We might.
We won’t.
I know we won’t, but why worry about it? Think about your sweat lodge. Sometimes it pays to concentrate on things you look forward to.
It will be a great sweat lodge.
Yes.
As soon as the spring thaw comes you must build it, says Snorri.
But you said it was just another of my winter dreams.
Dreams can become a reality. I have confidence in you, Frosti.
You’re just saying that because you want a turn in my sweat lodge.
Maybe. Maybe not.
You never answered my question, Snorri.
Which question?
The one about which one of us will go first.
I am not answering that question. It is a silly question. How can we know?
We can’t know. I’m just wondering.
Well, you shouldn’t. All that wondering and thinking and dreaming gives you headaches. Me, I chop and I stack and I walk and I work, but I do not speculate about what might or might not be. And I remain headache-free. Do you see the point that I am making, Frosti?
Yes. I see the point that you are making.
How is your head now?
I don’t know. A little better, maybe.
Good.
It’s hard to tell. I feel it behind my eyeball.
Stop thinking about death. And drink some water.
I drank some water.
Drink some more water and drown the headache.
Is that a saying? Drink some more water and drown the headache?
No. I just made it up now.
Oh.
Now. I should get this stew on the go.
What are we having, Snorri?
Ham hock and vegetable.
My favourite.
Could you pass the ham from the cold room?
Of course.
While you do that I’ll chop these vegetables.
Here you go.
Thanks. This knife needs sharpening.
Perhaps we can take it with us tomorrow and get it done in the village.
Yes. That’s a good idea. It’s about as blunt as these carrots.
Do you ever tire of stew, Snorri?
What a question to ask.
Well, do you?
I never give it any thought. Why – do you?
No. As you know, I like it a lot.
Good.
Of course, sometimes I like to eat fish.
Well, me too. But you know that we are out of salt fish, Frosti.
Yes.
We finished the last barrel in September.
Yes.
Perhaps we can get some more.
I’d like that. I could make us salt fish fritters.
I like your salt fish fritters, Frosti.
The secret is to drain the fish for forty-eight hours, mix them with cornflour if you can get it, then fry them in butter. I like to serve them with kale.
Me too. Kale is good. Kale is full of iron.
You know, this afternoon I had a nosebleed.
A nosebleed?
Yes, Snorri.
What happened?
I’m not sure that anything happened. I was standing for a moment having a rest and I felt something strange in my forehead.
What do you mean?
Just like something popped inside.
Popped?
Yes. Like my brain was relaxing. And then the air seemed to be suddenly very sharp in my nose. Like ice. I could smell it. Then I sneezed and drops of blood splattered the snow. I put my hand to my nose and it was bleeding.
Did it hurt at all, Frosti?
No. It didn’t hurt. It felt fine. Like I was being unblocked or unburdened of something. It almost felt good.
Good?
Like a relief.
Maybe you banged your nose while chopping.
No. Not at all. Then more blood came. Some ran on to my lip and I licked at it and the taste took me right back to that time.
Which time?
That time we were sledging at Devil’s Nape, Snorri.
I don’t remember.
Sure you do. We were sledging and some boys from the village came over. One of them pushed me off my sledge and took it.
I don’t recall, Frosti.
It was the big sledge that Father made. The one with the metal runners. Then one of the other boys threw a snowball with a rock in it that hit me. It hit me square on the head and I heard bells ringing. I bit into my tongue.
Wait. I think I remember.
You went up to the boy who threw the snowball at me. You didn’t run and you didn’t act angry. You just walked over to him. He was laughing. He was taller than you. Much taller. And thin too. I was around ten so you must have been twelve, thirteen.
Those two years make a difference at that age, Frosti.
They do.
I can picture him now. Did something happen?
Yes.
Did I hit him?
Yes. You hit him. You hit him hard, Snorri. You could barely reach his face but one punch was all it took. His nose exploded. I remember the blood. The way it landed on the snow. A flash of red on the landscape. It was like I was seeing the colour for the first time. True red, I mean. So bright. So shocking. Then the snow soaked it up, diluted it.
Then what?
Then the boy ran off crying. His friend who had stolen my sledge walked back up the hill and gave it back to me. He looked scared of you. He apologised and said he had only been kidding around. He said he didn’t mean any harm.
We later become friends, me and him.
You did?
Yes. At school. I forget his name. He was OK. The boy I hit I never much liked.
I wonder what became of him.
He died young.
Is that true, Snorri?
That is true, Frosti.
How did he die?
I don’t recall. He had a disease. He was in his twenties. Maybe it was his liver. Or maybe it was his lungs. He worked in a factory, that is all I know.
I was proud to have you as my brother that day, Snorri. The way you stuck up for me.
It was nothing. He was a bully. You were my little brother.
Still. He was a lot bigger than you.
It just means he had further to fall, that’s all.
Well.
Well.
The nosebleed today. It reminded me of this.
You have a good memory.
You have a good right hook.
Thanks.
I can picture the boy now. The look on his face when you hit him.
Well, what did he expect, throwing rocks at kids.
I think he learned a lesson that day, Snorri.
Maybe. But even after that he would still bully other kids.
He did?
Yes. I don’t think he learned that much.
He never bothered us again, though, did he.
That’s true. It’s such a long time ago.
Must be sixty-five years. A different century.
Frosti, how is your headache now?
My headache is still there.
Did your nosebleed last very long?
It bled for a long time. Then I rubbed snow on my nose and my face and that seemed to help. Then I carried on chopping.
The air feels thin today. Rarefied.
Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s why I had a nosebleed. I never have nosebleeds.
Me neither.
I couldn’t stop staring at the blood. The pattern it made in the snow. In a strange way it was pretty.
Blood is such an unexpected colour. Nowhere else in nature do you see that colour. Not in berries, not in the breast of a bird. Only inside us does that red exist. Then when it comes we are surprised by the shock of its beauty.
That’s very well put, Snorri.
But it’s true.
Well.
Well.
Did I ever tell you what my name means?
Snorri, you
mean?
Yes.
Sure. It means snow. Frosti is frost and you’re snow. And Agna meant goodness, purity. Chastity.
Well, that’s where you are wrong, little brother.
I think you’ll find I’m right.
On your name, yes. And maybe Agna too. Frosti is indeed Old Norse for frost. An ancient name in use across Scandinavia. But Snorri – Snorri is purely an Icelandic name. Less a Norse name and more one that specifically comes from that treeless island. It means hard fighting. Father named me after a character in the Sagas. Snorri the unmentionable.
Snorri the Unmentionable? What sort of a name is that?
His name wasn’t Snorri the Unmentionable, Frosti. It was Snorri – the something-I-don’t-care-to-say.
I don’t understand.
A rude word.
Snorri the rude word.
Yes.
What word?
Do I have to spell it out for you.
I’m interested. You brought up the subject.
It’s Bastard, Frosti.
Snorri the Bastard?
Yes.
You were named after someone called Snorri the Bastard?
Yes. A hard-fighting warrior of the old Sagas.
You were named after a hard-fighting warrior of the old Sagas called Snorri the Bastard, Agna was named for her virtuosity and big heart, and I was named after frozen water vapour.
Yes. That appears to be the case, Frosti.
I’m not sure how I feel about that. All my life I thought of you and I as frost and snow. Two variants of the same thing.
It’s not the case. Not in name, anyway.
I see that now.
Yes.
Wow. Snorri the Bastard.
Yes.
Have you read the Sagas, Snorri?
You know I’m not much of a reader, Frosti.
Well, me neither.
Books are for other people.
So having not read the Sagas, we don’t even know this to be true.
It’s what Uncle Ulf told me.
And you believed him!
I had no reason not to.
Apart from the fact that he was the most famous teller of tall tales in the whole valley, Snorri. Uncle Ulf. They called him Pinocchio for a reason, you know. Snorri the Bastard. Honestly. There’s no such character, brother.
I believe there to be.
Well. I bet the smell of liquor was strong on his breath and his eyes a little glassy when he told you this, no?
I don’t know, Frosti. I just like the story about the fighting warrior.
So like the story – and be a warrior. After all, you felled that boy like a giant Canadian redwood all those years ago. But don’t go telling people you’re named after a character that doesn’t even exist. Tongues will wag.
Well.
I do miss Uncle Ulf. He was fun.
Yes. He was. He was well liked. You know, Frosti, he was only fifty when he fell in the snow that night and never got up.
Fifty?
Yes. A quarter-century younger than you are now, Frosti. It took three days for him to thaw out.
I remember. They said it was the first bath he’d had since they put a man on the moon.
Putting a man on the moon would have been easier than getting Uncle Ulf to take a bath.
That’s true, Snorri. What was it that Uncle Ulf did? For a living, I mean?
He drained vodka bottles for a vodka company.
He was good at his job, though, wasn’t he?
Yes, he was. He was indeed. The very best. He had many years of practice.
He was not like Father.
No. He was not. Father never touched a drop. Except at New Year.
Everyone touches a drop at New Year. I’ll be taking a drop myself.
They say his liver was like reindeer pâté at the end. How is your headache now, Frosti?
It is like a steel balaclava.
That bad?
That bad. It hurts to blink. And now my jaw aches too.
Remember when Uncle Ulf fell off the roof while tarring it?
Of course. That’s how he got his limp.
And his stutter.
Yes. And his stutter. That was when he took to the drinking.
Oh, he had already started on that, little brother.
He had?
Yes.
Uncle Ulf.
Yes. What a character. A rare beast, that one. Do you know what the name Ulf means?
No, Snorri. Tell me.
I have no idea.
I think maybe it means buffoon.
You could be right there, Frosti. You could be right.
I think I might turn in early tonight.
You’re not going to have coffee?
No, Snorri. Not tonight. It’s this headache. It feels like an icicle has fallen from the frozen waterfall and pierced my head. The pain is cold and the pain is sharp. It’s a distraction.
I can put another log on the burner. I’ve been saving a special one.
That’s OK.
Well, if you’re sure.
I’m sure.
Tomorrow is another day, little brother. Your head will be better.
I hope so.
And if it is not I will walk down to the village and pick up the supplies myself.
How will you manage?
I’ll manage.
But you’ll never be able to carry them all, Snorri. What about my syrup?
Don’t worry. I’ll find a way. I’ll get you your syrup.
Without syrup I might die.
There you go again. Exaggerating.
Maybe a little.
You are like a child sometimes, Frosti.
Yes.
Sometimes I forget we are old men.
Yes.
You make me feel young.
That’s good. That’s good. I’m glad I make you feel young, Snorri.
It’s not so bad.
It could be worse.
It could always be worse.
Well.
Well.
I’ll turn in, then.
I’m going to sit in front of the burner for a while longer.
OK.
Maybe watch the snow for a while.
It’s really falling again.
Yes. Like ashes from an extinguished sun.
There will be deep drifts tomorrow.
Yes.
We’ll need to clear them.
Yes.
At this rate they’ll be over the front porch.
Don’t worry about that, Frosti. There will always be snow. There will always be drifts. But there will always be shovels too.
But there won’t always be us.
No.
Well. Snorri, the men with the orange poles –
Sleep deep, Frosti.
OK. I will.
Goodnight.
I heard the geese in the night again, Frosti. They arrived right on time. First one V-formation, then another. Then shortly after that, two more. I could hear their honking from a long way off. It echoed right down the valley. It was very loud but by the time they reached us they were silent. I think perhaps they were saving their energy for the long flight ahead. They flew so low I could hear the flap of their wings right above our roof. I could hear the wind in their feathers, the rasp of their lungs. It sounded like magic. Did you hear them, Frosti?
. . .
We are right under their flight path. Every year they come, right on time. For many years now. Generations. And every year I hear their honking echoing down the valley, and it wakes me just in time to hear them pass over us. When I was a boy I thought the noise was that of a mythical sky beast passing over us. You always slept through it, Frosti, and when you woke up and I told you about the noise the mythical sky beast made you didn’t believe me. You thought I was making it all up. Then one morning Father told me that it wasn’t a beast, but geese in flight. He said they always fly together, in small V-shaped groups, and they take it in tur
ns to lead. I found that idea even more exciting than the one my imagination had made up. Father also said that when the geese migrate they fly three thousand miles. That fact staggered me. I have only ever travelled three hundred miles and as you know that was for one disappointing night. You, little brother, have travelled even less. I don’t recall you ever going more than thirty miles. You never did like to leave the valley. And now we are old men.
. . .
Well, anyway, I suspect our travelling days are over, Frosti. Some weeks the three miles into town feels a lot longer. These snowdrifts don’t help. There was another heavy fall in the night. I can feel it. See how it lightens the room. Hear how it muffles the call of the dawn birds. It surely lies thick this morning; I think that walking will be a trial today. Two steps in snow is like twenty in grass. But why travel when the world just on your doorstep changes every day? That thing about every snowflake being different. Well. To me every day is different, little brother. We may drink our coffee and eat our oats, but no two skies are the same. No two trees are the same. Or people. And each dream we have is different from the last.
. . .
Do you hear me, Frosti?
. . .
I bet he is dreaming now.
. . .
Dreaming of syrup, probably.
. . .
Or that sweat lodge.
. . .
Frosti?
. . .
It is nearly time to get up, Frosti.
. . .
Frosti.
. . .
Frosti.
. . .
. . .
. . .
Notes
Some of these stories were inspired by real incidents and real people, though artistic licence has been applied to varying degrees throughout.
‘A Thousand Acres of English Soil’ was runner-up in the Society of Authors’ Tom-Gallon Trust Award 2018. ‘The Folk Song Singer’ won the Society of Authors’ Tom-Gallon Trust Award 2014. It was published as a download-only ‘double A-side’ release as part of Galley Beggar Press’s Singles Club.
‘An English Ending’, ‘The Museum of Extinct Animals’ and ‘Old Ginger’ were first published by Somesuch Stories between 2015 and 2017. ‘The Museum of Extinct Animals’ also featured in the Somesuch Stories Volume 1 print anthology, published in 2015.
‘The Whip Hand’ was published in 2018 as a single chapbook, limited to fifty-three signed and numbered copies as part of the Walking Wounded Series by Tangerine Press. ‘The Bloody Bell’ was originally commissioned by Hexham Book Festival 2016 for their Mansio project, and written during a week’s residency near Hadrian’s Wall. An extended version of the story appeared in their collection, The Mansio: New Writing Inspired by Hadrian’s Wall (Hexham Book Festival, 2016).
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