The Monstrous Child

by Francesca Simon

  I stagger to my throne.

  Does he mean to kill me? He means to kill me.

  And I also realise that I don’t want to die.

  I am frozen on my High Seat. I’m not a queen any more – I’m a terrified child. I can’t fight him; the old wizard is too powerful for me. If I brought my hall crashing down on his head, he’d walk away and I’d be crushed.

  And then he does something very strange.

  One-Eye stands at the entrance, holding Sleipnir’s reins and then peeks inside.

  I sit very still. He surveys the hall overflowing and crammed with the dead, shields shimmering, gold decorating the benches. He looks – he looks afraid. And I don’t know why.

  He says nothing. Then he vanishes.

  I hear his footsteps, heading for the eastern door, leading Sleipnir. I am shaking.

  He hasn’t come for me. He has come to question the seeress, tear her from her grave and force secrets from her. That’s One-Eye, always seeking to control the present and the future with his ripped knowledge of the past.

  I won’t let him leave me here. He can take me to Baldr.

  I slide from my throne, abandoning my heavy furs, and haltingly make my way to the eastern door, cursing my legs, my stumbling gait. Never before have I so longed to be able to run. The dead scatter like scythed weeds, but I can only lurch slowly to the door. What are they saying? What am I missing?

  I hear voices arguing and cursing one another before I can see anything through the choking vapour.

  ‘I am unwilling to speak more!’ shouts the pale spectre who was once my mother.

  ‘You are no seeress,’ I hear One-Eye bellow. ‘You’re a fool and the mother of monsters.’

  I hear my mother’s gloating voice. ‘All the forces of darkness will gather at your doom,’ she says, before sinking back into her grave.

  One-Eye slumps at the mound, sleet swirling around him. His head is bowed, as if he is shouldering the nine worlds on his back.

  ‘Free me,’ I scream. ‘What harm did I ever do you? What harm is foretold about me? None! Take me back with you!’

  One-Eye appears not to notice me. I am far from his thoughts. Whatever knowledge of the future he has forced from my accursed mother, it is not what he wants to hear.

  He swings up onto Sleipnir’s back. Now I am begging and pleading, without pride.

  I am an ant talking to a giant.

  30

  OMETHING IS happening. My trembling kingdom shakes, as if my brother Fen is roaring and raging in his chains. Bones clatter to the ground. Jagged cracks tear open the walls. Benches slide and crash along the heaving floor while the chandeliers sway on their chains. The mead goat flees, bellowing.

  Is it the end of the world? Has the doom of the gods crept up so quickly, without warning? Or is it just one of my brothers thrashing his tail?

  And then again, another quake. And another. Thunderbolt upon thunderbolt. The shades moan and mutter, whining like wasps as they teem through my shuddering hall.

  Something is happening. First Odin, full of woe, raises the seeress, and now this.

  I question every new shade. Is the world ending? Why did Odin come? Have the giants attacked? Have my brothers escaped and avenged me? I can smell it, even here in my forsaken kingdom.

  I, who have not felt impatience for aeons, suddenly cannot be still. I flit from my bed to my throne, and then back to my chamber, opening and closing my curtains till they moulder in my hands. I pace restlessly, as unsettled as any newly buried corpse.

  Why can no one answer my queries? News travels so slowly between the worlds. Yet the slumbering wolf misses his prey.

  I cannot wait here. I go to Gjoll. Modgud is full of questions about the feast, then stops when she sees my grim face.

  Modgud knows nothing. I want to scream.

  ‘Ask them,’ I say. ‘Forget their names – find out what cataclysm has happened.’

  She does.

  No one knows anything.

  I join Modgud by Gjoll’s bridge. I shove her aside, and pepper the dead with questions myself.

  ‘Has the Axe Age come? Has winter strangled Midgard? Are there biting winds, ice, no summers in between?’

  The dead shake their heads. ‘It is always the Axe Age,’ they moan, recoiling when they see me.

  My shoulders are up to my ears. My black nails are bitten. I don’t know what to do. I am shaking with rage.

  And then through the sleet I see something small darting down the Fog Road, weaving past the trudging corpses. It gesticulates frantically, whimpering and bellowing by turns.

  Modgud leaps to her feet.

  ‘I demand to see Hel!’ shouts a gnobbly voice. Then the agitated shade of a dwarf oozes past, screeching as he struggles to reach me through the swarming wraiths.

  ‘There’s been a terrible mistake!’ he wails.

  Amazing. Even dead dwarfs have no manners.

  ‘I’m dead before my time!’ he screams. ‘If only I hadn’t gone to the funeral! I demand to go back where I belong!’

  Oh gods, one of those. I yawn.

  ‘Boo hoo for you. Now get out of here.’

  The dwarf sets his hands on his hips – or where his hips would have been if he still had any.

  ‘You don’t know what’s happened, do you?’ he said.

  ‘To you? I couldn’t care less,’ I said. ‘Look around you, dwarf.’

  ‘The great god Baldr is dead. Baldr, god of light, is dead.’

  31

  FROZEN HAND squeezes my throat. I can’t breathe.

  The dwarf rambles on but I can’t hear him. There is a roaring in my head, like a howling hurricane. If I hadn’t been seated, I would have collapsed. Modgud covers her mouth with her hands.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I was at his funeral. I shouldn’t be here. I have work to do. I’ve left my forge –’

  ‘Shut up. Who cares about you? How did Baldr die?’ I whisper.

  If in battle, he’ll go to Valhall. They’d make a place for him, of course. But if not – he’d come here!! To me!!!

  ‘It was an accident. His blind brother, Hod, killed him with a mistletoe dart. All things in the nine worlds but mistletoe had sworn an oath not to harm Baldr. So the gods were having fun hurling stones and weapons at Baldr, which left him unharmed, until the sharpened mistletoe pierced him. They say Loki put Hod up to it.’

  I swallow. Then Baldr had not died in battle. He was coming here. To Hel. My head jerks forward. I think I might faint.

  Modgud clutches my arm. I shake her off. Of course there were earthquakes. The death of a god is a cataclysm. No wonder One-Eye came to raise the seeress.

  Baldr is dead. Baldr is dead. I don’t think I have ever heard lovelier words.

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘Will you send me back?’ asks the dwarf.

  Idiot.

  ‘I’ll feed you to the dragon if you don’t speak. He loves eating dwarfs.’

  The dwarf puffs out his chest. The newly dead still retain much of their living spirit – it takes time for the self to fade.

  ‘The gods couldn’t launch Baldr’s funeral ship, the greatest of all ships. They were weak with weeping, so they sent for a giantess to lend a hand. Hyrrokin came riding on her wolf bridled with vipers, and a bunch of us tagged along after her – I mean, how often do you get to go to the funeral of a god? Never! What a sight: Freyja in her cat chariot, and Frey with his golden boar, and the Valkyries, and rock giants and elves and –’

  ‘I don’t need a guest list,’ I interrupt.

  ‘Anyway, Hyrrokin gripped the ship’s high prow and pulled it down into the heaving water, so hard that the rollers burst into flame and the nine worlds trembled and quaked as the boat crashed into the waves.

  ‘And then four weeping gods lifted Baldr’s shrouded body and placed it on the bed high in the boat, which was filled with treasures and the slaughtered body of his horse. Odin jumped into the boat, took off his ar
m ring and placed it on Baldr’s chest.

  ‘I was craning to see – I’m short – I wanted to watch the boat catch fire, and all those gods and giants were blocking my view. I hate tall people – they’re so inconsiderate – so I ran closer to the water’s edge, just minding my own business, pushing through the crowds, saying, ‘Move, move, let me through,’ and ran in front of Thor who was hallowing the blaze and chanting charms, and he stuck out his foot, tripped me, and then kicked me so hard out of the way that I landed on Baldr’s burning ship. I burned to death!’ he screams, stamping his foot. ‘I died before my time. It’s so unfair! I wasn’t hurting anyone, I just –’

  The dwarf drones on.

  I close my eyes and see Baldr’s funeral boat as it drifted across the rippling sea, burning and crackling as the winds whipped the pyre and swept him on his journey here.

  His journey to me.

  ‘Flames scorched the water, then the cold finger of the underworld reached up, and the boat crumbled into ash. But with me in it!’ wails the dwarf. ‘Now I’ve said all I know. Will you send me back?’

  ‘No,’ I reply. ‘Your days and deeds are finished. Leave me.’

  Immediately his shade melts into the murk.

  Baldr is coming. He’ll be here at last. He’ll be here any moment. I can’t believe it. After all these centuries, so much heavy time, and he is coming to join me. Everyone wants him. Everyone loves him.

  And now he is mine until the End of Days.

  I must prepare. Baldr loves me. I know he does. He sees past my deformity and into my heart. He always did. Last time he saw me I was a stupefied, frightened, battle-shocked child. I may still look like one, but now I’m a queen. Oh my gods, what should I wear? My storeroom is packed with grave goods – I must put on something gorgeous. Necklaces! Bracelets. Rings. I must gleam in the murk, shine like no other in this raven-dark world. I will be laden with gold: my arms, my neck, my hair, my breasts. I will blaze like a burnished shield, bright as dragonfire.

  I practically skip through the bleak valleys back to Eljudnir. I clap my hands, scattering the teeming shades. I must deck my death hall as well, strew the floor with fresh rushes, hang tapestries to cover the walls, make it beautiful for my beautiful Baldr. The servants are stunned. They’ve never seen me take any interest in my ‘guests’. I shout for Slowpoke and Lazybones, which is pointless, pointless, as they have never and will never move with speed, but I call for them anyway, so desperate am I to be ready for my love; then I press-gang any of the dead with limbs to decorate the hall with gold, to shine my welcome, make my hall glorious with rich hangings.

  For the first time in forever, I need to make haste.

  I watch the benches being gilded with gold arm rings and I’m suddenly terrified he won’t remember me. But he will, he will! Of course he will. I am ablaze with light, with happiness, with a joy I’ve only ever felt once before, when he whirled me in his arms.

  32

  HE CARRION GATES are open. The stone hearths blaze with fire. The hall gleams gold and bronze, pockets of light in the smoky gloom. I blink in the unfamiliar glow. Gold and silver bowls fill the tables; jewelled drinking horns rest in their holders. If the place stinks, I can’t smell the death reek any more. My Baldr won’t care. I am dressed like a queen. I can’t stop stroking my robes – how smooth my petticoat of silky pleated linen feels. My overdress is heavily embroidered; a pair of oval brooches, laden and twisted with silver, shine on my shoulders. My bright gold necklace, the tribute of a Midgard queen, hangs heavy on my neck. How did she wear this, I wonder. It weighs so much I have to lean back so as not to tip forward. My blue fur cape drapes over my throne and trails along the floor. It’s all for show – I don’t feel the cold – but it is so magnificent I could not leave it off. What joy I had choosing what to wear! The night I spent in my treasure room trying on this robe and that, flinging rejects to the floor – too mouldy, too large, too small – unable to choose.

  The hall stirs. He’s coming! I smooth my hair, bite my lips, try to breathe.

  Bells should be ringing, not just the howls of Garm, frightened and cowed by the golden one’s approach. Why didn’t I think of that? Or dragged out one of those musicians, ordered him to sing. Baldr likes poetry, music. Most people do except me … How could I have forgotten? We’ll have stories and music every night if that’s his wish. I don’t have to listen; I can just look at him.

  Hurry, my love! Why are you so slow? I never dreamed this night could come – how can a god die? – and yet it has happened. Baldr is coming here. The Fates have treated me cruelly, and yet today their countenances smile upon me.

  The wall sconces dangle with jewels. I too can make a kingdom glow. I’m on my black throne, in the High Seat of my gem-decked hall, bright rings and precious armbands cover the benches. The High Seat beside me, the place of honour, carved with runes, is decorated and ready. We will rule this world together. The place throngs with rustling shades, eager to see the great one, the first of the gods ever to die.

  There is a hush, and bright Baldr stands in the doorway. Light pours off his ghostly body, illuminating my hall like a shooting star. What’s killed him has left no mark. I’m timid. I can’t help it – I don’t feel like a queen; I feel like a little girl. Welcome, my darling! Welcome! I’ve never loved anyone before; no one has ever loved me. I don’t know whether to scream or faint.

  I watch as he walks slowly towards me, rippling through the hall, lighting the way through the shadows with his beauty, hesitating, uncertain, bewildered, just like they all are, the new arrivals. He is no different, my lovely one, and my heart melts at his awkwardness. Then he sees me and – smiles his wonderful smile. He is more glorious, more radiant, than I remember. I don’t want to sit up here like some boulder, I want to run to him, sobbing, but … I look so much better seated. So much more – normal. If I staggered to him, I’d just fall over. What a bad beginning that would be. He doesn’t want a cripple. Let me awe him with my power, and then put him at ease with my kindness, my quick wit. I won’t rush. I have promised myself I won’t rush.

  So. I stay put. My throat is dry. I’m the queen … I’m the queen. The shining mead awaits in the cauldron. I have only to command the shield be lifted and the drink will be served to him in goblets of silver filigree. How grateful I am for all the riches the sons and daughters of Midgard shove in the grave mounds of their dead.

  ‘Hel,’ he says. And he tries to smile again. ‘You look all grown up.’

  I am so overcome I can’t say anything.

  ‘I never thought we’d meet here.’ His voice. Honey and birdsong. I lean towards him like a sun-seeking flower. I have so much to say. I’m just going to tell him straight out how much I love him, that I’ve waited for him, what he means to me, that this is a new beginning, that the Fates meant this, for him, for me, for us.

  ‘Baldr,’ I begin.

  I gaze at him, my love-longing written on my face. He looks startled, his timeless eyes widening, then he flinches.

  I feel blood pounding in my head. I’ve given myself away too soon. He needs time to adjust.

  But I can recover. There’s no rush. I start again.

  ‘Baldr. Welcome. I wish –’

  I wish what? That we were meeting somewhere else? Definitely. That he was still alive? No.

  ‘Well, you understand,’ I fumble.

  He nods, courtly, calm again.

  I try to smile. Can he see my heart beating? I hold out a horn of mead.

  ‘Baldr,’ I begin again, ‘Do you remember when –’

  There’s a stirring in the hall. The skull-guests flutter. Who’s here? Who dares enter?

  It’s her. She’s followed him, hurled herself into his burning ship. She stands at my entrance. And I cannot slam the gates to bar her.

  I freeze, my words rotting and turning to ash in my mouth.

  Baldr turns and runs.

  He grabs Nanna in his arms while she weeps and clutches his neck and buries her fa
ce in his shoulder.

  I am forgotten. I was never remembered. My body feels hacked by a hundred axes. My hopes smash like spear-shattered ice. The horn drops and spills.

  I scream. The rain-damp hall shudders. Baldr ran to his wife, his beautiful wife. They have their story, and I am not in it.

  Hel the Awful.

  Hel the Ugly.

  Hel who will never, ever, win Baldr.

  So now you know.

  I howl. Whatever I do, it will never be enough. However much love I have for him, he will never feel it for me. It wouldn’t matter if I fell over or stayed still. How I looked. What I said. If I scowled or if I smiled. Whether I wore gold or bronze. Whether I had two legs or twenty. I am no more to him than the clustering shades jamming my hall and the corpses pouring through the door to glimpse him.

  What sustained me here in Hel, what kept me going, was him. I drank words of poetry. I allowed myself to dream.

  I was a fool.

  Go on, laugh at me. I dare you.

  My slow servants move towards me. I dig my nails into my arm, to shut myself up. I am Queen of the Dead. I’m a goddess. Everyone fears me. I must control myself, I must –

  I continue crying, but silently now. Do not pity me. This is the last time I will ever cry. The restless shades stir, uneasy. Vapour drips down the walls, staining my foolish tapestries. The stench of my hall reaches my nostrils. Garm howls. Go on, Garm, good dog, always a comfort. Howl away.

  I swallow, and speak. My mouth tastes of metal.

  ‘You will sit beside me,’ I say.

  Baldr obeys. He walks up the slimy stone steps towards the empty throne. Nanna follows him.

  ‘Not her. Just you.’

  Instantly Nanna fades off into the darkness where the shades huddle on benches. I’m queen. She has to obey. There’s solace in that.

  How I hate her.

  Baldr sits beside me. He doesn’t look at me, and I don’t look at him. My heart is black ice. I feel the rot in my legs creep up my body until I am more dead than alive.

  And there we sit, in silence. I struggle to control myself. I can stop my voice. I can’t stop my tears. They flow like Gjoll, an endless stream down my face.