Freya's Gift

by Corrina Lawson

  Ragnor put both his hands on either side of her head, bracketing her. She swallowed, hard.

  “Please. I never want to lose you,” she said. “But maybe it’s the price I must pay for surviving.”

  “And I must pay it as well?”

  “You’re the leader. So many have lost their wives and families. But we can have a family, if we dare. We can show our people the way.”

  Leader. Yes. In another life, he’d wanted that. He dropped his hands to his sides.

  Sif put her hands on his face, a soft touch. “You smell good.”

  He grunted. “Flattery again.”

  “No, truth. We have responsibilities. You cannot hide from them.”

  He took her wrists and pulled her hands away. “I know that.”

  He turned from her, took his long-axe, picked up sharpening tools from inside and walked away.

  Damn cat. I would rather be dead now than beholden to Freya for this.

  ***

  Ragnor heard the footsteps. Boot steps, he corrected himself. Few wore boots. Most wore sandals like Sif or had adopted the moccasins of the Lenape.

  Gerhard had boots. The boots stopped, short of reaching him. Ragnor did not look up and didn’t raise his head. He just kept sitting on the rock, preparing to resume sharpening the axe head.

  Gerhard had probably decided to wait and watch, as was his nature. Always, he wanted others to come to him, that one. It made him a patient and successful hunter.

  Well, not this time. Ragnor Magnusson was not prey.

  Ragnor set the axe head on his knees, bracing it, dull end against his legs, sharp end outward, and set to work with the stone. He’d not start this conversation. If Gerhard wanted Sif so much, let him speak first.

  For a long while, the only sounds Ragnor heard were his own scrapings and the roar of the river beyond. The same river they’d traveled to flee the Lenape. Perhaps they should have headed out to sea, back to the Norse lands.

  No. Focus on the axe and the stone. Careful, too much and he’d make the edge too thin. Too little and not sharp enough. The river breeze cooled the sweat on his chest and brow, relaxing him. He forgot about Gerhard, about Sif, about Freya.

  Boot steps again, very close.

  “Ragnor,” Gerhard said.

  “Gerhard.” Ragnor kept sharpening the axe.

  Time passed. He heard boys swimming in the river, laughing, then the shipmaster’s orders to stop and help work on the longboat.

  “Gunnhilda spoke to me of a ritual,” Gerhard said.

  Ragnor nodded. “What of it?”

  Speak, Gerhard. Tell me why you think you are deserving of my wife’s touch. Or the touch of the goddess.

  “I told Gunnhilda that she was mad.”

  “I told Sif the same.”

  Gerhard sat on the far side of the rock. Ragnor still did not look at him. Gerhard sighed. “Gunnhilda pointed out the signs of the goddess. The spring. The cat who—”

  “Saved my life.” Ragnor finally lifted his head. Gerhard seemed honestly reluctant. Why? Wouldn’t any man want to get hands on Sif? And then perhaps seize leadership?

  “The cougar also saved the lives of several in that hunting party,” Gerhard said. “We feasted, instead of mourning.” Gerhard tapped his foot against the ground, over and over. “I grow sick of mourning.”

  “We all do.”

  Gerhard stood and walked in front of Ragnor to face him. Ragnor stared, trying to read the man’s face. Gerhard had always kept his own counsel, save for his late wife. A fine woman, if a bit too quiet and too thin for Ragnor’s taste.

  “You are considering this?” Gerhard said.

  Freya damn him, he was. Sif was right. The fight between Torger and Mykle would not be the last. The next one could end in death. And Ragnor kept flashing back to how the great cat had watched him. Judged him.

  “Yes.” Ragnor stared past Gerhard. “I am chief. That means my life belongs to the tribe. As does Sif’s life. I consider it.”

  Gerhard’s tight face eased. “I would not expect you to sacrifice for me. It’s… We’ve been…enemies.”

  “Not enemies. Rivals.” Ragnor shook his head. “You gave way when you saw I had the support. You could have pulled us into a blood feud.”

  Gerhard’s jaw unclenched. “I thought I could do better than you. I was wrong.” He sat down, unthreatening, no bluster, no emotion at all. “I’ve done nothing since my wife and son died. You saw your own brother go mad and yet you manage. How?”

  Flattery? No, truth. Gerhard did not do flattery. He never had. One reason he’d not had the support for chief. “I have Sif.” Ragnor looked at the sky. “I am—” terrified, “—worried that if there is no ritual, the goddess will be angry and take her, like all the others.”

  “And worried if you have the ritual, I will steal her,” Gerhard said.

  “I would split your head with my axe if you did.”

  “I would not give you such cause.” Gerhard dropped his head, making designs in the dirt with his fingers. “It is one night, and that will be with the goddess. Gunnhilda says that we will be changed when the goddess enters us.”

  “Perhaps.” Gunnhilda had access to a priest’s potions, did she? That might make a difference.

  Gerhard shook his head. “I’m not like Mykle. I don’t like men.”

  “I don’t either.”

  So they understood each other there.

  “We will not be part of the ritual that way. If Freya wants it, she’ll be disappointed.” Ragnor could do much. But not that.

  He stood. Gerhard remained seated, cross-legged.

  Submissive. He’d do this. Gunnhilda had talked him into it, somehow. And Gerhard was trying to show that he’d not come after Sif by his manner. But what about a child?

  “You’re going to do this,” Gerhard said.

  “It takes both of us, Sif said.”

  “Gunnhilda said the same.”

  “A fertility ritual means there could be a child.” My son. Not yours.

  Gerhard stood. “If I can help you and Sif have the child you deserve, then it is something. Be glad you have your wife. And a chance of a son. It’s far more than most.” He turned and walked away without waiting for an answer.

  Ragnor flung his axe to the ground. Gunnhilda, Sif and now Gerhard, who had some sense, thought the ritual was needed. Odin damn him for agreeing with them.

  Chapter Eleven

  The day of the ritual was the longest day of Sif’s life. Longer even than the night she’d spent in vigil, willing healing to her sister, healing that never came. That day, her mind had been too exhausted, too numb, for thinking, and the exhaustion finally pushed her into sleep.

  Today, her mind betrayed her. It would not still, it would not rest.

  She must face the truth of it, if only to herself.

  The coming ritual excited her.

  It was more than just the excitement of finally getting this done. It was the sense that this could be a new beginning for everyone. She wanted Gerhard to be healed. She wanted her people to be healed. Most of all, she wanted Ragnor to be healed.

  And she kept flashing to how the two men had touched Bera that day, how she’d completely lost herself in the moment.

  Sif would never tell Ragnor. He wouldn’t understand. She didn’t want to betray him, but she wanted to be utterly lost like that, to give up control and allow the goddess to lead her in total abandon.

  She’d felt a little bit of that, making love at the spring with Ragnor. She wanted so very much to forget pain. Add a ritual and Gerhard, and how much more would it be?

  She wanted to find out.

  But had she twisted the signs of the goddess so she could allow another to create children in her womb, even though it betrayed Ragnor? Had Gunnhilda agreed about the signs because she wanted to help Gerhard heal?

  No. No doubt today.

  Doubt would dishonor all of them. She was allowed to be excited and intrigued. Without that, her fear wo
uld overcome her. Even Ragnor agreed that it must be done. Maybe it was that he would love a child of her body, even if the father was uncertain.

  More likely it was that Ragnor would do anything for his people, even share his wife and himself. A true leader.

  In the morning, she bathed in the spring, returned to her home and laid out her best clothing for the ritual. Her deerskin vest with the moose beaded on the back and the skirt with fringes, rather than her leggings. A skirt would make things simpler in the end. Finally, a headband dyed in several colors, an heirloom from her mother, a symbol of her kinship to the Lenape. She left her feet bare. Let them touch the earth.

  Ragnor had spent the night before holding her but left with the sun’s rise. She heard that he and Gerhard had both cleansed in the spring, too, though probably not at the same time. Since agreeing to this, each had pretended the other did not exist.

  Where Ragnor went besides the spring, she didn’t know and suspected she never would. She knew Gerhard had spent the night working on one of the longboats—repairing the sail though they would not need to sail for a long time, if ever—and then plugging holes in several canoes. If he’d intended to work himself into a stupor, he succeeded.

  When Sif went to Gunnhilda to speak about the final details of the ritual, she found Gerhard, snoring, on the pallet before Gunnhilda’s fire. Gunnhilda had rolled her eyes. Sif wished for such sound sleep.

  Sensing her discomfort, Gunnhilda gave her some water with herbs to “relax”. Normally, Sif would not have taken it. But it was still too many hours to sundown, so she swallowed it down and went back to her home to meditate and pray. At some point, sleep came. A loud rap on the doorway awakened her. She stood. Darkness had fallen.

  Ragnor stepped inside. “Gunnhilda wants to begin as soon as it is full dark.”

  She nodded and stood, rubbing the cramped muscles of her legs. “Are you ready?”

  He nodded. “Best to get it done.”

  “We had a ritual together once before. Our wedding. You didn’t seem nervous that day.”

  He smiled. “Grown warriors do not go around dancing like mad at winning the most beautiful woman in the village.”

  “That morning, my mother still said that a younger warrior would be better. I laughed at her then. I laugh at her now.”

  “Even though she was right to worry about my ability to sire children?” Ragnor whispered.

  “We don’t know she was right.” Sif rose on tiptoes and kissed her husband’s cheek. “I was more worried about never having you.” And I’m still worried about losing you.

  He smiled, held out his hand to her and they left the longhouse together. “If this does not work,” he said, “we’re done.”

  “You and I?”

  He shook his head, moonlight glinting off the red of his hair. “All of us.”

  His people, the only other thing he loved as much as her, the only thing he’d sacrifice her for. As it should be.

  “It will work,” she said.

  They stopped at the center of the village square. The fire pit held dried wood and brush, to start the fire easily. Wood slats and branches were stacked to the side, each decorated with symbols or runes to represent a loved one lost in the sickness.

  Ragnor would be first to feed the fire.

  He knelt to the pile and picked up three slats. The first held a rune with the first letter of his sister’s name. The second, a berry-bush rune, for his mother who had loved berries. The third, a sail, for his brother, Leif, who had commanded one of their longboats. Sif rubbed her healing arm and wished for Ragnor’s compassion.

  “Let me help with the last.” She put her hand over Ragnor’s wrist.

  He nodded and they gripped Leif’s wood together and tossed it in. With a sigh, she reached down for her branch, one painted with an eagle feather, in remembrance of her sister. It fell into the pile with a clunk. Around them, the tribe spilled into the square, each person quietly adding their wood into the fire pit. The full moon overhead plus the torches broke the darkness, so it almost seemed like day.

  Nothing broke the stillness, save a few muttered prayers from the others. Even the woods seemed quiet, waiting for something, anticipating.

  Ragnor held her hand throughout.

  Gerhard arrived last, following Gunnhilda. The old woman carried the priest’s torch, the one that had lit the fires for all the funerals. Blessings were engraved on it, though some were wearing thin. Legend said that Ragnor’s grandfather, Old Magnus, had brought it from the Norse land and that it was wood from Odin’s tree.

  Gerhard picked up the last slat of wood and tossed it into the fire pit with a muffled oath. Curse or prayer, she couldn’t tell. Gunnhilda stepped to the pit, lowering the torch.

  “All of you, help me,” she said.

  Sif, Ragnor and Gerhard all put their hands to the torch. Gerhard, Sif noticed, placed his hand the lowest, under hers. Together, they knelt and set the wood to flame. Gunnhilda chanted something and the fire pit burst into a high blaze. They all stepped back from the flames.

  Gunnhilda turned to face them. No longer did she seem a feeble old woman. Instead, backlit by the blaze, dressed in her finest clothing, it seemed some of the goddess inhabited her.

  “Kneel,” she said to them.

  They all knelt. Sif closed her eyes, to shut out the brightness. It burned.

  “Clasp hands,” Gunnhilda said.

  Ragnor grabbed Sif’s right hand with a reassuring squeeze. Gerhard slipped his hand around her left, with a grip not too tight but not too loose, either. His hand was smaller than Ragnor’s but callused in the same places. It also gave off more heat than she’d expected. He seemed absolutely calm. As a child, Gerhard had had a habit of going still like this before an explosion. Would it be the same tonight?

  Sif took a deep breath, inhaling smoke both from the fire and the torch Gunnhilda still held. It smelled different. Gunnhilda had put something else in with the tar on the torch. Sif took a deeper breath, inhaling more, and her throat burned.

  Gunnhilda laid her hand on each of their heads, calling on the gods to bless this night with life, with fertility. She started with Gerhard, calling on Thor. Next, Ragnor, and calling on Odin. When Gunnhilda put her hand on Sif’s head, it felt like the weight of the world. Sif’s neck bowed of its own accord.

  “Repeat after me,” Gunnhilda said.

  Sif gathered saliva, hoping her voice would work. Her head felt so heavy, so strange. Gerhard rubbed his thumb along her wrist, sending tremors down to her toes. If he’d meant to be reassuring, he wasn’t.

  Gunnhilda repeated the same blessing she’d used for the men, only calling on Freya this time. Sif repeated it, her voice steady, at least for now. Gunnhilda motioned for the three of them to stand. Sif allowed the men to stand first, content to use the support of their hands to keep her own balance. Her head spun. The night seemed nothing but fire. She closed her eyes against the brightness. When she opened them again, three women had appeared beside Gunnhilda. For a moment, she thought they were illusions, until she recognized Bera as one of them. All three held cups full of water. Gunnhilda took the first cup and handed it to Gerhard, urging him to drink it all. He took it all in one long swallow. Ragnor did the same when it was offered.

  When Gunnhilda presented the third cup to her, Sif didn’t know which hand to drop to seize it.

  “I will help you,” Gunnhilda said.

  Sif nodded. Gunnhilda held the cup to her lips and tipped it. Sif swallowed, the bubbling spring-water taste mixed with something a little grittier, something she’d not tasted before. Fear gripped her, tightening her stomach. What had Gunnhilda done? She squeezed the hands holding her tighter. Gerhard entwined their fingers, allowing her to squeeze harder. Ragnor seemed not to notice the extra pressure.

  The world spun a bit more but the brightness vanished. Sif focused on Gunnhilda as she finished. The old woman bent to her ear.

  “You will be Freya’s vessel tonight, Sif,” she sa
id. “This will help you get closer to her. No fear.”

  “Thank you,” Sif whispered.

  Gunnhilda nodded. The three women melted back to the crowd. Gunnhilda raised the torch to speak to the tribe but Sif couldn’t hear the words. Sounds from the crackling fire roared in her ears. The sky seemed bright with all sorts of light, shooting off in all directions. Her skin felt covered with living smoke, prickly, intense, hot, throbbing.

  Freya, help me.

  Gerhard dropped her hand, only to put his arm around her waist, steadying her but also bringing her closer to him. His arm enclosed her back, sending that strange second skin enclosing her humming. She licked her lips, her whole body awakening to the touch. Ragnor followed Gerhard’s example and she was enclosed by both of them. She bit back a moan, almost turning to watery clay in their hands.

  Her breathing grew faster, her face hotter, the lights in the sky more intense. No longer could she tell which hand was Ragnor’s and which hand was Gerhard’s. They seemed as one, all the same person, her body ready to reach out and absorb both of them.

  The arms around her tightened.

  “Sif,” Ragnor whispered. “Are you well?”

  “More than well.”

  He kissed her cheek, the soft brush of his lips setting her face as aflame as the bonfire in front of them. Vaguely, she realized that both men had moved behind her, their shoulders touching, to better support her. Ah, now, if they would just touch her… If she could strip off her clothes, fall to the ground with their bodies entwined with hers…

  “To the spring.”

  Gunnhilda’s voice again. Sif shook her head, wondering what exactly had been in that cup. And had she given the men the same? If so, why did they seem able to stand on their own?

  The walk seemed less of a walk than floating above the ground. Colors kept flashing in front of Sif’s eyes. The noises of birds flapping overheard and animals rustling in the brush felt amplified and strange. Her feet seemed to not feel the soil and grass under them. The hands that connected her to both men seemed to burn, almost scald.