by Kim Wilkins
“Was he dead?”
Aud shook her head. “He breathed, but barely. In the scant minutes it took to get him to his bed, he grew purple and swollen and I knew he would die.” Her voice broke and she fought to steady it. “I sat by his side and held his hand and sobbed. He was unaware of my presence, already vanishing down that foggy passageway even we cannot understand. Immortality, true immortality, is only for those who take extreme care.” She drew a long breath, bringing her lungs once more under her control. “My child was everything to me: he was my spirit, my heart. I could not sit there and do nothing. I knew where the Norns lived, the vendors of fate. This time when I left the house, left his sad limp body behind, I was not afraid of Helgi waking while I was gone. It seemed certain he would never wake again.”
Aud paused and glanced up at Loki, who gazed at her without speaking. She needed to rein in this tale; it became dangerous to reveal too much detail to her audience. “I journeyed to the World Tree. Helgi’s fate was just appearing on Verda’s loom. I made a deal with her: in exchange for reweaving Helgi’s death into life, she sent me here to Asgard for a thousand years.”
“In punishment?” Loki interjected. “She was angry that you dared to use your association with them for personal gain?”
Aud nodded. “I don’t regret it. I was very lucky to know them. I was lucky to be able to save my son’s life. Verda cut me a piece of her thread and handed it to me. It glowed with bright colors. I was told that when I left the World Tree, I could turn west toward Vanaheim and Helgi would die, or east toward my new fate in Asgard and Helgi would live. I made my decision, the thread turned black and I have not seen nor held my son in my arms since that day. He grows up happily in the good care of my family.” Aud dropped her head and pressed her palms against each other.
“And the Norns?” Loki asked.
“They moved so I wouldn’t find them again. They no longer trusted me.” She glanced up from the fire to see his face, trying to read his expression. “Has my story amused you?”
Loki rose and pulled her to her feet, clasping her hands in his. “I’m not a monster, Aud,” he said, “I’m genuinely moved. Look at you, you aren’t fit for more work today. Perhaps you should return to Vidar.”
She was surprised by his generosity. “I . . . thank you.”
“Vidar doesn’t know, does he? About Helgi?”
“No. He hasn’t asked.”
“Perhaps you aren’t as close as you think you are,” Loki said, a cruel edge touching his voice. “Perhaps you should rely upon me as a friend instead of him.”
“Vidar is a good friend to me,” she said, but was aware of how weak the protest sounded.
“Do you know he plans to go to Midgard?”
“He says he has no such plans.”
“I can tell. Lies lurk like dim fireflies in the eyes of their tellers. Have you any idea why he wants to go?”
Aud thought about the seeing-water, but shook her head. “No.”
“And now you lie. You have some inkling, don’t you?”
“No. No, I don’t. I don’t know anything.”
“Are you protecting some secret of his?”
“No.”
Loki leaned in close, his grip on her hands tightening. “Your loyalty is misplaced. He’s not what he appears to be, Aud. Believe me. He has a cruel streak—”
“He has always been good and kind to me,” Aud interjected. “I don’t like to hear bad things said of him.”
Loki released her hands. “And now all my pity has drained away. You should have accepted my kindness while it was offered. Now you can spend the rest of the day scrubbing pots. But when you do return to Gammaldal, take a message for Vidar. ‘Only Loki can get past Heimdall.’”
Aud found the menial work less complicated than the storytelling. As she worked she thought about Loki’s assertion that Vidar was not all he seemed. When she considered the huge omissions she had made from her own story, she supposed nobody was as they seemed. Aud knew where the Norns lived still. But they held something very dear to her to ensure she never spoke of it.
Only Loki can get past Heimdall.
All through the long night, this message—offered solemnly and softly by Aud on her return—bound Vidar to wakefulness. Was it true? The question turned in his mind as a scrap of seaweed twists and dances in an ocean wave. Heimdall was a giant-killer and the most battle-hardened of the Aesir. His senses were keen, his loyalty to Odin keener. There was little chance of crossing the bridge unnoticed. Others could come and go to Midgard as they pleased. Loki went regularly, and was amassing a treasure trove of Midgard objects. Odin cared nothing for Loki’s journeying, because Loki had never threatened to unravel the strands of fate that bound the Aesir. Vidar had. He had fallen in love with a mortal woman.
Vidar turned under his blanket and watched the dying glow of the fire. Outside, a rain squall beat on the roof and shutters. The occasional drip popped and hissed on the dim embers. Secrecy was the key.
And yet he must ask for Loki’s help, a man who dealt in trickery and deception, in theft and blackmail, whose loyalties were as slippery and skittish as fish.
Vidar acknowledged also a connection with Loki. Both of them were outsiders to the debauched and violent insanity of Valaskjálf; both of them despised the folk who shared their blood. Could their mutual abhorrence for their family bind them together in confidence?
The rain passed as Vidar lay awake, tracing the patterns on the carved roof beams with his eyes. Softly, the sound of Aud muttering in her sleep became audible. Aud lay just beyond the door. Why couldn’t he fall in love with her? She clearly loved him. She was beautiful and accomplished and noble, and many times he had caught a glimpse of her white arm, or the curve of her breast, and the ancient and ever-supple machinations of desire stirred in him.
But desire was nothing without passion, without love. He still loved Halla, he would always love Halla. In some long-extinguished moment his soul and hers had brushed against each other, creating a friction that gathered into a spark, a flame, a mighty star. It was primal and eternal. He closed his eyes. His fingertips longed to touch her lips, his mouth longed to find the soft flesh at her wrists and elbows. Victoria. Could any misgivings about Loki really keep him away?
He sat up and threw off the blanket, found his clothes and shoes. Dawn was scarcely an hour away. He let himself out of the house and headed for the stables to saddle his horse. Arvak’s dark flanks glistened in the half-light as Vidar led him outside. Rain had blown in again, the sky stained with night and clouds.
“Vidar? Where are you going?” Aud stood at the door, her hair loose, her expression sleepy.
“I’m going to see Loki.”
Realization spread across her face. “He’ll be asleep,” she warned. “You should wait a few hours.”
“I’ll wake him up.” Without a backward glance, Vidar mounted and spurred Arvak toward the east, toward Loki and the pale sunlight struggling through clouds.
Six
Every time Aud approached Vidar to ask for a day to herself, he always agreed. “Of course, Aud,” he would say, dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “Take your time, do as you please.” And yet, she always felt uneasy about asking. Was it because, secretly, she wanted him to protest her absence? Was every request for time away from him laden with hope that he might reveal some trace of affection in his answer?
Sometimes she returned in the early hours of the following morning, long after he had gone to sleep. On those occasions he would wake, ask if she was well and safe, then return to his slumber. He never asked where she had been. Was he too respectful of her privacy to ask or too indifferent to her actions to care?
Vidar had returned from Loki’s late in the morning. He had never been more attractive, with a wild gleam in his dark eyes, a flush of color high on his cheeks. Clearly, he had decided to go to Midgard and to ask Loki for assistance. She longed to know what attracted him to the mortal world. His restlessness had sta
rted around the time she had seen him drawing runes in the magical water of Sjáfjord. He had seen something there, something that beckoned him compellingly enough to put his trust in Loki.
Now she watched Vidar from behind her door. He sat by the fire, carving a small piece of wood. His expert hands were concentrated on the task, but his eyes told another story. He was daydreaming. She watched his fingers move, the tendons in his wrists, and a swelling of tenderness and desire for him caught her breath.
“Aud, I can feel your eyes on me,” he said, not looking up. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no.” She stepped out of her room and hovered uncertainly near him. “I had hoped for a day to myself. To walk . . .” She gestured toward the west.
He turned from his work and smiled at her. “Of course, Aud. Take your time. Gather your thoughts.”
Aud slipped on her shoes and pinned on her cloak. She hesitated near the door to the cool outside and glanced back. He had returned his attention to his carving. She could see now what it was: a bird, curved over itself to grasp its own claws in its beak. Beautiful work, lovingly rendered. Was it a gift for her? A flutter of excitement stole over her. He looked up again, saw her gaze and hid the carving under his sleeve. “Go on. Enjoy your day.”
“Do you never wonder, Vidar, where I go?”
With a patient sigh, Vidar put his work aside and turned to her. “Aud, I have given you every reason in the past few years to trust me. You’ve been sentenced into my service, but I feel no need to belittle you, to mistreat you, or interfere in your affairs. I am happy for you to take a day for yourself and I don’t mind how you spend it.”
Aud moved forward and knelt before him. “Yes, yes. You’re always kind and respectful. But do you not wonder where I go and what I do?” She wanted to ask, “Do you not think of me when I am away?”
“You head west,” Vidar said, his dark eyes growing soft. “I have seen you. You head toward Vanaheim.” He stood, drawing her to her feet. “Go, Aud. I will enjoy the solitude.”
He led her toward the door and ushered her into the cold bright morning and on her way.
So he thought she went to Vanaheim. He knew she was forbidden to return to her own land, so perhaps he imagined she lingered pitifully on the border. She trudged up the slope. He was partially right in that her destination was the border of Asgard and Vanaheim, but not so that she might gaze longingly at her homeland. Her destination was the World Tree. In truth, if Vidar did ask about her destination, she would have to lie. The Norns had been very particular about secrecy.
Last night’s rain had cleared, the sky rinsed to pale blue. The World Tree was a three-hour trek west from Gammaldal, across the plains and through the thick pines, then winding up farther and farther into the drenched mountain passes and across the plateau of grey volcanic rock where only hardy tufts of yellow grass grew.
In time, she could see it, an ancient sentinel rising from the next valley. A vast ash tree, half a mile high, with twisted black branches that sent sinister, whispering shadows to the west into Vanaheim, her own home; to the east into Asgard; to the north into the islands of Jotunheim and the realms of the dead; to the south into the elven lands where Helgi’s father lived. The tree’s leafless boughs bent to the wind, and its labyrinthine roots snaked in and out of the earth as though injecting it with poison. Aud took a breath on the grassy verge, then set her foot upon the first of the three hundred and thirty-three wide stone steps that led down to the base of the tree. How she despised each of those steps on her return, ascending relentlessly, until her heart pumped so hard it pressed her ribs.
She descended in silent contemplation. The Norns expected her to return to them two or three times in a season bringing news and stories and gifts from the outside world. In her apron she had a collection of flowers she had dried, some river stones she had polished and a hair clasp she had carved under Vidar’s tutelage. Above her, the giant branches swayed, dimming the sunlight to eerie shadows. The tree was ancient and monstrous, stubborn and eternal. Between two of the enormous black roots, she spied the tiny opening and entered the tree, leaving the pale sky behind her.
Aud knew the dark underground maze by feel. Her eyes adjusted to the absence of light, but there was little to see. Twisting passages weaved amongst the roots, the earth and stone and plant matter. No passage was a consistent height or width: some narrowed so tight that Aud had to turn sideways to fit, some so low that she had to walk bent until her back ached. Aud could not estimate how long the journey took to the abode of the Norns; each time it seemed longer, the return shorter. But, winding through the dim passages, she never once faltered on her route. It was burned into her mind like memories of ill times.
Eventually, a faint glimmer of light greeted her eyes. She moved silently up the tunnel and peered around the vast arc of a tree root into the warm grotto that the Norns called home.
The room was dim, lit only by the glimmering threads with which they spun and wove. They were identical triplets. Aud could only distinguish between them by the tasks they performed. Closest to the door was Skuld, who, with a distaff clamped between her knees, pulled thread from the ground and spun it. Next was Verda, who picked up Skuld’s threads and wove them onto a loom. Farthest away was Urd, who untied the cloth at the crossbeam of Verda’s loom, unraveled it and cast the thread, hand over hand, into the gloom beyond their cave. Aud didn’t know where the thread came from nor where it went after they had finished with it. It belonged to the World Tree and was as black as the maze around it, unless one of the Norns touched it, when it became dazzlingly rainbow-bright. In the thread were the fates of all men; Skuld worked the future, Verda the present, and Urd the past.
“Look, look, it’s Aud,” Verda said, glancing up with a smile. Her hands kept flying over the thread, supernaturally fast and nimble. All of them had pale white fingers, which seemed to be jointed in every direction.
“Aud, what have you brought us?” called Urd, dropping her thread.
“Always too quick to drop your work, sister,” said Skuld, running a thread expertly between her fingers. Aud had once held a length of their thread in her own fingers. She couldn’t read it as they could, but she had tried to separate it into strands, only to find that the strands separated into more strands and so on into vanishing infinity.
Urd shuffled to a corner and found the stump of a deformed candle. She lit it and approached Aud. “What do you have for us?” she asked.
The other two were there a moment later, their pale red hair glistening in the candlelight, their blinking blue eyes focused on her. Once, they must have been great beauties, with broad cheeks and almond eyes and full lips. Now they were shriveled by age and made pallid by confinement underground. Pleasure came vicariously, through reading the threads of other people’s fates.
Aud held out the gifts she had brought them. “Here, sisters, some treasures from the outside world for you.”
“Ooh, treasures,” Urd cried.
“I’ll have that.”
“No, me!”
As their wormlike fingers picked at Aud’s hands, they squabbled over the flowers and stones and nearly came to blows over the hair clasp. Eventually they sorted out what belonged to whom, and Urd and Skuld settled back to work. Verda, the Norn with whom Aud had made her bargain five years earlier, smiled at her in the dim light. “I suppose you want your treat now?”
“Yes, I do,” Aud said. Whenever this moment approached, a deep longing like an ocean current possessed her.
“Here, then,” Verda said, reaching into her pocket for a round brooch of rock crystal set in silver. It had once belonged to Aud. “Here’s your boy.”
Aud reached for the brooch greedily and gazed into it. Out of cloudy shadows, a vision formed. Helgi. He bent over a puddle with a toy boat. Her breath twisted up in her breast; she had to remind herself to exhale. He couldn’t hear her, but she said his name anyway. “Helgi. My dear Helgi.”
After Aud’s bargain with the Norns
, Verda had enchanted the brooch so that Helgi would always be visible within, then withheld it so that Aud would never tell where they lived. The Norns protected their privacy with good reason. Armies of people from Asgard and Vanaheim would be on their doorstep in a second, asking them to change this or that about their lives. The Norns’ work would be slowed, time would begin to lose its shape, fate would begin to fall apart.
Aud devoured Helgi with hungry eyes: his honeyed skin and his long lashes and the curve of his cheek. She longed to touch him, to hold him. But he would be a man before she could be with him again. In their first year apart, whenever she had held the brooch to gaze at Helgi, she would find him crying for her. In her sister’s arms, he asked over and over, “Where is Mama? When will she return?” His questions and his tears abraded her heart, but as seasons passed, a greater pain transpired. It became clear that he had forgotten her.
“He is so beautiful,” Aud said. “Look how strong and tall he grows.”
“He is a handsome boy, more like you than his father, I think.”
“I can barely remember what his father looked like,” Aud replied. “Though Helgi has his fair hair.”
“It will grow darker,” Skuld called. Aud didn’t know if this were a grandmotherly assertion or if Skuld had seen it with her fingers on the thread.
Aud continued to gaze, despising each blink which robbed her of an instant. Finally, Verda reached for the brooch. “That’s all for now,” she said. “Tell us stories of outside, and you may see it next time you return.”
“Please, a little longer,” Aud begged. “It may be hard to get away again. Vidar already loses me once a week to Loki and—”
Urd shrieked and threw her hands in the air. “Loki? No, no, not Loki.”
The other sisters clucked in a frightened chorus: “You know Loki? You see him?”
“I see him weekly,” Aud said, wondering what the fuss was about. “I spend a day with him telling him stories—”