The Lonely Altar
by Kristina Heflin
“And so, the dwarf, Brokk, sewed Loki’s mouth shut, leaving him to contemplate on his mistakes. The end.”
“Mother?” Sig asked, as she stood to blow out the candle beside her bed. Her brothers were already snoring in the bed beside her, put to sleep, as usual, by the soothing sound of their mother’s voice.
“Yes, my dear?”
“When you and father go into town, you visit Thor and Odin and Freyr in their temples, don’t you?”
“That’s right,” Brynja’s brow furrowed in the shadows as she tried to anticipate her daughter’s next question.
“Well, why do we never go and visit Loki’s temple?”
“Ah, well,” her face smoothed into a smile, “Loki doesn’t have a temple, dear.” “Why not?”
“Don’t you remember the story I just told? Loki is a trickster. He’s mischievous and wily…like some children I know,” she gave Sig a gentle poke in the stomach, eliciting a quiet ripple of giggles. “Only true warriors can earn the right to be worshiped.”
“Like Thor?” she asked. “Yes, like Thor.”
“Even though Loki helped make Thor’s hammer?”
Her mother sighed, rubbing her temples. The endless stream of questions was exhausting on most nights, but with Anur away on the summer raids and the farm to run, her energies were drained. “Yes, because it was his tricks that made the hammer shorter than it could have been. Maybe Thor would have been an even greater warrior if not for Loki.”
Sig frowned, snuggling back onto the bedsheets.
“I’ll tell you what,” her mother leaned forward, kissing the top of her head, “how about tomorrow, you and I, we’ll set up a tribute to Loki on our own. Okay?”
Her face instantly brightened. “Promise?”
“Promise! Now goda nott and sof pu vel, my love.” She kissed her daughter once again, then blew out the candle.
Sig fished around in her little shoulder bag, digging out the few items she had brought along. She pulled out a small stone knife, a clay jar, and a smooth round oatcake.
“I understand the oatcake, dear, but what is the knife and salve for?”
Brynja wiped her brow and leaned against the tall pine tree. “Is this a good enough spot, my dear?”
Sig squinted her eyes, surveying the land. She and her mother had trekked to edge of the family’s small farm and were resting on a knoll overlooking the river. The ring of pines thinned out just before the grassy ground dropped away to the rushing gray waters. Birds chirped in the trees and a few wildflowers poked through the carpet of pine needles, nodding in the warm breeze. “Yes,” the girl nodded firmly, “this is will do.”
“Oh, good,” Her mother sighed in relief, then knelt down, gathering the rough volcanic rocks and the smooth river pebbles that were scattered around. She started arranging them in a little mound, a makeshift altar for the forlorn god. “Now, what have you brought for Loki?”
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