.
In His wolf form, He was indistinguishable from any other wolf unless He called attention to Himself. He trotted through the village, delighting in the noises of nervous livestock as they caught wind of His scent. But the pilfering of some poor schmuck's chicken or sheep and laying the blame on a neighbour's dog would not be nearly as entertaining as a bout of unbridled generosity; because sometimes good things come from the chaos and Loki liked to keep people guessing.
Loki sat on his haunches outside the feasting hall and waited for the people to come out. A sharp wind, cruel and bitter, came up and ruffled His fur but He did not feel the cold. He waited patiently, eyes bright with reflected moonlight, knowing that this story would be told so often that the tale would be changed with each telling and soon enough the original would be lost to the Midgardians forever.
Loki smiled a wolfish grin, content that only He would know the true tale and any other version, including this one I'm telling to you, would be half-truth and therefore half-lie and even a half-lie is a small way to honour the Liesmith.
Wolfgod waited, under the bright moon and harsh stars, not feeling the bitter wind, listening to the revels of the mortals inside the hall. Eventually they came out, in ones and twos; couples, families and alone.
Some were shaken by the sight of the black wolf with flashing amber eyes sitting so calmly outside the door like a faithful dog waiting for its master, while others didn't even notice. Loki, however, could see them all. He knew their heart's desires and their greatest fears, their goodness and their wickedness.
Every villager passed Loki save two; a girl too sick to leave her bed and her grandmother, left to watch her while her parents attended the feast. When they had all gone home and were finally asleep, Loki moved from the spot where He had been sitting and stretched languidly from snout to tail. Yawning hugely, He was struck by an idea. He now knew just what course His plan was going to take and what His magnanimity was going to produce.
Wolfgod slunk through the village, visiting each house in turn. At every home, He returned to his natural form and slipped inside. On the table, He left gifts appropriate to whatever He had seen in the hearts of the occupants, punishing the wicked with a lump of charred wood, too small to be thrown back in the fire and rewarding the worthy with beautiful items of rare value.
As He approached one house, He could smell sickness and worry, and two females, one young and one old, that He did not know. Loki remembered the scent of a couple, both virtuous, but frightened, and not by His presence. They had left first and had not even noticed the black wolf against the moonlit white of fallen snow. Loki, ever the prankster, decided to make things more interesting, if only for Himself. He left gifts for the adults, but wanted to leave the girl's with someone appropriate, someone who would want for nothing and would be rewarded with the simple joy of making a sick child happy.
Loki searched until He came to the last house. It was owned by an old man who had lost both wife and son in childbirth over thirty years ago. He had not remarried, despite a prosperous farm and good standing in Ird and the surrounding villages. His name was Yl Magnusson and Wolfgod knew that he was the one. He finished his task and found a good vantage point to watch the fun.
When Yl woke up, it was dark and would remain so for many weeks to come, but he was as accustomed to the winter darkness as to summer's perpetual daylight, so he went about his daily routine as he usually did. He stoked the fire in the hearth and put the kettle on. It was then in the strengthening light of the fire that he noticed the doll on the table.
The doll was finely crafted of soft wool and linen and dyed in vibrant colours, the like of which were not produced very often on Midgard at the time. The hair was as soft as silk and had the sheen of spun gold. The eyes and lips were embroidered with the most delicate stitches that Yl had ever seen. He marveled at this toy, wondering why he was given something so beautiful and yet so worthless to him.
After breakfast and morning chores, Yl put the doll into his satchel and went to the nearest house. There he discovered that his neighbours had found beautiful things on their kitchen table as well. At the next house, the same thing had happened, although the occupants' teenaged son had been given a small lump of charred wood, his name on a slip of paper and attached with a piece of thread. Yl chuckled at the insult, but knew that the boy was a hellion and deserved what had been given.
Magnusson visited a few more houses, and the same thing had happened: gifts for the worthy, small charred lumps for the wicked. He opened his satchel and examined the doll again. His fitful torchlight did nothing to diminish its beauty and it set his mind to wonder again why he had been given this when other men had been left fine clothing or boots or well-crafted tools and in one case, a puppy. He thought back to the night before, and tried to remember who was there and who was missing. He drew a blank. He put the doll back in the bag and trudged to the next house.
Wiglaf Svensson opened the door before Yl Magnusson had a chance to knock. Svensson was pale and worried and when Magnusson asked him why, Wiglaf simply said, "my daughter." Yl nodded and asked if there was anything he could do for her, but Wiglaf shook his head. He let Yl in, allowing the old man to warm himself by the fire for a time until he went on his way. Yl saw three gifts on the table: a colourful shawl depicting the goddess Frigga spinning wool with Her handmaidens, a large bronze cook pot, seamless and smooth and an axe, a haft inlaid with silver and gold and the blade engraved with tight swirls. The items were typical of what he had already seen, but there was nothing for their little girl, Adda Wiglafsdottir.
Magnusson finally understood why he had been given the doll in the first place. In truth, he wanted for nothing and while a gift of the calibre that he had seen already would not be unwelcome, it was not necessary. He asked Svensson if he could see the girl. Wiglaf pointed to a curtained-off area of his home, telling Yl that his daughter had taken a turn for the worse in the night. Yl pulled the curtain aside and the girl shrank from the sight of a grizzled old man standing in the doorway.
"This was given to me," Yl said, pulling something from his satchel, his eyes twinkling in the wavering light. "You can guess how silly it is for an old man to receive a doll, but how much smarter it is to give that doll to a little girl who deserves it." He handed the doll to Adda and she smiled. Suddenly, his cheeks looked rosy, his nose red from the cold, not from drink. His white hair and beard made him look kind, not scary.
Adda, suddenly feeling better than she had in weeks, scrambled out from under the covers and wrapped her arms around his neck. She gave him a big hug and whispered, "thank you, Mr Magnusson. This has been the best Solstice ever."
Yl returned the hug and chuckled, "You're welcome, my dear. Now under the covers with you or you'll catch your death." He put her back to bed and lay the doll beside her. She held it tightly and closed her eyes, still smiling.
A wolf, black against white, stood and shook the snow from His fur. He knew that He had done something truly impressive and that the Midgardians would be talking about it for a long time. Looking over the village of Ird, He smiled in His predatory way and trotted off, heading for home.