by Cate Martin
The interior of his house was much like Signi's. The walls were covered in white bookshelves. They even extended for a single shelf over the doorways and windows, and the windows had two shelves below them as well.
But this place had no room for knick-knacks. And the only light which was on was a reading lamp situated to shine down on the lap of whoever was sitting in the most comfortable chair by the fire. It was a recliner, and judging by the burnt orange and brown color of the upholstery, I guessed it dated back to the 70s.
The man carried Mjolner over to that chair. He poked the fire in his fireplace back to life before settling down in the recliner. He pushed the lamp back so that its light wasn't shining directly in the cat's eyes. Then he calmly scratched all around Mjolner's ears. He wasn't looking at me, but I knew he was waiting for me to do something or say something.
But I lingered still in the doorway. I felt strange. Not like I was under a spell, more like I was looking at two overlapping realities and I wasn't sure which one was real.
I stepped further into the room, and the smell of the place washed over me. The room smelled strongly of musty paper, a scent I knew well. It was that classic used bookstore smell. There was no sign of the modern, scholarly texts that Signi had favored on her shelves. No, each of those shelves was stuffed with books on top of books, mostly old, faded paperbacks.
But there was something familiar about those books, about that smell. And it wasn't memories of shopping in used bookstores that were floating in my mind, not quite coming into focus.
No, whatever I was trying to remember wasn't so mundane as all that.
"This isn't your house," I said to the man. I was still only just inside the room, hovering with a hand on one of his over-stuffed bookcases.
"Oh, I assure you, it is mine," he said, his focus still mainly on my cat. "It's just not the house of mine that you remember. That cabin is much further north of here. I still use it sometimes, but I'm more often here."
"Mjolner led me here," I said, still confused. That strange feeling was only growing stronger. I wanted to remember what I was being reminded of, but the memories refused to surface.
"I know," he said. "Ingrid, wouldn't you like to sit down?"
"I don't know," I said. "We were following the trail of a spell. A bad spell. It should've led us back to a killer."
"I see," he said, quite neutrally. "Do you think I'm the killer you seek?"
"I don't know," I said.
"You have your wand in your hand," he said. "Touch it to your own forehead."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because it's time for you to do so," he said. "But please, sit down in this chair here with me first."
I looked down at my wand, unsure of what to do. Mjolner's loud purring was the only sound besides the crackling of the fire. If I were in danger, he would know. He would protect me. Whoever this man was, Mjolner trusted him.
So why was I so afraid?
Some of the memories rushed back into the front of the mind. My grandmother, lividly angry, but not at me. No, she has her arms around me, a very young version of me, and she's yelling at someone else. I've never seen her so angry.
Except apparently I had. This was a memory, a memory of my time before, when I had come to Villmark as a child for a single summer.
The very moment I realized that, all the memories fled to the darker corners of my mind again.
"What's happening?" I asked.
"Your mind is breaking through. But the spell has been on you for a very long time," he said, his voice kind and sympathetic. "It's far stronger than your grandmother intended when she cast it on you, but she was quite angry at the time. But please, Ingrid, sit down with me. If you use the wand to break the spell, the process will go much faster."
I looked down at my wand again, then raised it to my own forehead and gave it a little tap.
The world rushed away from me, and I was lost in my memories. I was a little girl, and I was running through the meadow at the top of the waterfall with a boy. I knew him at once by his red hair and green eyes. Thorbjorn. We were together, having adventures.
We explored every inch of Villmark that summer, just the two of us. We knew every hiding place in the village and the meadow and the woods all around. We had even been caught sneaking into the caves more than once by Thorbjorn's father, Valki.
But our best adventures hadn't been just the two of us. Our best adventures had been when Frór, the old guardian of the people of Villmark, took us out on patrol with him.
He showed us rings of standing stones, and old villages long abandoned. We had met trolls and played with troll children. We had visited dwarf cities under different mountains, if never the ur-dwarves themselves.
Then, one day, Thorbjorn and I had decided to follow Frór into the north, the one direction we were absolutely forbidden to go.
The memory of my grandmother was back again, her angry red face and stiff posture, the way she had been crackling with magic. She had been yelling at Frór, but Thorbjorn and I had been quaking in fear, uncertain what she was about to do.
The fear pushed me out of the dreamy memory place, and I opened my eyes to find myself in a heap on the floor. There was a bump forming on my temple, I guessed from where it had hit the floor.
"I did ask you to sit down first," Frór said.
"Mormor blamed you," I said, rubbing absently at that bump as I sat up.
"Yes," he agreed.
"But it wasn't your fault," I said. "Thorbjorn and I were following you after you specifically told us not to do so. It wasn't your fault."
"You assume I didn't know you two were there," he said.
"Did you?" I asked.
He picked Mjolner up from his lap and settled him against his shoulder, stroking his back in long strokes that had the cat purring in delight. "Perhaps."
I got up from the floor and unsteadily made my way over to the other chair by the fire. I looked around the room again. The books weren't the only familiar things. The bearskin rug in front of the fire was one I had seen before. The carving on the bowl full of apples resting on a table nearby was also familiar. I could even remember Frór's hands as he carved those knots into the wood.
"Do you live out here because she's still mad at you?" I asked.
He laughed. "Well, that would be reason enough, wouldn't it? But no. You're still getting memories back. It will take a few days for them all to catch up with you. But when they do, you'll recall that I've never lived in town. I'm too much of a loner for that."
"But you're here now," I pointed out.
"Indeed," he said. "It’s not as overwhelming as Villmark. The people here like to keep to themselves. But perhaps I see the value of some small amount of companionship in my last days."
"Mjolner is quite fond of you," I said, nodding towards my cat, who was sleeping against the side of Frór's neck.
"Oh, yes. Well, there's a reason for that," he said sheepishly. His cheeks were even turning pink.
"What's the reason?" I asked.
"I suppose he's grateful for the last time we met," he said. He stroked Mjolner's head fondly. "I was walking a patrol far west of here when I found this little kitten with enormous paws all alone in the branches of a tree. No idea how he came to be stuck up there, him such a tiny thing. It was late spring at the time, but in the middle of a cold snap for all that. He was shaking and so thin, it near broke my heart."
"Late spring?" I asked in surprise. "Last year?"
"Just so," Frór said. "I put him inside my jacket and we walked the rest of my patrol together. I fed him bits of my food, and he stayed warm against my chest by day and close up against my neck by night. Soon he was big, although his paws were still too big for him, and strong enough to be on his own. So when my patrol ended we parted ways, I back to my cabin in the north, and he to wherever he chose to go."
"This was still in the spring?" I asked.
"Hmm. No. It was late summer when my patrol ended," he said.
Mjolner lifted his head and turned to look at me.
"I guess he came more or less straight to me, then," I said. "All the way in St. Paul. That makes no sense."
"Well, he's no ordinary cat," Frór said. He touched the collar around Mjolner's neck, admiring the hammer pendant that hung there. "You've given him a fine name."
"He gave it to himself, actually," I said. "He kept appearing in my bedroom, trying to steal that little pendant from me. Finally, I just gave it to him, the pendant and the name both."
"I can't say I'm surprised," Frór said.
I sighed. "He was supposed to be helping me follow the last traces of a spell. I thought that's where he was leading me, anyway. But now that we're here, I guess that wasn't what he was doing at all. He was just bringing me to see you."
"I've long wished to see you again, especially after I heard you were back in town. But I knew from others that your memories were still hiding from you, and so I bided my time," he said.
"I suppose he knew that," I said. "He often just seems to know things. I think he could even talk if he ever chose to do so."
"Perhaps he prefers to keep his own council," Frór said. "As happy as I am to see you, I know that you didn't intend to visit me today. Tell me about this killer."
"It's a long story," I said, and took in a deep breath to begin.
But to my surprise, Frór set Mjolner down on the floor to race off to some other part of the cabin before getting to his feet. "It's a long story, but it's also lunchtime. Two things that go together very handily. Let's go to the kitchen and once you've eaten, you can tell me everything."
"There's a good deal of urgency to the matter," I said, but the loud growl of my stomach drowned out my words.
Frór chuckled. "We'll make it a quick meal. Then, when your tale is done, we'll have full bellies to decide what to do next."
"You're going to help me?" I asked.
"Well, of course I'm going to help you," he said. "Surely you remember that much about me."
I closed my eyes and sorted through my newfound memories. I didn't remember every event that had taken place - not yet, anyway - but one feeling came through all of them loud and clear.
I trusted Frór.
As a child, I had trusted him to keep me safe, which despite how angry my grandmother had been for our last adventure, he had always done.
But more than that, even as a child I knew I could tell Frór anything, and he would hear me and take me seriously. He always treated me not exactly as an adult, but at least as someone whose thoughts and feelings were of value.
I could tell him anything, and not only would he not require proof to believe me, he would go to any length to help me solve my problems.
"Yes," I said, and smiled at him with all the warmth in my heart. "Yes, I do remember that about you."
His cheeks flushed, and I think he was actually feeling a little bit embarrassed. But all he said was, "good. Lunch, then."
And I followed him into the kitchen.
24
Frór's idea of a quick meal was more like banquet where I came from. He set a loaf of black bread on a cutting board in front of me and had me start slicing it as thin as I could. Then he took a wheel of cheese and an entire roast beef out of his refrigerator and sliced those himself. Finally he added cold sliced potatoes, fresh herbs, an urn of butter, and a variety of jams in cute little jars to the assortment of things on the table between us.
I had been to restaurants with sparser buffets.
"Beer?" he asked me as he poured a mug for himself from a barrel standing on a pedestal in the corner.
"None for me," I said.
"Tea? Or milk?" he offered.
"Tea would be lovely," I said.
He nodded and pushed a kettle over the fire in the kitchen fireplace. While we waited for that to come to a boil, we sat together at the table and began loading up the bread slices with all the various toppings.
"Oh, nearly forgot," he said, getting up again and going back to the refrigerator. He came out again with a little plate of pickled herring and set it on the floor. Mjolner gave an ecstatic meow of thanks and sat between us to eat his own special lunch.
"Now, start at the beginning," Frór told me as he spooned tea into the basket of a teapot.
And so I told him the entire story, from the moment I had left the hamlet down the path just outside his door to the moment I had appeared on his doorstep.
I told him about the feeling of being watched I had in the woods between where we were and my own little cottage, and about the Wild Hunt and the lost Freyas. I only briefly mentioned the ur-dwarves and the moss-wives, but his eyes darted over to the bronze wand I had set on the table beside my placemat when I reached that part of the story.
"And, like I said before, I thought Mjolner was going to help me find whoever cast that spell last night, but instead, he brought me here," I said, and took a big bite of my bread topped with roast beef and potato.
"Three nights in a row," Frór said, stroking his beard as he sat back in his chair. "I've never heard the like. Not in this part of the world, anyway."
"But didn't you hear it?" I asked. "I know they were riding through the woods south of here, but the galloping horses and howling dogs were so loud."
"No, I heard nothing, or I would've investigated," Frór said.
"Would you have gotten word if anyone in Villmark had noticed it?" I asked.
"Yes, definitely," he said. "No worries there. The people of Villmark are safe, save for those who are hunting with you."
I knew what I wanted to ask him next, but the thought of saying the words made my mouth suddenly dry. I took a sip of my tea, then gathered up my courage. "Do you think I'm right? That something is summoning the Wild Hunt?"
"Well, that's a tricky one," he said. "The Wild Hunt is a thing of Odin, and no mere mortal commands Odin."
"No, I don't suppose so," I said, disappointed.
"But that doesn't mean he can't be tricked," Frór went on. "Or lured somehow."
"Really?" I asked eagerly.
"It would be no simple thing," he said. "Your grandmother is the most powerful wielder of magic I've never known, and I doubt she could do it. So that leaves us with the real conundrum. Who could do such a thing? And how are they hiding?"
"Anyone with such power could also hide it from those of lesser power, couldn't they?" I said, remembering how even I, as weak in magic as I was, already knew how to hide traces of myself from the senses of others.
"True enough," he conceded. I watched him think, sip at his beer, then think some more. I spread butter and raspberry jam on another slice of bread and ate that while I waited.
"It seems to me when you first started following Mjolner, he was doing as you thought," he said at last. "He was trying to follow the spell. But at some point he lost the trail, or he just got distracted."
"He never seemed to have lost it," I said. "It was all I could do to keep up with him until he stopped."
"Where did he stop?"
"On a rock just south of here," I said. "I could just barely see these cabins from there."
"Well, there you go," Frór said and drained the last of his beer, wiping the foam from his beard with the back of his sleeve.
"What?" I asked.
"Mjolner brought you to this hamlet," he said. "He lost the trail here, but there is nowhere else it could have gone but here. No creature lives anywhere near these parts, I promise you."
"You think one of the residents here is the one who cast the spell?" I asked.
"That seems to be the case," Frór said.
I had a sudden sinking feeling in my stomach. "Before he came to your door, Mjolner seemed to have narrowed it down to three possibilities. You, Signi, and whoever lives on the other side of you."
"Hmm. Well, I hope we can agree it's not me," he said, and I nodded. "Nor Signi. That doesn't seem remotely likely."
"No," I said. "But what about her houseguest? Have
you met that man?"
"Man?" Frór said. "I suppose you might call him such. I reckon he's about your age. He's a tiny thing, looks more like boy, to be sure."
"That doesn't mean he can't be dangerous. Especially not if we're talking about magic," I said.
"No, sure enough," he said. "But I don't think so. He's very closely watched. I don't know when he'd have the opportunity. I will talk to Signi about it, surely, but I think it very unlikely."
I had another, darker thought, but I was loath to speak it.
"What is it?" he asked me.
I took a deep breath and plowed ahead. "Has Bera been here? Visiting Signi next door? You would've seen her, wouldn't you?" I waited for him to tell me I was being paranoid.
But he didn't. He just looked a little confused, like he was having a hard time placing the name. "Bera?" he said with a frown.
"Short woman, a little younger than me, mousy looking?" I said.
"I know who she is," he said. "I'm just not sure why you're asking about her. Do you think she's in danger?"
"No, I think she..." but I broke off without finishing that sentence. Because it made no sense. I knew Bera had no real magical skill. She had only ever pretended, although she had pretended so hard she had believed it herself. She couldn't have done this.
But then Frór was sure that no one he knew from Villmark could do it. Only I wasn't entirely sure that was true.
"What are you thinking?" he asked me.
"Bera spends most of her time in a cell in the caves behind the waterfall, right?" I said. "But there is another woman in those cells, one who maybe could do this. And I would totally believe she would try if she could."
"Halldis," Frór guessed, but he shook his head. "No, even she is not up to something like this."
"But, like you said, no one is," I said.
His frown deepened. "Tell me," he said.
"Halldis had an artifact, something that let her do magic far beyond her own capabilities. My grandmother took it from her, but what if she found another?"
"There is no way she could get access to anything now," Frór said. "Those cells are impenetrable. She's allowed no visitors save Signi. And she never goes out."