taste of sheep,” he assured her. “But he had a big appetite, and he grew larger every day until eventually the gods decided he was too big and too dangerous to be roaming around Asgard. They couldn’t kill him, because killing was forbidden in Asgard. So they decided to chain him.”
“Like Mama chained you?”
He smiled grimly. “Exactly.”
The woman stiffened and paused, her knife poised in midair.
He resumed the story. “Thor, the god of thunder and Loki’s brother, said he would forge a strong chain to bind Fenrir with the help of Miolnir.”
“Who’s Miolnir?”
“Miolnir is Thor’s mighty hammer. It looks like the one I wear around my neck.” He lifted his chin to show the little girl the small silver hammer.
Kimbery rose up halfway, as if she planned to walk over to get a closer look.
Like all mothers, the woman apparently had eyes in the back of her head, for she called over her shoulder, “Kimmie, stay where you are!”
“I am!” the little girl insisted, sitting back down.
Brandr continued. “Thor hammered all night on the chain. The next day, because Fenrir wasn’t afraid of the other gods,” he said, narrowing his eyes pointedly at the woman’s back, “he let them slip the chain around his neck.”
“And nobody was allowed to go near him,” Kimbery guessed.
“That’s right. But much to the surprise of the gods, Fenrir made one powerful lunge, broke the chain, and freed himself.”
The little girl gasped in dismay.
The woman, still with her back turned, interrupted the story. “Well, they obviously didn’t use a strong enough chain,” she muttered, resuming her chopping.
“Then what happened?” Kimbery asked.
He smiled slyly. “The gods decided they needed a stronger chain.” He saw the woman’s shoulders rise and fall with an irritated sigh. “So Thor promised he’d work harder this time and make a chain that could never be broken. He hammered at his forge for three days and three nights. When he was done, the chain was so heavy that even mighty Thor could hardly lift it. This time, Fenrir was not so willing to be bound. But the gods praised his great strength and assured Fenrir he could easily break that chain as well. So he finally let them put the chain about his neck.”
“Did he break it, too?”
“He gave a great shake of his head,” he said, demonstrating, “and a forceful bound, and he broke free of even that chain.”
The woman stabbed her knife into the block with a loud clunk, clearly displeased with the direction the story was taking. But he didn’t care. He had a point to make. No Pictish woman was going to get the best of him, trying to keep him leashed like Fenrir.
“Then what happened?” Kimbery asked.
“Thor was very discouraged, and the gods didn’t know what to do. Finally, Frey, the god of summer, said he would ask the dwarves who lived deep in the earth to forge a chain, for though they were small, they possessed powerful magic. Surely they could make a chain strong enough to hold Fenrir.”
The little girl was enthralled now. She sat with her chin in her hands, leaning forward as far as possible. Her mother had begun chopping another batch of seaweed, but he noticed she was doing so quietly. No doubt she was hanging on his every word as well.
“It took them two days and two nights, but the dwarves fashioned a chain out of the six strongest elements they could find. They used the roots of rocks, the spit of birds, the footsteps of cats, the beards of women, the breath of fish, and the sinew of bears. They presented the chain to the gods, and though it was fine and light, the dwarves assured them the magic chain was unbreakable. Of course, by this time, the gods knew Fenrir was too clever to allow them to bind him a third time. So they invited him to join them on a voyage to a beautiful island, where they would play games together and demonstrate feats of