LIFE, EVEN FOR Norse Gods, can be full of surprises. Take Loki, god of mischief. As he was readying himself for a night of multiple magical disguises in Times Square, a large, hooded figure shuffled into his chamber.
‘And who might you be, O creature of riotous mystery?’
‘Eeyore! I’m your brother Thor. Though you may not know it to look at me.’
With that he removed the hood to reveal a donkey’s head: ears larger than a horse’s, grey bristly fur, and large buckteeth. His large floppy ears twitched back and forth as they flicked a horde of flies away. He stomped his feet and brayed, ‘Eeyore.’
‘Such a mask I’ve never seen on this or any other Halloween. By Odin’s hoary beard, so real methinks thou art an ass. But ho, ‘tis no mask but Plague Equidae. What happened? Did you run afoul of the Enchantress or some dark elves?’
‘It was that little shit, Pan. I was at the Olympus pre Halloween party. I made a crack about his hooves, and the next thing I knew I could eat apples through a fence. You must fix this. See, I even have a tail.’
Thor turned and lifted his cape. Sure enough, there was a long furry tail sweeping back and forth, along with more flies. And instead of legs, Thor stood on two furry ungulated hooves. But the most prominent feature of all was the pair of donkey testicles swaying ponderously to and fro.
‘Donkey balls! My gods, they’re huge.’
‘They itch like crazy. And there’s no jenny to be had.’
Loki chuckled and said, ‘This reminds me of what Puck, the mischievous sprite and minion of Oberon, did to Peter Bottom.’
‘I am Thor, Odin’s son. God of Thunder. This prank cannot stand. If you do not help, I will beat thee roundly with Mjolnir until thy head is but a bit of paste.’
‘Well, when you put it like that, I would be remiss not to undo the spell. After all, what would Asgard be without your flowing auburn locks and insufferable bluster? Now, I must tell you this bit of magic is beyond even me. To correct it, I will need the help of the Norns Urðr, Verðandi and Skuld.’
‘Do you mean those three crazy bitches from Jotunheim?’
‘One and the same. But I would mind my tongue unless you want them to give you another set of donkey balls. We’re good? Okay. Here goes; O Weird Sisters of Jotunheim attend me now, and I will give thee a sacrifice of maidens fair.’
Thunder and lightning flash followed by a burst of light. But it is not until four hours later that the Norns appear.
Loki, somewhat miffed, asked, ‘How come it took you so long to answer my summons?’
‘We were burying our cat,’ said Skuld.
‘It took you four hours to bury a cat.’
‘Yes, he was still alive,’ said Urðr.
Verðandi asked, ‘What’s the hurly burly done? Has a battle been lost or won?’
‘Pan turned me into an ass.’
Urðr said, ‘No, he just made plain what was in your heart, Odin’s son.’
‘How speak you thus, o midnight hag, so withered and so wild, with skinny lips and beard?’
‘Peace, Odin’s son. We shall now correct thy look.’
Thor returned to his former good looks.
‘Now we shall avenge thy wrong. By the pricking of our thumbs, something wicked to the Greeks shall come. Methinks, a plague upon those saucy and overbold Greeks. T’will be as if they ate the insane root, such will be the strength of our illusion,’ Skuld promised.
A boiling cauldron magically appeared. The three Norns gathered around it.
‘Now, silence while we brew, a bit of mischief just for you:
Poison entrails have we got,
Throw them now into the pot.
Fire burn and cauldron bubble,
Watch the Greeks get into trouble.
A bit of snake that’s been twice baked,
Tongue of dog and toe of frog.
Dragon scales and rodents pale,
Baboon’s blood and Nile mud.
Altogether, in the pot,
All their names now soon forgot.
An insufferably obtuse Thor said, ‘I don’t understand. I thought you were going to curse them.’
‘Sweet Thor, thou art dense as lead but prettier. Know this, no Olympian will recognize the fir tree or the pine. Nor fragrance of the flowering bush, nor wailing of the reedbird, the linnet, or the thrush. Nor word nor touch nor sight of lover. They will not know their names, nor why they are. ‘Tis a fitting thing, to make them jackasses all, as they did you. Is that not enough?’
‘’Tis indeed.’
The Waters of Lethe
Pan looked in the mirror and did not recognize himself. He tried to ponder why his head had been emptied of all memory.
‘Forgetfulness dwells in my head and I know not why. I am a docile martyr, condemned to anonymity among the anonymous.’
Then Pan heard a voice. He saw a face materialize in his mirror.
‘Silly satyr, know you not the face of thine own enchanted mirror? You, and the other Olympians, have been bewitched by the Norse god Loki and his cronies. A bit of Lethean magic to make you all forget yourselves.’
‘I don’t recall that.’
‘Thou sodden witted god! I am sick when I do look on thee. Thou hast less brain than ear wax. I desire that we be better strangers, but I don’t have legs to run away. Now attend me, thou beetle brained, idle headed carbuncle. The Norse have made thee and thine a drove of earless donkeys. I have summoned Atë, goddess of mischief, delusion, ruin, blind folly, rash action, and reckless impulse. She will undo this bit of elvish venom and stir them to blood and strife. Pompey is moved. More Atës, more Atës! stir them on! stir them on!’
Suddenly, a portal opened, and an incredibly beautiful woman stepped forward.
‘Who bids Atë come? Thou, Pan? No, thou art a blank. Must be Mirror? What would you have of me, reflective surface? To break the Norse god’s spell, I think.’
‘The talking mirror asked, “How is it you were not affected by Loki’s enchantment?”’
‘I ward myself against the curses of such a remnant. He is the very slander of his mother’s womb: a most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, a promise breaker, and owner of no good qualities. I will gladly give them back their pestilence in a way that cannot be undone. One that uses both the original spell you cast on Thor, and the one they sent back to all of you. For I am La Belle Dame Sans Merci, The Lady Without Mercy:
To the fields they shall go
To plough furrows, others, sew.
Four legged things of hooves and snouts,
Wagon pullers, strong and stout.
Mindless in their godless work,
Barnyard beasts that shall not shirk
Though buzzing ’bout their hairy heads,
Flies by stink that have been led.
Pan listened but said nothing. Atë, for her part, commented that, ‘I never liked you. You always struck me as a fool. Turning Thor into a jackass confirmed it. If premiums were paid for bad ideas, I would have bought drilling rights to your head. And you smell bad. What is it about satyrs and personal hygiene? It would not kill you to bathe and brush those monkey teeth of yours. Now, by most potent art, I end Loki’s spell—you and all the rest of the Olympian gods have your memories back.’
What Goes Around Comes Around
Loki and Thor sat quaffing ale when Atë’s spell hit them. Thor went full-on jackass, as did Loki. But Loki, by virtue of warding, retained his mind. As they both moved instinctively toward the golden Asgardian fields of enchanted wheat, Loki pondered the metamorphosis.
‘This sin is not accidental. And that stink from mine brother—or is it from my ungulated ass, or both?—is the rankest compound of villainous smell that ever offended nostril. Thor, thou art now an elvish marked, abortive, braying ass, as am I. Two vile standing tucks we are, thanks to some hairy legged and horned Greek villain. Pan tasks me. He tasks me, and I shall have him! I’ll chase him around the moons of Saturn, and around the Milky Way, and around Hades itself before I give him up!’
Somewhat impatient as Loki’s dawdling, Thor, fully immersed in his new role as a pack animal, stomped his hooves and brayed. It was the family Equidae, subspecies, Equus africanus, asinus, way of saying, ‘Pull your head out of your ass and let’s go.’
Thus, for the nonce, Olympus had been restored to its former glory, while Asgard had become an object of ridicule among the various divine pantheons. Only time would tell if Loki could undo the Equidaen Plague and return the Norse gods to their former selves.
