by Kim Wilkins
“I can’t accept it,” she said, though her fingers itched to take it. So pretty.
“I insist.”
“I heard you tell Vidar I was just a bondmaid and if he had dignity he would make me eat in the stables.”
“That was before I came to know you.” His pale eyes were fixed on hers. “Before I came to like you.”
Then Vidar broke from the trees on Arvak, and Aud gladly took a step back from Loki.
Loki turned to Vidar, laughing. “I won, cousin.”
Vidar drew his eyebrows together, irritated. “It wasn’t a race.”
“Yes it was, and I won.” Loki waited for Vidar to dismount. “Vidar, tell Aud she may accept this gift from me.”
Vidar looked at the brooches. “Aud, if you want the gift, you may take it, but don’t wear it at Valaskjálf in case somebody recognizes it and wants it back. Now, come inside. I have an important task for you.”
Aud felt a thrill of excitement followed by a sick flicker of unhappiness. She loved to be able to help Vidar with an important task, but realized it must have something to do with the Midgard woman.
“Vidar, I have invited Aud to stay with me while you are away,” Loki said as they moved toward the house.
“She’ll stay here at Gammaldal,” Vidar said, without turning around.
Loki gave Aud a conspiratorial glance. “What if she wants to stay with me?”
“Aud? Do you want to go to Loki’s while I am away?”
“No,” she said, and Loki narrowed his eyes with contempt.
“Very well, it’s settled. You’ll stay here except for your weekly visits.” Vidar paused by the fire and Aud joined him. Loki hovered near the door.
“How long will you be gone?” Aud asked, trying to keep the helplessness from her voice.
“I do not know,” Vidar said softly, meeting her gaze. “I’m sorry, Aud. But I hope to find you here on my return, and I hope that my home will remain in good order and that you will be well and happy.”
His tender voice made her heart turn over. He was so dear and so perfect, and yet his tenderness was not born of any special love for her. She wanted to cry and rage against this Midgard woman, but Loki lurked nearby and, besides, it wasn’t her place to say anything. “I will take good care of your home,” she said solemnly.
He pushed up his sleeve and she could see that he had a brown thread wound tightly around his wrist, pressed into the scars he wore there. He unwound the thread and handed it to her. “I need you to weave me a cloak, and one for Arvak too.”
Aud was puzzled. “From this?”
Loki stepped in. “The thread is enchanted,” he said. “Let me show you. Fetch your spindle.”
She did as he asked, presenting it for his inspection.
“Wind it on,” Loki said, “you’ll see.”
Aud wound the strand of thread around the spindle and dropped the whorl. It spun and kept spinning, more thread magically winding out from the end that she held. She laughed, delighted by the magic. She had been forbidden the practice of Vanir magic while in service and missed the unexpected charms of enchantment.
Vidar touched her shoulder earnestly. “I need the cloak as soon as you can make it. It must cover me from head to toe, and Arvak the same. Can you manage it?”
“Of course,” she said. “I won’t let you down.”
Despite her misgivings, she spun and wove all through the next week. She set up the loom by the fire and worked until her arms ached from lifting and pushing the heddle rod and batten. The material it made was curiously dark, as though it absorbed and stored shadows between its threads. Then there were fittings, adjustments, sewing and finishing. From first light to the last gutter of the candle she worked, hating herself for infusing so much care into it.
Finally the task was done and Vidar stood before her by the door. Arvak was saddled and cloaked nearby in the evening gloom. He was almost invisible. If she hadn’t known he was standing there, she might not have seen him at all. Vidar pinned the cloak around his shoulders and smiled at her. She noticed that his hands trembled with excitement.
“Be careful,” she said.
“I will.”
“Be careful of your heart,” she blurted out before she thought better of it.
He didn’t respond. He glanced over his shoulder. “You must go to Loki tomorrow, as arranged.”
“I know.”
“But only for one day a week. Do not let him bully you. I need you here at Gammaldal. I’ll come back . . . eventually.”
“Yes, of course.” She noticed the carved wooden bird tied at his waist. Even though she had guessed long ago that it wasn’t for her, to see confirmation that it was a love token for someone else made her feel empty and lost.
He pulled up his hood and moved toward Arvak. “Good-bye, Aud.”
“Good-bye, Vidar.” And then he had disappeared, a dark shape among shadows, heading for Midgard.
A curious falling sensation gripped Vidar in the black woods. The cloak blended so perfectly with the dark that the familiar boundaries of his body disappeared, leaving him off-balance. He couldn’t hear Arvak’s feet, though the rhythm of hoofbeats drove up through Vidar’s body. His heart kept a rhythm with them: forward, forward. His thoughts swirled and bubbled like waves trapped in a rock pool. What if the new Halla, Victoria, was different? What if she were vastly changed and all that Vidar loved about her—her spirit, her fierce intellect, her wit, her tenderness—had not been reincarnated along with her pale skin and liquid eyes?
Forward, forward.
He had no choice. If he were to go on breathing, he had to be with her again. In her presence, he found serenity and self-acceptance. He could escape his fate and be Vidar the man, not Vidar the son of Odin: cruel, heartless, brutal, Aesir.
The road forked in front of him. To the north, Valaskjálf. To the south, Bifrost. Both stood on mighty cliffs over the ocean. Vidar had often stood, as a boy, giddy with excited fear, looking down at the raging water that stretched as far as his eyes could see. Far and deep and deep and far, full of sea giants and snake-limbed creatures and wonders beyond the dreaming even of the immortals. The grand, thrilling mystery of the endless sea. He could hear it now, its relentless beat and draw. Tonight he would ride off that cliff into the dark. The lights of Bifrost were only visible when a traveler stepped onto it. A tumble of vaporous colors, invisible to those behind, leading in more and more gentle arcs and slopes to other worlds. Vidar knew the routes, as all Aesir did.
East to Odin’s Island. To Midgard. To Victoria.
Vidar slowed as the trees thinned. He came to a stop on the edge of the wood, leaned forward and patted Arvak’s cheek through the cloak. Only the horse’s eyes were visible, gleaming in the dark. “Are you ready for an adventure, old friend?” Vidar said. “No matter what, you must go forward. You’ve been here before, don’t be afraid.” The cloak swallowed his voice, but the words were not for Arvak anyway. The reassurance was for himself.
Vidar settled himself upright. Ahead of him, on the edge of the cliff, were two mighty stone sentinels a quarter of a mile apart, marking either side of Bifrost. The white stone was carved and painted, and glowed faintly in the dark. Between these, carrying a lantern and dressed in a grey cloak, Heimdall paced as Vidar watched. Heimdall moved from one end to the other and back again, his face thrown into strange shadows by the dark and the flickering lantern flame. Vidar edged forward slowly. He aimed for the north pillar. He wanted to time it so that Heimdall was at the farthest distance before he turned. He couldn’t risk a flash of Arvak’s eyes or hooves catching Heimdall’s attention. He waited in the dark.
Heimdall moved up slowly, back slowly: two times, three, four. An hour had passed and Arvak grew restless beneath him. Heimdall turned again. Vidar counted seconds, counted Heimdall’s footsteps. His heart picked up its speed. The cold sea wind threatened to whip his cloak from his face.
Almost . . . almost . . . Now.
Vidar urged A
rvak forward, rode him hard down the slope. Heimdall was nearly at the other pillar, where he would turn. Vidar urged Arvak on. Now he could see the cliff edge, the raging sea miles below, the huge dark leap of nothing that he had to take. If Arvak balked, it would all be over.
“Go, Arvak,” he muttered, “forward, forward.”
The pillar loomed close, its grotesque carvings in strange relief among the shadows. The giant leap ahead of him. Arvak didn’t slow.
The ground fell out from beneath them. Vidar’s heart leaped into his throat, his stomach filled with air.
And then Arvak’s hooves struck the bridge and the lights roared into life. Greens and yellows and blues all around them; rainbow colors sparking and spitting where the horse trod. Down and down in slow undulations. A rush of excitement gripped Vidar’s chest. He spurred Arvak forward, faster and faster, leaving Asgard behind him in a trail of invisible stars.
Eight
[Midgard]
Rain fell.
When the supply vessel had disappeared from view, it was only a light drizzle, the clouds streaked through with pale blue, seeming nonchalantly to say, “Oh, sure . . . it will become fine.” But as the day wore on and I busied myself with my tasks, the sky grew darker and darker, the rain heavier and heavier. By three o’clock, it was driving like nails onto the roof of my cabin and thrumming through the pine trees. From my window, it appeared as though the whole of Kirkja Station had been drowned and now lay abandoned underwater, an unexotic Atlantis.
The heavy cloud cover meant daylight dwindled early. The anxiety I felt about darkness approaching was entirely new for me. Even as a child I hadn’t been afraid of the dark. Now I appreciated daylight for its ability to drive shadows out of corners. A rationalizing commentary ran through my head all day: there is a logical explanation, there is a logical explanation, there is . . . Science was daylight for me, and I needed it to rescue me from that murky twilight of superstition inhabited by people like my mother and Maryanne.
I took comfort in mundane tasks and kept my mind off last night’s experience. Who could measure the depths of the unconscious, really? It might be entirely possible for a word I heard long ago to have lodged there and worked its way loose during a stressful time. I had periods of calm during the day, where I almost enjoyed my coveted solitude. But the darker it grew, the itchier my stomach got. I was supposed to be doing three-hourly synoptic observations, but I decided that I would just fudge those results tomorrow and hunkered down in my cabin, working on my thesis to keep me distracted.
The eleven o’clock balloon launch, however, was unfudgeable. I decided that I didn’t want to end up astral traveling in the forest again, I didn’t want to meet up with Skripi the stick-boy again, and I didn’t want to dream one more word out of Gunnar’s nerdy book collection. Although it was far from comfortable, I was going to camp out in the control room. I rolled up my pillow in my quilt, pulled on my anorak and made a mad dash through the rain and the dark to the station.
The door thudded behind me. The quiet was soothing after the howling wind and driving rain outside. I dropped my things and went straight through to the storeroom to make up the balloon. Another mad dash to the hydrogen chamber and back completely soaked my hair. I hung up my raincoat and slipped out of my wet shoes, then took my pillow and quilt upstairs to the control room. I launched the balloon from the remote launch mechanism and fixed the radar on it, then mucked about with a few other tasks. Finally, I decided I’d made myself exhausted enough to sleep.
I closed the sliding door to the observation deck, but at first I didn’t turn out the light. Electricity was almost as good as daylight for keeping ghosts at bay, but even with my eyes closed it was too bright to sleep properly, so I bravely made the room dark (except for the comforting light of the computer screens) and settled down. My hair smelled damp and I wondered if I’d catch a cold or if that was just an old wives’ tale. My anxiety was abating, sleep approached, I slipped under.
The door slid open. I heard the rain and wind outside. I woke but found I couldn’t move. A dark presence stole into the room. Terror compressed my lungs. Then I remembered Gunnar’s explanation: isolated sleep paralysis. That was all it was.
I tried to pull myself all the way to wakefulness. Even though I had the scientific explanation lodged in my mind, the fear still ran over me in hot waves. My hands felt as though they were made of cement, electric stars spangled behind my eyes. My body was stiff, unmoveable, and I felt totally awake within it. The dark presence lingered nearby.
It’s just isolated sleep paralysis.
The rain thundered down. I strained against my body. The presence drew closer. I could hear breathing, shallow and creaking. What horror was in the room with me?
It’s just a dream. Gunnar told me about it. He called it the hag.
At that precise moment she appeared, on all fours, crawling across the carpet to lean over me. Her foul stench reached me first: mold and decay and female smells mixed together. She was dressed in rags, her hair like dirty straw, her limbs sturdy and muscular. I tried to scream but no sound emerged. I prayed for the phone to ring, for something to drive this nightmare away. In my head I began a mantra: you’re not real, you’re not real, you’re not real.
The hag smiled at me, almost as if she understood my thoughts. She climbed on top of me and sat on my chest. The wind sucked out of me and I heard myself gasp. She leaned over, her lips close to mine, and I knew she intended to steal my breath. I struggled with my paralysis.
“Get off the island,” she hissed.
My jaws were clamped hard against each other as I tried to thrash my head from side to side. A huge scream was gathering in my chest, if only I could free my body to let it out . . .
Beep, beep, beep.
The sound liberated me. She was gone and I could move again. I sat up and screamed, even though I could tell that I was alone, that the door to the observation deck was closed and it had all been a dream, a perfectly common sleep syndrome.
Thank God for the thirty-minute timer, reminding me of my regular data entry chores. I had forgotten about it. The ensuing tasks drove the recent horror from my mind. The lights were on, there was business to attend to. The shock passed, or perhaps it just burrowed deep under layers of common sense. Of course it was just a bad dream. I was bone-achingly tired, but I wouldn’t sleep again. I sat, my head propped on my palm, until morning came. Then I made my way back to my own cabin, hoping daytime sleep would be more restful. As I stripped off in the bathroom to change into my pajamas, I saw them.
Two wide bruises on my ribs, right where the hag had placed her knees.
I had long since made a solemn vow never to phone my mother for advice, for help, to share confidences or to ask opinions. Any such conversations usually ended in frustration: we might as well have been speaking different languages. All her answers were laden with New Age platitudes. “Vicky, why can’t you learn to trust the universe?” “Focus on white light for guidance.” “If your chakras were in better alignment, you wouldn’t get into these messes.” I would become infuriated with her vagueness and try harder and harder to pin her down to a concise, clear answer. She wasn’t capable of producing one, grew defensive, then came the eye-rolling, exasperated groans, even shouting sometimes, and a conviction on my part that some mix-up had taken place at the hospital on the day I was born.
Yet here I was, in the control room, still in my pajamas, dialing Mum’s number back home in Lewisham.
The phone rang seven times. Mum thought it was good luck to let the phone ring seven times. “Hello?”
“Mum?”
“Vicky! Are you all right?” She sounded panic-stricken, which didn’t reassure me at all.
“Yes, yes, I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be all right?”
“Oh, Vicky, Bathsheba’s warning has been weighing on my mind. Weighing on my mind like a brick. Are you coming home?”
Despite my fears, I grew irritated. “No, I’m not coming ho
me.”
“You can’t fight against your path, Vicky. One day you’ll have to get on it.”
“How do you know I’m not already on my ‘path’?” I asked.
“Because it feels all wrong and Bathsheba was very specific. A person with a name beginning with V is in danger from otherworldly forces.”
I didn’t point out that Bathsheba’s prophecy was far from specific, and reminded myself that I had initiated this phone call and had better get on with asking her what I had to ask her, as much as it pained me to do so.
“Mum, I’ve been sleeping poorly, having terrible nightmares. In all the reading you’ve done, have you ever come across what it means to dream of being outside your body? Or trapped in your body?”
“Oh, Vicky!” I swear she sounded delighted. “That’s it. That’s what Bathsheba was talking about.”
“I think they’re just nightmares—”
“I’m going to see her tomorrow. I’ll ask her about it. I’ll take one of your old scarves, something with your psychic vibration on it.” My mother always said “something” as though it were spelled “sumfink.” This, along with her other mispronunciations, irritated me beyond measure. Mostly because I knew that under the veneer of my self-modified elocution, those same mispronunciations lurked.
“Psychic vibration?”
“I’ll have to tell her what you’ve been dreaming about,” she said. “Wait while I get a pen . . .”
I heard the phone drop on the sideboard and cursed under my breath. What the hell was I doing, going to my mother for advice? Disturbed sleep was nothing new to me, especially after such a monumental life change. The bruises could have been caused by any instantly forgotten bump . . . perhaps the dream had been generated in response to them, not the other way around. I nearly hung up while she was away, as a moment of extreme clarity cut through the fuzz and fear of the last two nights. I had encouraged my (quite possibly clinically insane) mother to solicit advice from a (quite clearly fraudulent) psychic named Bathsheba. Bathsheba!