by Terry Graves
“I was here to free you,” Runa said, feeling her voice bleak, her tongue thick, “and then perhaps kill you. But I suppose you don’t know who I am.”
She had been ruminating on that thought for hours, and it made her feel furious. The person who had destroyed her life, the one she had been having nightmares about, no longer remembered her. Her father had been just another kill for her, the first of many, not worth a second thought.
“I don’t. But I’m afraid the one you’re speaking to is no longer here to remember you either,” said Sigrún.
“I don’t understand.”
“What it means is that the woman whose corpse is getting cold next to us and who spoke to you is me.”
Runa shook her head in disbelief. “What magic could be capable of something like that?”
“This is no magic; it is what gods do.”
“Sigrún. I have never heard of a goddess with such a name,” she replied. The snapping of the woman’s jaw, the shape that had abandoned her body; Runa still remembered those things. And there was something different about her, some subtleties in her tone of voice that made her waver.
“I’ve never heard of a girl named Runa until today. Perhaps it means that you don’t exist either.”
“It’s not the same,” Runa protested.
“Yes, it is. I was not paying attention to you, neither you to me. I’m one of the Æsir and I lived in Sökkvabekkr until the giants came. I was sent to Miðgarð without a body and hence I have had to provide myself with several throughout the years. Human men came from the ash tree. Human women from the elm tree. They’re very different from one another, and very different from the giants or the gods. Your bodies still remember the wood; they are stiff and your bones crack easily as if they were branches, while my body flows and adapts. And your bodies itch,” she complained, and scratched her arm.
The story fitted what Fyrnir had told them and what the elder had been saying. Gods no longer roamed in the halls of Ásgarð. The Æsir had been defeated and now walked the Middle-Earth.
But for Runa that was not enough. She believed in the gods, just not like that, face to face. Gods appeared to them in the shape of storms and lightning, or as the waves of the sea, or as the flight of the crows. “If that is true, and you’re not trying to trick me, then I cannot understand what business a goddess can have in Veraheim. Unless you came for the giant.”
“That was only an unfortunate coincidence.” Sigrún looked at her as if she was taking her measure. “My path brought me north-west, but I was not expecting the events that took place tonight. I would have left earlier, but I was wounded. Almost everything could have been ruined by my lack of judgment.” She glanced and put the chunk of mineral into her bag again with care, as if it was something precious. “But it does not matter now. I can hear the birds chirping at last. The darkness is gone, and the giant is dead. It is time to leave.” Sigrún stood up. Runa lifted her eyes to the hole in the roof of the byre, through which the first sunrays filtered over the hay-covered floor. “You won’t say a word of what I’ve shared here.”
“I won’t.”
“Come on, there’s much we have to do.”
“We?” Runa raised an eyebrow.
“Yes. I’m a prisoner, remember?” Sigrún covered her head with the hood to conceal her face. “It is unlikely that someone remembers it after this night, but there’s no harm in being cautious. If I go with you I won’t raise suspicion.”
Runa had little choice. Perhaps it was a way to trick her and she was taking her for a fool. But she would not hand her over to Sveinn again, and she was not going to fight her either. She was curious about her, about her story, so she shrugged, trying to look indifferent. “Do as you may.”
Morning brought a fading whitish light which revealed the extent of the destruction. The rafters from the dilapidated buildings rose like wooden teeth, crooked and sharp, engulfed in the low mist. Runa had to jump to avoid one of the corpses that lay on the ground. The ravens had gathered in the nearby trees in great numbers, over the posts and the scarce remaining roofs, cawing and flapping their black wings. Swans of blood, as the famous kenning said. The feast here would keep them entertained for days.
“If you’re a goddess as you claim to be, why have you not stopped this?” said Runa, angry.
“Because I’m not here to win a battle, but to win the war,” she replied. She crouched and picked some shards of ice from the ground and licked them. “And because another did.”
Runa did not understand what she meant, but she did not bother to ask. The state of the town was getting to her, and her mood became gloomy and dark. Any words she could say would lack meaning. Just to be alive, to breathe and speak, seemed disrespectful in the middle of that graveyard.
Veraheim had never been much of a home to her. She used to avoid the populated areas, moving around the outskirts and making her business inside the longhouses and the shop rears. Still, she could not stand the sight of so many dead bodies, so many lives reaped. She hoped that the family that shared the shack with her were alright, far away and unaware, checking the fish traps in the river. And she hoped that her only friends in the world had somehow escaped in time.
The two girls walked down the street and into the market square, now just a waste ground among the ruins. In the center, right in front of where the great hall had stood, there was a big mound of stone with a shape that vaguely resembled a human. She was about to investigate it closely when she saw a figure kneeling on the ground and discerned a mop of red chestnut hair. “Gerda, is that you?”
She ran to her. It was Gerda, yes. She was missing her cloak and gazed at Runa as if she had trouble recognizing her. There was something in her eyes that made her hesitate to draw closer. A shadow.
She was tending to Alarr. The smith’s son was wounded, but conscious. He had an ugly bruise on his face and a cut had torn his shirt from shoulder to waist, but the wound did not look deep and the blood seemed to have stopped pouring a while ago.
“Runa,” said Alarr when he saw her, and he raised a tremulous hand dirty with dried blood. She held it. “You were wrong. I saw Valhalla.”
“Of course I was wrong,” said Runa. “We were just trying to get to you.” That is what Kai and I always do, she would have liked to add. But the boy was nowhere to be seen. “Where is Kai?”
Gerda shook her head and did not answer, and Runa tried to expel the dismal thoughts that were starting to form in her mind. The girl did not know Kai’s whereabouts, that was all. It did not mean a thing.
She heard the noise of pebbles falling and turned around to face Sigrún. The woman had climbed the rocky mound, which was starting to be covered by a thin mantle of snow. She raised her spear and thrust it against it several times. Then she took out a knife and started digging a hole in the place where the chest of the giant may have been, throwing away gravel and grit.
“Who’s there?” asked Alarr. He tried to sit up but Gerda gently pushed him down again. His breathing was irregular.
“I’m not completely sure.”
Sigrún buried her hands into the rock and picked up something very small. “Right on time,” she said with a tight grin, and jumped down the mound with some clumsiness. “Had the sun been a bit higher in the sky I would have needed Óðin’s spear to rip his chest open.” She looked alternately from Gerda to Alarr. “Are these friends of yours?” Runa nodded. Sigrún looked at Alarr’s wound. “I’ve seen worse. You can consider yourself fortunate. To fight against a Jötunn and survive is a story you can tell your grandsons and feel proud.”
“I know,” said Alarr, but he frowned. If he recognized the brigand’s daughter under the hood, he did not say it.
“So who made the kill?” Runa asked.
Sigrún looked at the iron-gray sky. A few snow flurries were swirling around with the wind. “Winter.”
“You keep speaking in riddles.”
“She means the Snow Queen,” said Gerda in a hoarse voice. I
t was the first time she had opened her mouth, and she did it reluctantly. “She came down from the skies in a white sledge, fought the giant, and took Kai with her.”
“Took Kai…?” Runa repeated, his mouth open wide. “For what? And where?”
Gerda raised her shoulders as if she did not know. But she did, and Runa too. The story Kai had been telling for so many years was true. He had been a tribute all along and the Snow Queen had come back for him. And Kai would became winter and they would listen to his calm and soothing voice when the wind rattled through the trees, and perhaps they would see his kind face in the glint of the falling snowflakes. A single tear fell down Runa’s cheek. Only one of her eyes could cry.
“That is the way of things,” said Sigrún, as if she had read her thoughts, “some have to die for others to live.”
“Well, that won’t be Kai,” Runa replied. “We have to go after him.”
“No, you won’t,” said Gerda. Her pupils burned with fire. “Only me. It is my responsibility.”
Runa looked at her blankly. “Kai is my friend as much as yours.”
“Runa,” muttered Alarr, “you don’t get it. Let her be.”
Gerda left Alarr’s head leaning against a wooden board, stood up abruptly and strolled across the square. Runa called her twice, but she did not reply. The echo of her voice thundered against the walls of the few buildings that still stood. With the coming of the morning, some activity had started, as if Veraheim’s inhabitants had woken up from a bad dream: people wandering around, the cries of a child somewhere, one of Hafgrim’s men looking for his companions.
Runa fingered the ends of Alarr’s long mane. “I will be back.” Then she threw a look at Sigrún, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Go.”
She caught up with Gerda a little later. Runa had always being faster than her, a fact that annoyed Gerda, who said that she could not compete with the girl, as Runa had no meat on her bones to carry.
“Tell me what this is all about,” she demanded, and grabbed her wrist and forced her to turn.
Gerda shook her off, but seemed to have no energy left to fight.
“I had an ulterior motive for the trip we made to the mountains,” she said, and her face darkened. “Yesterday, I snuck into Kai’s house and stole one of Solfrid’s sacks. Fyrnir had asked for it and also for a particular flower that only grew on the heights. Remember the flower crown?”
“I still don’t understand.”
Gerda lowered her head. “I freed the giant, Runa. Alarr was going to do it with me, but then the king’s men came and he thought an opportunity had arisen for him to get noticed. So I ended up doing it all by myself.”
“For a stupid crown?” Runa could not believe it. She clenched her hands. “Is gold all that matters to you? All you seek? Are you really so vain?”
Runa punched her. It happened without her even thinking about it. It was just a reflex, pure anger and resentment. Her fist buried in Gerda’s face and sent her to the ground. Runa stood there while Gerda moaned and rolled in the snow. She looked at her hand, confused, as if it was not part of her body, as if those fingers did not belong to her. A soft red bruise was starting to fade on her knuckles.
“It was freedom that I was craving.” When Gerda faced her once again, her eyes were in tears and blood was falling down her nose and her broken lip. “For him. For me.”
Runa kneeled and hugged her. All hate had vanished. Her friend had lost her cloak and she was shivering, so she covered her with her own furs and let her cry into her shoulder for a long time. Throughout her life, Gerda had been the strong one, the merry one. She had never seen her so defeated before, and it broke her heart. “I’m with you,” she whispered, as if she was soothing a little girl. “I will be with you.”
“I don’t deserve it.”
“That’s not for you to judge.”
Gerda finally broke the hug and cleaned her face with her sleeve. “I have to look for my father, see if he’s unharmed,” she said.
“Do it.” Runa stood up. “But come to see me afterwards. Alarr is in no condition to join us, but I will prepare things in the meantime and we’ll both leave to rescue Kai. Together.” Gerda gave her a slight nod, but that was not enough for her: “Say it.”
“Together,” Gerda agreed.
FOURTEEN
Her father was in front of the hearth with his hands extended, his palms just inches away from the last fading embers, covered in dried mud and soot. The fire was almost extinguished and the room was getting chill. When he looked at her, startled by the creaking noise of the door, he seemed weary. His eyes were bloated and red as if he had been crying. But that was not possible, the girl decided. Men don’t cry, ever; not even her father. It may have been the smoke from the fires.
“You’re wounded,” Hallbjorn said. Gerda touched her face, which had started to swell.
“It’s nothing.” But she ran to him and he embraced her.
“What a horrid nightmare!” he exclaimed. “It was as if we were in the maw of the serpent already. I’ve been looking for you all night and tried to help others along the way as much as I could. But a man with one leg is of no use. I thought you may come back here.”
“I am back, but not for long.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Kai is gone.”
“He’s not in his house, if that’s what you mean.” His eyes scanned her, seeking an answer, but he received none. “He may have run to the forest. Many have done so and perhaps some have not returned yet.”
Gerda struggled to find the words, but she decided it no longer mattered. “No, Father. He has been taken by the Snow Queen, and carried away to her domains in the north.”
Her father snorted, but there was no joy in his laugh, and soon it died in his throat. “He’s too old for that. The Snow Queen only takes little children and Kai is a man already. Your words make no sense.” But Gerda’s serious countenance made him give it a second thought. “Are you speaking the truth?”
Truer than your stories about trolls and duergars, Gerda would have loved to say, but now was not the time to be scornful. She nodded and, for a while, her father remained quiet, pulling his thin beard with his eyes lost in the hearth.
“Then go,” he said finally. “Go now, before the trail disappears. Follow the snow that shines as liquid silver before it melts.”
“Aren’t you going to try to stop me?”
He turned his face and confronted her; but he had a sad expression, as if he had already been defeated. “Would it make any difference?”
“It won’t.”
Her father smiled, and Gerda found with surprise that she was smiling in return. He grabbed his staff, leaned on it to stand up, and walked laboriously to the end of the room. He searched through his belongings until he found a bundle.
“There you go,” he said. He came back, left it on the dining table, and started to unknot the cords with which it had been tied up. “It would be cynical of me to forbid you to go just because the whole thing is perilous. I’ve been a traveler and a wanderer for most of my life, and I would very happily join you in this journey if I could. But one cannot wander without a damn leg, and cannot travel without a foot.” He hit his thigh with a fist. “You have both of them, and walk just fine, and know nothing of the world, except for what I have told you. And Kai deserves for you to try, at the very least.”
Gerda felt a wave of gratitude toward her father. She had been expecting some resistance, some arguing which she hadn’t the strength for, but had found only support. “What about the pigs?” she asked him.
“I’ll take care of them, Gerda. I’m not as worthless as you think I am. I’m the one who should be worrying, not you.”
He opened the bundle, which contained an old dark-green cloak, very ragged, and a piece of what it looked dried calfskin. He extended this over the table and opened it, and Gerda found out that the leather was in fact a cover protecting a map. She had never see
n a map before, but that was the only thing it could be. She leaned closer to examine it. The strokes were tremulous and it was clearly made in a rush, or by a not very skilled artist, but there was some inherent beauty to it. There were drawings of mountains and trees and lakes, but also of a sea serpent, of a wolf coming out of a forest, of a giant blowing a wisp of wind. Written in red, there were marks and symbols all over it.
“What is this?” Gerda asked.
“A map of the north. The names are written in a language used in the kingdoms south of here. But it doesn’t matter, the pictures will tell you most of the story you need to know. Your memory will do the rest. I hope you were paying attention to what I have told you all your life.”
Gerda opened her eyes wide. “Did you draw this?”
He nodded. “Most of it I copied, but yes, my hand was behind these lines. I used it to orientate myself and I included all the things that I found on my way and thought might be of interest. And the map grew and grew.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“I know you can’t. You never did, anyway. It matters no longer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“As I said, it matters no longer,” he repeated. His words were followed by an uncomfortable silence. “Please, Gerda, bring me the chair.”
She did as he ordered. Hallbjorn sat with a grunt.
“Let’s see. I’ve never been lucky enough to witness the Snow Queen or to be close to her domains. But some call her Skaði, and if those who named her were right, there are some legends about her around. She was married to Njörð, who is one of the Vanir, but they didn’t get along so well. As the story goes, Njörð wanted to live by the sea, and Skaði preferred the house of his father in the mountains. They tried to reach an agreement, so they would spend nine nights in the mountain and three by the sea. But Njörð thought the howling of the wolves insufferable and Skaði could not take the noises the seagulls made. Skaði was daughter to a giant named Thjazi, and his house was in Thrym.” Hallbjorn pointed to a jagged stroke that crossed the land, far up north. “I would seek her there, in her father’s fortress.”