by Julia Gray
‘Will you say something?’ she says.
I think for a while, running in my head scattered lines from the Vǫluspá. Things I read with Jason, things I read on my own, things I read to Hobie.
Then I whisper, my voice catching:
‘Sól mun sortna,
søkkr fold í mar,
hverfa af himni
heiðar stjǫrnor,
geisar eimi
ok aldrnari,
leikr hár hiti,
við himin sjalfan.
The sun grows dark,
Earth sinks in the sea,
The glittering stars
Glide from the sky.
The smoke-reek rages
Reddening fire,
The high heat licks
The heaven itself.’
I think, at the same time, of that song that Dad loves so much. The one about a time of innocence, about old friends … about a photograph … and how you should preserve your memories because they’re all you have left. And I make a promise, to my old friend Hobie, that I will not forget him. All these years, I haven’t allowed myself to be sad about him, for fear of what I might feel. I will honour Hobie by being the alivest that I possibly can be.
And it comes to me now: the glittering. The nerves in my palms, smouldering. The sides of the world folding in. As the diary burns on the deck of the ship, the air above it buckles and bends, and, for the last time, one by one, the Gods come out to watch. Tyr and Thor, Freyr and Freyja, Odin and Frigg. Heimdallr. Hermódr. Hǫdr and Baldr. Like a chain of luminous flowers, they hang there in the darkening light, twinkling, dancing. I know that I will never see them again.
Suddenly, beneath them, the ship erupts into amber and gold. The fabric flags shrivel up, sending up black smoke. Further and further into the centre of the lake the ship travels, as if propelled by a tailwind. The mast proud, illuminated by fire. The flames accompanied by a low rushing sound, barely distinguishable from the sound of the water. The Gods flicker, once, and then fade.
Zara is crying quietly.
‘Goodbye, Hobie,’ she says. ‘I hated you, but I loved you too.’
‘Goodbye, Hobie,’ I say. ‘Sleep well.’
Her hand, dry and hot, creeps into mine. Our fingers interlace.
We watch the ship as it wobbles its way across the lake. I want to see it sink, witness the crimson pool as it’s suctioned under.
Eaten up by the glow of funeral fires, the ship recedes, further and further, into the distance. Until it’s just a point of light.
And then gone.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The Otherlife has had a long journey and many people read it along the way, sometimes more than once. They are: Sara Crystal, Rose Gardner, Calum Gray, Jennifer Johnson, Stanley Johnson, Louisa Macmillan and Laura Williams. Thank you for your wisdom and support.
Specific advice came from Dr Nalini Jasani on medical matters, Kayleigh Manson on pathology, Kat King on tattoos, Jack Maguire on heavy metal and Calum Gray on heavy metal and rugby, and I’m very grateful for all their thoughts; any errors are my own.
Very special thanks are due to Dr Richard North for his generous and invaluable help with the grammar, syntax and spelling of Old Norse; as before, any errors are mine.
The Otherlife was born halfway through my creative writing studies at Birkbeck, and I owe a great debt of gratitude to my tutors, and to all the students in my Writing for Young Adults module; especially to Gill Fryzer, who told me to start the book; to Julia Bell, who encouraged me to finish it; to Russell Celyn Jones and also to the Sophie Warne Fellowship.
Imogen Russell Williams: I can’t thank you enough for your manifold suggestions, phenomenal patience and empathy.
Thank you to Chloe Sackur, Charlie Sheppard and all the wonderful people at Andersen Press.
And thank you to Louise Lamont, my very brilliant agent.
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