Icefall

by Matthew J. Kirby

  Per and Asa are in love. Ole was right. I am a fool.

  How could I have not known? I roll back against a tree and look up at its bony branches, a hundred fingers wagging at me. And I remember things. Things I should have seen from the beginning, ever since we came here. How Per treated Asa, and Asa watched Per. Things I took no note of at the time.

  Per, so kind and handsome, and my beautiful sister, with whom I share a bed. I stamp my foot in the snow, furious at myself, embarrassed. Tears come to my eyes and blur the sky, the woods around me. I don’t know why I’m crying; I don’t know why it hurts to see them together.

  I want to be angry at the two of them, but I can’t bring myself to that. They haven’t done anything wrong, not really. I’m angry at myself for not seeing it, for being such a child.

  A sudden call breaks my thoughts apart. Someone has found the cows.

  Ole was right about something else. There isn’t much left of them. The wolves ate or carried away all but the largest bones and some shreds of tough hide. The carcasses are opened up and spread out over the slushy red snow, and I only hope the poor cows had already frozen to death before the wolves started in with their teeth. Several of us stand in a silent circle, studying what’s left.

  Asa and Per are on opposite sides of the bodies. I watch the two of them for a moment and then force my eyes away. I don’t want to see them look at each other.

  “Gather all of this up,” Hake says to his men. “There’s still a little meat on some of those bones, and there’s the cartilage and marrow. Some fat still hangs on the skin as well.”

  His men comply, and the rest of us head back toward the steading. We make a somber procession through the forest, and I know the question on each of our minds, the question I asked earlier. Who is the enemy in our midst?

  I have other questions, too. Without the cows, can we survive? We’ll have to cut back on rations, but even then, will there be enough? We’re deep in winter as it is, with deeper yet to slide. I have seen no sign of real game to hunt. Will Ole be able to drill the ice and catch any fish? One thing is certain. We will all be hungry, and the thought of hungry berserkers worries me.

  As soon as we reach the steading, Bera goes to take stock of the larder, to refigure how she’ll feed us all for the rest of winter. Per wanders off in discussion with Hake, and Asa goes back into the hall. She doesn’t even glance toward him. But I saw their meeting in the woods. That was the truth. This is a lie.

  Alric walks up to me, shaking his head. “Do you regret sharing your skyr now that you know it may have been your last taste of it for a while?”

  “No. I don’t regret it.” I say this as emphatically as I can. I would do it again, or at least I hope I would. But the question has annoyed me, and I move to leave him.

  “I think I would regret it.” Alric follows me into the hall. “But I admire your generosity. As I admired your portion of the story last night.”

  That stops me. “It was only a few lines.”

  “You did quite well, as I thought you would.”

  “I was scared.”

  “Have you seen children afraid of water? All the patience in the world won’t get them wet. You just have to throw them in where it’s shallow enough that they won’t drown.”

  He guessed one thing right about me. I would never have willingly stood to recite for the hall. But in the end, I managed to stay afloat.

  “Would you like to have your first formal instruction?” Alric asks.

  I’m about to say yes, when it occurs to me that Alric could be the one who sent our cows out to be slaughtered. I don’t have any reason to suspect him, except that he’s here in the steading, and right now anyone in the steading could be the enemy. It could be Alric. It could be Hake, or any of the berserkers, or Ole, although it was he who started me thinking such things. And Per? No, not when he’s in love with Asa, and I don’t think it could be Bera, either. She’s known me and my siblings from the time we were nursing. But there is someone among us who means us harm, and that thought unnerves me.

  So what am I to do? Hide away from everyone in my bedcloset the way Asa does? No, I won’t do that. That would just be a prison within a prison. But it would be prudent to keep myself to the busier places, with others around, and not go off alone with anyone.

  “Can you teach me by the fire?” I ask. “I’m quite cold.”

  “Well, that’s often crowded, but I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

  We cross to the hearth and sit facing each other, straddling a bench. There are a few berserkers here, and Bera is close by. If I can’t trust Alric, at least I have them around me for safety.

  “One thing I noticed,” Alric says, “was your repetition of sound. ‘The breath of a silver fish swimming in the pool.’ A fine line and a fine use of alliteration. How did you know to do it?”

  “It just sounded right, how it was supposed to be.”

  “That’s good. It means you have already perceived the patterns, even if you weren’t aware of them. How could the line have been improved?”

  I stop and think about it, and then I say, “The breath of a silver fish swimming in the sea.”

  “Yes, excellent.”

  “It’s difficult to think of it in the moment, though, isn’t it? When everyone is staring at you.”

  “But you’ll remember that line now. And you’ll get better at improvisation as well, with practice.”

  I don’t like to think of practice, because that means I’ll have to perform in front of others again and again, while making mistakes.

  “Now, let’s talk about some of your other lines….”

  But I don’t hear the rest. Per has walked into the hall. He stops just inside the doors and looks around the room. Before today, I would have thought he was looking for one of his men, or perhaps just seeing who was present. Now I can’t help but think he’s looking for Asa, a thought that makes me feel a little jealous of his attention.

  He sees me, smiles, and walks over to us.

  “I’m sorry about the cows, Solveig,” he says. “I’m sorry you had to see it.”

  He’s worried that I was attached to the cows as I was to Hilda. “Thank you,” I say, feeling embarrassed. “But I’m fine.”

  “Hake and I will address the steading this evening,” Per says. “It will be a dark speech. I hope you will cheer us with another of your wonderful stories.”

  “I’d be honored,” I say, just as Alric did.

  “She’ll be ready,” Alric says.

  Per takes his leave, and Alric and I spend the rest of the afternoon and evening practicing, rehearsing lines and tone of voice. Alric has chosen the tale of how the earth was formed, and how the first god came into it. It began with Audumbla, the ancient ice cow, and Alric spends some time making sure that I remember the details of the story.

  “Before the earth, there was only fire and ice,” Alric says. “And from the rime frost rose Audumbla, the cow. She licked the salt from the ice, and as the ice melted away, it revealed the first god and father of Odin.”

  “You choose this tale because of our cows,” I say.

  “Yes, as I did with your goat. And so the audience will see that life comes from ice, and though we are frozen into this fjord, we shall emerge when spring, like the tongue of Audumbla, brings the thaw.” He sits back, obviously pleased with himself.

  Perhaps he has forgotten about my dream, and what may come with the end of winter. But his thinking makes sense to me, and I trust him to know what the steading needs. Still, I am nervous when I imagine myself standing before the audience again.

  “You will do fine,” Alric says. “Try to relax, and accept that you will make mistakes. You are just beginning, and that is inevitable. Remember what I said about stories? They only exist in the moment of their telling. Let whatever story you are telling be what it is, mistakes and all, for its moment will soon be at an end.”

  This does not reassure me.

  “And keep your b
reathing deep and even,” Alric says.

  That night, Hake and Per stand before us. But while Per appears stern and calm, Hake appears furious. His beard twitches with the gritting of his jaw, and he glares at everyone, awl-eyed, as if trying to pierce their secrets by sight. I swallow and avoid his gaze. He makes me feel guilty for things I haven’t done.

  Per speaks in a voice that carries through the hall. “You all know of our circumstances by now. We have lost our two cows, and we were counting on them for milk and meat to last the winter. Rations will be cut back, and we expect all to sacrifice. We will be hungry. Bera assures me that we will not starve.”

  We do not need to starve to be weakened.

  “But that is not what concerns me most over the loss of the cattle.” Per stops and looks at Hake.

  The berserker captain nods. “Last night, while Alric and Solveig were telling their tale, the guards at the gate left their post to stand in the hall and hear the story.” He pauses. “Those warriors have been … appropriately punished for their negligence of duty.”

  The way he says it chills me.

  Hake raises his voice. “During the absence of the guards, someone led the two cows from their shed out into the woods. It may be that an enemy entered the unguarded gate and stole the cows away.” He pauses. “Or, it may be that an enemy within this steading put the cows out.”

  Murmurs and whispers begin to slip through the hall.

  “Know this!” Hake holds up one of his massive arms and everyone stills. “If there is a traitor within the sound of my voice, I will find you. I will execute you. There will be no hesitation. There will be no mercy unless you confess. If you come forward, you will be spared until we have returned home. Then, you will stand trial at the Thing, with judgment meted out by your people. Perhaps you will only be banished.” His voice descends into a growl. “But if you do not confess, I will kill you on the spot whenever and wherever I find you.”

  He lowers his arm, and I relax as though he had been holding me up, pulling me toward him by a cord around my neck.

  “You have until dawn to act,” Hake says.

  After Asa’s chiding, I did not feel like fighting any longer, and Raudi and I laid down our arms, ending the mud war. I trudged back to Father’s hall, encrusted, leaving a trail of dirt-crumbles behind me. When I entered the yard, I saw Father talking with you, Per. I did not want you to see me so filthy, so I tried to hurry past. But my father sees every thing. He called to me and I stopped, trying not to look at you. Father said nothing, at first. He simply stared in a way that took in every inch of me, and my stomach churned with humiliation.

  “Solveig,” Father finally said. “Go clean yourself.”

  “I’m sorry, Father,” I said.

  He sighed. “One cannot apologize for one’s nature.”

  Then you spoke, Per. “But as a child grows,” you said, “her nature changes, does it not?”

  I did not like to hear you call me a child, but I was grateful to you for defending me.

  “Perhaps, my lord, it is only a matter of time,” you said, “until you see that Solveig can bring you as much honor as her sister.”

  “Let us hope,” Father said.

  CHAPTER 9

  STORY

  The hall is silent and no one moves, except for the suspicious glances cast at one another. I can imagine the emotions racking the members of our steading. Fear. Anger. Dread. And I sense the coming hunger, a fearsome traveler skulking toward us with his belt of special knives.

  Per clears his throat and continues. “Alric and Solveig have agreed to tell another tale. Something to lift the weight off our shoulders.”

  He looks at me, and I wonder if I have the strength to do it. After Hake’s speech, I don’t know if I believe anyone would, even Alric.

  The skald nods at me to begin. We agreed previously that I should speak first, as the apprentice. Alric will finish the tale as it should be finished, because endings, as he says, are the most important element of a story, for that is where you discover the story’s purpose and meaning. But I can’t seem to work my legs, and my tongue feels as dry as a strip of stockfish. I take a deep breath, as Alric instructed, and manage the rise to my feet.

  The time spent rehearsing was wasted. I stand here, a hall full of faces watching me, expecting me to make things right, and I can’t remember a thing. What story was I supposed to tell? What tale? It had to do with the cows we lost, I think. Yes, the cows. Why would we tell a story about the cows? Why would we want to be reminded of that?

  I look into the eyes of my audience. The safety and future of the steading is so uncertain now, with dwindling food supplies, enemies outside our walls and possibly within. They need something they know, something predictable, something comfortable and safe. But what?

  I see Harald, and something about him has changed. He isn’t smiling. His face bears the pain and shock of a child struck by his father for the first time. The reality of our situation here has finally penetrated his youthful shield of confident ignorance. He sits alone, vulnerable and afraid. I want to go to him, to comfort him, but I can’t. Not until I finish my tale.

  So I will tell my story for him, one of his favorites, the story of the god Loki’s wager with the dwarves. He is my only audience. My mouth no longer feels dry, and I am no longer afraid.

  “Loki, the Wolf-Father, god of dark mischief and murder, once saw the metal craftsmanship of the clever dwarves, and thinking himself clever, too, he offered them a wager.”

  The eyes on me are impassive. Except for Harald, who leans forward, and Raudi, whose lips curl into a frown that fights a grin.

  “Loki spoke with the dwarves and said, ‘The gods have been given many gifts. I’ll wager you my head that you can’t fashion any that are better.’ The dwarves, being proud, accepted Loki’s bet and began to labor at the forge, making three gifts for the gods. First, they made a golden boar for Freyja, whose bristles shine throughout the long nights, lighting the hall and the path before him.”

  The men around me seem to have settled into the story, some reclining, hands behind their heads. Perhaps they are enjoying it.

  “Second, they made a golden ring for Odin, a ring that multiplies itself on every ninth night so that eight new gold rings fall from it.”

  And here comes Harald’s favorite part, a part that perhaps the berserkers will also appreciate.

  “And finally, the dwarves made Mjollnir, mountain-breaker and bone-crusher, the war hammer of Thor. Never would it fail its wielder, whether swung or thrown; a fearsome weapon to sway the tide of any battle. Now, when the gods received these gifts, they deemed them worthy, and more than that, the finest they had ever received. And so it seemed at first that Loki had lost his wager, and …” I pause.

  Some in the audience lean forward.

  “… almost lost his head. But clever Loki had planned this all along and said, ‘My neck was not included in the wager. You may have my head if you can take it without harming the place where it rests.’ And the dwarves realized they had been tricked, and in their vanity, they had freely given to the gods the three greatest treasures in all the world.”

  I bow my head, and after an endless moment of silence, I hear applause. I look up, right at Harald. He is smiling, bright again, my little warrior once more. Everyone else is grinning, too, and nodding. It seems my story, short and simple, did what it was meant to do and lightened the mood.

  I don’t want to look at Alric. He will be furious with me. I changed the story and finished it without leaving anything for him. But I can’t avoid him, and when I see him, he is clapping, too.

  I hold up my hand to silence the hall and everyone grows quiet. “Thank you,” I say. “But now, Alric has a story to tell.”

  “Nay,” Alric says. “I would not want to sully the air after you’ve just cleared it so thoroughly.”

  It humbles me that he would leave my tale as the last for the evening. Before long, the warriors are settling down on the floor
and benches to sleep. I get up, yawn, and move toward my bedcloset. Before I reach it, I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  “I must have a word,” Alric says.

  “I’m sorry I switched —” But he silences me with a finger to his lips.

  “I am not angry,” he says. “You saw what the steading truly needed. Tomorrow, you must tell me how you saw it.”

  “I don’t know that I can explain it.”

  “Tomorrow, you will try. Good night, Solveig.”

  “Good night,” I say. Alric leaves, and I look down at Muninn in his cage by the bedcloset. I check his food and find he still has some cabbage and barley grains he hasn’t eaten. I whisper a good night to him and climb into bed.

  Asa is already there. As soon as I see her, the image of her and Per in the forest enters my mind. The memory drains away the excitement of the evening as a cold bed draws out a body’s heat. I lie there, not knowing how to act toward her.

  “I enjoyed your story,” she says, as if nothing has changed between us when every thing has. I wonder how she can’t see it, even as I know there’s no way she could.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  Should I tell her that I know about her feelings for Per? That I saw them together? What would she say? How would she feel?

  “I haven’t heard that story in years,” she says. “It brought back good memories.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Of when we were children.”

  “Yes.”

  “It was better then, wasn’t it?”

  “When we were children?”

  “Mm. No one expects anything from a child, not really. Respect or even fear, and that is all anyone requires of them. Not like the demands of womanhood.”

  At first I am angry, and find it hard to summon any of my earlier sympathy for her. It sounds as though she’s complaining about being beautiful, the demands of being desirable. Does she not realize how I envy her? But she may have to marry one man when she is in love with another. Father would never wed her to one of his warriors, even one so highly regarded as Per. Per would bring nothing to the union, no advantage for my father’s coffers, lands, or armies.