by Daniel Kirk
She clenched her jaw and realized that it would be best to turn around and go. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll try the market.”
Head down, Asra fled from the store and clomped along the cobblestone street. She was indignant, livid with anger and frustration. Suddenly she was overcome with the desire to keep walking through the gates of Helfratheim, find a Cord that led away, and disappear. What did her quest matter? Who needed Macta Dockalfar and his Arvada, anyway? Who needed Becky?
Asra knew that each time she traveled in a Cord she risked injury or death. She knew that there were few these days that were foolhardy enough to take the chance. Still, she thought, what was there in life but risk? What was there, in the end, but the certainty that her luck would run out, one way or another? She passed a shop with a painted wooden hand hanging above the doorway. An old Elf stood inside the window, gesturing to Asra. She was a Saga. The crone’s face was painted black and white, and her clawlike hands ruffled a well-worn deck of cards. The smile she gave Asra was leering and toothless. Asra stared for a second, recalling that other Fortune-teller she had met in Ljosalfar and later followed to Storehoj. It seemed like a lifetime ago when the Saga had explained to her the card called The Hanged One. Asra had thought the card meant that she was about to die. Then the Saga had told her that it meant she would reach her destiny only through surrender.
Asra lingered for a moment, then turned away from the old crone in the window and stalked away. Surrender, she thought. Surrender to what? She came to the market square again. She wasn’t thinking about her clothing anymore. She wasn’t thinking at all, she was raging. She lurched past a stall with a hideous display of animal carcasses hanging from hooks, the pelt of each wretched creature stripped away to reveal muscle and bone. Asra had never eaten the flesh of a living creature, and the very thought of it was an abomination. Suddenly there was someone at her side. “Where are you headed in such a hurry, lass?” asked the handsome Elf in the spattered apron, who walked just a little too closely to Asra. She could feel the warmth of his body, and she wrinkled her nose at the smell of him. He was a predator, she thought, and she was like a rabbit, all her senses on alert.
“None of your business,” Asra muttered. “Leave me alone.”
“And risk never seeing your pretty face again?” the Elflad said. “I am at your service, fair one, but you ask too much of me when you tell me to begone!”
“Please,” Asra said, looking into his face. His eyes were blue, and clear, and for a second Asra thought she might have been too quick to judge him.
“Please what?” he said.
“Just … just leave me alone,” Asra said, scanning his Bloody apron and turning to go. Her life certainly needed no further complications.
“I know you,” the Elflad said with a cocky grin. “I know you from somewhere. I never forget a face. Does your father deliver meat to the market? Perhaps he knows my father! Does your mother clean out the stalls?”
“Of course not,” Asra said haughtily, turning once again to the stranger. “My mother is the Qu—”
She managed to catch herself in midsentence. “My mother brings in eggs from our farm outside the gates. Now I beg your pardon, I’m here with my father, and if he finds me talking to a lad like you, he’ll be happy to poke out your eyes!”
“I knew I’d seen you before,” the Elf called, watching Asra go. He thought she was probably lying about her father, but it was better to be safe than sorry. “I’ll take a dozen of your eggs—no, two dozen! Bring ’em by the stall first thing next market day; that way you’ll be sure to find me there!”
Asra hurried on through the market, having decided that it might be best to return to the palace before someone recognized her. As she approached a fruit stall she saw an Elfmaid, no more than half her age, sneaking a pomegranate beneath her apron. The girl slinked away with her prize, and the vendor, busily arranging goods, seemed not to notice. Then the vendor’s young helper, an Elflad in a soiled cap, shot out an arm from behind a rack of persimmons and grabbed the girl. She cried out, but the boy wouldn’t let her go. He threw her to the ground, swearing, as he reached into the girl’s clothing and pulled out the stolen fruit. “I knew it,” he cried in triumph.
A moment later the vendor, too, was on top of her. “Thief,” he cried, “thief, you’ll lose a hand for what you’ve done. Guards! Guards!”
As the Elfmaid struggled, tears ran down her cheeks. She was too weak from hunger to fight, and she soon gave up squirming in the boy’s grip. Asra watched helplessly. She saw that the girl’s clothes were dirty and worn, and despite her youth, there were black spaces in her mouth where teeth ought to have been. Before many others had gathered around to watch the spectacle of the palace guards beating the girl and dragging her away in chains, Asra drew close to the fruit vendor and spoke into his ear. “How much for the pomegranate? I’ll pay for it. Just let the girl go.”
“You must be joking,” the Elf snorted. “She’s a criminal, and she must pay!”
“I’ll pay,” Asra said, and withdrew one of the coins she’d been saving to buy herself a new dress. She held it out for the vendor to see. “This should be enough to purchase a dozen pieces of fruit. What do you say?”
The Elf grabbed the coin and shoved it into his pocket. “Let the ruffian go,” he called to his assistant, and the Elflad got up reluctantly and wiped his hands on his trousers.
The Elfmaid leapt to her feet and vanished in the crowd. Asra shook her head and stalked on. This place is horrid, she said to herself. How dare they treat one another this way! No wonder Macta turned out like he did, after spending his entire life in this cesspool. She was just approaching an awning by the next corner when the Elfmaid whose life she’d saved stepped into her path. The girl looked up at the Princess with malice, cocked her head, and spit. “You think you’re better than me?” she taunted. “You think you can just buy your way out of trouble? Life ain’t that simple for some of us, sister. Stay out of my business, if you know what’s good for you!”
Asra’s mouth hung open. “The audacity,” she managed to say, “the unmitigated gall!”
The Elfmaid turned on her heels and disappeared once more into the hubbub and confusion of the market. Another pair of Elves, carrying a small animal tied by its feet to both ends of a wooden stake, jostled their way past the Princess. “Be off,” one of them cried. “You’re blockin’ the way!”
Asra looked over the heads of the crowd and the peaked stalls to the palace looming in the distance. Flags snapped on the turrets as chill breezes swept across the dull sky. Somehow, she longed to be back within the walls of that grim place. She felt in her pocket for the remaining coins and vowed that her next move would be wiser than before. She had to focus, she had to rise to the occasion; she could not allow herself to be brought down by the perverse misery of this place. She had to be prepared, more than prepared, when the Arvada took her to the North Pole in search of her friend Becky. She found a stall with simple, utilitarian clothing made of cotton and wool. “I need to dress for cold weather,” she told the proprietress. “I need leggings, trousers, a jacket with a fitted bodice and sleeves, and a felt cap.”
Asra chose an outfit that would allow for multiple layers of clothing, topped with a hooded cloak made of wool. It took all the remaining money to pay for the garments, but when she turned toward the palace of Helfratheim with a large sack draped over her arm, she felt confident and in control of her life. The feeling was novel to her. It fit her, however, like a new suit of clothes.
the Pole. Casting its shadow over the Arctic Ocean, it suddenly trembled and lurched forward. The flying contraption gained altitude as well as speed. Squeezed inside the cab, Becky felt herself slip to the aft. Her head banged the brass wall behind her. “What is it?” she called out fearfully, and Jardaine heard her all the way in the quarterdeck. “What’s wrong?” Becky cried louder. “Astrid?”
“Not again,” Jardaine groused and got up from her seat. She stumbled t
o the portside, grabbing on to the rigging that stretched like a spiderweb along the wall. She waited impatiently for the cab to stabilize and stared glumly at the hatch separating her from the girl.
“We’ve slipped back into the Faerie realm,” the captain said, trying to sound calm and to keep Jardaine in good humor. “The Sprite always knows when the quality of the air changes, and it can’t contain its joy. That’s why the velocity and altitude increase, though it’s only momentary, until the pilots rein the Sprite back in. Its emotions aren’t complex, but they’re quite powerful and hard to control. Not the smoothest ride, but ’tis fast and reliable. Like riding a dragon, you might say.”
“I would never say that,” Jardaine grumbled. “Dragons don’t exist. But there’s something else. I smell burning! Are we being attacked again?”
“Nooo,” he answered. “We sense no fear or trepidation from the beast; we’d know if there was imminent danger. There is something in the air, though. Dark clouds, ahead!”
Nick sniffed as he gathered up his playing cards. “’Tis not burning flesh but burning wood. A forest fire, perhaps?”
Jardaine shook her head. “Look out the window, fool, there are no forests down there. There’s only ice, and snow, and black water. Wait … there’s more ice, now, than when we were over the Human realm! Strange—where would smoke come from?”
“Astrid, what’s wrong?” Becky cried again. “I smell something bad!”
“I’m coming!” Jardaine hollered. She turned to the captain. “Why don’t you tell your so-called pilots to make the Sprite go higher? That way we’ll get above the smoke.”
The captain shook his head. “The air here is already thin. ’Twill be better to pass through the smoke than try to rise above it.”
Jardaine flung open the hatch and stepped down. There was even more smoke in the hold than there had been on the quarterdeck. “I’m here,” she rasped, tears stinging her eyes. “Don’t be afraid, the fire’s not on the Arvada. Take shallow breaths, and we’ll get the Sprite to lift us up out of the smoke.”
“How much longer until we reach the Pole?”
“Not long,” Jardaine said. “The Aeronauts have been studying the maps and they feel we’re getting very close, now. We just have to get past this—”
There was a jolt, and the Sprite tumbled downward. Jardaine fell hard against a crystal window and cracked it. Shards of glass fell as smoke rolled into the cab, and her robe billowed out into the frigid air. She caught herself. Gripping the brass window frame, Jardaine clung with all her might. She was slipping through the gaping hole. Becky pressed her hands against the top of the cab and pushed her feet against the fore, hoping to stabilize herself. But she fell to the side, and the weight of her body pressed Jardaine to the wall. “Aaaaaarrrrrggg!” the monk screamed, just as the Sprite righted itself and flew forward again. Though none inside the Arvada could yet see, the Sprite had collided with an enormous gnarled branch, reaching from the trunk of a tree as tall as a mountain. Many other twisted boughs stretched, barely visible, from the smoke. The monks in the city below worked their magick so that Hunaland, and Yggdrasil, the mighty Adri, were cloaked from afar. Only as the travelers drew close did the tree finally become visible to the naked eye.
The Sprite had been bruised, but not punctured. It flicked its tail and made a wide circle around the periphery of the tree. Because the Sprite was a translucent being, keeping a safe distance from branches that were barely visible, much of what could be seen at this distance was smoke. “Look!” the Aeronauts cried, pointing from the window of the quarterdeck. “I think … I think I see the tree, the great tree!”
From the hold, with its small round windows, Becky and Jardaine could finally see the tips of the sun-bleached branches reaching toward them. There were no leaves on the tree. There was no fruit, at least none that was visible. The tree looked dead, and it was now obvious where the smoke that filled the sky was coming from. Rising from countless sacrificial bonfires along the streets of Hunaland the smoke swirled, curling into the heavens, as arctic winds caught it and dragged it across the sky. “We’re here!” Becky cried, oblivious to the dismal look of the place. “We’re here, and we can find Matt and bring him home!”
“Aye,” Jardaine said, pressing her forehead against a crystal window and staring glumly. If the tree were dead, she realized, if there were no fruit, and no Seed, then there would be no quest, no hero’s journey, nothing but failure, embarrassment, and shame, once again. At least if I fail, she thought with grim satisfaction, Tuava-Li will fail, too. “We’re here, Becky,” she said with a mannequin’s smile. “We’ve reached our destination!”
The Arvada circled the legendary tree for a while, while the Aeronauts assessed the best spot for landing. The longer they gazed in the direction of the tree, the clearer its dimensions became. Its enormity was far greater than any of them had imagined; though they all knew the myth from the days of their youth, it was difficult to believe that the tree was really as big as it appeared. Its higher boughs, reaching toward the heavens, disappeared in the atmosphere. Around the base of the trunk the city of Hunaland curled, like a blanket around an old Elf’s legs. Becky and Jardaine peered down through the smoke-clouded windows of the Arvada. They had stretched a piece of tarpaulin over the broken window to keep out the bitter cold, but the temperature in the hold had dropped precipitously, and their teeth chattered as they peered out through the gray haze. From above the town was a patchwork of snow-covered roofs. The streets were densely packed, and everywhere hordes of Faerie Folk clustered around bonfires. “What are all those little fires for?” Becky asked.
“Smoke signals to the Gods and Goddesses,” Jardaine answered. “Or maybe they’re simply freezing! If they weren’t desperate, they’d never risk lighting fires under their Sacred Tree.”
With high stone walls enclosing both the city and the roots of the tree, there appeared to be only one way in or out; and yet there were no visible roads leading to or from the gates of the fortress.
“I must go and speak with the captain,” Jardaine said to Becky.
Becky shivered uncontrollably. “Astrid,” she stammered, “I—I’m so cold!”
“I’ll be back as soon as we’ve landed!”
Since the Arvada had entered the Faerie realm once again, the black seas and thawing ice floes of the Human realm had been replaced with a vast sheet of white, brilliant and blinding. If the ice were thin, the Aeronauts speculated, it would appear gray to the naked eye. But since the ice looked thick and solid, they decided to bring down their craft just outside the gates. The Arvada landed with a dull thud, followed immediately by a sharp report, like the crack of a rifle. A black line zigzagged across the ice and disappeared in the distance. When the crew climbed down the rope ladders and went to anchor the Arvada in the ice, they found puddles of frigid water pooling around the base. The ice creaked and groaned with the tension of the ropes, straining from the hooks affixed to the underside of the hovering craft. “So the ice here is just a step behind the Human realm,” Jardaine said to the Aeronauts as she exited from the cab and made her way carefully down the brass steps. “It’s all melting.” Swathed in fur, with her eyes shielded from the sun by tiny goggles, Jardaine paused and made a sweeping gesture with one gloved hand. “Soon Hunaland will sink beneath the waves.”
“I was under the assumption that Hunaland was situated on solid earth,” the captain said. “In the Human realm the North Pole is an unfixed point over a frozen sea, but now it seems that our world has taken on the properties of theirs. Why else would there be a film of ice over water here? How could a tree stand without soil to hold it up? What would all that salt water mean for the roots?”
“Salt water would gnaw away at the roots,” Jardaine said, stepping cautiously onto the ice. “Perhaps that’s why the tree is dead.”
“If the tree is dead, there will be no fruit for you to pick, no Seed for you to plant.”
The captain’s words buzzed annoyingly
inside Jardaine’s head as she turned to face the crew. “I don’t like this,” she said. “The Elves here must have seen our Arvada circling overhead, and yet they’ve shown no reaction—neither a gracious welcoming committee with parades and banners to greet us, nor soldiers at the battlements with arrows to fire upon the strangers. Nothing at all. There are no paths, roads, footprints, or anything outside the gates. Look at them!”
The twin doors at the entryway were made of wood so old and rough that it might as well have been petrified. Surrounding the doors were ornate carvings: hundreds of figures, engaged in the act of gathering, sowing, and planting seeds. Larger figures, immense, muscular figures with multiple arms like tree branches, blocky heads, and thick trunks, were set into niches in the walls. The carvings were worn from exposure to ice and wind, but the expressions on the sculpted faces were unmistakable. They were joyful. They were at one with their world and at peace with themselves. Atop the gate was an immense two-headed figure, with bushy leaves growing from its hands and arms. These carvings of Tree Faeries contrasted poignantly with the barren branches of the once-mighty tree, Yggdrasil, looming above. Through clouds of smoke it appeared to be nothing but a jumble of petrified limbs. Plumes of fresh smoke lifted through the branches like souls of the departed.
“Look at the gates,” Jardaine said. “I think they’re just for show. I don’t believe they’ve ever been opened.”
“Then what would you suggest?” the captain asked, shivering. His nose dripped into his drooping gray mustache. “We can’t stand out here much longer without freezing to death!”
“Go and release the Human from the hold,” Jardaine ordered, and a dozen Aeronauts raced across the ice, glad for the opportunity to move around. “Don’t forget, she calls me Astrid, and so should you.”
“You don’t really look much like an Astrid,” the captain said, wiping his nose on his sleeve.