“Where are you going?” I uttered.
“There’s a ship on the coast bound for Alexandria,” he said without pausing.
“Alexandria,” I repeated dumbly.
“They say it has the finest turrets of any city in the world!”
“I’ll come with you. We’ll take the falcon suit.”
Od stopped and looked at me with amused surprise. He stepped forward and planted a kiss upon my forehead. “Freya,” he said. “Bird-wife. I shall not be gone long.”
He returned four months later, as if only a night had passed during his absence. I had managed to busy myself over time, had tended his garden with care in the hope that his gratitude would prevent him from ever leaving me again. Still, I felt numb with relief when he walked through the door. “I’ve brought a gift for you, bird-wife,” he said triumphantly, “from my travels.” He removed a bronze belt encrusted with jewels of every colour from around his waist, and held it up for me to see. “Do you like it?” He was smiling now, his face an open question. I was too bewildered to answer, not by the generosity of his gift, but by his utter nonchalance in the giving of it. It was as if he’d been to market that morning and purchased me a trinket.
That evening, he made love to me for the first time in four months, not with eager abandon as I’d anticipated, but with restrained tenderness and studied affection. He used fine words that night, entreated me in the most exquisite terms. Indeed, his words shone like the polished gems on the belt he’d brought back for me. But even as he uttered them, I found myself wondering where, and from whom, he’d acquired them. And whether he’d paid dearly.
Afterwards, he slept like a dead man. I lay awake until dawn, wondering whether I should tell him about the child that had formed fleetingly in my womb during his absence, only to wither before its limbs had taken shape. I decided against it. We had not spoken of children, Od and I. He was a patient and attentive gardener, but I wondered whether his nurturing instincts would extend beyond seedlings.
Alexandria was his first sojourn. Two months after his return, he set sail for Constantinople, and the following spring, for Damascus. By then, I’d realised that Od could not stay in one place long enough to rear a weed, let alone a child. He brought me no more gifts after that first trip. Not the usual sort, at any rate. Instead, his bags were laden with exotic seeds and tiny cuttings, their roots shrouded in moss that he dampened each morning with sweet water on the long voyage home. Upon his return from Damascus, he spread them out upon the bed for me to admire, and I feigned interest, wondering which of us was mad. He held up a shrivelled stem. “The seeds of this can cure toothache,” he said, cradling the dead flower head in his palm as if it held the secret to everlasting life. He laid the pod down and with two fingers picked up something I felt certain was mouse dung. “And this is a seed for an orchid so rare it has never been successfully cultivated. Ours would be the first!” I was incredulous. That night it occurred to me that the inevitable had happened: our marriage had begot nothing more than a plant.
The last time he left, I went with him. He did not know it, of course. He set sail one fine spring morning and did not see me soaring overhead. The journey nearly killed me. I was capable of faster flight, but did not dare lose sight of his ship, so I stayed aloft for whole days at a time, only resting after darkness fell, concealed in a dark corner of the stern. One night, he rose in the small hours to relieve himself, and I felt certain he would discover me. It was a still, cloudless night with a brilliant harvest moon, and as he finished his business and turned towards me, my heart was beating wildly. This is it and he will know, I thought. But then he looked right through me, and in that moment I came to understand that I was invisible to my husband, both as a bird and as a wife.
I flew home the next morning, determined not to follow him again, and resolved to finish with the marriage upon his return. But the days dragged into weeks and the weeks into months and nearly a year later, I broke my promise to myself and went in search of him again. After all, I thought, one cannot divorce a memory. It took me three months to find him. And when I did, he was sitting on a rock in the middle of a desert, sipping a small bowl of what looked to be wet leaves. I stared down at the bowl in disgust. He is even drinking plants, I thought. Od looked up at me and smiled. He showed no sign of remorse or even surprise.
“Our marriage is finished,” I said.
“Of course it is,” he replied.
Afterwards, I flew home. They said I wept along the way. They said my tears fell like rain and flooded the earth with my sorrow. If so, I have no memory of it. What I recall is a kind of blinding emptiness I’d not experienced before or since, during which I lost all ability to think or feel. Once home, I told my father Od was dead, which was the truth, as far as I was concerned. In fact, our marriage had foundered long before.
My first impulse after this was to renounce the world of men. This was quickly followed by a second, stronger impulse to embrace love in whatever form it came to me. I decided on the latter, telling myself I had a duty to fulfil. If I was not familiar with love in all its guises, how could I help those who came to me for assistance? That night, I donned my falcon suit and flew towards the coast, choosing a subject at random from the air. He was a fisherman: young, weathered and handsome, though his beard was littered with scales and he stank of the sea. We spent three days together, during which time he spoke only of tides and nets and gills. By the end, I could bear the sea no longer, much less his talk of cod.
Three days was too long, I decided, to be with any man. I invented a range of aliases: I was an escaped slave, an Irish princess, the wife of an outlaw, a wealthy widow. I travelled widely, taking lovers everywhere I went. I did not discriminate among them: they came in all shapes and sizes, young and old, rich and poor. I developed something of a penchant for the broken-hearted, lurking outside temples where they unwittingly sought my intervention. No sooner had they uttered their devotions than I’d appear, take them by the hand, and lead them away for comfort and solace.
Perhaps this was an abuse of my position. But how quickly the lovelorn forgot their purpose in my presence! So this is mortal love, I thought: weak-willed and short-lived. I decided to return to Asgard, to sample the delights my own race had to offer. It was here, practically on my doorstep, that I met Ottar. I hesitate to use the word love in connection with him. I don’t know what it was we had. Lust certainly played a part. As did jealousy, anger and mistrust. Malice and betrayal made a brief, final appearance. In all, my relationship with Ottar was a long strand of ugly words that formed themselves into a bitter necklace.
But first, I should describe the man himself, for he had some unusual qualities. At times he was a boar. Not a bore, but the short, bristled variety with a snout and four legs. Like me, he could change shape, though in his case, the shape was less pleasing than my own. As a boar, he couldn’t fly but he could run like lightning and could squeeze through very small spaces when he needed to, and could therefore disappear easily, especially in heavy undergrowth, which I discovered to my dismay towards the end of our affair. He was more attractive than most boars, as his bristles were made of gold. But while I’m partial to fine metals, I preferred him as a man.
He hated my falcon cloak. I think it made him feel inferior, an emotion that does not sit well among men in general, and the Aesir in particular. He was the patron of hunters everywhere and took his role so seriously that if a particular hunt was not successful, he felt compelled to intervene. Hence, stags would occasionally drop dead from muttered oaths. And migratory birds would fall, exhausted, from the skies. He had an inflated sense of his own importance, and refused to let nature take its course. But he was clever and virile. And exceptionally handsome, when not rooting about in the earth.
It ended badly. I went looking for him one day, and found his thighs wrapped around a swan maiden. He was so startled that he unwittingly changed shape. She got the shock of a lifetime, gold bristles or not. This last affair curdled
something deep inside me. Afterwards, I shut myself inside the walls of Sessruminger with only my cats for company. Cats, I decided, had certain advantages over men. They were loyal without being sycophantic, independent without being absent, and affectionate without being rapacious. That they choke up balls of fur and leave dead rodents at my feet is unfortunate. But it is not grounds for divorce.
The last time I saw Freyr, he told me he was going abroad and that he might not return. And though I searched his face, I found no trace of sorrow or regret. That day he behaved towards me in a way that was both familiar and dismissive, as if our past was a cloak he’d worn for many years but was now happy to discard. I realised then that he’d been taken from me long before. As with Od, there was nothing left to mourn.
DVALIN
For two days, Dvalin stays by Idun’s bedside. And though her condition rapidly improves, Bragi’s creeping resentment of his presence threatens to snap the slender bond of kinship that lies between them. “He agitates with you here,” Idun admits when she and Dvalin are alone. It is a rare moment of privacy, for Bragi has remained with them almost constantly.
“Agitates? His jealousy is like a boil that worsens by the hour. He’ll soon burst if I don’t leave.”
Idun laughs. “It’s true.You must go. But he’s a good man, Dvalin. And his love for me is boundless.”
“What of your love for him?”
Idun hesitates. “I used to think that love was like a small door deep inside us that we could open if we chose,” she says finally. “Now I think it chooses us.”
“If we’re lucky.”
“Yes,” she concedes, frowning. “What of you?”
“What of me?”
“Have you never known a woman’s love?”
He smiles wanly, and thinks of the women he has known: his mother, Idun herself, Menglad. “What face would it wear?” He teases.
Idun laughs. “I wouldn’t know.” Dvalin watches as she takes up a small piece of tapestry beside her bed and extracts a needle from a hollow birdbone hung about her neck. He is relieved to hear her speak lightly on such subjects. But his fears about her health are not completely assuaged. He lowers his voice.
“Idun. I am loath to leave you.”
“And I am loath to see you go.” She lays aside the tapestry and leans forward, grasping his hands in her own. “But you must. Please don’t worry. There is much to live for, Dvalin. I am still hoping for a child. She smiles at him reassuringly, and gives his hands another squeeze before taking up her tapestry once again. “Perhaps Menglad can help,” she adds, without looking up.
The mention of Menglad robs him of speech. He stares at her delicate fingers, at the deft way they work the thread, at the flash of sharpened whalebone as it disappears beneath the cloth. “Perhaps,” he says finally. His voice rasps, but Idun doesn’t notice.
Later that day, Bragi ferries him across the river in a small skiff. Dvalin can see his mount grazing at some distance on the other side. He whistles for her, long and low. The mare lifts her head and after a brief pause, comes slowly trotting towards the river. Away from the house and Idun, Bragi’s mood has already lifted. He even smiles a little as he rows. By the time they reach the far side, the horse is waiting patiently, head still, nostrils quivering. Dvalin leaps from the prow onto the grassy bank, then turns and holds the skiff fast in the current. Bragi does not rise to clasp his shoulder in farewell. Instead, he keeps his seat, hands firmly locked upon the oars. “Take care of her,” Dvalin says by way of parting. The older man’s eyes narrow briefly before he nods. When Dvalin releases the prow, Bragi pulls hard on the oars, sending the skiff darting out into the current. Dvalin stands for a minute, following the boat’s progress with his eyes. His words had somehow sounded like an accusation. Had he meant them to?
He mounts the horse and turns it south, intending to follow a different route on his return. He will travel via Laxardal, where his father’s closest friend, Hogni, lives. After a night’s rest, he’ll ride on to Nidavellir, then make the journey over the mountains to see Menglad. The prospect is not a happy one. The crossing itself is arduous at the best of times. But once over the pass, he must make his way through hostile territory, to the woman who once spurned him.
Several hours later, as he approaches Laxardal, his mood lightens. His horse has begun to tire, but Dvalin urges him on, anxious to arrive at Hogni’s farm before nightfall. He rides into the setting sun and all around him, the valley is transformed by the evening light. The mossy turf glows bright green beneath him, and the sun’s rays shimmer like ice crystals on the tiny streams which cut across the valley floor. He feels suddenly elated as he lopes his horse across the valley, as if anything could happen in a world filled with such light. It lifts and carries him all the way to Hogni’s farm, and his spirits are still aglow when he strides through the front door.
“Greetings, Hogni.” The old man is seated by the fire tanning a deer skin. He looks up in surprise, then slowly rises, his eyes brightening.
“Welcome home, my son.”The two men embrace warmly. Dvalin cannot help but notice the shortness in Hogni’s breath, and the way in which his movements are laboured, as if he wears his age like a cumbersome suit of armour. It has been three months since his last visit, and Hogni seems a decade older. “We did not expect you so soon. You’ve come from Nidavellir?”
“From Idun. She’s been unwell, but is recovering now.”
“I’m sorry to hear of it. How long will you stay?”
“I can only stop the night, I’m afraid.”
“Then we can at least furnish you with a warm hearth and a full belly.”
“How are things with the farm?”
Hogni sighs. “Age brings no peace, I’m afraid. Skallagrim is dead.”
“I can’t say I’m sorry.”
“His sons have raised the land claims.”
Dvalin frowns. “They have no right. The claims were settled long ago.”
Hogni shrugs. “The sword is law to them. They have no other.”
“We have known this for some time,” says Dvalin grimly.
“Skallagrim and I may have been enemies, but at least we understood one another,” Hogni muses. “At any rate, I have granted his sons the lands they dispute.”
Dvalin raises an eyebrow in surprise. “The eastern boundary? Why?”
“Please, Dvalin. I know what you are thinking. Jarl sacrificed his life for that land. But a plot of earth that has been soaked in blood holds little value for me now. I have seen too much of life pass by. Too much of death.”
Dvalin nods thoughtfully. “Perhaps it is best to draw an end to the matter.” He hesitates. “Perhaps we should have done so years ago.”
Hogni places his hand atop Dvalin’s. “Best not to speculate on what might have been. How goes life in Nidavellir?”
“My people prosper.”
“Your father’s legacy is a strong one.”
“His successor is an able man in his own right.”
“I miss his conversation,” Hogni muses. “You too, no doubt.”
Dvalin purses his lips but says nothing.
“I wonder what he would make of our present predicament,” continues Hogni. “Olaf ’s missionaries are everywhere these days, preaching lies and blasphemy. They say nine godi have been baptised already, nearly a quarter of the parliament. In a few days we ride to the Althing, and there is talk of a separate encampment. They have even elected their own lawspeaker.” He sighs heavily. “This island will be torn in two if they persist.”
“You fear bloodshed at the Althing?”
Hogni shrugs. “It is possible.”
“Does Fulla go with you?”
He nods. “Fulla will be at my side. She grows older by the hour. Fulla the child is no longer with us, it seems.” He hesitates. “Sometimes I wonder who has taken her place.”
“She will not disappoint you, Hogni.”
“No, of course not. At any rate, we must look towards her future. I
will not be here for ever.”
“You forget that I am here,” Dvalin reminds him gently. “I made a vow to Jarl to look after her.”
“Still, it is my plan that she should marry. And soon.”
“You have spoken to her?”
“Not yet. I’ve no wish to alarm her.”
Dvalin raises an eyebrow. “It’s her life we speak of, Hogni.”
“Yes,” he says. “Yes, of course. I shall raise the matter with her soon.”
Later that evening, Dvalin finds Fulla alone in the stable, tending to her small chestnut gelding. She does not see him at first, and he listens quietly in the doorway as she murmurs to the animal, brushing down his sides as she speaks. The horse stamps its feet and nickers softly as she moves around his body. Dvalin lingers for a moment. The sight both pains and pleases him, for just as Hogni deteriorates with age, Fulla seems to grow increasingly into herself each time he visits. He has watched her from birth, has seen her transform from a red-faced infant to a smirking child, to an almost incandescent young woman. She is pale and small but no less striking for it, with wheat-coloured hair that hangs to her waist, and finely cut features. She moves patiently and confidently about the horse, reassuring the animal with her voice and her touch.
“You’ll be riding him to the Assembly, I suppose,” he asks finally. Fulla looks up in surprise, then breaks into a wide smile.
“Uncle.” She crosses over to him and they embrace.
“Is it your first trip to the Althing?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “Father took me when I was five. I remember an enormous field of tents all draped in different coloured canopies, like a vast carpet of flowers. And more people than I’d ever seen. By the end of the week, there was so much mud I had to ride on Father’s shoulders.You should come with us, Dvalin.”
“I dislike mud,” he says, smiling. “And people, come to think of it. Anyway, I am only passing through.”
“I’m sorry we can’t keep you longer.” She picks up a brush and begins to groom the gelding, while Dvalin seats himself on a stool.
Betsy Tobin Page 7