She pulls another blanket on top of the first and succumbs again to sleep, dreaming of her father and a faceless woman in a long white dress, whose hands are pale and slender and icy to the touch. She wakes to find Vili standing over her, his chest heaving, his wet hair plastered to his skull.
“Sorry to disturb your rest,” he says sarcastically, wiping the rain from his face. Fulla sits up quickly, brushing bits of hay from her hair.
“You’re late.”
“And you’ve not ridden half the night through sodden fields, so I’d not complain if I were you,” he counters tersely, nodding towards the yard. “Your precious gelding is outside.” He steps over to the mare and greets her fondly, reaching up to scratch behind her ears. “Hello, Trika, my beauty. They’ve looked after you well?”
“Well enough,” says Fulla.
“Has she been ridden?”
Fulla instantly regrets riding his mount. “A few times,” she answers evasively.
He raises an eyebrow. “By you?”
“Who else?” She scoffs. “No one else would touch her.”
Vili frowns at this slight. He takes off his damp oilskin and shakes the water off, then hangs it on a post, before opening a wineskin slung beneath one arm. He takes a long pull from it and offers her a drink, which she refuses. He collapses heavily onto the haystack, closing his eyes.
She rises, and steps forward suspiciously. “What are you doing?”
He opens his eyes. “I need rest. We were hours coming. Your precious gelding lost its way.” He pulls the woollen blankets on top of himself.
She looks at him, astonished. “You don’t expect me to leave you here?”
“Stay, if you like. But you’re in for a dull night.”
She drags a stool over and sits down opposite him. “Half an hour. To catch your breath. That is all. If that mare is as good as you say, she can find her way home with you asleep upon her back.”
“How very generous.” He lies back again and shuts his eyes.
For a moment, she sits there silently, frowning. She takes a deep breath and exhales loudly. Vili does not respond. Fulla switches positions. “I’ll have some of that wine you offered,” she says finally.
Vili reaches to his side and holds out the wineskin, but never once opens his eyes. Fulla frowns and takes the wineskin, drinking from it. She wipes her mouth and replaces it by his side.
“That cross you wear,” she says, after a moment.
He opens one eye. “I told you, it was my mother’s.”
“But your family, is it true they’ve all converted?”
“Most of them.”
She hesitates. “What do you think of this Christian god?”
He looks at her askance. “I can only judge him by his representatives.”
“Olaf’s men?”
He nods. “They came in the spring and stayed for three weeks. It was then my grandfather took the oath of conversion and was baptised, together with my uncles.”
“But not you.”
“No.”
“In spite of your mother’s beliefs.”
He scowls. “In spite of my mother’s beliefs.”
“What were they like?”
Vili grunts. “They were fine speechmakers. Men who hone their words like sharpened steel and were not afraid to back them up with a blade, if necessary.”
“But they did not persuade you.”
“I am not persuadable. What does it matter if we worship one god or many? He or they will still blight the harvest if they choose. Or bring down the side of a mountain. Or flood our grasslands in the spring.”
“By these words, I take it you do not make offerings to Thor.”
“Why should I? What has he given me in this world?”
“He has granted you life. And prosperity.”
Vili fixes her with a stare. “When I was eight years old,” he says slowly, “I watched my father ride out of my life for ever. Two years later, I nursed my mother to her death. And last winter, my only sister died giving birth to a stillborn child.” He pauses. “Four lives he has taken from me.”
She frowns. “You’ve been unlucky. But you are not alone. You still have your kin.”
“I hardly feel that Thor has been working in my interests.”
“My grandfather says a man is better blind than buried.”
“‘And a dead man is good at nothing.’ I know the saying.”
“You do not countenance it.”
Vili pauses, gathering his thoughts. “I believe that we must all shoulder the burden of our own fate. We have no one to look to but ourselves.”
“A lonely sentiment.”
“Perhaps. But one I can rely on.”
They sit in silence for a moment. “My people worship Thor,” she offers.
“And you?”
“I lost my father when I was seven. I never knew my mother. By your standards, I am entitled to a degree of scepticism.” She hesitates, plucking at the straw beneath her feet. “The old gods seem weak in the face of this new one.”
Vili smiles. “Perhaps it is their followers who are weak.”
She nods. “The godi are all old men now. When the last of them dies, what then?”
“Do not worry. If there is a gaping hole, Olaf will move swiftly to fill it,” Vili says drily.
“No doubt he will plug it with a cross,” she answers. They exchange a brief smile.
“Fulla,” Vili hesitates, choosing his words. “I was too young to understand the circumstances of your father’s death. Nor was I privy to my own father’s motives. But . . . please accept what apologies I can make for the actions of my kin.”
She shrugs. “It is as you said: your father’s sins are not your own.”
“No, but we are all strung together in our misdeeds. I will carry his crimes with me for the rest of my life, just as one day, my son will carry mine.”
“Perhaps your son will have no crimes to atone for.”
“Perhaps not.”
Too late, they hear footsteps just outside. Before they can move, the stable door swings open to reveal her grandfather’s figure in the doorway. He bears a torch, and a bleary-eyed farmhand stands just behind him. Both men are armed with swords. “Fulla!” her grandfather hisses.
She jumps to her feet. “It’s not what it seems,” she says quickly.
“It is everything it seems!”
“He’s brought back Bor.”
“Presumably because he stole him in the first place!”
Vili opens his mouth to speak but Fulla intervenes. “No,” she insists. “It was one of the others.”
Hogni eyes Vili. “Is this true? You’ve come to exchange them?”
Vili nods cautiously. “Yes.”
“Does Thorstein know you’ve come?”
Vili shakes his head. “No.”
Hogni steps forward and raises the torch. “I recognise you,” he says slowly. “Your father was . . .” His voice fades to a stony whisper.
“My father was exiled,” says Vili. “For murder.”
“I should kill you here and now,” continues Hogni.
“Grandfather!” says Fulla.
“Be quiet, Fulla!” Hogni takes a step forward and slowly raises the point of his sword until it rests lightly on Vili’s chest. “No one would question my right to do so.”
“No,” says Vili evenly.
They stare at each other for a long moment, and Fulla sees the rise and fall of Vili’s chest. After what seems like an eternity, Hogni allows the sword to drop to his side. “Take the mare and be gone,” he says wearily, turning away. “I’ve no thirst for retribution this night.”
Vili exhales, exchanging a glance with Fulla. “Thank you.” “If I set eyes on you again, you’ll wish you’d died here and now.”
Vili nods, then moves to saddle and bridle the mare while Fulla and Hogni look on. When he is finished, he leads the horse out into the yard and climbs on its back. He gives the briefest of nods to Fulla be
fore turning the horse and setting off. They watch as he slowly disappears.
When they can no longer hear the thud of hooves, Hogni turns to face her. “I’ll not ask how you came to be in the stables in the dead of night with the son of your father’s killer,” he says slowly. “No doubt your answer would be clothed in half-truths.” He turns and crosses back to the house, leaving her alone in the darkness.
FREYA
Journeys make my blood quicken. Now as I approach Nidavellir from the air, I begin to feel a child’s excitement. Beneath me, against a backdrop of mountains, the plains extend eastward as far as I can see, broad and grey and featureless. There is not a single tree or shrub within sight. I circle the area widely, taking stock.The ground undulates gently, pocked with small craters and rocky lava domes. From the sky it looks barren, but when my feet touch the soft earth, I see at once that I am mistaken, for a variety of plants grow here.Tiny red and purple flowers spring from cracks in the lava, and bright green moss grows ankle-deep in shallow craters, dotted with yellow buttercups. I stand for a moment, listening to the silence. A gust of wind blows. The sun emerges briefly from behind some clouds, and for a few moments, the earth glows.
I do not know what I am looking for. An opening in the ground, perhaps, or something more dramatic. Whatever it is, I do not see it. I choose a direction at random and walk in a straight line, scanning the ground as I do. After several minutes, I begin to despair, for there is nothing here but wind and moss and lava. And then I hear a sound, faint but familiar: the laughter of children. I glance behind me in the direction I have come from, but see nothing. I wait, and after another moment am rewarded with the noise again, this time ahead of me. I walk quickly in its direction, and nearly stumble into the hole.
It is small and perfectly round, about the diameter of a man’s shoulders. I drop to my knees and peer inside. At first I see nothing but blackness. I lie flat upon my belly and thrust my head right into the hole, and after a moment, I see a vast, dark cave strewn with broken boulders and rubble. At the edge of my field of vision there is a blur of movement. Small shapes appear and disappear. I hear them call to one another: tiny children playing in the darkness, laughing and shouting, scrambling among the rocks, leaping from one to the next. I thrust my head even deeper into the hole, searching for another opening. How on earth did they get inside, I wonder? I look at them more closely, and decide that they are not as young as I had thought. I see now that they are dwarf children; they do not need a means of descent, for they already dwell beneath the ground.
A cry goes up from below. The dwarf children have seen me, and are standing in a small circle, their faces upturned like the petals of a flower. They smile and begin to wave their arms excitedly. They are not afraid, but curious, as any children would be. I wave to them a little tentatively, then sit back and ponder the hole. Even with the cloak it would not be straightforward, for I have little experience of flying in the dark and am unused to confined spaces. I peer through the hole, and as I do, one of the children signals to me. A young girl with piercing eyes and thick, straw-coloured plaits that fall like heavy ropes down her back. She points repeatedly in one direction and, after a moment, I leave the hole and begin to walk quickly in the direction the child has indicated. I am beginning to wonder whether I mistook her meaning, when I see an enormous gap in the earth some distance ahead, where the ceiling of the cave has collapsed inward, leaving a mass of broken rubble along the bottom and sides. With some difficulty, I scramble down the edge of the hole and, as I reach the bottom, I see the children approaching in the half-light, swarming like insects over the rocks. I stop and wait for them, and when they are several paces from me, they too pause, blinking rapidly in the daylight of the opening. I count them quickly: seven in all, with a few more lurking behind rocks. They are pale but perfectly formed: small replicas of myself at the same age. I smile at them.
“Hello.”
The children titter and flush with excitement.The girl with straw-coloured plaits takes one bold step closer, but says nothing. She is eleven or twelve, but only waist-high. Her eyebrows are arched and sandy white; they shoot up with curiosity.
“Perhaps you could help me,” I say gently to the girl. “I’m looking for the Brisings.” The children burst into giggles and turn around in the darkness. The girl with plaits points to something, and after a moment a boy emerges a little sheepishly from the darkness. He is taller than the others, and older; perhaps too old to play at children’s games. He walks slowly forward until he is level with the girl.
“My name is Brising,” he says earnestly, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin as he speaks.
“You?” My surprise is evident. I am struck at once by his looks, for he is an attractive youth, with soft brown hair that falls in curls about his shoulders, and wide, full lips. “I was expecting someone . . .” I hesitate, and the boy’s face darkens.
“Taller?” he says crossly.
“Older.”
“Oh.” The boy’s expression softens. “I am Berling. The youngest. We are four in all.”
“Four brothers?” The boy nods. The girl with straw plaits nudges him.
“This is my cousin, Raiki,” he adds grudgingly. The girl smiles. “Who are you looking for?”
“The eldest, I think.”
“That would be Grerr.”
“Can you take me to him?”
The boy nods and motions me to follow. The other children watch as we climb past them among the rocks. After a moment, Raiki follows at a little distance.
“Do you play here?” I ask the boy.
“They do,” he says, nodding towards the others.
“But not you,” I say teasingly.
He shrugs. “Sometimes.”
“Is it safe?” I indicate the collapsed ceiling of the cave.
He shrugs. “It happened long ago.” We come to a clearing in the cave, with tiny shafts of light coming through small openings in the ceiling.The tunnels branch off in different directions. The boy turns and heads into the darkness without hesitation. “Have you been here before?”
“Never.”
“Then you must take care. The tunnels can be confusing if you do not know them.”
This is an understatement, I decide, as there is little to distinguish one grey shaft from another in the darkness. “Who made them?” I ask.
“Some were formed by lava, some by water,” the boy explains. “Others we made ourselves to suit our purpose. They join the caverns where we live and work.”
I see light ahead, and soon we come to another open area, again with bore holes in the ceiling to allow sunlight through. Despite this, I find the atmosphere stifling. The air is heavy with the smell of damp, and in the space of a few minutes it has crept into my lungs, causing my chest to tighten. “How many people live here?”
The boy frowns. “I don’t know. All of us. Hundreds. Maybe more. The caves extend for many miles. Watch your head.” He stoops through a small opening and I follow.
“Do you live with your brothers?”
The boy shakes his head. “I live with my mother. My brothers are older. They live nearby.”
“Do any others come here?”
“Others?”
“Visitors, I mean. Like me.”
He glances sideways at me. “Not often.”
“Do you leave the caves?”
He frowns. “Not yet. I am too young. But Dvalin says he will take me when I’m grown.”
“Who is Dvalin?”
“My brother. Half-brother. We all have different mothers. Except for Grerr and Alfrigg.”
“I see. And where will he take you, your brother?”
The boy shrugs. “Outside. To the real world.”
I laugh. “But your world is real.”
The boy flushes. “You know what I mean.”
“Does Dvalin travel in the real world?”
“Sure. He grew up there. His mother was one of them.”
“And the oth
ers? Do they leave the caves?”
“No. Grerr doesn’t like the outside.”
“Why?”
“He hates the sun. But really, it’s on account of being -” Berling stops. He stares at the ground in front of him, kicking at the dirt with his toe. I wait for him to finish. After a moment, he shrugs. “Dwarves do better underground.”
We carry on walking in silence. I am impressed by the boy’s honesty. And his humility. Both are qualities lacking in my own people. “We’re nearly there,” he says after a moment. Then he stops short and turns to me. “But I still don’t know your name.”
I am uncertain what to tell him. “I am Freya,” I say finally.
He nods, his eyebrows knit together thoughtfully. He knows of me, I think. We come to another chamber, with tunnels leading in four directions. He points to one.
“My mother and I live here. The others live down the opposite tunnel. And this one here leads to the forge. We’re goldsmiths.”
“Yes, I know.”
He stares at me for a moment. “You’ve come about the Brisingamen, haven’t you?” he says.
I hesitate.
“The necklace,” he says.
There seems no point in misleading him. “Yes.”
The boy smiles ruefully. “Dvalin said it could not remain with us for ever.”
“Why?”
Betsy Tobin Page 4