by Carrie Jones
His eyes narrow. His fingers tighten around the little plastic cup that holds his water. “That is very true.”
We’re silent again. I think about how funny/crazy it is that Hel is a god but also the name of the place she rules, about how it’s so different from the Christian version of hell, which is a fiery place bad people go to suffer. The mythology around Hel makes it sound like more of a cold place where everyone who didn’t die fighting go to hang out. And Hel, even though she’s half rotting, sounds nothing like Satan, the ruler of the other hell, because he’s all nasty, all evil, and Hel doesn’t seem like that—she seems powerful but not evil.
I pick a tiny piece of wolf fur off his sleeve. “Do you ever wonder if we’re helping the good guys or the bad guys?”
He asks me what I mean and I try to explain. “Well, when Hel was beating me up, she said she was testing me. She said she wanted to make sure I was strong enough to stop it, and implied that she didn’t want it to happen. From all our research, it seems that she wants to stop the apocalypse from happening.”
“But her armies are part of what cause it.”
“No. Her brother Loki escapes and that’s what causes it. Then there are natural disasters and crazy monsters and then she brings the dead people from Hel to fight the warriors from Valhalla and that other city with warriors.” And that’s when I realize what bothers me. “I hate that none of the gods like Odin seem to care. It’s such a fatalistic approach, like they have no control. Yet Hel is portrayed as the bad girl/evil one. She’s in charge of the people who died of old age or sickness, not the ones who died killing. Why should killing deaths be better than dying peacefully?”
Astley doesn’t answer. I place my hand on top of his forearm, feel the warm cloth beneath my fingers, and ask, “What is it?”
“I did not see my father there.”
And I know he means in Valhalla. He didn’t see his father there when he helped me rescue Nick.
“Oh.” I try to think of something to say, but I can’t. It would be so amazing to see our fathers again. I never even thought about the possibility, but Astley obviously has. His need for his dad and his sorrow seem to color the air a silent shade of blue, aching and haunted. I understand. I miss running with my father—technically my stepfather—the silly crinkles by his eyes, the way he’d let you hug him like he was a big tree, how he sang country songs with a fake twang that was half respect and half mockery. There are so many people gone, so many people I miss. The fact that we got Nick back is such a miracle. I want more miracles, I realize. I want everyone safe and I want Astley’s sorrow to go away.
“This is so much bigger than us.” Astley rubs his hand against his eyes and sighs. “Why would the gods want it all to end? If they do—that is a bit of an assumption.”
I think about all the suffering and disease in the world, the war, the torture, the craziness, and I can think of a lot of reasons why you might want it to not exist, but for every bad thing is something beautiful, something awesome, like holding someone’s hand, or having really good strudel, or having a dog wag his tail at you when you get home, or getting into your top college, or seeing a rainbow that doesn’t explode. It doesn’t make sense.
“Good question,” I say, because, honestly, it is and then I shut my eyes for a second and wish I could just fall asleep. I am tired of good questions. I just want answers.
It’s pretty soon after this that I smell him, the were-woods manly scent of him. Astley must smell him at the same time, because I swear, he actually bristles like a porcupine. We both stop reading and turn our heads to each other, simultaneously saying, “Nick.”
A second later, he appears over Astley’s shoulder, standing in the middle of the aisle. His smile is not happy. “You really thought I’d stay there and let you do this alone?”
No, but I hadn’t actually thought about it. I was thinking about more important things like stopping the killing and saving the world, is what I want to say, but it seems kind of bitter. I put my book on Norse mythology in the seat back in front of me before I answer him. Astley raises an eyebrow and discreetly unbuckles his seat belt as I take all the time in the world.
“Nick.” Why do I say his name? I have no idea. I just do. And then I do it again. “Nick. You are supposed to be helping people learn how to fight.”
He moves up the aisle and turns so he’s facing us. He apologizes to the man in the aisle seat next to Astley as he leans his hip against the seat. “Betty is doing that. She’s more patient than I am at that sort of thing. And that Becca is there—”
Astley starts to say something, but Nick lifts his hand to signal that he isn’t done talking yet. Astley stops, but I can sense that he’s getting more than just a teeny bit annoyed at Nick.
Nick continues, “Plus, they’ll never be good enough, Zara. You know that. We would need hundreds more people to make a difference.”
“We could have a tweet up,” I half kid, and then I explain to Astley that there’s a social networking site where random strangers post short updates and links. Sometimes they agree to meet in massive groups to do strange things, like act out a zombie apocalypse. Both Nick and Astley snort at my idea. Astley’s snort is shocked and Nick’s is amused. For a second, it’s like the old Nick is back—the one who thought I was funny and smart, stubborn but worth it; the one who believed I had a soul and that we had a future together that didn’t just involve fighting off the evil kind of pixies.
“Is everything okay?” Amelie’s voice comes from behind Astley. “The wolf snuck on somehow. I didn’t smell him.”
The woman in the senator suit, sitting on the aisle diagonally behind Astley, gives us a look. I can’t even imagine what she’s thinking.
“I have a few tricks,” Nick says. He smiles like he’s proud of it. I smile back. And he sees me do it and his smile leaves his face in a slow torturous movement of lips. He focuses all his attention on me. “No matter how I feel about your turning, I couldn’t let you do something so dangerous alone.”
“She is not alone,” Astley barks, no longer masking his anger.
Nick looks him up and down and there’s no mistaking the intent. It’s all about sizing up another guy, seeing if he’s worthy. The muscle in his cheek twitches and he says, “She is alone.”
Astley flies out of his seat, pushing himself up until he’s a mere inch away from Nick, who is taller and broader. They stand there for half a second and if they could breathe fire and ice at each other, I swear they would. Amelie whispers a curse and tries to move forward. The lady in the aisle seat gasps.
“You don’t even know how to protect her,” Nick growls.
“She doesn’t need protecting,” I burst in, referring to myself in the third person and trying to unbuckle my seat belt. My hands aren’t behaving.
Astley talks as if I’ve said nothing. All his focus is on Nick. “I know how to love her. That is more than you.”
Love? Something in my stomach seems to flip and fall. I finally unclick my seat belt and start to stand up.
Just then, almost on cue, the flight attendant scoots up to us and says, “We really can’t be blocking the aisle. I’m going to have to ask you to return to your seats.”
And miracle of miracles, they do.
Astley and I sit there for a second, both of us staring straight ahead at the seat backs in front of us.
Finally he goes, “Well, that was awkward.”
“Yeah.” I reach forward and trace the square of the monitor screen with my finger. It’s shaking.
He swallows. His own hand lifts up like it’s going to touch mine, but at the last second he pulls it back, rests it on his leg, and says, “I apologize.”
“You don’t need to.”
His eyes close. He pushes his head into the seat. “Yes, yes I do. You are not some prize to fight over. You may be the queen to my king, but that does not mean that I should battle over you like some—like some—” He can’t find the word, I guess, because he doesn’t
finish his sentence. “It is just infuriating sometimes to deal with all these emotions that I have for you when your heart does not belong to me. That is not your fault. I do not blame you, Zara. You must love whom you want to love, but it is a bit of a distraction at the moment, and I need to be in top form for what is to come, as do you, as do all of us.”
I move my hand, brush a piece of his blondish hair out of his face. My fingertips graze his skin. He is so brave, tries so hard to be good, to let me make my own decisions. I lean toward his ear and whisper, “I am so lucky to be your queen.”
His eyes flash bluer as he turns to look at me. I can’t believe I almost lost him to that poison. I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to know how I really feel.
“Zara—” His voice breaks on my name.
Smiling at him, I nod. “I am. I am honored and lucky and so very glad.”
I sit back in my seat, wrap my hands around his arm, and lean my head against it, letting my head and my heart rest.
“You are a magnificent pixie,” he whispers into the hair on the top of my head. “I have never known a pixie quite like you.”
LANDING ANNOUNCEMENT ON FLIGHT 132 TO ICELAND
Flight Attendant: Weather at Reykjavik is zero degrees Celsius with some broken clouds, which we are working to fix before we land. As you disembark, please gather all your belongings. This includes children and significant others.
We land in Iceland, land of super-short days and super-beautiful people. We are going to spend the night in Reykjavik and then journey to the volcano resort area tomorrow morning. Last time we were here, Astley and I stayed at an adorable hotel that was really modern, like IKEA times a hundred, but I fell out a window there. So this time we’re staying at a Hilton that’s about five minutes away from the center of town.
Issie and I share a room of epic proportions. Two seconds after we step inside she pretty much screams in delight and collapses on the gray covers of the king-sized bed while I open the curtains to the huge window that covers an entire wall.
“You can see the ocean, I guess,” I say, staring into the darkness.
“All I see is dark and city lights.” She sits up and then joins me peering out. She gives up trying and spins around, probably so she can have a better look at the rich wallpaper and the black modern-lined desk and chairs and headboard. “It’s very swankified. I feel like a celebrity.”
I nod. “I know. Astley’s completely slumming it in Bedford. You should see his treehouse place in New York.”
I let myself think about the other home he told me about on the Island of Skye and for a second imagine what it would be like to walk through that azalea garden with him, holding hands maybe, seals barking in the ocean, the sun beating down, no snow anywhere. I miss the sun, and flowers. If the Ragnarok happens, people will never enjoy that again.
We’ve already changed into our pajamas by the time Astley comes to the room to say good night. I’m wearing flannel bunny pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. He’s still in his street clothes. His eyes are soft and kind and worried and strong all at the same time as he says hello. I wish they would just stay one color.
“You still wear your anklet,” he says to me.
“Nick gave it to me.”
“I know.”
“You want me to not wear it?” My tone is uncomfortable.
Issie’s been sitting at her desk Skyping with Devyn. She hops up and grabs her laptop, carrying it carefully as she scurries away. “I’m just going to talk to Devyn in the bathroom. Yeah. That’s not weird or anything. We do it all the time.”
As soon as the bathroom door shuts gently behind her, Astley strides across the room. He stops at the window, puts his forehead against the glass, tilting his head so his brow is the only thing that touches. I walk over there too, sigh, and wrap my arms around his back, rest my head against the softness of his shirt.
“You’re hugging me,” he whispers.
“I know.”
He turns around so I’m no longer the big spoon and we’re in a regular hug. His chin rests on my head. I breathe in the smell of him: soap and dinner. It feels so good to just rest against him. It feels so right.
“You are a very good hugger,” I say.
“So are you.” His words move against my hair. “I would never ask you to take off the piece of jewelry.”
“Even though Nick gave it to me?”
“Especially since he gave it to you. I know what importance you place upon it. It represents things to you, things that mean a lot.”
His heart beats beneath my ear, a slow, steady thump. That heart is so kind, so important. Shifting, I put my hand against his chest so I can feel it beat. One thump. Another. It sounds so strong, but it’s just as vulnerable as mine.
“You are the nicest person ever,” I say.
“Hardly.” He kisses the top of my head and breaks away. “Good night, Zara. Thank you for helping me stop this, for being my queen, for accepting the pixie in me and in you. You make me so much stronger.”
I shrug. “That’s just ’cause of the pixie blood.”
He opens the door to leave. The hallway is brightly lit behind him. It makes it hard for me to see his face, which is now in shadow, as he says, “Partly. And partly just because you believe in me.”
Issie and I huddle together all night. Every once in a while, I touch the anklet Nick gave me. It reminds me that I was loved once. Why should I need that? I shouldn’t. Still, I keep it on.
We drive out the next morning in a rented van that fits all of us. The landscape of Iceland in winter is all shades of white and gray with mountains of black occasionally thrown in. It’s beautiful and austere and stunning. The sky is wide open above us.
“There it is,” Astley says, pointing to a mountain sprouting out of land that’s been deforested volcanic ash. Efforts to stop erosion are under way and I read that they’ve planted grass and are trying to fertilize the soil somehow, but the land is heaved by frost and battered by wind and it’s a battle.
The white mountain reminds me of an upside-down boat.
“It’s a series of craters,” Amelie says. “Since the year 874 there have been at least twenty eruptions, which makes it the country’s most active volcano, or at least one of them. It’s 1,491 meters high, which translates to approximately 4,892 feet.”
“Devyn replacement,” Issie whispers.
I snort and keep staring at the mountain.
“It just looks like a mountain,” Nick says, speaking my own thoughts, “not like a gateway to Hel.”
“Immediately after the mountain’s eruption in 1104, Cistercian monks told many stories claiming exactly that,” Amelie says.
I remember something from my own research. “Benedict, this monk guy, said that Hekla was the prison of Judas.”
“Judas?” Issie asks.
“From the Bible. Judas was one of Jesus’s apostles. He was the one who betrayed him,” I tell Issie, who is Jewish in descent, but the nearest synagogue is in Bangor, which is super-far away from Bedford, so they tend not to go. I have a logic jump, an aha kind of moment. “And if you think about it, that’s weird because Loki is the god that betrayed the other gods in Norse mythology and he’s trapped in Hel.”
“Unless you free him,” Nick says.
Amelie turns in the chair and stares him down. “The queen will not free him.”
I smile to myself. I like how Astley’s people are my people now too, and even though they know I have total goofball tendencies, they still have faith in me. Becca told me that when I risked my life for Astley, when I voluntarily gave him my energy, it sealed my place as queen.
We are going to stay at some hut in Landmannalaugar, and then snowcat to the mountain. Landmannalaugar is miles from the mountain, and the road is usually closed in winter, I guess, but Astley has paid people to get us in. We have supplies in the trunk of the car. Through the use of insane amounts of cash, he has managed to procure the snowcat and a cottage called Gil, which holds twe
nty-four people and is heated with gas ovens. We will sleep in sleeping bags.
When we arrive, the cottage looks cute and smallish. Inside, it is full of wood and utilitarian bunk beds with solid permanent wood ladders.
“It’s adorable in a rustic-place-where-we’re-going-to-die way,” Issie says, plopping her sleeping bag down in the middle of a low bunk.
“Very.”
There are other cottages nearby, but all look abandoned. The wind whistles through the area, making it even more foreboding. I shiver and meet Nick’s eyes as he sets down a box of food on the little countertop in the kitchen area.
“You sure about this?” he asks. “Going to Hel voluntarily? We can still go home, Zara. Maybe start over. I feel like we’re just forging ahead without really being sure what is going on.”
I rub my hands together. “We need to figure out how to stop all this before it’s too late.”
But part of me knows that for some things it is too late. It’s too late for Nick and me. I just don’t want it to be too late for the world.
Amelie is her normal no-nonsense self as we gather together in the main area of the cabin. She reminds me of my mom when my mom does hospital business. It’s all agenda and steps and forward motions. Amelie talks about provisions and strategies in finding the entrance to Hel given the fact that it is so snowy and icy and the terrain is so treacherous that there are warnings posted throughout the area. I zone out a bit. Through the large front windows the mountains of Iceland loom, volcanic, angry, ready to erupt. Surprisingly different colors peek through in places where the snow has blown off. Some mountains are pink. Some are blue. It’s wild and wonderful and if I weren’t already so worried about everything, I would be happy dancing over the beauty of it all. The nearby lake is probably gorgeous, but it’s covered with ice. The Icelandic sunlight gives the entire landscape a sort of hazy appearance.
“Devyn texted me right before we left the city,” Issie says as she flops into a square, modern-looking orange chair. She grabs a white pillow and clutches it to her chest like it’s a shield that will protect her from the world. “We have no reception here though.”