The Sky Woman

by JD Moyer

  His heart was full. He felt joy, absolute unfettered happiness, with his condition of being alive. He had accepted death, inhaling the smoke from his own burning beard, and yet now he lived. The Red Brother had spared him.

  Mixed with his joy and gratitude, he felt a sense of wonder at the brown-skinned sky woman. It stretched his mind to imagine a race of people in the sky, descended from the Builders. If she were not there in front of him, he would be quick to disbelieve her existence. Yet there she was, walking in step with Esper.

  And there was that. Why was it so easy for Esper to talk to women? Trond himself could barely look a pretty girl in the eye without blushing. He feared no man, yet even a young milkmaid could turn his tongue to jelly and his mind to mush.

  Was he envious of Esper? Not exactly. He was not attracted to the sky woman. Her brown skin was strange, as was her silvery second skin. She was waifish, and gaunt – more like a wet rat than a woman. After a few good meals she no longer seemed close to death, but she was still insubstantial. He was surprised Esper had taken her as a lover. Her halting speech was unintelligible to Trond. She spoke first in her own tongue, then repeated her words in a garbled approximation of Norse. Esper seemed to understand, but Trond just smiled and nodded, completely confused.

  Despite her strangeness, the sky woman seemed harmless. Esper liked her, and her offer to help them find Katja seemed genuine. Had she really seen Katja, days earlier, being abducted from Happdal? Unlikely, but so was the sky woman’s existence in the first place. Her story of the ‘black egg’ (that she believed had captured Katja’s mind) was even less plausible.

  Esper had stopped, and was examining the ground, brow furrowed. The sky woman crouched next to him, looking where Esper looked. They were in a thick spruce wood, heading north-east up a gradual slope. Ahead, Trond could see nothing but trees, but he knew the way. If they continued north-east they would eventually climb a steep ridge, then descend into the narrow valley that was home to Kaldbrek. Thinking of Kaldbrek made Trond think of Haakon, which made him think of Elke, which gave him a pang of homesickness.

  Esper looked up. “What’s the matter, brother?” he asked. “This morning you were joyous – why has your face gone dark?”

  “We should be home, brother. Elke is not wrong to believe that Happdal needs defending.”

  “We will find our sister,” said Esper, clenching his jaw and looking away. Esper was right – they could not return home yet. Trond’s heart was pulled in two directions.

  “What do you see?” asked Trond.

  “Strange tracks,” Esper said. “A small group passed through here.” Trond looked and saw the signs for himself: trampled earth, torn moss, and snapped twigs.

  “Could it be a group from Kaldbrek?” the sky woman asked. Esper had told her the story of the sister hamlets and how relations had soured under Haakon’s rule.

  “Maybe,” said Esper. “Hunters, perhaps. We should be careful.”

  “Are these tracks older than Katja’s?” asked Trond.

  “No, newer. They could not be fresher,” Esper said.

  The sky woman stood with her head cocked, listening. She had proved her superior hearing days before, warning them of the giants’ approach. “Anything?” asked Esper. The sky woman nodded and pointed west. Esper drew an arrow, nocked it, and led them single file through the trees.

  Trond drew his sword and followed Esper and the sky woman. Stepping carefully, he was still the noisiest of the three. It seemed no fallen branch would support his weight. More than once Esper turned and glared.

  They came to the edge of a small clearing. At the center lay a fallen buck, at least three days dead and starting to rot. Devouring the body with their hands and teeth were four filthy wretches. Caked in grime, clothes in tatters, they tore at the buck with mindless hunger. Two feasted on the entrails, pulling out the intestines with claw-like hands, chewing with dark, rotting teeth. One picked at the deer’s head with long, filthy nails, leaving parts of the skull exposed. The last, the female, gnawed on the hind leg, but was having a difficult time of it, given the poor condition of her teeth.

  “What horror is this?” whispered Trond.

  The sky woman had turned green. She looked away and put her hands on her knees, trying not to retch.

  “Mushroom men,” Esper said quietly.

  “I did not think they were real.”

  “Nor I,” said Esper, “but what else could they be?”

  One of the creatures turned and looked in their general direction, but did not seem to notice the three onlookers. His eyes were glassy and bloodshot, and part of his nose was missing, bitten or rotted off.

  “He looks in poor shape,” Trond whispered. The sky woman had pulled herself together and now huddled close to Esper.

  “What…are them?” she said in Norse. With simple phrases she did not always speak in her own language first.

  “There is a forest mushroom, white on the outside, reddish-brown in the middle, shaped like a saucer….” said Esper.

  “Poisonous?”

  “No,” said Esper. “Delicious. But they are only safe to pick for a few days. As children we were warned to stay away from the larger ones, those that had lingered for too long on the forest floor. And we were told to hold our breath if we passed nearby.”

  “Why?” the sky woman asked.

  “A disease that floats in the air. Not the mushroom itself, but something that grows on it. If you breathe it in, you become a mushroom man, always hungry, slow of body and mind.”

  The sky woman’s eyes took on a faraway look. “Ganoderma tsugae,” she muttered in her own tongue. “Ghastly reishi. Supporting some sort of parasitic spore….”

  The half-nosed mushroom man looked again in their direction. He lurched upright and opened his mouth, emitting a low groan. A strip of deer intestine dangled from one hand.

  “Perhaps we go now,” the sky woman suggested.

  “I think not,” said Trond. Esper and the woman looked at him, surprised, as if they had forgotten he was there. “I have heard tales of mushroom men since I was a small boy. Yet I have never seen one until now. I will stay and take in my fill of this sight.” Hearing the sound of his own voice encouraged Trond, and he decided to share another thought. He had said little over the course of the morning, deferring to his younger brother’s superior tracking skills, and also wary of engaging the sky woman in conversation. But why not speak his mind? He was no wilting flower. He was Trond, full smith. No man in the Five Valleys could best him in a fight, and only Jense could forge a finer blade. “If mushroom men exist,” he continued, no longer speaking in a whisper, “who knows what other creatures are real? Fairies, perhaps? Gnomes? Will-o’-the-wisps?” He did not mention the gast in his list.

  A second mushroom man, who had been feasting on the buck’s head, looked up. He was not as caked in filth as the half-nosed one, and a long scar ran across his left cheek. He pulled back his lips in a hideous grin, revealing long, brown teeth glistening with fresh blood.

  “Keep your voice down, brother,” Esper said in a fierce whisper. “You attract their attention.”

  “Can we go?” asked the woman, gripping Esper’s arm tightly. Though he would not have been able to say why, this gesture of affection irritated Trond.

  “Do not shush me, little brother. I speak as loudly as I please. Have you forgotten I am your elder? I do not fear these mushroom men. What can they do to us?”

  Esper stood straighter. “You see bravery as a virtue, but caution is just as important. It was I who rescued you from the giant’s spit, myself and Car-En. You are reckless, brother, and trust too much in your strength.”

  Half-Nose lurched toward them, dropping the wet strand of deer gut and reaching out with his claw-like hands. A guttural cry escaped his throat. The sky woman screamed and hid behind Esper.

  “Let’s go!”
she cried in Norse. Hvata!

  “When I hung upside-down from the snare, I looked for help from my kin. Do you know what I saw? Your fleeing hindquarters. In my moment of need, you ran like a bunny. Do not recite the tale of my rescue as if you were some great hero. Yes, with the help of a woman, you were just barely able to pull me from the flames. I am grateful, brother, but truthfully you waited a bit long. I hope to never smell my burning beard again.”

  “Do not pretend to be grateful,” said Esper. “You should also stop pretending that your beard can be rescued. Put your steel to good use and cut your chin clean. That thing on your face is a sorry mess. It pains me to look at it.”

  With this, the mushroom man pawed at Trond’s meaty arm. Flecks of foamy spittle flew from its open maw. Trond gently shoved the creature in the chest, sending it hurling to the ground. Landing on its rump, it grunted and scowled at the smith.

  “My own brother insults my beard?” Trond said, stroking the singed remains of his cheek hairs with his free hand, waving his sword recklessly with the other. “I held my tongue for years while you nurtured your soft fuzz, willing it to grow. Did you not go to Ilsa and beg her for a potion? Perhaps you should have paid her better, for the result is sorry.”

  Esper threw his bow to the ground. “Watch your tongue.”

  The mushroom man regained his footing and lunged at Trond, reaching out a filthy, blood-smeared claw toward the smith’s face. Trond whipped his blade through the air, lopping off two of the mushroom man’s fingers. Trond swung again, with more force, slicing deeply into the half-nosed man’s neck. The poor wretch collapsed to the ground. Trond wrenched his sword out.

  “They bleed red,” observed Esper, somewhat calmed.

  “They do,” Trond agreed.

  The female mushroom creature had not noticed the scuffle, and continued to gnaw on the deer’s hind leg determinedly. But the other two, the head eater and the remaining eater of entrails, looked at Trond with interest, and – though it was difficult to read their emotions – a hint of concern.

  “That one,” said Esper, “he looks familiar.” He pointed at the head eater, who was clutching the bloody deer skull tightly.

  “You imagine things, brother,” said Trond. There was still a shadow of anger in his voice. He cupped the remains of his beard protectively.

  “No, look. See the long scar on his cheek? Was that not put there by Lars?”

  Trond squinted at the mushroom man, who returned his gaze in a way that was not quite friendly, but was at least free of malice.

  “It cannot be,” Trond said.

  “His eyes are the same, light brown like river pebbles,” said Esper. “And though in poor shape, he is not old. Our age, perhaps, or just a little older.”

  “Per Anders!” Trond cried. “Is it you?” The mushroom man’s eyes widened, briefly, yet he said nothing.

  “It has been seven years since we saw you last, friend,” said Esper. “I am Esper, of Happdal, son of Arik and Elke, brother of Trond, brother of Katja. Do you not remember me?”

  “My brother was but a whelp when you last saw him,” said Trond to the mushroom man. “It is me who you might remember. Trond Ariksson, full smith of Happdal.”

  The one who might once have been Per Anders looked back and forth between Esper and Trond. The other mushroom man, still holding a strand of intestine, gazed upon the fallen body of his half-nosed brethren. Some dim thought flickered in his damaged mind and he shambled off into the forest, looking furtively over his shoulder. The mushroom woman, still gnawing on the hind leg, remained oblivious to their existence.

  “He recognizes us!” Trond exclaimed joyfully.

  “Perhaps,” said Esper, “but I fear he is too far gone.”

  “Is there no cure for breathing in the poison mushroom?” asked Trond. “We can bring him to Ilsa. She will know.”

  Esper turned to the sky woman. “Could your people help him? Is there Builder medicine that could cure him of this sickness?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, with her laborious way of speaking twice. “If the parasite has ravaged his brain tissue, then probably not. But if the behavior is the result of some natural narcotic….” She made no more sense in Norse than she did in her own language, Trond thought.

  Trond cleaned his sword on a mossy log and sheathed it. He took a few steps back from the clearing, into the woods, and beckoned the mushroom man to follow. “Come, Per Anders. Come with us, and we will help you.” Esper retrieved his bow and followed Trond, as did the sky woman. Trond and Esper motioned and called to the mushroom man as they retreated. He did not follow, but stood, watching them, gripping the deer skull.

  “Nothing of our friend remains,” said Esper. “Should I end him? An arrow to the eye? It would be a quick and painless death.” The woman said nothing, but her expression indicated agreement.

  Trond shook his head. “No. If he will not follow, we leave him be. Who knows what goes through his mind? Perhaps he is happy, frolicking in the spruce wood, with no cares, eating fallen carrion.”

  Esper nodded. “That is wise, brother. We have no way of knowing what goes through his mind.”

  “Except for the grime,” Trond said, “he looked better than the others. His mouth had many teeth left, and his eyes were clear.”

  “Look!” called out the sky woman, pointing. Per Anders was following. His gait was odd; his left leg dragged. His arms, mostly bare, were covered in old scars and new scratches, as if he had walked through brambles without care or caution. But standing upright, it was clearly Per Anders, now a grown man. He stopped a few paces away. He had dropped the deer skull, and stood with his arms hanging loosely at his sides.

  “Yes!” cried Trond. “We are not yet going back to Happdal, Per Anders, but we will surely return there. First we must find Katja. Will you help us?”

  Per Anders said nothing. His mouth hung loosely open, a rope of drool swinging from his lower lip. The sky woman looked doubtful.

  “Be calm, sky woman,” Trond said. “He carries no weapon, and has recently fed. What is there to fear? You and my brother shall lead the way, I will follow, and Per Anders here will bring up the rear. Always there will be two sons of Arik between you and the mushroom man. Will that satisfy you?” The sky woman nodded hesitantly. Esper looked grumpy – perhaps resentful that Trond had spoken to the sky woman in such a straightforward manner. Trond did not care. He was done being meek.

  Esper led them back to where the mushroom men had crossed Katja’s path. From there they continued north-east, pausing every so often while Esper examined the ground. Several times the trail went cold and they had to double back for a short distance, but Esper was sharp-eyed, and it had not been long since Katja had passed this way.

  While they walked, Trond recited the recent history of Happdal to Per Anders. Now that he had found his tongue – and a willing listener – the words flowed easily. He told Per Anders about becoming full smith, about the godsteel swords he had forged (and also the sword he planned to forge, which he described at length: the shape of the blade, the materials he would use for hilt and pommel, even the design of the leather scabbard). He told Per Anders about Katja; she was as fierce as any man, and more skilled than most in battle. Did Per Anders remember Summer Trade with Kaldbrek? Well, that was no more. Haakon, ‘the Rat,’ who they had wrestled as boys, was jarl of Kaldbrek now, and the good relations between the villages had soured. Why? Well, Haakon hated Arik, had never forgiven him for the wooden axe contest during which Arik had bested Haakon not once but thrice, knocking out a tooth during the final bout. Haakon had nurtured his anger, fermenting it like lutefisk, and had finally lashed out with real steel, a season later, raiding Happdal, killing a man and stealing a giant wheel of cheese. Arik had turned the other cheek. The people of Kaldbrek had traded peacefully with Happdal for a hundred summers, had they not? But the raid did not soothe Haakon. Bei
ng ignored by Arik only stoked his rage. The next raid was more brutal. Haakon and his men killed and raped, and desecrated the longhouse. What did Per Anders think of that? Would Arik gather his men and march on Kaldbrek? Trond had been ready. But his mother had held them back. Was Arik a weak man, bowing to his wife’s command? Per Anders should not be so quick to judge, Trond said, until he himself had stood up to Elke. Yes, he remembered now, had not Per Anders once stolen a baked loaf from Elke’s kitchen? Had she not caught Per Anders, forced his confession, lectured him while he cowered, then told his mother, and also his father, and soon the whole village? For two years Per Anders had borne the nickname ‘Loaf Lifter,’ until Lars had come up with a cruder moniker. Trond laughed at his own story, and even Esper grinned, remembering it, but Per Anders himself seemed to have recovered from the shame, and did not even blush.

  Though he did not notice at first, Trond’s pace slowed while telling Happdal stories. Perhaps it was because he kept looking over his shoulder at Per Anders, or maybe to compensate for his old friend’s slow, shambling gait. Esper and the sky woman moved farther ahead, and by dusk they were mostly out of sight. He could still catch a glimpse of his brother now and then through the sparser sections of the forest. Finally they caught up to the forward pair. The sky woman had lain down to rest. Esper looked worried.

  “What is it, brother?” asked Trond.

  “She is not well. She slowed, and her speech began to slur, and now….”

  Trond bent over the woman and looked. Her eyes were glassy and rolled back. Her skin had gone from brown to nearly white, and had a sweaty sheen to it. Her breathing was shallow and rapid.

  “She has fallen ill! And so quickly.” Trond looked back at Per Anders, who had stopped half a dozen paces behind, as if from politeness. “Could she have caught the mushroom disease?” he whispered to Esper. “Perhaps the sky people are more vulnerable.”

  Trond saw the lost, fearful expression on Esper’s face, and all lingering traces of anger dissolved from his heart. He felt only love for his brother. “Do not worry,” he said, “we have survived worse than this. Two of our friends are sick, but one can still walk. The sky woman weighs nothing – I will carry her.”