by Wendy Delsol
The dogs continued to act up. If this was the past, how did they sense my presence? In irritation, Brigid slowed the sled.
“What is wrong with you worthless creatures?” she screamed at the dogs. This was not the same Brigid I had known during her stay in Norse Falls. This one had a hard glint in her eyes and an imperious cadence to her voice. The dogs continued to fuss, two now snapping at the air. Brigid brought the sled to a stop. I dropped onto the perch of a low cliff overlooking them.
Brigid stepped off the back of the sled and strode through the snow to where the dogs were leashed in a fan-shaped formation of long nylon traces. Even in my current no-clothes-required state, I couldn’t help but admire her travel garb: fluffy dove-gray fur pants tucked into knee-high suede boots laced tight to her calves. With a gloved hand, she yanked the collar of the loudest of the two yelpers, causing him to whimper and lower his head submissively. Brushing her hands, one over the other, she sauntered back to the sleigh. When close, she slowed and lingered, watching Jack in his withdrawn state.
“Dear Jack, are you still so very glum?” Though she tempered her voice, there was still a sharpness to it. She removed a glove and brushed his cheek with her hand. He recoiled as if struck, but then his body slumped forward in a very un-Jack-like display of defeat. I understood then that it wasn’t cold or fear that had him shaking — it was pure hatred. “Still angry, are we? I’m sorry that you don’t agree with my methods, but it couldn’t be helped, really. You’d never have come willingly. I need you, though. Besides, what is there to complain about?” She gestured to the snowy landscape with open arms. “Just look at the beauty surrounding us. How could you, of all people, not be happy? And to think, soon all the world will be just as breathtaking.” Jack turned away from her. She shook her head and stepped back onto the footboards. “Shame, your lack of enthusiasm. Anyway, soon you won’t waste energy on anything as ridiculous as emotion.”
I could see the way he shrank at the sound of her voice. I could also see a cloudiness in his eyes. I wanted to do something to help him somehow, to come between them. I jumped from my perch only to find myself being wrenched forward, through the air, through time itself.
I came to on the earthen floor of the sweat lodge. I was shaking uncontrollably as much from the thrust of the travel as from the sense of helplessness and hopelessness.
Jack had seemed so angry, yet oddly resigned to his fate. Though he withered under her touch, he didn’t fight to escape. As if he knew, somehow, that it was pointless. And judging by what I’d overheard, Brigid wanted it all, not just my world — which was Jack — but the world, too.
I sat up, lifting my heavy-as-barbells shoulders. Brigid had Jack. Did she intend to use him to deep-freeze us all? Regardless, Brigid had Jack. I’d do whatever it took to stop her — and to free him.
Jinky and her grandmother were still with me in the low tent. How long had I been gone? And how could they stand it? It was so cloyingly hot. The steam from the water poured over the hot rocks, and the smoke from the smudge wand still had the place banked in a fog that could rival both London and San Francisco — combined. Despite the creepy sensation of them both watching me, waiting for me to say something, I needed a minute to recover. All I could think about was Jack. If that was the past, where was he now? And what had Brigid meant when she said he won’t be wasting his energy on emotions much longer?
Finally, Jinky’s grandmother spoke, pulling me from my sulk. When Jinky handed me a cup of water, I noticed something bordering on respect in her dark eyes. The drink was cold and delicious and almost as rejuvenating as Jinky’s small nod of approval. The old Sami woman’s conversational tone changed, and she began chanting in an odd, choppy rhythm. She also added more water to the rocks, again shrouding us in a cloud of steam.
When the old woman finally stopped talking, Jinky translated, “My grandmother says that the spirit breath is now ready to take you on the second cycle. During this cycle you will find guidance.”
Round two? I hardly knew if I was up to it. My breathing was labored, and it was so very, very hot. And with the crazy steam funneling all around me, I couldn’t see. I felt sick to my stomach and so tired I couldn’t even lift my arms, never mind fly again. All the while, Jinky’s grandmother was reciting a phrase over and over. But guidance sounded good. I’d take some of that. Though I hardly had the energy to blink, never mind visualize. The air in the tent grew so heavy I could have pulled it up to my chin like a blanket, which reminded me of how very sleepy I was.
I came to feeling a glorious ribbon of cool breeze tickling me. It felt so great to be out of that stifling heat. Still groggy, I sat up, struggling to process my surroundings, until I realized, with a start, that I was on Hinrik’s boat. We were adrift, waves licking up the sides of the pitching wooden craft. A gray mist gathered in shifting patches, obscuring the gulls who screeched their presence. I stood and made my way to the stern, where Hinrik, with his back to me, cast a net out into the water.
“Where are we?” I asked. “Where’s Jinky?”
He turned to face me, and I gasped. This wasn’t Hinrik at all. Though he wore the same knit cap and navy jacket, the guy before me was much taller and broader.
In a sweeping gesture, he removed his hat, revealing a head of light brown curls. He was younger than I expected, my own age. And if not classically handsome, attractive in some inexplicable way. “Ah, there you are,” he said, smiling.
Despite being in the middle of the sea with a complete stranger — on a vision quest, no less — a sense of comfort washed over me. “There you are” implied an expectation and the “ah” a kind of welcome. His voice, too, was soothing. Although accented, it was fluid and confident.
“Who are you? And where are we?”
“I am Marik, a messenger.”
“A messenger? From who?”
“King Marbendlar and Queen Safira.”
“Who?”
Marik stretched to an imposing height. The fog had settled, collecting eerily at his feet. “King Marbendlar and Queen Safira, regents of Vatnheim.”
“Vatnheim — like Water World?” I asked.
He nodded.
I squeezed my eyes shut. I’d only just resigned myself to the concept of Brigid being some kind of Snow Queen. Now the Water King and Queen had sent a messenger. I opened my eyes, half expecting a line of otherwordly figureheads to have formed behind him.
“You say you have a message?”
“I do,” Marik said. “And an offer to present. Even before the recent summoning of the Bifrost Bridge and the resultant wedge . . .”
Ho, boy.
“. . . discord among the realms had been building.”
Discord? Not a good start. And definitely not something you want to crack the seal on.
“Humans are”— Marik continued —“an impatient species. In their haste to develop, they have irreversibly altered not only their own world but the other realms, too.”
I inched closer to Marik, daring even to brace my arms upon the railing. The way he said “humans” insinuated that he was not. I regarded him: two arms, two legs, all the parts of the face in the right place and in proportion, appealing even. It was then that I noticed a stirring in the water. Below us, the sea was teeming with fish. They pulsed back and forth as if a single organism.
“As Midgard warms, we all warm.” The once-cheery quality of Marik’s voice had gone flat and sad.
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Vatnheim has suffered for Midgard’s excesses. We have seen our resources dwindle. We have seen the extinction of creatures and the rise of pestilence and disease.”
The plunk of something breaking the surface again drew my attention to the water. A billowy cloud of orange mushroomed in and out, coming tantalizingly close to the surface, only to draw back down again. Marik followed my eyes to the strange movement, grinning. And as if the scene weren’t dramatic enough, that eerie music came wafting over the wind.
&nbs
p; I had so many questions, yet I found myself unable to speak.
Marik nodded as if aware of my temporary impediment and continued, “Our worries were many before your plight, which has further disrupted the order of the worlds.”
Yowza. My plight discussed in the same sentence with world order. Otherworld order, at that.
“Queen Safira hopes that your recent prophecy of a cleft-tailed siren is a portent of the future. She and all her people hope for an heir to carry on the royal line, but even she suffers the consequences of the environmental plague.”
Cleft-tailed? As in split-tailed? Oh, no. Just like the crown-bearing mermaid I’d made up — kind of borrowed, really, from the Starbucks logo — at my first bestowal when Hulda said she sensed a fourth presence, one representing the water element. Her words came to me: “A very powerful symbol. The mythological siren. Dating back as far as the goddess religions themselves.” Except the guy standing before me was no myth.
“Queen Safira believes,” Marik continued, “that the door between our worlds was opened for a reason. A wedge when applied at any of the power places weakens them all. To this end, we know the location of a portal to Niflheim, and, with our assistance, your safe passage can be arranged.”
“Assistance,” I said, my voice returning high and clear. “How? When?”
“A bargain must first be made,” Marik said. “There is one, in particular, who is willing to help. The very skin off her back, should you need it. The bargain, however, being: when the time comes, Leira — to whom the waters are home — must be returned to the sea.”
I remembered the minstrel’s story of Leira the selkie. Ofelia’s warning, also, flashed across my mind: “A pact once made may not be broken.” And I thought of Jack. Where is he? And how do I get to him? Thinking about Jack, I was overcome with dread. In that moment, I’d have agreed to anything, risked everything.
“Do you accept?” Marik asked.
“I do.”
“Then you will receive a gift.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Take heed, it is a gift,” he said, enunciating each word slowly.
Uh. OK. “Thank you, a lot?” I tried. Before Marik could reply, something smacked the surface of the water hard just beyond the spot where we stood. I leaned over the railing to get a better look when I felt myself falling forward.
Again, I woke up sprawled on the ground of the sweat lodge and immediately felt the crush of hot air. I had no idea what these heat-induced flights of mind were, exactly, but I was getting sick of them. They were confusing, and exhausting, and downright weird. And it didn’t help that I had an audience. Jinky and her grandmother, cool as cucumbers, sat watching me with their pretzel-legged yoga poses. Meanwhile, I was downward-facing-dog, and probably had the slobber to complete the look. The old woman said something to Jinky.
“You have a final cycle to complete.”
Well, let’s hope, because I was back here, not on my way to find Jack. I sat up and looked around, patting my hands beside and behind me. I was searching, ridiculously, for some kind of gift.
“Are you looking for something?” Jinky asked.
Yeah. Jack Frost. And maybe a wrapped present. But neither were confessions I was about to make.
“No. I guess not.”
Shaman-granny spoke; Jinky translated, “My grandmother reminds you that once you reach your destination, you already have everything you need to succeed.”
Jinky’s grandmother waited for Jinky to stop speaking and then tapped her heart with her fist. I appreciated the vote of confidence, but, still, it would have been nice to have a map and even the most basic of itineraries.
“A little guidance couldn’t hurt,” I said.
Jinky relayed my remark; her grandmother responded, repeating one word several times: poro.
“Find poro,” Jinky said. “Trust in those who don’t talk back, but depend on yourself only.”
Okey-dokey. I made it a rule to steer clear of anyone who gave me lip, anyway. But, whatever. I filed the advice away.
Jinky’s grandmother clapped her hands. No need for translation. It was the universal get-going signal. Shaman-granny poured more water on the rocks; it spat out a fresh stream of dragon breath, making me wonder if they hadn’t brought in hot rocks from the fire while I was — was where?
“Are you ready?” Jinky asked, handing me another cup of water.
I downed its ice-cold contents in two loud gulps. “As I’ll ever be.”
Again, the old Sami woman chanted, her tone taking on a pleading quality. I became dizzy. Swirling lights tickled my skin, and that strange music danced before my eyes until I had to close them in confusion.
I woke on a deserted strip of beach. Water curled onto the pebbled shore; behind me were one or two large boulders, but beyond that, nothing but scrub. I stood, trying to tamp down the something’s-wrong sensation in my gut, when a gray and shiny lump caught my eye. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a small roll of material. I lifted it and shook it out. Surprisingly, it was almost weightless and unfurled to a much larger garment than I’d have guessed. Though cut in an odd bulging shape, it appeared to be nothing more than a hooded cape. The material itself was rubbery, but the interior was of a silver low-nap fur, soft to the touch but twinkling to the eye. Overall, it was amazing and way too killer not to test out.
As I was draping it over my shoulders, I heard a laugh. From behind one of the boulders, I caught sight of a mop of flaming red hair. I was about to walk over and investigate, except that walking no longer seemed a viable option. Holy crap. The cape was wrapping itself around me, adhering to me, like, well, skin. Eeeew. I spun with no more success than your average tail-chasing pooch. The thing continued to envelop me. Once it had finished shrink-wrapping me, and I thought the worst had to be over, I breathed. Big mistake. As my chest filled with that precious gulp of oxygen, I started to expand like Willy Wonka’s Violet, the inflatable blueberry girl. Needless to say, I ended up floundering on the beach like some belly-up roly-poly bug. Except it wasn’t the insect family I’d joined; it was, rather, the aquatic vertebrate family. I was a seal. And my fate was — uh-huh — sealed. The word fate, even as a pun, made me think of Jack. Jack. There was no time to lose.
I rolled into the water with all the grace of a fat lady struggling into her Spanx. It took me many minutes to adjust to my newly acquired girth and get the hang of the flippers. I had a newfound appreciation for the whole fish-out-of-water sensibility, even with the circumstances reversed. After some floundering, I noticed a small group of black heads bobbing in the water. The foursome nudged me with their snouts and gently pushed me farther and farther from shore. Escorts?
I had always been a decent swimmer, but this was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. For such stumpy little things, my fore and hind flippers were pretty darn nimble. And who knew that an expanded waistline could be a streamlining tool? I could tell that my companions were taking it easy on me at first, keeping to the surface and submerging for short and shallow dives. Gradually, they descended deeper and for longer periods of time. It was fascinating. I could feel my heart rate slow as if I were conserving energy. And despite the increasing depth of our dives, my vision became clearer and sounds crisper. Never a big fan of facial hair, particularly on women, I had to admit that my whiskers were handy little navigational instruments; in combination with an improved eyesight and echolike sense of hearing I used them to feel where I was going. Besides the is-this-really-happening sensation of living out some deep-sea episode of The Magic School Bus, I was getting the hang of the physiology of being a pinniped.
Other seals joined our group; we dove deeper and for much longer stretches of time. At first, I was anxious; memories of another body of water and another descent into the cold, dark abyss weighed heavily on me.
Soon I stopped guesstimating how long I’d gone without my lungs exploding, and I started to relax and marvel even at my new ability. And relaxing without brea
thing is no easy feat.
Urgently, we pressed onward, due north, according to my whiskers. We swam forever. Once, after having been submerged for what must have been more than an hour, I was surprised, upon breaking the surface, to see the low fireball of an orange sunrise. A new day and still no end in sight. Though I had no way of confirming it, I sensed Jack was still unaccounted for. I knew because the valve formerly known as my heart was all pump, no passion. It knew, somehow, to switch into some life-preserving, halved capacity. It needed its other half — it needed Jack.
Later, when the sun was high in the sky, we surfaced again. I intuited among my companions an emphasis on this particular up-for-air break. I had no idea where we were; water, turgid and cold, pressed us in from every side. Then all their kind black eyes seemed to turn on me at once, heads nodding in the surf until, one by one, they dipped under the waves.
Here goes, I thought, gulping air as if it were something you could stockpile, like canned peaches. I plunged down, following the others, surprised that, this time, our descent was straight down. Dear Lord, I had no idea the ocean floor was so far. Even in my fat suit, I could feel the pressure against my closed earflaps. Still downward we pushed.
I knew I’d reached a critical juncture when the seals all stopped and formed a sort of floating ring. The circle was evenly spaced with no segment missing. I knew the gesture was symbolic. I swam through their hoop and continued downward. I didn’t turn back; I didn’t need to. They’d gone as far as they could. I was on my own.
Darkness on land is temporary. Darkness underwater is eternal and plain old scare-the-bejesus-out-of-you frightening. A flashlight would have come in handy, as would have a backbone. Seriously, my resolve was as firm as the blubber keeping me warm. Just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore and figured I had veered off course, a blast of warm water hit my face. I approached slowly, locating the source of the spray with my snout and whiskers. Rolling with my voluminous belly and extending my foreflipper, I found myself tangled in what had to be the tentacles of some mutant octopus. I struggled until I realized it wasn’t fighting back. What I was caught in seemed to be an intricate system of roots to some sort of — what? — submerged tree. That couldn’t be, because that would mean the tree was growing upside down through the ocean floor. No longer thrashing around, I started to float downward until I again felt vents of hot water. Then, without warning, I dropped precipitously. The force of the suction was excruciating. I flailed against the vacuum; everything whooshed past me until I had to shut my eyes against the rocketing landscape. The last thing I remember was screaming in a pitch that no B-movie horror-flick actress had ever achieved. I had a future in Hollywood, if I had a future at all.