by Rich Horton
This went on for a long time, till he was weary from carrying Svanhild’s saddlebags. If the dark elf had been telling the truth, he would come out of this with freedom and silver. That was worth some effort. Did he trust the elf? Not entirely. But what choice did he have? He had learned one thing when the northerners came to his village and burned it and took slaves: he did not control his fate.
At last they came to a door made of polished wood and covered with carvings of interlaced animals. There was a bronze ring set in the door. Svanhild took hold of it and knocked.
The door opened, revealing a handsome man dressed in green. His hair was red and curly. His face was clean-shaven and his skin was fair. He wore a heavy, twisted, golden torque around his neck. “Well?” he asked.
“I am Svanhild, the daughter of Bevin of the White Arms. I’ve come to find my mother.”
“She’s here, though I don’t know if she will want to see you. Nonetheless, come in.”
They did. As Kormak passed through the doorway, the stone groaned loudly. The man looked suddenly wary. “What are you?”
“He’s human and my slave,” Svanhild said. “Don’t you have human slaves?”
“Why should we? We are served by magical beings. Humans are for making music and love. Since he belongs to you, I will let him in.”
Beyond the door was a wide, green country. A meadow lay before them, where noble-looking people played a bowling game with golden balls. On the far side, the land rose into wooded hills. Many of the trees were flowering. A sweet scent filled the air. The sky above was misty white.
“I will escort you to the queen,” the man said.
“Do you have a name?” Kormak asked.
“My name is Secret,” the fey replied. “And you?”
“Kormak.”
“Are you Irish?”
“Yes.”
“Our favorite humans!”
They circled the meadow to avoid the bowlers. A wooden bridge led over a crystal-clear river. Looking down, Kormak saw silver trout floating above the river’s pebbled floor. Apple trees with fragrant white blossoms leaned over the water, dropping petals. He saw red fruit among the blooms. A miraculous land!
The next thing he knew, they were climbing a hill. On top was a grove of oak trees, their branches thick with acorns. The ground was carpeted with acorns, and a huge boar was feeding on them. Its lean body was covered with long, black, bristling hair, and yellow tusks sprouted from its mouth.
Svanhild paused. “Is this safe?”
“That’s Hogshead,” the fey answered. “He’ll do no harm.”
The boar lifted its head, then reared up till it was standing on its hind legs. Kormak had never seen any kind of pig do this. A moment later, a man dressed in scarlet stood where the boar had been.
“How are the acorns?” their fey asked.
The man grunted happily, and they walked on, leaving him standing under the oak trees.
Well, that was strange , Kormak thought. He glanced at Svanhild. Usually she had a calm, determined expression, but now she looked drunk or dazed, her eyes wide open and her lips parted. Was this Alfgeir’s magic? Or was she so in love with her mother’s land?
They descended the hill to another meadow. A silver tent stood in the middle. The fabric shone like water and moved like water in the gentle wind.
“This is her bower,” their fey said.
One side was open. Inside sat richly dressed ladies, listening to a harper play. Some had human heads and faces. Others had the heads of deer with large ears and large, dark eyes. One had the long neck and sharp, narrow beak of a crane, though her shoulders—white and sloping—were those of a woman, and she had a woman’s graceful arms and hands.
In the middle sat the queen, who looked human, more fair than any woman Kormak had ever seen. She held up a hand to silence the harper, then beckoned.
They approached.
“Who are you?” the queen asked.
“I am Svanhild, the daughter of Alfrad and Bevin of the White Arms. This man is human and a slave.”
“If that is so, you are my daughter. If you wish, you can stay a while. But the human is ugly, scarred, and worn with labor. Send him away. Maybe someone in my land will find him interesting, but I don’t want to look at him.”
Svanhild glanced at Kormak. “Do as the queen says. Put down my saddlebags and go.”
Kormak did as he was told. The harper began playing. The music was sweeter than any he had heard before, and he would have liked to stay. But the queen had a cold face. What had the iron dog called it? Loveliness with a hard heart.
Their fey walked with him from the tent.
“What will I do?” Kormak asked.
“There are humans here who no longer interest us. Former lovers. Former harpers and pipers. They live in our forests. When we have finished banquets—we usually eat out of doors, so we can enjoy the scented air and the birds that fly from tree to tree—they come and eat whatever food remains. Sometimes we hunt them for amusement.”
This was worse than living in Elfland. It might even be worse than Iceland.
“Do you know of a banquet that might be over?” Kormak asked. “I’m hungry.”
The fey pointed. Kormak walked through the lush, green grass to a grove of apple trees. He pulled an apple from among the blossoms and ate as he walked. In the middle of the grove was a long table made of wooden boards. Dishes covered it, full of the remains of a feast: roast pork, white bread, wine, a half-eaten salmon. Ragged humans fed there, using their hands. He joined in. Everything was delicious, though cold.
“Do you know the human woman Alda?” he asked when he was full.
The man next to him stopped chewing on a ham bone and said, “There’s a cave in that far hill.” He used the ham bone to point. “She’s there, always weaving. She won’t pay any attention to you. She’s under an enchantment, as I used to be, when the noble lady Weasel loved me. I wish I still were. I was happy then. Now I am not.”
Kormak went on. Maybe he should have refused this task. But that would have left him in the stone tunnel, with no alternative except to walk back to the land of dark elves.
There was a trail, no more than an animal track, which wound through forest and meadow. He followed it to the hill. As the man had said, there was a cave. Lamps shone inside. Kormak entered. A woman sat at a loom, weaving. She was young with long, blond hair. For a human, she was lovely, though not as lovely as the fey with human heads.
He greeted her. She kept weaving, paying him no attention.
What could he do? He took out the gold bracelet and held it between her and the loom. She paused. “What is this?”
“A gift for you. Take it and wear it, but be sure to keep it under your sleeve—the fey will steal it if they see it.”
“This is true.” She took the bracelet and pushed it onto her arm, under the sleeve. Then she looked at Kormak. Her blue eyes were dim, as if hidden behind a fine veil. “Who are you?”
“An emissary from someone who wants to give you gifts. I know no more than that.”
“Are there more?” the woman asked.
“Yes, but not today.”
“I could tell the fey about you.”
“And lose the gifts. You know the fey share little.”
The woman nodded. “I have been here a long time, weaving and weaving. They have never given me gold, though they have plenty.” Then she returned to weaving.
Kormak left her and went up into the forest on the hill. He found a clearing in a pine grove, where the air was sweet with the scent of the needles. One huge tree had a hollow at its base. He used that as a bed.
In the middle of the night, he woke. A splendid stag stood in front of him, rimmed with light.
“What are you?” Kormak asked.
“I used to be human. Now I am prey. Can you hide me?”
Kormak scrambled up and looked at his hollow, then at the stag. “You are too big.”
“Then I will have to
run,” the stag replied, and ran.
As it left his little clearing, dogs appeared, baying loudly. After them came fey on horseback with bows and spears. Kormak crouched down. They did not appear to see him. Instead, they raced through the clearing and were gone.
The stag had no chance. The light that rimmed him made him a clear target. He would die. Kormak wrapped his arms around his knees and shook. Finally, he went back to sleep. In the morning, he remembered the stag dimly. Had it been a dream?
The day was misty, as if the silver-white sky had descended and hung now among the hilltops. Trees were shadowy. The air felt damp. Kormak wandered down into meadows, looking for another banquet. He found nothing. In the end, he picked apples from among the apple blossoms and ate them to break his fast. In spite of the mist, the land looked more beautiful than on the previous day. Flowers shone like jewels in the grass. The birds sang more sweetly than any birds he’d ever heard, even as a child in Ireland. The birds in Iceland had not been singers. Instead, they had quacked, honked, whistled, and screamed.
He reached Alda’s cave and entered. She sat at her loom, her hands unmoving. “I dreamed of my foster parents last night and the farm where I grew up. How could I have forgotten?”
“I know nothing about that,” Kormak replied. “But here is your second gift.” He held out the gold and ivory brooch. “Pin it to your undergarment, over your heart, and make sure the fey do not see it.”
Alda did as he said. “I feel restless today, unwilling to weave.”
“Do you have to?”
“The queen will be angry if I don’t.”
“Does she come here often?”
“No.”
He sat down, leaning against the cave wall, and they talked. He told her about his life in Iceland and among the light elves, though he didn’t tell her about Alfgeir or the dark elves.
She talked about her foster family. It was hard to talk about the fey, she said. Events in their country were difficult to remember. “My dream last night is clearer to me than my days here.”
At last, he rose. “I will come again.”
“Yes,” said Alda.
He walked out. The mist had lifted, and the land lay bright under the white sky. Kormak’s heart rose. He spent the rest of the day wandering. Deer grazed in meadows. A sow with piglets drank from a crystal stream. Once a cavalcade of fey rode by. He stepped into the shadow of trees and watched them, admiring their embroidered garments, gold torques, and gold crowns.
The white sky slowly darkened. At length he found the remains of a banquet. Torches on poles blazed around it, and ragged humans fed at the board. He joined them, gathering bread, roasted fowl and wine.
He ate until a fey appeared. It was short and looked like a badger, covered with gray fur, with white stripes on its head. Unlike any animal Kormak had seen before, it wore pants and shoes. The pants were bright blue and the shoes red. The badger’s beady eyes were intelligent, and it could speak. “Away! Away, you miserable vermin! Eat acorns in the forest! Eat worms in the meadows! Don’t eat the food of your betters!”
Kormak ran. No one followed him. After wandering awhile, he found the hollow where he’d slept the night before. He settled down and slept. In the morning, he woke in a kind of daze. His promises to Alfgeir and Alda were no longer important. Why should he visit the weaver in the cave? Why should he deliver the golden dog? It seemed more reasonable to wander in the woods and meadows, watching the fey from a distance, admiring their beauty.
That day—or another—he found a well and leaned over the stone wall that rimmed it. Below was water. A salmon rose to the surface and said, “Well, you are a sad case.”
“What do you mean?” Kormak asked, not surprised that the fish could talk.
“You were given a task, but you have not completed it. Instead, you have let the country of the fey enchant you.”
“It’s better than Iceland or Elfland,” Kormak said.
“There is more than one kind of slavery,” the salmon replied and dove.
He left the well, dismissing the salmon’s words.
He had no idea how many days passed after that. The sky darkened and then grew light, but there was never sun or moon to keep time. He remembered meals, though not well, and tumbling in a pine-needle bed with a woman, not a fey, but a ragged human. They were both drunk. After, she told him of the days when she had been the lover of a noble fey. Everything had been magical then: the fey’s loving, the wine, the gowns she wore, the music and dancing.
The woman left in the morning. He had a terrible hangover and slept most of the day. More time passed. He had more food, but no more sex. One morning he woke and saw Alda standing by his hollow. “You didn’t come back,” she said.
“I forgot,” he said after a moment.
“That can happen here. It’s dangerous. Always try to remember. You said you had one more gift for me.”
He dug in the earth of his sleeping hollow till he found the bag Alfgeir had given him.
“I have dreamed of my childhood every night,” Alda said. “of my foster parents and our neighbors. Ordinary things, though sometimes—not often—I have dreamed of a man working in a forge, leaning on crutches, his legs withered. His shoulders are wide and strong, his hammer blows powerful. I don’t know who he is.”
Volund, thought Kormak. But how could she dream of a man she had never met?
Alda continued, “This country seems dim now. I no longer find it attractive, and weaving has become tiresome. I want to return to the land outside. I suspect you may know the way, so I came to find you.”
Kormak scrambled to his feet. He pulled out the gold dog with garnet eyes, the last of Alfgeir’s gifts, and Alda took it. As soon as it was in her hand, the gold shell split in two. Inside was a dog made of black metal. Alda cried out and dropped the tiny thing. As soon as it was on the ground, it began to grow larger and larger, until it was the size of an Icelandic horse.
“Mount me,” it growled. “I will carry you from this place.”
“Will you do this?” Kormak asked Alda.
“Yes.”
“You as well, Kormak,” the dog growled.
He hesitated.
“The fey will punish you when they find Alda gone,” the dog growled.
They mounted the iron dog, Kormak first, Alda behind him, her arms around his waist.
The moment they were on the dog, the sky darkened.
“The fey know I’m here,” the dog said. “Though there is little they can do, except send apparitions. Their magic cannot harm me, nor you as long you ride me. Hold tight! And ignore what you see!”
Frozen rain began to fall, hitting them like stones. The dog ran. Monsters emerged from the gray sleet: animals like wolves, but much larger. They kept pace with the dog, snarling and snapping. Then the ground, covered with hail, began to move. Other monsters rose from it, long and sinuous and white. Kormak had no idea what they were. Their mouths were full of sharp teeth, and liquid dripped from their narrow tongues. Was it poison? The dog kept running, leaping from monster to monster, never slipping on the wet, scaly backs. Like the wolves, the worms snapped. But they could not reach the dog or its riders.
The storm ended suddenly. They ran among flowering trees. Lovely men and women paced next to them now, riding on handsome horses. “Don’t leave, dear Alda. Whatever you want, we’ll give you.”
Alda’s arms tightened around Kormak’s waist.
“And you, Kormak? What do you want? Gold? A fey lover? Music, rare food, dancing? In the land outside, you will be a slave again. Here you can be a noble lord.”
The air around them filled with harping. Dancers appeared among the flowering trees.
“Run faster!” Alda cried.
The dog entered a tunnel. Flying things pursued them: giant dragonflies and little birds with teeth. They darted around the dog, almost touching. The wings of the dragonflies whirred loudly. The little birds cried, “Return! Return!”
“Don’t ba
t at them,” the dog warned. “If you touch them, you will lose the safety I give you!”
Holes appeared in the tunnel floor. The dog leaped these easily, undistracted by the birds and dragonflies. Looking down as the dog passed over, Kormak saw deep pits. Some held water, where huge fish swam. Others held fire.
The tunnel ended in a door. The dog paused and lifted a foreleg, striking the wood. It split.
They passed through and were outside, in the green land of Ireland. Hills rolled around them, covered with forest. The sun shone down. A man stood waiting.
It was Alfgeir, of course. He looked older and more formidable than he had before, and his legs were encased in iron rods, with hinges at the knees. The rods were inlaid with silver patterns that glinted in the Irish sunlight.
“Don’t get off the dog till you hear what I have to say,” he told them. “Kormak, you’ve been in the realm of the elves and fey for thirty years. When you step down and touch the ground, you will be more than fifty. Consider whether you want to do this. Alda, you have been among the fey for many centuries. You are part-elf, and we age more slowly than humans. Still, you will be much older if you touch the ground.”
“What alternative do we have?” Kormak asked.
“I can tell the dog to carry you into the country of the elves. You will remain your present ages there.”
“I am tired of magic,” Alda said. “I will risk age in order to live in sunlight.” She slid down from the dog, standing on the green turf of Ireland. As soon as she did this, she changed, becoming an upright, handsome old woman with silver hair. Her blue eyes shone brightly, no longer veiled. Although her face was lined, it was still lovely.
“And you, Kormak?” Alfgeir asked.
He sat awhile on the iron dog, looking over the hills of Ireland. Thirty years! Well, he had experienced a lot in that time: the light elves, the dark elves, the fey. He could not say the time was wasted. Like Alda, he was tired of enchantments; and Alda—old though she might be—looked better to him than the fey or their human slaves. Lack of aging made the fey indolent and selfish, while their human slaves became greedy and envious. The Icelanders had been better. They knew about old age and death. The best of them—the heroes—faced it fighting, like Egil.