Bloodsong Hel X 3

by C. Dean Andersson

  “It’s beautiful!” Jalna exclaimed. “I never dreamed mountaintops looked like this.”

  “They don’t,” Tyrulf replied, making the sign of Thor’s Hammer, then laughing at the gesture. If it were Thor’s magic, as the tales suggested, which ruled atop the mountain, the Hammer-sign was pointless as a protection against it.

  Thunder rumbled up to them from the raging tempest below. As far as the horizon on all sides stretched a sea of white clouds, the billowing and boiling tops of thunderheads. The air was cold but not as cold as Tyrulf knew it should have been at that altitude. Neither should there have been green, heavily leafed trees, nor a thick carpet of grass sprinkled with brightly colored wildflowers. In many ways, it reminded him of Freya’s mound, though there should have been nothing but barren rocks and possibly the remnants of the winter’s snows.

  In the center of the small plateau that formed the summit sat an even more unexpected sight, a thatch-roofed cottage, smoke curling lazily skyward ‘from its chimney.

  They glanced at each other, then began walking.

  Jalna placed a hand on the hilt of her sword as they neared the closed door of the cottage.

  “I think, until we know differently,” Tyrulf said, “we had best not show hostility. Nothing is as it should be here, but I don’t sense danger. Do you?”

  Jalna shook her head negatively. “I feel exactly the opposite, comforted, deeply happy, safe. But I’ll leave my hand on my sword’s hilt. I’ll not be taken by surprise.”

  The door of the cottage opened, and an old woman squinted out at them. “Who’s there?” she called in an ancient, cracked voice. “Who has come to see Mother Groa after all these years? Come closer. My eyes see but dimly.”

  Tyrulf stepped nearer, then stopped, tension tightening his muscles. He studied the crone and was surprised to be reminded strongly of his long-dead grandmother. Groa wore a tattered shawl over a faded red robe. “I am Tyrulf,” he finally said.

  “And my name is Jalna. Are you a sorceress? A Witch? We have come seeking Thor’s aid against Hel.”

  “A Witch?” Groa wondered, touching a gnarled finger to her chin. “I was once. Perhaps I still am. I don’t remember. Are the two of you in love? Young people should be in love. I was in love once. I’ve been alone now a long time, such a long time.”

  “Mother Groa?” Tyrulf said, walking even nearer as Jalna glanced warily all around, “we have heard that this place is called the home of the Keeper of the Lightning’s Blood. Do you know anything of that? We have heard that this mountain is sacred to Thor, and as Jalna has said, we seek His aid against Hel.”

  The old woman shook her head, frowning as if trying very hard to think. “There is much lightning below. None here.”

  “We must search the mountaintop,” Jalna said, “if you have no objection?”

  “Search all you like,” Groa said. “You won’t find any lightning here. Come in first, children. I so seldom have company. Let me fix you something warm to eat and drink.”

  Tyrulf glanced at the sun. They didn’t have long until sunset. “We will be happy to spend the night with you, if you like,” he said, “but while there is still light, we must search for something to aid us against Hel.”

  The crone nodded, shuffled out of the cottage toward them, and stopped within reach.

  Jalna’s grip tightened on her sword’s hilt.

  “Would you like me to help you search?” Groa asked, peering closely at them. “I know where the best herbs and berries grow. If you’re going into icy Helheim, you’d best take food, as much as you can.”

  “Make ready the food and drink inside for later,” Jalna suggested. “You need not come with us.”

  Groa nodded. “I would only slow you down, of course. Very well. A meal will be ready when you return. It’s so nice to have visitors again. So very nice.”

  The crone shuffled back into the cottage and closed the door.

  “I doubt we’ll find anything out here,” Tyrulf said.

  “As do I. The old one is the key, if key there be. But where magic is concerned, where the Gods are involved, logic often leads you astray. So let’s search, anyway. We’ll have the night to question Groa and search her cottage, if she allows.”

  “I don’t like the thought of spending the night with her. Even if she does remind me of my dead grandmother, I do not intend to fall asleep.”

  “Grandmother?” Jalna asked. “I never knew mine. She was dead before I was born. But she reminds me of a kind old woman I used to wish was my grandmother.”

  “Magic,” Tyrulf grunted.

  “Aye,” Jalna agreed, “some spell perhaps, trying to convince us to trust her by reminding us of someone we used to trust. I won’t sleep tonight, either.” Then together they hurried away from the cottage to begin their search.

  “I TOLD YOU there wasn’t any lightning up here.” Groa laughed, grinning a toothless smile. Thunder rumbled below the summit.

  They sat inside the cottage near the hearth. Jalna sniffed at the bowl of steaming stew the old woman handed her. It smelled delicious, much like a stew she’d once loved as a child. Her stomach growled in response.

  Tyrulf sniffed at his, too, and glanced at Jalna.

  “Eat, children. Go ahead and eat,” Groa said, sitting on a rickety wooden chair and spooning stew from her cauldron into a third bowl. “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked, sipping from the newly filled bowl.

  Jalna sipped at the stew cautiously and found that it tasted even better than it smelled.

  “I have remembered something that might be of interest to you,” Groa said between sips.

  “What have you remembered?” Jalna asked hopefully.

  “First finish your stew, child.”

  When the bowls were empty and they had refused second helpings, Groa passed around wooden mugs of mead. The honey-wine gave off an invitingly sweet aroma.

  “Once long ago,” Groa said, “when I was much, much younger, I remember that I knew certain spells, spells to heal, to take away pain. Herbs helped, too, of course, but I also knew magic with which to enhance their power.”

  Jalna glanced at Tyrulf. His raised eyebrows told her that he had also noticed how Groa’s voice had subtly changed when beginning the tale, how strong it now seemed, no longer old and weak.

  “I’m certain I was the one who knew those spells,” Groa continued, “or nearly certain. Many of my memories come and go, you see. Sometimes I think I’m somewhere else, that my husband is just outside the door. I can hear him chopping wood. I go to see, and there’s no one there, but the wood is always chopped fresh for the hearth,” she added, her eyes filling with tears. She took a sip of mead and looked into the fire.

  “There is a thing that happened to me,” she finally went on, “which may interest you. There isn’t any lightning in this story, but He that makes the lightning when He throws His Hammer has a part in the tale.”

  “Thor is in this tale?” Jalna asked anxiously.

  Groa laughed. “Do you know of another Who makes the lightning flash and the thunder rumble, save Asa-Thor?”

  “No, Groa,” Jalna replied. “Please continue. I want to hear the tale about you and Thor.”

  The old one nodded and took another sip of mead. “Is the mead to your liking?” she asked.

  Tyrulf took an exaggerated swallow, grimaced as it burned its way down his throat. “It’s excellent. The best I’ve ever tasted. Now, about Thor?”

  “I was younger then,” Groa said, “or at least the woman in this story was younger. Sif, Thor’s golden-tressed mate, She who helps the summer crops to grow after He has provided spring rains, came to me and told me that Thor had been in a great battle with the Jotun named Hrungnir. Thor had won, but in the struggle a large sliver of stone had become embedded in His forehead. It was giving Him much pain, and no one in the realm of the Gods cou
ld remove it.

  “Sif came to me and said she had heard that on all of Midgarth, here on Earth, that I was the only woman who knew Runes strong enough to loosen the stone in Thor’s forehead.

  “Yes, I told her, what you have heard is true, and I am indeed that very woman. I also told her that because Thor had always blessed and protected me, I would do all I could to help heal His wound.

  “Sif took me by the hand, and in a twinkling we had passed over Bifrost, the rainbow bridge which leads to Asgard, realm of the Gods. Never have I seen such beauty. But when I saw the God Thor, all thoughts of the beauty around me became insignificant.

  “The stone was embedded so deeply, no blood had come forth. I began to recite Runes. Soon, the stone loosened slightly. Blood oozed out around it. I used my apron to soak up the blood so that I could see to continue working. Farther and farther out came the stone as I continued to chant my Runes. The pain began to leave Thor, and He was so happy, He then made a mistake for which I suppose He is still sorry.

  “He was so happy that His pain was leaving, you see, that He wanted to reward me before I was finished. He is such an impulsive God, you know, good-hearted but so impatient.

  “He told me that He had recently rescued a child of mine, one who had been stolen away in infancy by an evil Jotun. I was so excited by the news that I forgot where I was in my spells, and once my Rune spell stopped, nothing could start it again, not for the same wound. And there the stone is to this day, still embedded in Thor’s forehead where I had to leave it, still paining Him, but not as much as before. I felt bad about having to leave Him in any pain at all, but He was still grateful and told me that one day, when my time on Midgarth was through, that Sif would come again and take me back to Asgard to live in Bilskirnir, Thor’s Hall, forever.

  “After that I returned to my home and lived there with my husband for many years.

  “Are you two in love? Young people should be in love.” The tale told, Groa’s voice had reverted to its former ancient, cracked tones.

  “Yes,” Tyrulf answered. “We are in love.”

  “Perhaps,” Jalna corrected. “Perhaps we are in love.”

  “Well, I am in love, at any rate,” Tyrulf laughed.

  ‘Groa laughed with him. “Yes,” she agreed. “It is why you were able to survive Freya’s Mound.”

  Jalna and Tyrulf stiffened.

  “How do you know about that?” Jalna demanded.

  “About what?”

  “Freya’s Mound,” Tyrulf answered.

  “Everyone knows about Freya’s Mound.”

  “How did you know we’d been there and survived it?”

  “Have you been there? I didn’t know. It is good you were in love or you couldn’t have survived it.”

  “But just a moment ago, you said—” Tyrulf began, then stopped when Jalna shook her head negatively, deciding not to pursue the matter since Groa had either actually forgotten or was pretending to do so.

  “Is there more to the tale about Thor?” Jalna asked. “Do you have any proof that the tale is true?”

  “True?” Groa asked. “Proof? I think I used to have the apron, still stained with Thor’s blood.”

  Tyrulf and Jalna looked at each other.

  “Some might call Thor’s blood the blood of the lightning, might they not, Groa?” Tyrulf asked.

  “And,” Jalna added, “if you keep the apron, you might be called the Keeper of the Lightning’s Blood.”

  “I might be, but I don’t think I am. Call me what you like, however. It’s so good to have company. It’s beautiful here but lonely.”

  “Do you still have the apron, Mother Groa?” Jalna asked hopefully.

  “Apron?”

  “The apron with Thor’s bloodstains upon it.”

  “Perhaps. If I ever had it at all. The tale might have been about someone else. Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t sure?”

  Jalna resisted the frustrated curses that wanted to erupt from her mouth. “Mother Groa,” she said, keeping her voice subdued, “it’s very important. If you have the apron, could we have just a small piece of it, with Thor’s blood upon it, to fight the Goddess Hel? The bloodstains of the Hammer-wielder would be imbued with powerful life-affirming magic, magic that could fight the sorcery and death-magic of a Hel-Witch, like Thokk.”

  “If it’s here, it’s here,” Groa said, sweeping her hand in a gesture at the cottage’s contents. “You are welcome to look where you like. If you can’t find it, perhaps I will be able to remember where it is, if it’s here, after a good night’s sleep.”

  Groa’s head sank lower and lower on her chest. Soft snoring came from her throat.

  “Groa?” Jalna called.

  Tyrulf got to his feet, and gently touched the crone’s shoulder. She made no response. “Thor forbid she dies before morning,” he whispered to Jalna.

  Tyrulf lifted Groa into his arms, carried her to a narrow bed of straw and pine needles along one wall, laid her down upon it, and covered her with a worn square of cloth she used as a bed covering.

  “Jalna,” he whispered, motioning for her to come closer.

  He pointed to the bed covering. “It might once have been an apron,” he suggested, “and those dark stains.”

  “Yes,” she whispered back. “But perhaps we should take her up on the offer to search the cottage, just in case.”

  * * *

  “I insist!” Groa said, standing in her doorway, looking out at Tyrulf and Jalna. Jalna held the stained square of tattered cloth in her hands. “Take it! All of it! Though I’m certain it’s not what you think. Still, I cannot remember where I put that apron, if I ever had it, and you have searched the cottage from top to bottom.”

  “Our thanks,” Jalna said, then carefully folded the thin square of cloth. She reached out and touched the old woman’s hand. “You’ve been kind.”

  “Come again when you can,” Groa urged. “Maybe I will find that apron, if that old cloth you hold is not it and if I ever had it here.”

  Jalna squeezed Groa’s hand, then stepped back.

  “We must start down,” Tyrulf said, “while there is still plenty of light.”

  “Down?” Groa asked.

  “Again, our thanks,” Jalna said, slowly backing away, keeping her eyes on the old woman, remnants of suspicion still hovering in her mind. She waved when she was some distance from the cottage, but Groa did not wave back, went into the cottage, and closed the door.

  “She probably could not see you wave,” Tyrulf suggested, “and she’ll probably forget we were even here before noon.”

  * * *

  Soon after they had left the summit and were climbing back down through the roaring storm, the billowing thunderheads that surrounded the mountaintop began to boil higher, towering over the summit, shutting out the sun. The magic of the bloodstained cloth had been taken away. The natural order was reasserting itself. Rain began to splatter against Groa’s cottage. The rain turned almost at once to snow.

  Leaves fell from the trees. The grass withered and died.

  Groa’s cottage fell into ruin.

  Within the rotting timbers of the cottage, amid the rapidly drifting snow, Groa slept in her chair beside a hearth gone cold. Then, beside her within the ruins appeared a tall woman in a red robe. Her long hair shimmered as if made from strands of glowing gold.

  The golden-tressed woman bent over Groa and whispered her name.

  Groa opened her eyes, looked up, and recognized the Goddess she had seen once long ago.

  “Sif!” she cried. “Beautiful Goddess! Has your husband been fighting Jotuns again? I am ready to help if I can.”

  She with the golden hair gestured to one side. A man appeared, smiling at Groa, his arms opened wide with invitation.

  At first she did not recognize him. He was so much younger than she remembered,
as young as when they’d been married. Then recognition came, and tears stung her eyes. She rose shakily to her feet and started toward him. Each step she took became firmer, swifter, until she moved on young, strong legs, sobbing, and calling her husband’s name over and over. She reached him. They kissed and embraced.

  Smiling, the Goddess surrounded the embracing couple with Her arms.

  All three vanished from the mountaintop.

  The snow continued to fall, piling steadily higher, burying the ruins of Groa’s cottage.

  In the chair by the hearth, however, her purpose done, her soul now free, all that remained of Groa were her bones.

  LOKITH AWOKE. The chamber was still without light. His eyes reacted automatically. Purple fire flamed to life within them. In his sight, objects in the chamber became bathed in a ghostly purple glow.

  He looked at Guthrun lying sprawled beside him. She was still unconscious, dried blood caking her swollen face where most of his blows had landed.

  Lokith stood, stretched his steely muscles, and inhaled deeply. Guthrun’s blood had strengthened him greatly. He would soon have his full strength, then she would no longer be needed.

  Thokk will resist my killing her, he realized, but I’ll not share my power with my sister.

  He walked to the locked door. Unbidden into his mind came knowledge of a spell to open locks. Thokk has imbued me with many powers over the years, he thought. I wonder if I already know as much as she? Foolish of her, if that is the case. I believe she thinks too much of Hel and not enough about herself. But she has been useful to me and to Mother Hel. Perhaps there will be a place for her in the new order of things. Perhaps not.

  Lokith considered the lock. Yes, he could open it easily. But for now it might be best not to show his awareness of his powers. Better to let Thokk think him still weak and unsure of himself. She wanted to keep him there in isolation until she was certain that he was at his full strength. Then, he knew, she had planned some grand ceremony to introduce him to the Hel-worshipers who served in the castle.