How Thor Got His Hammer Back

If you have ever woken up with the sudden, cold certainty that you have lost something incredibly important, you might have some small idea of how Thor felt on a certain morning in Asgard. But you have probably never lost a mountain crushing hammer, and you have certainly never had the safety of the entire cosmos riding on whether you could find it before breakfast. This story comes to us from the Norse world, from a culture of deep fjords, towering pine trees, and long dark winters, where stories were the only light against the cold. Over a thousand years ago in Scandinavia, poets sang this tale aloud in halls smelling of wood smoke and roasting meat. They called the poem Thrimskvida, and though ten centuries have passed, the joke at the heart of it is still just as sharp and just as funny as it was when the Vikings first laughed at their own gods. On this particular morning, Thor, the God of Thunder, did what he did every single day. He stretched his massive tree trunk arms, yawned a yawn that shook the dust from the rafters of his great hall, Bilskirner, and reached his hand out toward the bedside table. He expected his fingers to close around the short, leather wrapped handle of Mjolnir. Mjolnir was no ordinary tool. It was the most precious treasure in Asgard, the home of the gods. It was a hammer forged in the deep fires of the dwarves, and it had a curious flaw. Its handle was slightly too short, because Loki, the mischief maker, had bitten the blacksmith's eyelid while it was being made. But despite its short handle, Mjolnir was perfect. It never missed its mark. If Thor threw it, it would fly across the sky, shatter whatever mountain or giant it was aimed at, and fly right back into his palm like a well-trained hawk. More importantly, it was the only thing keeping the giants of Jotunheim from marching into Asgard and tearing the golden halls of the gods down to the bedrock. Mjolnir was the wall. Mjolnir was the shield. But on this morning, Thor's hand did not close around cold iron and worn leather. His hand closed on empty air. Thor sat up. He blinked. He rubbed his eyes, which were usually blue and bright, but were now clouding over like a storm gathering on the horizon. He felt around the table. He felt under his furs. He crawled on his knees across the stone floor, his great red beard sweeping the dust, looking under benches and behind chests. Nothing. Thor's breath began to come in short, heavy gasps. The blood rushed to his ears. He gripped his red hair with both hands and shook his head so hard his brains rattled. "Loki!" he roared, his voice shaking the stone walls of his palace. "Loki, get in here!" Now, in Asgard, whenever anything went missing, went wrong, or caught fire, people naturally assumed Loki had something to do with it. Loki was a shapeshifter, a smooth talker, and a creature of pure mischief. He was half giant himself, and his mind was a maze of clever traps and narrow escapes. When Loki slipped into Thor's bed chamber, he was already looking for the nearest exit. He saw the empty bedside table. He saw Thor's wild, bloodshot eyes, and he immediately raised his hands. "I didn't do it," Loki said quickly. "Whatever it is, I was asleep. I have an alibi. Several, in fact." "It's gone," Thor whispered. It was a terrifying sound, the God of strength speaking in a whisper. "Mjolnir is gone. Someone has taken it while I slept." Loki's smirk vanished. The color drained from his face, leaving him looking very pale and very sharp. He knew, just as well as Thor, what an empty-handed thunder god meant. If the giants of Jotunheim found out that Thor was weaponless, they would not wait. They would cross the Bifrost, the rainbow bridge, before the sun could set. "Listen to me," Thor said, grabbing Loki by the shoulder with a grip that could have crushed a boulder. "No one in Asgard can know, not yet. If…

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