by C. Gockel
“Lewis … I hear somebody gave you goat milk? And eggs?”
Bohdi turns around to find Berry at the bottom of the stairs. His expression is open and hopeful, his eyes are on Amy. Larson is next to the warrant officer; he is glaring at Amy. “I thought baby goats were only born in the spring?” says the lieutenant, and Bohdi belatedly remembers Larson was born on a farm.
Hopping off of the desk, Amy says, “They’re only supposed to be born in the spring, but the two I delivered yesterday were fine.” As she passes Bohdi, he falls into step behind her. Her hair is braided and pulled back in a neat up-do at the back of her neck. One tiny curl has escaped, though; it’s dark in contrast to her pale skin.
Glare shifting to Bohdi, Larson says, “Feeling better today, Dr. Lewis?”
“Yes,” she says cheerily. “Thanks for asking.”
Bohdi dips his chin and glares back at Larson, hearing the real question. It’s not like he and Amy are the only couple. Everyone knows Harding has been using her free time to see Ralf and Ragnar, Tucker is sweet on Bjorna, Berry would bang Gem in an instant, Thomas has made himself available to a few Frost Giantesses, and Jung, the bastard, is way too happy all the time.
“How’s Gerðr?” Bohdi asks. Larson is gaga over her, but Bohdi’s pretty sure it’s a one-way thing—and probably why Larson is all wound up.
Larson’s jaw twitches. Over Larson’s shoulder, Amy tilts her head and lifts an eyebrow in a look that clearly says, don’t be mean. Bohdi shrugs as he slides past the lieutenant and steps with her into the hallway. She yawns behind her hand and his brow furrows. He’s not exactly sure what time she got home last night. He flicks his empty lighter. He should have gone with her, but he didn’t want to jinx baby goats.
They enter the kitchen and are surrounded by the smell of eggs, the cheerful sounds of plates clinking, and laughter. Since the Asgardians went on their hunting expedition, there have been no more communal feasts in the huge dining room barn-place. His eyes fall on the table … there is plenty of food, but nothing sweet. Bohdi doesn’t particularly have a sweet tooth—but since coming to Jotunheim, everyone is craving sugar—probably because there is none. The first few mornings there had been some sweet syrupy stuff they’d put on what passes for bread. When the jar was empty, the guys had stuck their fingers into it, and then licked their fingers clean, too desperate for something sweet to be ashamed.
He hears Amy sigh and sees her eyes on the spot where the syrup had been. “At least we have lots of food, it’s warm, and not cave-like,” she whispers. The whole inn is pretty toasty, and right now the kitchen is bright, too. Bjorna is cooking today, not Gem. The Giantess favors light and has opened the shutters and added extra glow globes around the room. As Bjorna hovers over the stove, Cannonball is stretched out on his back on Tucker’s thigh. Thomas, the big burly historian, has a knife out and is aiming the reflected light at Cannonball’s face. The baby is following it with his eyes like a cat, and everyone is chuckling. It’s warm, bright, happy even … Bohdi should be overjoyed.
Sliding onto the bench, Bohdi rubs the back of his neck. The team is constantly on top of each other in the inn and also in the cavern where Gerðr, Sigyn, and Nari try to teach them magic, or when Steve teaches meditation. Bohdi’s thumb twitches on his lighter. He wonders what sort of distraction he’d need to slip away from the team just long enough to have a few hours of privacy with Amy.
His eyes meet hers across the table. He can feel Amy’s knees bumping against his … although one of those knees might be Cruz’s. Bohdi scowls, and as if reading his thoughts, Amy shrugs, as if to say, what can you do?
Bohdi helps himself to a heaping plate of eggs. It could be worse, they could not be safe and have no privacy … he stabs the eggs with a fork. He shouldn’t wish for anything to rock the boat. But he does.
x x x x
“How is the food situation?” Steve asks. Almost unconsciously he rubs his stomach. It’s breakfast time, and he’s hungry, but he doesn’t head downstairs to the kitchen, even though the smell of eggs wafting up the stairs is tempting. Instead he stands at the bottom of the fold-out ladder that leads to Gem’s attic, his hand on Claire’s shoulder. The small woman comes down the steps, a pile of neatly folded blankets in her hand. Downstairs he hears the chink of silverware and laughter. The team sounds almost carefree. He’s not sure how many of them realize just how precarious surviving until spring will be. Lewis’s voice rings up the stairs. “Don’t get the knife so close to his face!” Beside Steve, Claire giggles and scampers off.
Steve watches her go. She’s not wearing a sweater. She doesn’t need to in the inn.
Above his head, Gem huffs under her burden. Steve would ask to help, but knows it would offend the woman … as the question about food probably did. After the incident, Steve had been able to convince Gem to let the team move into her inn. It had freed up the team’s former abode for Frost Giant refugees, appeased Heiðr, meant they didn’t have to spread their forces out, and kept Gem, Bjorna, and Cannonball safe. But it hadn’t been easy convincing Gem to keep them. Gem didn’t have enough food or fuel for his team, and apparently to a Black Dwarf, inviting “guests,” or, in this case, “lodging personal security forces,” without the means to provide for them was a huge taboo.
“Gem?” Steve says.
Reaching the bottom of the steps, the tiny woman scowls up at him over her pile of blankets. “We need more food. Your men eat more than I anticipated.” Her shoulders fall at the admission.
Steve rubs his chin. “I’ll send my men on another hunting trip.” Lewis had traded veterinary services for a salt lick; Berry and Redman had put it at the base of the mesa and had been able to shoot unsuspecting wildlife from high above. But with the refugees flooding up to the mesa, the nearby forest will soon be short of game. He rubs the back of his neck. Fortunately, the Barrett rifles have a long range. He tells himself they’ll get by. He almost sighs aloud. A few short weeks ago he was dreaming of power; now his dreams involve just surviving. Maybe it’s the universe’s way of keeping him honest?
Gem drops her eyes. “Also, we need more wood.”
Steve raises an eyebrow. “We could wear sweaters.”
That earns him a death glare.
“We’ll collect more wood.”
From the room she’s sharing with Dr. Lewis and Harding, Beatrice pokes her head out. “Rush still has some more pornography; we can trade it for some coal.”
Steve’s jaw drops, uncertain if Gem understood, and if she did, if they’ve wandered into more taboo territory.
Gem’s eyes widen. “What sort of pornography? Male or female?”
Steve’s jaw snaps shut. Obviously, not a taboo …
“All women,” says Beatrice in a sour sort of voice.
Steve’s eyebrows hike. Is it his imagination or did Gem’s shoulders just fall?
“Well,” says the dwarf, “my guests are mostly male … they might be interested.”
Rolling her eyes, Beatrice snorts. “It’s trash, not even the artistic stuff.”
Steve blinks. Beatrice has opinions on porn? He’s grateful for his dark skin’s ability to conceal a blush.
Waving her umbrella, Beatrice says, “You should commission Redman to draw you something instead.”
Gem drops the blankets. “I would like to be the judge of ‘trash.’”
Shrugging, Beatrice beckons with a hand. “He’s on guard duty … but I know where he keeps it.”
Steve’s jaw drops again as the two women head into the room Rush is sharing with three other members of the team. Taking a deep breath, he files away the incident as unlikely to cause offense—Rush is proud of his collection and frequently offers to share it.
A few moments later, he enters the kitchen. His eyes go immediately to Bjorna, thankfully safely stirring something on the stove while the guys ham around with Cannonball. There is a Frost Giant superstition that mothers and newborns should go outside at least once a day, no matter how cold it
is. Lewis says it might be a cultural adaptation that’s evolved due to the difficulty of getting vitamin D in Jotunheim’s long winters. Whatever it is, it is how Bjorna and Cannonball almost got stoned to death. Despite almost dying, she still tries to go out every day because she’s convinced not going outside will make her baby die. Steve’s barely extracted a promise from her only to go out with an armed escort.
“What the hell stinks in here?” shouts Rush, his voice echoing from the door to the mudroom. “What is this … mold!”
Bolting from her seat so fast the table rocks, Lewis shouts, “Don’t touch that! I’m trying to grow penicillin for a goat with mastitis!”
“This is gross! I’m throwing it out!” Rush shouts back.
Bohdi bolts out of his seat, and Steve sees an immediate priority. Striding over, Steve puts a hand on Bohdi’s shoulder and forces him down. “Rush, don’t touch the doctor’s penicillin,” Steve orders as Lewis rushes to the mudroom.
There is a too-long pause, but then Rush says, “Yes, Captain.”
Bohdi tries to stand. Steve shoots a glare at him and doesn’t lift his hand. Bohdi meets his eyes. Lifting an eyebrow, Steve sends him what would be for anyone else a withering glare. Bohdi’s jaw twitches and his nostrils flare. Steve doesn’t blink, trying to silently convey, I’ve got this.
Bohdi relaxes and Steve heads into the mudroom. As soon as he enters, he almost loses his stomach.
Holding a hand to her mouth, Amy is saying, “Why did you take the lid off?”
Fumbling as he tries to screw a lid onto a small, clear jar, Rush mumbles, “No reason.” Seeing Steve, he snaps to attention.
“Finish the job, Rush!” Steve orders. Striding between them, he snags a spare boot and jams the door open. Fenrir, sitting on the stoop, looks over her shoulder at Steve, sniffs the air, whimpers, and runs around the inn, tail between her legs.
Grabbing a coat from a hook, Steve begins fanning the stink out of the mudroom.
Finally finishing screwing on the lid, Rush hastily puts the jar on a shelf. Steve’s brow furrows. There are at least ten jars with mossy looking dark green fungus in them, but the one Rush had opened contains delicate crystalline fronds as long as Steve’s fingers and as narrow as pine needles. They sparkle like glass, and where the light hits them, they act like prisms and produce tiny rainbows on the floor and walls. He’ll have to tell Claire not to open the jar. He looks at Rush, now snapping to attention again. “Did you open that because you thought it was pretty?” Steve snaps.
Meeting his eyes, Rush says, “No … no, Sir.” The hair on the back of Steve’s neck stands on end. Steve rolls his eyes in disgust. “Get out of here, and leave the doctor’s penicillin alone!”
“Yes, Sir!” says the SEAL. As Rush walks away, Steve sees his lip curl up in a slight smile; Rush thinks he got away with the fib. Steve shakes his head in annoyance. Rush had admitted to talking to Ullr, and admitted that taking the Asgardian up on a dare to try the beer had been stupid. But he’s afraid to admit he thinks rainbows are pretty.
As soon as Rush is gone, Lewis steps out into the cold, hands covering her mouth. She bends over and looks like she is going to throw up.
Still fanning the fumes, Steve’s stomach twists … and not from the stench. “Are you alright, Dr. Lewis?”
Lewis takes a deep breath. “Yes …” Straightening, she answers Steve’s unspoken fear. “And no, I’m not pregnant.” She’s standing in a bit of sunlight, and tilts her face up to the sun, even as she stifles a yawn.
“Are you sick …” Steve asks. “Do you need to spend the day resting? Goats with mastitis aren’t as important as you are.”
Over the past two weeks, Lewis’s veterinary services have helped supply them with vegetables, milk, eggs, fish, and fruit. She’s also helped improve their image among some of the refugees. Just as important, she’s helped keep Bohdi in line. Lewis can be reasonable. She suggested that Beatrice accompany her on her professional outings because Bohdi’s presence could be distracting, and she convinced Bohdi it would be for the best. Steve’s not sure he could have managed it.
Lewis takes a deep breath, her skin flushes, and she looks away. “I’m not sick … I don’t want to get pregnant, and I’ve been experimenting with the local pharmaceuticals.”
Steve almost drops the coat in his hands. “Is that safe?”
“Yes,” says Sigyn.
Steve turns to see the Asgardian woman a few feet away around the curve of the building. She’d been on guard for the morning shift, and her golden cheeks have turned a deep rose in the cold air. He’d once thought her golden skin was an affectation, a vanity she clung to while she slummed it on Earth. But he’s realized gold is her natural coloring; her blonde hair and violet eyes had thrown him off. It had been foolish on his part to categorize an alien as belonging to any human ethnicity. She’s darker than Park, and Lewis is after her as much as Claire, Steve, and Bohdi to eat fish so she doesn’t miss out on the vitamin D.
He feels a prickle at the back of his neck and he flushes. He’s been staring too long. “You’re sure it will work for humans?” he says, to hide his gaffe. He knows she is sure. Sigyn wouldn’t make a mistake like that. She’s as thorough and organized as Loki was unpredictable and scattered. Is she drawn to her opposite? The idea makes his shoulders fall; he refuses to examine why … he doesn’t have time for where it might lead.
Approaching them, Sigyn raises an eyebrow. “I gave it to a Japanese princess who disguised herself as a samurai during the Meiji Restoration, a Chinese peasant who led the locals to resist the Japanese on the borders of Mongolia during WWII, and Catherine the Great.”
“Catherine the Great had children,” Steve snaps, more fiercely than he intended.
Sigyn’s eyes narrow. “We had a falling out.” She looks away. “Her promotion of the nobility to the detriment of the common man kept the Russian economy dependent upon serfdom as all of Europe was leaving that institution behind.”
“May I go now?” Lewis asks.
Steve nods without looking at her. “You’re dismissed.”
As the door shuts behind Lewis, Steve raises an eyebrow at Sigyn. “You knew Catherine the Great?” When she nods, he shakes his head, overwhelmed by that, but not wanting to show it. Instead, he says, “Russian history has always fascinated me. I had a theory, for a long time, that the more authoritarian the rule, the bloodier the revolution.”
Sigyn’s eyebrows lift, but then she gives him a tight smile. “Although politics and history are among my greatest interests, I am, at the moment, more concerned with why you are so preoccupied with Dr. Lewis’s personal health.”
Steve’s mouth goes dry.
Cocking her head, Sigyn says, “You haven’t been as concerned about Harding’s or Mr. Park’s health, or Mr. Thomas’s activities … But what is really curious,” Sigyn continues, “is that you had the opportunity to nip the romantic relationship between the good doctor and Mr. Patel in the bud, yet you chose not to, even though it is apparently causing you a great deal of …” She purses her lips and then finishes with, “… anxiety.”
Steve opens his mouth to reply … and no words come out.
“Don’t tell me that it was just a gesture of goodwill on your part,” Sigyn says.
Steve can’t help himself; he chuckles. “I wouldn’t insult your intelligence like that.”
Sigyn crosses her arms.
Steve looks away, still smiling. “I’d have as much chance getting away with it as I would lying to my own mother.”
“I’m not your mother,” Sigyn says, and Steve looks at her sharply. He blinks. Is she blushing?
“You haven’t answered my question,” Sigyn says.
Steve looks away. “The more authoritarian the rule, the bloodier the revolution ... I believe that in politics, but maybe it is true between people as well?” He takes a breath. “Which doesn’t mean … I do think it’s good for Bohdi to be with Lewis…” And is what is good for the individual, good
for the team? He’s sure at some level it’s true, but the balance—he hasn’t worked it out yet.
“And for Dr. Lewis? You seem overly concerned she might get pregnant. I want to know why. ” Sigyn’s violet eyes narrow.
Steve could lie … but she’d find out some other way. He could ignore her and walk away, but then he’d lose her respect.
From the front of the inn comes the sound of a door slamming and men laughing. Despite being stuck on a foreign realm among savages with scant chance of getting home, spirits are high. There have been a few mild anxiety attacks here and there, but Steve has them mostly convinced they can make it. They have succeeded this far after all ... but a big part of that success has been through the magic of Sigyn and her sons. If the team were to lose them—his chest constricts. He doesn’t want to lose Sigyn for other, personal reasons, but there isn’t hope for that, only for minimizing the damage. She’s fond of Claire. Maybe if he’s honest, she’ll take pity and help him save his daughter.
He keeps his gaze level when he meets her eyes. “It happened before.” He doesn’t need to say with whom. The story of Amy’s pregnancy and miscarriage isn’t pretty. Steve’s involvement less so. He shivers and it’s not an act.
Sigyn’s jaw gets hard.
“You will tell me everything.”
x x x x
“Oh, no, really … you should keep that,” Amy says, as the wizened old Frost Giantess in front of her thrusts goat milk beneath her nose. Amy’s eyes slide to the boy on the floor of the tent. She has just set his leg in a splint. She frowns; they could take him to the cavern, and Sigyn and Nari could heal it in minutes, but that would give away their sanctuary.
Holding up her hands, she tries to explain. “He needs the …” The little gerbil in the wheel in her brain stops. Calcium doesn’t translate into their language and there is no Frost Giant word that quite translates into “minerals.” The closest is “ore” and that is no good.
Across the small tent, Beatrice comes to her rescue. “Milk is good for bones. We can’t take it from you when your little boy needs it for his leg.”