In Neil Gaiman's Norse Mythology, the Gods open at the close

In Neil Gaiman's American Gods (the novel that won him the triple whammy of Hugo, Nebula and Locus Best Novel awards), the Norse god Odin (who goes by Mr Wednesday here) philosophises about his own possible and perhaps imminent death.

"We may not die easy and we sure as hell don't die well, but we can die. If we're still loved and remembered, something else a whole lot like us comes along and takes our place and the whole damn thing starts all over again. And if we're forgotten, we're done."

It's almost as if Gaiman has decided to put his money where his mouth is – and contribute to this process of collective commemoration.

His latest work Norse Mythology is an acutely observed — and breathtakingly retold — novelisation of an entire range of myths.

The pantheon, led by the irascible, unknowable, omnipotent Odin the All-Father, lord of the slain: these are gods and goddesses being petty, abrasive and eager to pick a fight.

In short, massively entertaining. Gaiman's unique genius throughout the Sandman years (and beyond) has been to take these massive, earth-shaking events and describe them as the consequence of impulsiveness, pettiness and indecision — the moments where gods tend to resemble humans the most.

For those already familiar with Greek myths, the gods in Norse Mythology will seem far more frivolous and keener to shed blood.

Like the contest between rival craftsmen that Loki engineers, in order to make up for cutting off Sif's (Thor's wife) golden hair. Without any further evidence apart from his wife's bald head, Thor surmises that the culprit is Loki because he has found that this "saves time".

When he finally catches up with the mischievous god, Thor threatens torture with the air of a seasoned enforcer.

“Today,” mused Thor, “it will probably take me about an hour to break every bone in your body. But I bet that with practice I could get it down to about fifteen minutes. It will be interesting to find out.”

Brokk, the dwarf who wins the contest, demands Loki's head as prize (as agreed upon earlier). In a twist that Merchant of Venice readers will recognise, Odin declares that the dwarf was only entitled to Loki's head, and not his neck. The dwarf settles for sewing Loki's lips shut instead.

So much for honour among gods.

It is important to note that these myths belonged to the Vikings and Germanic peoples before the onset of official Christianity.

Their practices, deemed as the “heathen”, were to undergo drastic change once the dominant religion had been established.

Christianity, and indeed most “modern” religions (except certain forms of Islam), were premised on the assumption that Man had conquered Nature and that the only crises worth pondering over were spiritual ones (an amplified version of the same sequence of events happened in a later era, as Man made progress with machines; Amitav Ghosh’s The Great Derangement details the process).

A binary had emerged and nature, now a tamed force, could be twisted as per mechanical fancies.

However, the Vikings were in constant threat of being killed at sea, or frozen to death because of sub-zero temperatures. Therefore, their stories betrayed their fear — and respect — of nature.

Earlier this month, Gaiman spoke at a New York town hall event, where he said something remarkably insightful.

“Greek myths are full of sex and peacocks. There’s lots of sitting outside and falling in love with your own reflection. No one’s doing that in Norse mythology. You sit outside in the winter, you’re dead.”

The tree of life Yggdrasil, watered by Mimir’s well, plays a key role in being the root of all families and all living beings.

Scholars of Scandinavian folklore have found the tree to be the pagan version of the Christmas tree. Further, etymologically, they claim that Yggdrasil means Odin’s horse or Odin walker — both of these findings collate that Odin and the tree share a common root.

Odin, after hanging himself from the tree, was convinced about magic, now “the world was his to control”.

By recognising Odin’s ability to see and not see everything at the same time, we are also implying that the mighty ash tree Yggdrasil that joins all the nine worlds holds ultimate power/vision.

An unforgettable mythopoesis, Gaiman’s book brings power, magic and vision together seamlessly.

If myth is a special form of speech as Barthes told us, the retelling of every myth is almost always a new version. And in every new version, the myth-maker’s politics holds enormous power.

In Gaiman’s previous works such as The Books of Magic, The Graveyard Book and Whatever Happened to the Caped Crusader, this intersection among magic, science and the powers of illusion happens continuously.

Every now and then, a skilled illusionist pulls off something close to real magic, a gifted scientist realises that his knowledge lends itself well to illusion — or a conventional magician uses science to enhance his trickery.

It brought back memories of Marvel’s film Thor (2011), which had a portion about science and magic in order to demolish the myth that the two are inherently opposing forces.

Much like the cyclical structure of Norse myths, world history has been an endless tussle between the two, a game perfected by the children of paternalistic figures like Odin.

As time moves forth, the players are seen sharpening their guile, deceit and hammer-wielding powers.

To wrap up with Gaiman’s words, “And the game begins anew.”

Also read: In which Neil Gaiman twists age-old fairy tales to wake the reader up