Freya's Gift

by Corrina Lawson

  But the only threat so far had been the elusiveness of the bear that they had been tracking since the morning. Now, the sun was high in the sky and they’d still not cornered him. Yet the end must be fruitful or it would be a horrible omen. Everyone was on edge. The smallest things mattered.

  Loud rustles in the berry bushes ahead. The bear could not be seen, not yet, but Ragnor heard the chomping teeth and smack of its lips.

  Now.

  Ragnor raised a hand and gestured. The men with bows fanned out, forming a loose circle with their prey in the middle. Those with spears lowered them, eyeing the bushes warily. Bears would not go down with just arrows. Sometimes even arrows and spears were not enough.

  Snorts. Movement a few yards away. Ragnor heard the rustles of wildflowers, berry bushes and thorns. There, through the slats of sunlight slicing between the leaves, he saw the bear, a large brown mass of fur.

  Even on all fours, it was nearly as tall as his shoulders. Pray to Odin that it did not stand on two feet when attacked. Pray to Odin that he survived such an attack if it happened.

  Around him, others fixed their spears, waiting for the archers to herd the prey their way and impale itself on the sharp spikes that they held. Ragnor made sure his spear was slightly ahead of the others. He must be the one to strike the bear first. He must be the one to take the most risk.

  They all froze, watching, wary, and waited for the animal to move.

  Across the clearing, one of the archers drew back his bow. Ragnor raised a hand. The archers must hit something vital rather than merely angering the bear with pain. Ragnor would take the brunt of the wounded, charging bear after it was flushed. That was the way it should be. But he didn’t want to die because of bad aim.

  Ragnor dropped his hand. The arrow flew straight, sinking into the bear’s flesh. A loud, long, low roar filled the clearing, so loud that Ragnor wished to cover his ears. But he kept his hands curled tight around the spear, his eyes focused on the ground in front of him.

  The bear rushed him on all fours. Yes! He could get it in the throat now, rather than have to face the claws, if he could hold his balance. Several more arrows struck the bear in the rear. The bear roared, exposing sharp, long teeth, and charged faster. Ragnor stepped forward, just to the left, and struck hard.

  The sharp metal sank into the bear’s neck and scraped against bone. The animal stopped and whipped its great head around to snap at its attacker, nearly tearing the spear from Ragnor’s grip. He ignored the pain in his back and shoulders, ignored the roaring of the animal and the gnashing of those sharp teeth. He held fast.

  Ragnor’s wooden spear shaft cracked but didn’t splinter. A claw flashed by his nose, just missing him, kept back by the length of the spear.

  You are a worthy opponent.

  The bear pushed again and Ragnor stumbled backward, into the trunk of a tree. He braced himself and held tight to the spear, hoping the bear would impale itself in its fury. Ragnor gritted his teeth, determined never to let go, not ever. The bear raised its head, yowling in pain, teeth snapping just finger lengths from his face.

  More spears struck from the other side, turning the bear’s challenge into a scream of pain. Now, now, they almost had him. Ragnor shouted and his hunters moved as one, pushing the bear off his feet, giving him no way to escape. Ragnor dropped the spear, drew his hunting knife, slipped under the flailing claws and sank the knife into the bear’s throat. Blood gushed onto the dark soil of the clearing. The bear stilled. Ragnor raised his knife, red with blood, and shouted in triumph. The others answered his shout, yelling in celebration along with him.

  Now, they would be able to feast tonight. Ragnor dropped his head and murmured a prayer.

  A huge roar sounded from his right, drowning out the triumph. He whirled, raising his belt knife in reflex at the new threat. He caught a glimpse of something large and brown. Another bear charged from the woods, angry, roaring, growling furiously.

  Ragnor scrambled back from the carcass, looking for his spear. He held his knife up. I am not ready!

  The bear rose on two feet, enraged, and resumed its charge.

  The men beside Ragnor scattered or reached for arrows or spears stuck in the dead bear. Ragnor pulled at his spear but it was wedged in the carcass. His heart pounded, his stomach turned over in panic.

  No time.

  He bent his knees to make ready for the impact. He would go down fighting. There were worse fates. But what would happen to Sif when he was dead?

  A flash of light brown from above, a howl, a glimpse of white teeth and claws and then suddenly the charging bear was engulfed in snarling…cat?

  Ragnor could hardly breathe and his throat was so dry that he couldn’t swallow.

  A cougar!

  A cougar as large as a man had leapt on the bear from above. The two great animals rolled in the dirt, roaring and biting, the victor uncertain.

  The hunting party scattered into the deeper brush. Ragnor backed off, to escape, but his foot hit the dead bear and he stopped, unwilling to move again and attract the attention of either of the combatants. He rubbed the crude wooden cougar through the pouch at his waist, sending prayers to Freya. Sif, I should have touched you these past days. I am sorry.

  Roars and the clash of claws and teeth, a high-pitched yowl and the two animals stopped moving. It was over. Ragnor bent low, knife at the ready to face the victor.

  The bear stayed down. The cat had ripped its throat out.

  The cougar rose to full height, snarling, put a paw on its prey and screamed at Ragnor. All the blood drained from his face.

  The bear had been dangerous but the cougar was even more deadly. Yet it had saved his life. So magnificent, such green eyes, such fierceness, such grace. He could see why Freya favored the great cats. He wanted to honor this animal and prayed that he would not have to fight it and sink a knife into that beautiful flesh.

  Ragnor swallowed hard, trying to regain his voice. “Secure our kill,” he whispered to his men, eyes never leaving the cougar. “Take it home. I will follow.”

  “Ragnor, are you—”

  “Do it!”

  Behind him, Ragnor heard the sounds of furtive movement and whispered orders. The carcass slid away, something that Ragnor heard, rather than saw. His eyes were all for the cougar. Such a proud head. It seemed like a statue now, unmoving, like some godlike being. Perhaps it was. Perhaps this cat was one of those who drew Freya’s chariot. But what did the goddess Freya want with him? His death?

  As the sounds of his men moving the dead bear faded, Ragnor dared a step backward. The cougar flicked its ears and posed over its kill.

  Would he be another such kill? Surely, he would not be saved only to die now. He stared at the cat some more. He thought of Leif’s eyes in the moment just before he’d fallen on his own sword. They’d been lost and empty. These eyes, cat’s eyes, threatened to engulf Ragnor and conquer him. They deserved worship.

  Thank you, cat. Thank you, goddess Freya. I pray this is one of yours and a sign of your favor.

  If he was to move, he must move now. He lowered his knife hand and nodded to the cat in salute. The cat flicked its tail and settled on the bear. Ragnor began backing away never taking his gaze from the cat. When he was on the other side of the clearing, the cat lowered its head and began tearing into the bear, giving all the signs of ignoring him for good.

  Ragnor bowed more formally to Freya for answering his prayer and set to follow the others on the path to home. What did this mean? Could Freya be promising fertility, a future, a new life for his people? His hand closed around the wooden cougar Sif had given him.

  He increased his pace in order to catch up to the rest of the men. Sif, he must find out what Sif would say about this.

  For the first time since the women had sickened, Ragnor felt hope.

  Chapter Five

  Sif set out into the wilderness to sort her thoughts. Gerhard had many good points, and she did not want to act until she had a plan.
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br />   She turned in a circle, using her palm to shade her eyes. The spring melt had revealed more of the land beyond the river plain where they had settled. The maize would be planted in that long flat area above the flood line. What was the rest of this land carved by the great river like?

  She passed under the trees and the village faded behind her. For the first time in a long while, she was completely alone. Her mother had talked to her of the spirit guardians of the land. She called on them now to guide her way.

  Her steps slowed as she negotiated the tangled underbrush. The spring wind, cold and moist, cut through her body but the warm sun slicing through the leaves prevented a chill.

  The dirt, not quite muddy but not completely solid either, deadened the sound of her footfalls. The wind brought the smells of pine, some sweet flowers and plant decay from the winter. Birds twittered above, squirrels skittered on the branches and rustling in the plants around her indicated larger animals like deer. Perhaps there was even a moose in these woods. Wolves would not be out in sunlight. At least, she hoped so.

  High above, silhouetted against the sun, an eagle cried, gliding without effort.

  The land was waking up.

  Her mother would have said that the gods were prowling around with the wind, making sure their charges were in proper order. If only she could rebirth her people the way the land was being born again.

  She had heard tales from her father about rites in the Norse land that sacrificed both animals and people, using their blood to fertilize the earth and ensure a bountiful crop. But it did not seem right to use a death like that, not when her people had already suffered so much. If the gods wanted sacrifices, surely they had enough souls by now.

  Sif stopped at the gurgling of water rushing over rock. It was louder than it should be, with the river so far behind. She closed her eyes, listening hard, and turned left. Her sandal sank into water, all the way to her ankle. Cold!

  She grabbed a hanging tree branch for balance and pulled her foot out of the mud. The sucking sound as the mud released it echoed in the woods. She stared down at the mud, expecting to see a puddle leftover from snow and rain.

  But it was clear water, part of a little stream that seemed to begin under a huge rock that was mostly hidden by the boughs of the maple trees looming over it. She shook her foot to shed the water and followed the stream’s path to the giant rock, intrigued.

  Pickers scratched her legs, cutting through her leggings. Low branches slapped her face, and she stumbled over several tree roots. When she reached the rock, she leaned against it to rest, too tired to feel triumphant. I must not be completely healed yet, if that exhausts me.

  She wiped sweat from her face with the back of her hand and took several deep breaths. Well, why not have a drink? She knelt down to the water bubbling from under the rock, cupped her hands and sipped.

  The water tickled her nose. She swished it around in her mouth. It was like having bubbles inside her mouth. It felt as if the liquid were alive in some way. And it tasted different than usual—partly salt, partly sweet. Sif swallowed the mouthful and bent her head down to the stream, wanting more.

  Like ambrosia!

  She splashed her face, grinning. Surely this was a gift from the gods, some sort of natural spring that had turned water into this bubbling creation.

  This was the sign she’d been searching for.

  She must climb to the top of the rock and see the head of this spring. But the rock did not seem to offer any obvious handholds. It would be a difficult ascent. She flexed the fingers of her injured arm. The muscles around the healing wound protested. She should go around. She turned right, only to be blocked by trees growing too closely together. She stomped to the left, to be blocked by the same. She could try going farther around but she might get lost.

  And I do not have the patience for a long trek. I want to see. She put her hands on her hips and stared at the solid gray stone as if it would move just from her irritation.

  She set her foot on the lower edge of the stone, where it jutted out slightly. Almost immediately, her feet lost traction and she slipped back to the ground.

  A fine start.

  She kicked off the sandals, hoping her bare feet would grab the stone better. Her toes curled into small crevices in the rock, and she gained several handspans without too much use of her injured arm.

  But the stone scraped her fingertips raw. Her feet slipped again. She flailed and reached for a ledge jutting out just over her head. Her good hand curled around the ledge, arresting the fall but leaving her swinging in midair. She groaned as her shoulder took all of her weight.

  She dug her scraped fingers in for a better hold. Her feet scrambled against the rock and found an outcropping not longer than two of her fingers put together. She curled her toes around the hold, temporarily stable.

  She breathed in, breathed out and prayed that her fingers held. Steady, steady.

  She pushed up with her knees and grabbed the outcropping above with her other hand. Pain stabbed into her forearm, slicing up to her shoulder. She closed her eyes as tears formed. Some of the rock ledge flaked off, sticking to her sweaty fingers. She swallowed and took a deep breath. Stuck, she was stuck.

  She looked down. Double her height. Too far to just let go. She should have thought of that before going up, eh? She gritted her teeth against the pain. Up, then. She braced again and pulled herself up against the rock, letting the pain in her half-healed arm flow, trying to take most of the weight on her good arm and shoulder, raising herself bit by bit until she was able to get her elbows on the ledge. Skin scraped against rock but she made it.

  Yes!

  She rested on the outcropping. Her head fell against the rock as her chest heaved in and out, drawing breath against pain and exhaustion. No, she was not completely healed yet. At least no one was around to see her weakness.

  She glanced up. Less than half a body length to the top. Surely, she could do that. A little more shifting and pulling, and her feet finally grabbed the outcropping. She stood on it, chest heaving, keeping her body against the flat of the rock, not entirely trusting the ledge to hold.

  She shaded her eyes from the brilliance of the sunlight and looked over the edge of the rock.

  The light reflected off a pool below her. Another rock, twin to the giant one where she stood, framed the pool, making it a quiet grotto.

  The pool seemed to be at least as deep as she was tall. She could hear the bubbling from below and realized the water must be coming from under the ground. The grotto opened into a clearing of wildflowers just beginning to bud, ready to burst with rich hues of purple, yellow and green.

  She promptly forgot about the pain in her arm.

  Dear goddess, her climb was worth it.

  She stood on the narrow top of the rock, for a better view. She must show Ragnor, she must bring him here. She bent her knee to lean over and look closer.

  Her foot slipped. She completely lost her balance and fell.

  She tumbled sideways down the wet rock. She hit the pool with a great splash, her shoulder going under first. Cold slapped at her as the water covered her whole body, soaking her clothes and her hair and entering her nose. She opened her eyes. The water was so crisp and clear that she had no problem seeing which way was up. The panicked pounding of her heart slowed. She kicked once, twice, and her head broke into open air and sunlight.

  It was like being birthed again.

  She sucked water into her mouth and swallowed. The bubbles tickled her throat and nose.

  I must bring Ragnor here, today. Perhaps to clean up after the hunt.

  She rolled over in the water, took another drink and swam around, feeling alive, awake fully for the first time since Leif’s attack.

  After a while, she swam the few feet to the grotto’s edge. She stood and stepped out into sunshine. The wind had died down, preventing any chill. She needed to get back to show this to Ragnor.

  She turned around, thinking to try the way she’d
come. But both rocks were slick and moss-covered on this side. She could not climb back over. She shook out her hair, drew her belt knife and knelt at the water’s edge.

  Animal tracks. There must be a path back to the river and, from there, she could find the village. She followed the largest set of tracks, wolf from the look of it, and marked the trees with two slashes as she passed, in case she started circling.

  She looked up at the sun one last time to orient herself before going under the tree canopy. The gods had brought her this far. Surely, she would find her way home now.

  Chapter Six

  Ragnor caught up with his men about halfway home, as they’d been slowed by the burden of their kill. They looked up in surprise as he rounded the path. Some had clearly not expected him to live.

  Most smiled. None said anything, still worried that they’d attract the cougar. He could not blame them.

  Ragnor took his turn carrying the trussed-up bear, letting the others ponder his rescue by the cougar. It could not have come at a better time, as it confirmed a goddess’s blessing on his leadership, even after so much hardship. It would make a good story, one to tell his grandchildren, if he ever had any.

  He would not tell his men that the rescue seemed less like the favor of the goddess than being dismissed as inconsequential by the cat.

  Ah well. One did not meddle with a goddess, one was just grateful that her attention was not harmful.

  But they would feast tonight. And he would feast in another way with Sif. He had let his brother’s dying curse have too much weight.

  “You should have let me have her, brother. At least I can get her with child. I have a son. You never will.”

  Perhaps Freya’s intervention meant the curse would have no effect. It was true there was Sif and the women before his marriage and yet no children from any of them. Not even any sign of a pregnancy.

  Some blamed Sif. It was likely his fault. But to admit blame would be to admit he was no man at all. It had been easier to avoid his wife than risk knowing for certain that it was his fault and that Leif’s curse was a true one.