Loki and a Man Named Bard

Long ago,

before the realms began to die,

the trickster god Loki played his games on high.

None could master him.

None could contain him.

His tricks and jests were the bane to all who see him.

 

Then one day, the Trickster met a man named Bard.

Bard was short.

Bard was fat.

Bard wore a battered old hat.

He was old.

He was frail,

but his wits were sharp as a finely honed nail.

 

Bard and the Trickster met on a lonely mountain road.

The path was narrow.

The alls were high.

The ravine was deep as Helheim

 

Two could not pass,

One would have to go back the long way round.

 

The two argued until the sun rose.

Not one would give an inch,

even when Bard’s belly began to twitch.

 

Finally, as the sun began to western on the second day of debate,

Loki proposed a deal to send Bard back to the bottom’s gate.

 

“Take this,” he said, holding out a worthless cap of leather.

“With this on your head, your luck will never be better.

It will lighten your step and speed your travels.

You will succeed in all your endeavors.

Why, it will even keep you warm in bad weather.”

 

Now, Bard was no fool.

He knew the hat to be a useless tool,

meant to make him look no smarter than his mule.

But Bard had a trick of his own to play.

 

His horse was weak,

and his mule was lame.

This climb would be the end of its days.

 

Bard countered the Trickster with a trick of his own.

“I cannot return,” says he, “for I must take this mule to the top of the spire

and bless him there with holy liquid fire.If this task I complete before the moon’s next turn,

a curious change he will perform.

For if this mule is blessed at the summit,

nevermore will he plummet.

For a flying mule he will be.”

 

“A flying mule!”

The Trickster shouted, he changed his mind in a flash.

“I must snatch this beast no matter the task.”

 

“I will return to the summit,” said the god,

“If you gift me the mule and holy fire.”

 

Bard did argue, and he did protest,

but in the end, he allowed the god his price, but with a single request.

 

“If the mule be carried by a god,

his flight will be swifter and his heights the higher.”

Thus a beast of burden became the beast of Loki’s burden.

 

To the top they went.

The god ached and strained beneath the mule’s weight.

Sweat poured from his brown and stung his eyes.

Bard rode behind with a contented sigh.

 

Once at the peak, Bard thanked the Trickster.

Then gave him the mule,

for Bard knew the beast’s death was long passed due.

He gave Loki a flagon of water,

some gibberish words,

and a fool’s dance.

Loki took it all greedily without a second glance.

 

As Bard rode away,

a smile on his weathered face,

he heard the god singing nonsense and dance like a mummer.

 

The last thing Bard heard before making his descent,

was a mighty scream as Lokie rode his mule down into the abyss.

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