Another voice piped up. “Hardly, you don’t have a conversation with a door.”
The hall dissolved into laughter. Iðunn bridled, but waited for the laughter to subside.
“With respect, the spell singers are doing just that. Singing the galdar in the right key is like finding the right key to a door.”
The elderly völva was grandstanding now.
“Every day, the fylkir himself converses with the gods at the Well of Urður, attended by our sisterhood. Are you suggesting he is mistaken and is, in fact, discussing the flow of sap and the embarrassments of lichen instead? Are you suggesting we replace the divinity of man with a fantasy of a talking plant?”
“I was under the impression that the Urður know full well that we are all conduits for the divine and that the fylkir’s discussions are metaphorical.”
A second Urður chimed in. “There is no need to be facetious. The supremacy of man is a key tenet of Our Ways. We aren’t barbarians, ruled blindly by Christian Kings deluded by notions of divine right. The Northmen are free in speech, thought and deed. We have a model egalitarian society precisely because we have sought our new lands, seeded new plantations, and maintained the supremacy of the Althing—unless trees are now to be given the vote?”
Iðunn was incensed by the suggestion that she had started the bickering.
“Well, while we are debating ancient history, would it surprise you to find that while the Vikings and the Christians were warring around Rome, the Hindoos created the Vrukshayurveda, a guide to the protection and veneration of plants? Groves are sacred in their culture too; we don’t have a monopoly on treating trees with respect. The Orang Asli don’t even allow stone structures in their holy forests.”
Various Urður were hissing from the benches now. Iðunn had to raise her voice above the ruckus. It had been a mistake to mention the Subcontinent, even if there was a truce. Still, she thought, in for a penny, in for a pound.
“We might not even have a monopoly on staggering. There is some archaeological evidence that suggests other cultures have visited the Utangard. And in the past, other cultures, using different words, in different forms, describe the same phenomena. The Greeks knew the World Tree as Gaia.”
She had to shout now to be heard.
“Even the bloody Christians planted a grove in Beersheba; it was only when they realized that pagans had gotten there first that they gave it up as idolatrous. Yggdrasil has always belonged to all of Midgard, regardless of race or creed. We’re not so fucking special.”
Tempers were rising across the room. The Urður were furious. “Do we have a part to play at all in your creation? Are we vǫlur not all creators, continuously spinning our world? Or would you paint us as Abrahamists, defined and determined by an aloof and omnipotent will? The Christian God is reborn as the wooden cross he was crucified on!”
With that, the First Order stood and walked out of the theatre as one. The room emptied after them like water down a storm drain. It clearly wasn’t wise to tangle with the elder sisterhood; even the military decided that discretion was the better part of valour. Iðunn wasn’t perturbed, she relished hitting her mark. It took considerable willpower to restrain herself from telling them all to fuck off as they swirled towards the exits.
After a few minutes, she was left alone with a handful of university speakers. They either had nowhere else to go, or no concerns about being ostracised. Knowing academic circles, it was probably a little of both. Bohr gave her a wink, then started a more intimate conversation, more like a faculty meeting than a Mál.
“Well, it was almost as if they planned the walkout.”
Iðunn laughed. “Of course, they planned it. The Urður do everything in advance.”
“Quite the commotion. We ought to finish the session properly. Incomparable, by the way. Your studies are very much ahead of their time. Can I ask some of my own questions?”
The Verðandi nodded her assent.
“What of the sagas that speak of Yggdrasil clearly as the noblest of trees, preeminent perhaps, but still one of many, rather than the one as the group?”
“Well, we think individual trees aren’t inherently sentient. Only with great age or great growth does an acorn become the mightiest of oaks. Even the oldest groves may seem as children in comparison to some of the places we are starting to map.”
“You keep describing physical characteristics though. You’ll forgive me, I am a military man, not a theologian. Let me see if I can put it into words—Yggdrasil and the Well of Urður were never conceived as existing in a single physical location, but rather dwell within—or across—anything and everything. Like a kind of invisible heart.”
Iðunn smiled.
“I understand perfectly,” she said. “And we are in agreement. That is exactly what I am saying. Yggdrasil permeates everything and everyone, but it does have a physical form as well as a metaphysical one. I don’t see either as mutually exclusive.”
One of the remaining speakers raised his hand politely, then stood and addressed the Verðandi. He gave a hasty bow.
“Good morning, madam seer. Karl Dýrrvin, pleased to meet you. I have a question if I may—which came first, the kjúkling or the egg? Or in your terms, the tree or the man? And to be clear, I am not talking divinity here—I am not talking intelligent design. I mean to say that, as good scholars, we both know that trees have, at some point in prehistory, the same common ancestor as mankind—even if it is just a cell escaping some primordial soup or a mold whose spores found purchase on land. Isn’t that the real gift of Ymir?”
Dýrrvin was almost bald; most of his hair seemed to have migrated into his frizzy grey beard and deep, overhanging eyebrows. Iðunn knew him by reputation. He’d visited her father on Jötunheim on occasion and claimed to be a budding acolyte of Lind. He’d written some spurious theory of his own, the Survival of the Misfits, about how it was the oddest creatures that prospered most from calamities.
Iðunn said, “I can’t speak with the authority of the distinguished speaker, I am afraid. I would suggest that trees have had more time to develop their intelligence than man. My colleagues think upwards of four hundred million years more. They certainly predate the dragon fossils unearthed across Midgard, and they survived the great extinctions of the past with ease. Their seeds survive and thrive after great fires and resist the charring radiation of the sun. They even replenish the atmosphere during the Fimbulwinters that follow. The trees came first, there is no question in my mind, at least on Midgard. Tree survived when many species did not. What we’ll find as a point of origin across the other worlds remains to be seen.”
“Well,” said Dýrrvin, “if this transposition of legend into fact is true, where are the other analogues? The Gigalope is a large herbivore but hardly fits the definition of a Jötunn, unless devouring grass counts? Why does the racial memory omit the Raboons of Asgard? Or the flocks of Razorbills? And, conversely, what of the other beasts mentioned in the sagas? What of Ratatosk, the squirrel? And the harts, the serpents? Why are some parts of our myth conveniently literal and others mysteriously absent?”
Iðunn straightened. “At the risk of ducking this question, honoured Speaker, I am not compiling a modern-day bestiary, nor am I a zoologist, crypto- or otherwise. We have barely begun to explore the continents of the Nine Worlds. The research facility at Hvergelmir is half the size of your personal office here. It is conceivable that all the creatures you mention exist out there somewhere.”
“Well then, what is your guess on point of origin for the tree species?”
“A guess is all I could offer,” she said. “Some realms are older than others. If they were truly fashioned by the gods from Ymir, it was done over the length of aeons, which means the gods lived a very long time ago. And yes, I am aware of the irony of my name and the myth of the apples. When you come from a long line of Linds, botanical names are all the rage. But, like Herra Bohr, I am not a theologian or a skald. I am not telling stories or seeking to
impart wisdom. I am simply making an observation. Trees can communicate and store patterns; by extension, they may have steered the evolution of mankind, and other creatures.”
A younger man blurted from behind the speaker, a student by the looks of him. His name tag, home-made, identified him as Hofgard. He was fidgety and nervous, speaking before Dýrrvin could continue his line of inquiry.
“You spoke of Yggdrasil as having a purpose? What does it yearn for? Does it build? Does it reach for the stars like the Skuld?”
Iðunn almost laughed out loud, but remembered she’d been young once.
“Making buildings from stone and using fire are not the only paths of progress,” she said. “Remember, a tree doesn’t need to grow food and it reaches to the sun as a matter of course, for sustenance. If I had millions of years to think, perhaps I’d think reaching out for more stars was a waste of effort. Or perhaps mimetic osmosis is the way Yggdrasil did reach for the stars. Perhaps she seeds great rocks and flings them across the void. Perhaps there are spores floating through Ginnungagap right now, seeking new homes. She seeded nine worlds, that we know of, worlds where life is possible, where water exists. That’s successful evolution. That’s purpose, is it not?”
The student stared at her, shifting from foot to foot. He looked very pale and anxious, as if he had to be somewhere else in a hurry. She tried to be reassuring.
“We are lucky to live in symbiosis with her, to have been born in the branches, to have thrived on the vine so to speak. But a tale is but half told when only one person tells it. Let others corroborate or contextualize my work. I don’t lay claim to all the answers, and a Mál is for theories.”
The student seemed a little hysterical. He almost screeched his next sentence.
“And what of free will? Is it to be simply stripped away?”
“Okay… I’m a little lost. I fail to see how free will has been lost. I stated that trees might have shaped our path, helped mankind to survive and thrive. If anything, Yggdrasil might have nudged free will rather than stifle it.”
The young man had notes, that he scanned through now.
“You said, and I quote, ‘Patterns are traced and recognised and information exchanged.’ And you said that these patterns are songs, which are in effect keys. And then you answered the Speaker, saying trees came before man. But that misses the point. Man has to have made the key for it to fit the lock.”
Speaker Bohr scratched his head. “Couldn’t he have been given the keys? I suppose not. Someone had to make the key and the lock to work together.”
“Which means someone or something had to design the system in the first place. Everything has a beginning.”
“That sounds dangerously Christian to my ears, young man!” Dýrrvin grew red in the face, but the young academic blustered on.
“So, Odin travelled the greenways in centuries past. Thought and Memory travel with him—Huginn and Muninn, his ravens. Couldn’t he have taught the trees as he travelled? And then left his divinity within them, like a blueprint? That’s the source of the pattern. That’s a fair interpretation, isn’t it?”
For a Verðandi, changing the consciousness of a cow or a tree was just as possible and natural as influencing the mind of a man, but the secrets weren’t to be shared freely. Iðunn smiled at the student, hoping to end the conversation before it went around in another circle. That was the trouble with belief; it didn’t have to be based on fact.
“I imagine anything is possible for Odin, young man, so do tell me when you find him. I could do with some validation after today.”
Bohr came to her rescue, and announced loudly, “Thank you for visiting us, Mistress Lind, and bringing us this fascinating piece of conjecture. You’ve certainly given everyone a lot to chew on. Will you seek to publish your findings?”
“I’ll publish the results of the experiments. The plant signalling is irrefutable. The leap to sentience is certainly debatable. The Eddic stuff, all the references to the sagas, frankly, that is just window dressing. I was aiming for some rootedness, some shared perspective. I’d expected the controversy; I didn’t think it would be like confessing a murder.”
Bohr wheeled away from any more questions, pushing himself ahead of the stragglers, then held the door pointedly until they took their leave. Iðunn took one last look at the empty hall, then followed them to the open door. The old man whistled his relief.
“Peace at last! Well, for me at least. I am afraid you have raised the spectre of the old Christian teleological argument. See a watch, infer a watchmaker. I confess, I am at a loss for a suitable analogy for the realm of trees. It is an unusual concept.”
“See a human, infer a World Tree?” she offered.
“Very droll,” said Bohr. “Dýrrvin is in a rage. I am afraid even the most liberally educated will find natural selection and natural theology strange bedfellows.”
“Dýrrvin should be happy. He has spent years telling everyone we came down from the trees. He’s the biggest misfit of all.”
“And the Urður, well, you’ve rather assaulted their mastery of the universe. Destiny, the invisible hand. Whether we carve our own destiny or are puppets in the hands of another, that is now up for debate.”
“The Urður will worry that Yggdrasil was once a gateway, but now it threatens to become the gatekeeper. Or worse, a gaoler. What the Norn carve into the tree is the earliest form of our destinies, but not their only possible form. They’ll just have to carve quicker and harder. It will do them good to think for a while, to stop living in the past.”
Bohr smiled at that, then spun himself towards the entrance hall, nodding to one of the duty constables who tipped his silken top hat in reply. “I understand. The advances you’ve made are going beyond our ability to keep up. It’s very impressive. You’ll return to Jötunheim?”
“Straight away,” she said. “I detest the cities on Midgard. Thralldom in this day and age beggars belief. Land reform is long overdue. Another bad harvest and there’ll be widespread famine, and famine will lead to revolution.”
“Perhaps you are reading too much Wilhelm Wolff. You were always fond of the leftist teachings.”
“Ah, my friend, a toleration of slavery is a toleration of inhumanity. If there are gods in Asgard, I plan on asking Odin about his breeding program. But don’t worry, I don’t have time to be a revolutionary. Besides, look where it got my great-grandfather.”
“That’s gratifying to hear. I think we’ve had plenty enough wars. I know I have, and your work is revolutionary enough.” The Speaker rapped on his chair as if to underscore the comment, and then motioned for the constable to open the high, oak doors to the courtyard. “Will the gods be found, do you think?”
“Not on Asgard, no. The only thing of any size there are giant Waspedrs; otherwise it is just endless trees, mountains, and lakes. It’s a lot like Markland. In all seriousness, the Verðandi have searched for a century and found no traces. Either the gods are in hiding, or they cannot be found. Not as a body and shape. To me, the gods are thoughts and desires, inspiration on a difficult day. That kind of thing. Not warriors with big… hammers. I’m sorry to be so depressing.”
“Your great-grandfather would be proud.”
“His taxonomy was a contrivance,” said Iðunn. “At best a terrible joke, at worst, a vainglory. It’s like finding a pantry full of tinned food, and deliberately swapping the labels.”
“You realize if he’d named one of the worlds Cockaigne, people would ask if the houses there were made of cakes and the streets were paved with pastry? For most people, they are still a story, forever out of reach.”
“Blame the High Urður. The Verðandi would open the greenways if we could. They took control three days after Karl passed. My father was young then and unable to stop them. Anyway, ancient history. I doubt I’ll come back any time soon to Uppsala.”
“You’ll be most welcome if you do.”
“Not at the Well of Urður I won’t.” She laughed, kissed
Bohr on the forehead, and turned into the night.
A moment later, she was joined by the young man from the Mál; he had clearly been waiting for her outside. He thrust out his long fingers as if to shake hands, then thought better of it, and drew them quickly back into his pockets. He tried a brief bow instead.
“May I join you? Mikjáll, Mikjáll Hofgard. My name, that is.”
“Briefly; I am on my way to the Grove.”
Iðunn was already striding back the way she came. She wondered at the name, though. She had learned long ago that names had power, names had meaning.
“Mikjáll. That’s a Christian name?”
“True. It is the only thing I have left of someone I once loved. Not that it is any of your business. And from the Grove? To Hvergelmir?”
“Yes, not that it is any of your business.”
He looked frail and was struggling to keep pace. He’d not survive the gravity on Jötunheim—not that she had any intention of bringing him with her.
“Are you injured?” she asked, with as much care in her voice as she could feign.
“Not really. I was at Frederik’s Hospital last week. I fell from one of your beloved trees when I was a boy. There are still complications I’m told. But, I have enough energy for a walk. If one just keeps on walking, everything will be all right. We don’t have a choice anyway, since the waggoners went out. They hate your greenways for ruining their trade. I, on the other hand, I liked your theory very much. Why did you decide to announce it at Uppsala? To stir the hornets?”
“I was asked to come,” she said.
The young man was almost running to keep up, ducking between the halo of the street lamps and the pitch of the gaps in between, his enquiries coming in breathless bursts. “Yes, but you could have said no. You chose to uproot the establishment, rip up their very own care-tree, and what’s more, you pulled it straight out of home soil, sacred soil even!”
“Perhaps it was fate.”
“All beings who are subject to destiny have some degree of power over their own path, though, no? The Verðandi shape destiny more actively and more potently than most, I’m told. You get your hands dirty, in a manner of speaking?”
The All Father Paradox Page 19