Finally, the woods opened up to a broad beach of rough, reddish sand and rocks. There, she found a lone tree—one that she greeted as an old friend—and sat down underneath its shade, gazing out across the silvery blue sea, and the great, wide sky beyond.
“And when the sun falls and twilight pulls its cloak over the sky, night never truly descends. For a quiet light remains in the west, touching the edge of the silver water on the far side of the great tree. Sometimes, if one stands alone and listens, he can hear the sea birds sing his name, feel the surf call on the wind, and many a man will begin to wish to make sail, and meet that light where it stands…”
Again, Marina smiled. Softly. And she reached in her satchel and pulled out her work.
A stack of paper, all written on, and many pages illuminated. She gazed down at the title page, fully colored and inked.
THE LIVING EDDA
by Marina Feroe
Carefully, she lifted that page off and set it behind, and scanned over the next bit.
Cast
of
Illustrious and Infamous Inhabitants
of the
Nine Realms
The Sons of Odin
Only two.
Both of them were born to Odin All-Father and his wife Frigga, the king and queen of Asgard.
Thor: Elder, and wielder of Mjollnir, the thunder-hammer. He dwells in a vast mead hall called Bilskirnir, encircled by ancient oak trees and standing beside the country highway, with his wife, the beautiful and golden-haired Lady Sif. There, he entertains his many friends with glorious, sun-bathed feasts, music and dancing. He is a gracious host, a kind master, and a fearsome friend, fair and just in all his dealings.
Bauldr: Younger, bringer of light and warmth, friend to all things that grow. His kin have also given him the pet name of “Bird.” He is married to the Lady Nanna, Keeper of the Roses, and they live together in the vast palace-tree of Yggdrasil. Bauldr is wise, quiet and gentle, always seeking to benefit his friends, and prevent his enemies from harming his father’s kingdom.
THE THREE CHILDREN OF FARBAUTI
LOKI
Loki was the youngest, most talented and unconventional of the three children of the Jotun giant. His most remarkable trait was that his appearance changed with his mood. Red hair and bright green eyes meant amusement, blond hair and deep green eyes signaled tenderness; violet eyes and grey hair showed his irritation, while red eyes and black hair revealed his rage. Sarcasm and disbelief made themselves known with deep blue hair and emerald eyes, whilst sadness came through in black hair and slate-grey eyes. Seriousness took a similar turn, with black hair and brilliant blue eyes, while perceptiveness lightened to chestnut hair and vivid turquoise eyes.
He was very unlike both Thor and Bauldr in manner and character, yet the sons of Odin and Frigga deeply enjoyed his company, and reveled in his storytelling, his jokes and his laughter. He could be forward, flirtatious, and flippant, yet he had no equal in the crafts of magic, illusion and healing. And while he seemed insincere and rakish on the outset, such was the façade of false-bravado he erected to conceal deep fondness, unshakable loyalty, uncompromising bravery, and a sacrificial heart, which earned him the place of dearest friend of the house of Odin, and indeed, all of Asgard.
Loki Farbautison perished with his sister Hel and his brother Fenris by the furnaces of Helheim, locked in a battle against them to save the lives of the only two sons of Odin.
Marina paused, her fingertips ghosting over the heading, and remembering.
After her return from Asgard, she had secluded herself inside her house for two months, only erratically eating and sleeping, and sometimes listlessly organizing her possessions that remained in boxes. She ignored calls from her mother, her family friends, and Mr. Larson. She sat on the rug and stared at the blank mantelpiece, arms wrapped around herself. She had let her garden go to seed, and forgot to listen to the birds.
Finally, her tall, short-haired, firm-mouthed mother showed up at her doorstep. And, to Marina’s great surprise, she had collapsed in her mother’s arms and started sobbing.
Right then, her mother decided she should come home with her back to New York. Marina, too weak and tired to protest, had watched while her mother packed her things and hustled her out the door.
Marina had spent the next six months living in her mother’s penthouse in New York City. In the past, when Marina had been a teenager, the bustle and chaos of the city had driven her crazy, and she had longed to escape with her dad to the wide-open Irish, Swedish or Norwegian wilds. But now, the noise and constant motion stimulated her—shook her out of the depths of the silence that had smothered her in her lonely house, and forced her to interact with it. Thankfully, her mother’s penthouse was located on Park Avenue, a slightly-quieter section of Manhattan, and not far away at all from Central Park. When her mother went to work at the publishing house in the mornings, she would rather ungently push Marina out the door as well, warning her not to return until three in the afternoon. And so Marina wandered through Central Park, and discovered many little shops and bookstores she came to adore. She also discovered Fraunce’s Tavern, and the cemetery of Trinity Church, and visited both places often. As she rambled through Manhattan, listening to the roar of the city, her thoughts began to flow more freely, with less pain. And the day of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade found her locked in her mother’s loft, transforming it into a writing studio.
By Christmastime, she had made great progress, and her mood had brightened. Instead of walking through the streets every morning, she found solace exploring the deepest, frostiest sections of Central Park, and hiding in the corners of the public library, taking notes and painting illuminated letters.
By the beginning of May, she had recovered sufficiently that her mother did not protest too loudly when she declared she would like to return to her house—especially when she demonstrated the full capacities of her “rehabilitated” arm. But her mother did not allow her to go until she had made copies of some of Marina’s loveliest and most interesting pages, so she could show them to the proper people at her office, and begin the process of having Marina’s book published.
Marina had filled these pages with descriptions of Asgard—of the hall at Bilskirnir, the healing rooms at Yggdrasil; the gates and the Asbru bridge; of Traust, of the Aesir guests, the feasts, the wedding, the song the harvesters sang on the road home from working in the fields, the dance on the lawn, the taste of the mead…
All the details of Festning, especially Bestemor and Skjønnhet the bath lady; the little library and pokey staircase; the height of the house when one stood outside versus its uncanny height when one stepped inside.
A list of Jotun and Aesir riddles.
She had also vividly described Helheim, and Valkyrie. Helheim’s history, and what it had become because of Hel’s schemes, its barren landscape, its underground heat, its strange corridors, its throne room with its forbidding idol of its mistress, its catacombs, shallow river, and ravenous furnace.
But most of all, she had detailed everything she could remember about magic. The sparks that flew from Loki’s hands to make Festning; his breath and words that caused objects to appear or disappear, grow and shrink; healing and exploring, transporting and renewing of Wishstones; potions and draughts…
And kisses.
Just yesterday, her mother had phoned with congratulations and then faxed her the publishing contract to sign. Marina just had to give the manuscript one last look-over today before she put the whole thing in the mail.
She scanned through each crisp page, as she had done a thousand times already, absently smiling to herself, with that distant, familiar ache settled at the back of her chest.
As midday faded to late afternoon, she reached the last page, read it through, and nodded. She reached in her pack, pulled out the addressed envelope, slid the manuscript inside and sealed it. Then, she got to her feet, and paused for a moment to listen to the lonely cries of the gulls
, watching the sunlight glimmer against the water.
She picked up her pack and envelope, and started back up the trail. She would drop this envelope off at the post office box first, then head home to make an assessment of the work that needed doing, so that the men Mr. Larson sent tomorrow would know what to do first.
Marina sighed, running her fingers through her hair again as she drove up the dirt road toward her house. It was just about five o’clock. She had plenty of time before it got dark to take stock of everything, and then go inside and start making dinner—
She slammed on the breaks. Her truck skidded to a stop, dust flying out around her tires. She gaped out her window at her house.
She could see it. That was the first thing. When she’d left that morning, she hadn’t been able to—the shrubs by the road had been growing so high, and the vines had been hanging down from the tree like a curtain.
Now, everything had been tamed back. And she couldn’t see the ivy climbing up her outside wall anymore.
She threw the truck into park right there and leaped out, leaving her empty satchel there.
“What…What…?” she stammered, looking all around her and nearly stumbling up the walkway—for her rosebushes no longer sprawled threateningly across the pavement, but stood much smaller, straight and tall and blooming beautifully. Her grass had been shorn and smelled sweet again.
She hurried around to the side, to her vegetable garden…
To find it neatly weeded, and the bricks around it put back in order. She jerked to a stop, then turned around swiftly.
“Hello?” she called. “Is somebody still here?”
No answer.
Someone from Mr. Larson’s must have com while she was gone—but how could two men have done all this work in just three hours?
She spun and looked at the wall of her house, to confirm that yes, in fact, all the ivy had been pulled down and cut off and disposed of. Her confusion mounting, she dashed around to the other side…
To see that the wild, menacing climbing rosebush that she loved so much had remained untouched. It still sprawled its gangly limbs all over the yard, the side of the porch, and up the chimney. She frowned hard, her mind racing.
“How did they know not to touch that…?” she whispered.
After lapping the house a few more times, taking note of all the spectacular changes, and how beautiful and neat everything looked now, she hurried inside and headed for the kitchen. She had to pause for a second so that her eyes could adjust to the dimmer light, then she charged ahead to find the phone to call Mr. Larson and ask him…
Heat washed past the left side of her face. She stopped.
Soft crackling reached her.
And the sound of smacking gums.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Slowly, she turned, and peered into the sitting room.
The wooden face of an ancient old man protruded from the mantel, contentedly working his gums and smiling to himself. A fire burned in the hearth.
Marina stood there, frozen and staring, for five minutes.
Finally, her fingers closing around the collar of her shirt, she dared to open her mouth.
“Farfar?” she croaked.
The wooden man’s mouth suddenly formed a tight “O,” and he looked over at her. Then, he broke into a toothless grin.
“Ah, the little krigare!” he greeted her, his voice like a rusty hinge. “Brightest of midsummer days to you!”
“Farfar, what…what are you doing here?” Marina cried, stepping further into the room and pressing her hand to her heart.
“I am always here…?” he gummed, his brow wrinkling in bewilderment.
“But you haven’t been!” Marina told him. “I sat here waiting for you for two months, and you never once said anything to me!”
“Oh?” his brow wrinkled further and he studied her. “Then who was it that tapped on my forehead just now?”
Marina didn’t move. Thoughts crashed together in her head.
Then, she yanked her attention toward the door.
For half a second, she stood bolted to the rug, unable to even breathe.
Then, she dashed out of the room, flung open the door and leaped off the porch.
Her breath snagging in her chest, she hurried out into the center of the walkway, searching the corners of the yard…
No one. No one…no one…
There.
She stopped.
She went cold, and then her face flushed with heat—and her pulse skyrocketed.
A dark figure at the border of her woods. Tall, with dark hair, and a pale face, his hands in his pockets.
He didn’t move.
She recognized him instantly.
Marina, fists tightening, dared to maneuver around the rosebushes, and walk slowly across the lawn toward him.
Twenty feet away, she stopped, and folded her arms. For a long while, she did nothing except study him with as severe an eye as she could muster.
Short, combed back dark hair, carven features, high cheekbones and piercing grey eyes, and a set mouth. A slate-colored, long-sleeved shirt, a sleek long coat and black trousers and boots.
Fenris.
He raised his eyebrows at her.
“Good afternoon, Lady Marina.”
She didn’t answer for a few minutes.
“You ought to be dead,” she finally said, quietly.
He lifted his chin and blinked.
“Ah. Meaning…under the circumstances you believed me to be dead, or…you rather wish I were so?”
Marina said nothing. He gave her an almost invisible smirk.
Then, he turned and started walking into the forest.
“Follow me.”
Marina’s arms tightened.
“Why would I do that?”
“You don’t have to,” he said lightly, moving easily through the underbrush. “Unless you’d like to thank the one who has taken such pains to beautify your home.”
Confusion nearly knocked her over. She hesitated for just an instant—
Then dropped her arms and hurried after him.
She kept her distance, remaining at least ten feet behind him at all times—all the while knowing, of course, that should he wish to close that distance, she couldn’t do anything about it.
However, he made no threatening moves. He walked casually ahead of her, his hands in his trousers pockets, glancing around at the birds and the thick foliage.
At last, Marina glimpsed a break in the woods, and what looked like a disused logger’s road. Fenris hopped up out of the ditch and onto the dirt path, and halfway turned to her. Frowning, Marina hesitated—
Someone else moved.
A young man sitting on a stump on the other side of the road got to his feet.
He was tall. He wore soft tanned leather, without sleeves, and long tassels decorating the back of his tunic. He wore leather bracers on his forearms, and quiet hunter’s shoes—a quiver full of arrows also hung from his shoulders, and a bow leaned against the nearby tree.
He had chestnut curls, dark blue eyes, and was lean as a blade, with good-looking, pale, angular features—eloquent dark eyebrows, a perfect nose and an expressive mouth.
“What, did you get lost, Fen?” he asked, giving him a look. “You’d think that after a hundred years of running this territory, you’d learn where the…”
He saw Marina.
She met his eyes.
The chestnut washed through with deep blue, and his eyes turned luminous green.
Of their own accord, Marina’s feet carried her three steps out of the woods, and onto the road. And she stood there, motionless as he was, unable to draw breath.
His hair then flushed with a complex mix of gold, red and black, and one eye turned red while the other turned blue, and his panicked glance flashed to Fenris.
“Fenris, did you…?”
Fenris didn’t say anything. And Marina couldn’t look at him if she tried.
She took tw
o more steps, closer. Her gaze flew all across him, missing nothing, her heart thudding but her lungs locked.
His hair swept through with deep golds—brighter with every step she took. And his eyes changed to the most brilliant emerald. But he didn’t back up.
“You…” Marina whispered. “You died.”
“No,” Loki breathed back, his gaze locked with hers. “No, Fenris saved me.”
“Fenris?” she murmured, feeling faint—as if he might disappear at any second.
Loki nodded once, his eyebrows coming together.
“He caught me, and pulled me into a tunnel before the ceiling fell,” he said, his voice soft. “And…seeing as he’s almost as good a magician as I am…” The corner of his mouth lifted briefly. “He cured the poison. And watched over me all these months as I recovered.” At this, he lifted his gaze from Marina and looked at his brother, with an open, quiet expression Marina had never seen. Then, he looked back down at her. She could feel him breathing unsteadily—saw his jaw tighten—and got lost in his eyes.
He couldn’t be real.
“Why didn’t you come?” Marina asked, barely a whisper, a shiver running through her whole body.
His gaze suddenly flickered over her whole face, and he unwillingly tilted toward her.
“I’m…” He swallowed, searching her eyes. He didn’t continue.
She halfway frowned, entranced by every movement of his features.
“But you took care of my trees?” Marina asked instead. “And my roses?”
“Yes,” he mouthed, then swallowed again and took a deep, shaking breath. “I…Yes. I…I didn’t want to disturb you, but when I saw that your garden was in such disrepair, of course I had to stop to—”
She grabbed his collar, pulled him down and pressed her mouth to his.
He sucked in a shocked breath.
She pressed deeper.
And then at last—at last!—
Peppermint on her lips, peppermint on her tongue, peppermint filling her head and her heart…!
He suddenly broke the kiss.
Pulled back, breathing raggedly.
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