The Sleeping Army (2 page)

‘But no one's ever
seen
the Gods,' said Freya once. ‘So how do we know they exist?'

‘We don't see the Gods any more because we're bad,' said Mum. ‘Long ago they used to walk among us.'

‘Dad doesn't think they exist,' said Freya boldly.

Clare pursed her mouth. ‘Your father is an idiot. Don't get me started.' And she'd gone to the phone to drum up volunteers for her neglected altars scheme, to maintain the crossroads shrines.

Freya sighed. Just her bad fate to have divorced parents. When she needed her gym kit it was at Mum's. When she wanted the book she was reading it was at Dad's. It felt like everything and everyone was always in the wrong place. Especially her.

She played with the little gold hammer hanging round her neck which Mum had given her on her confirmation day when she'd chosen Thor for her own protector God. The fifth commandment,
Honour your children, for they alone will remember your name
, was inscribed in tiny letters along the shaft. Shame her parents didn't recall that more often, thought Freya. Especially around birthday time.

It was her bad fate to have been born on December 25th, the same day as Woden's Feast Day, which meant she always got combined birthday/feast day presents, even though her parents both swore this wasn't true. But it so was.

Bob popped his head round. ‘You okay, hon?'

‘Fine, fine,' said Freya, pretending to be getting on with
her history homework (
Henry VIII broke with the Lord High Priest of Copenhagen and established the Fane of England in 4534. What were the reasons?
). Freya longed to write, ‘Because he was bored and hated marzipan,' but didn't dare.

Grrrr. Aaaarrrghhh. She could sit, wailing and gnashing and bemoaning her cruel fate, or wander the room wailing and gnashing and bemoaning her cruel fate. Grimly, she opted for wandering. She would look at every stupid helmet fragment and bent old spoon and read every stupid description. Anything to avoid getting down to work on her stupid, boring essay.

Freya stood, stretched, and stomped over to the small display case tucked into the right-hand corner. She peered through the glass at two round, earth-red medallions.

Seated woman with baby on her lap. Donkey looking on.

Man hanging on decorated cross.

Found in the catacombs, Rome, around 3300 AW. Sacred objects from the Christian cult, one of the many exotic religious cults in the Roman Empire which sprang up as the empire expanded eastwards.

Suffered intense persecution and died out by the end of the 34th century AW.

Freya turned away and skidded on a creased piece of paper on the floor. I could have really hurt myself, she thought crossly, picking it up and smoothing the dirty folds. It was a partially-filled-in ‘Family Fun Worksheet', the kind Bob was always trying to get her to do whenever they came to the museum.

Discover Long-Ago Religions!

Can you imagine how different modern Britain would be if ancient religions like Roman Christianity or Egyptian Amunism were practised here?

Now pretend that people in Britain worshipped the Christian god (called Christ) instead of Woden, Thor, Sif, Freyja, Tyr, Baldr, and all our other Gods. What would be different?

Can
YOU
think of any other differences?

Yes, thought Freya. I wouldn't be stuck here writing about stupid, fat old Henry VIII.

Now imagine Britons worshipped the ancient Egyptian gods like Osiris and Horus and Isis and Amun-Ra.

Freya crumpled up the worksheet and dropped it back on the floor. Then she felt guilty for littering, picked it up, and stuffed it in her schoolbag. She'd put it in the recycling bin when she got home.

The next case exhibited axes and knives used in the long-ago days when humans and animals were sacrificed to Woden. Ugh. No one really liked talking about
that
.

In the centre of the room was a large display case containing several creamy ivory chessmen. Freya peered at the pale, golden-brown figures.

67 ancient chess pieces, found partly hidden in a sandbank on the Scottish island of Lewis.

Their origins, how they came to be buried, and why there are so many ‘extra' pieces are shrouded in mystery. Displayed here are eight queens, eight kings, fifteen knights …

Freya stopped reading and gazed at the chessmen. They looked weary and glum, with bulging, startled eyes, frowning mouths, and hunched shoulders. Some of them appeared positively disgruntled. Mostly they looked sad, as if something terrible had happened, something they were helpless to do anything about except brood for eternity. The sorrowful queens looked a lot like Clare did sometimes, late at night when she thought Freya wasn't looking, after she'd just been on the phone with a depressed member of her throng.

Wonder what they're so worried about, thought Freya. She especially liked the ferocious-looking berserks, the ancient warriors sacred to Woden, biting their shields with their big teeth. Those fearless, terrifying soldiers, who went into a battle frenzy and fought like wild animals, impervious to pain, had always fascinated her. She'd seen pictures of berserks in primary school, and they'd had a fun day dressing up and running around snarling and attacking each
other. But the rows and rows of pawns looked like tombstones. She shuddered.

And then there it was, resting on an open stand behind the Lewis chess pieces, like an offering. The carved ivory horn, decorated with enamelled silver panels inset with green jewels, dangled from the ceiling on two ornate chains. Runic inscriptions circled the wide bell. Freya went over and peered inside. She couldn't see from one end to the other. The curved horn was enormous, bigger than she was.

Ceremonial horn from a Viking silver hoard. Origin unknown.

The urge to touch it was overwhelming and irresistible.

Freya glanced around. No one could sneak up on her, not the way footsteps creaked on these wood floors. Slowly, she reached out and brushed the wide-brimmed bell of the horn with her fingertips. The ivory was ridged but velvety-smooth. She jerked her hand back quickly, waiting for an alarm to sound and guards to come running and throw her into prison. But no alarm sounded.

Freya circled it again and stopped before the ornate
tip. Hypnotised, Freya stood on tiptoe, put her lips around the horn's narrow mouthpiece and blew.

A thunderous roaring ringing shrieking blast rumbled and swelled, pealing and blaring louder and louder and louder until Freya didn't know where her body ended and the sound began.

Freya jerked her mouth away but the ringing horn blasts continued reverberating. The roaring, swelling earthquake exploded around her, clap upon clap of thunder, pealing, clanging, booming, banging, booming, banging, booming, banging until she thought her head would split.

She pressed her hands against her ears but the blasts were inside her now, controlling her heart, her breath, her life's blood.

The white carved ceiling and walls cracked and a gigantic gash zigzagged across the floor. Armour and shields crashed from the walls while all around her was the sickening sound of smashing pottery and glass. Every alarm in the museum went off.

There was a humming in her ears. A feeling as if the moving air was cracking and thinning then thickening around her. There was an overpowering smell of frost and fur. She felt as if her body were breaking apart.

The air hissed and bubbled, splintering into shards
of ice. The glass case containing the Lewis Chessmen shattered. Freya was caught up in an icy whirlwind, like a wave snatching her ankles and spinning her through space.

Bob, running into the room shouting her name, glimpsed a queen. A king. A berserk. A riderless horse. And Freya, spiralling together through the air, sucked into a vortex of flashing lights.

Then they vanished.

‘Freya!' he screamed, stumbling as he crunched through the ivory pieces and glass scattered across the floor. He stood in front of the smashed display case and buried his face in his hands.

Oh Gods, he thought. Oh Gods. Clare will kill me.

Ow. Something sharp was jabbing her in the ribs.

‘Get off me,' mumbled Freya, pushing feebly. She felt dizzy, as if she'd been punched in the stomach.

Someone beside her was screaming. Freya heard the harsh, angry words, rasped out in a language she couldn't understand.

‘What?' she whispered.

‘Get your fat elbow out of my face!' snapped a girl's voice. ‘And get your filthy hands off my crown.'

Had there been an earthquake? Freya seemed to be trapped under a twisted pile of struggling bodies.
There was a terrible rank smell of dead animal.

Whoever was on top of her rolled off. Freya sat up. Her head was swimming. Dimly she heard traffic noises. She was lying in the middle of the road, in a knotted tangle of arms and legs and clothes. A girl and boy, both wearing crowns and knee-length fur tunics, struggled to their feet beside her. Their legs were trembling. The girl-queen wobbled and fell over. The boy-king took a step and collapsed to his knees, his slender sword clattering to the ground.