Betsy Tobin

by Ice Land (v5)

  “Perhaps even less than you cast a glance in theirs.”

  “I have no time for pointless talk,” he replies, lying down once again. Then he turns on his side away from me, signalling that the conversation is definitely over. I choose a spot on the opposite side of the hearth and make up my own bed upon the floor. I close my eyes and listen to the spit and crackle of the flames. So it was not me he wanted, but my presence. I am to be his protector.

  When I wake, it is morning. The fire has burnt to ashes and the room is empty. Dvalin’s bedroll is gone. I rise and pull my outer clothing on, then quickly roll up my own bedding. When I emerge from the farmhouse, the sun is already bright.The horses have been saddled and wait patiently in the yard. Dvalin rounds the corner carrying a bucket of grain. He lowers it to the ground by the horses. “You slept well,” he says with a raised eyebrow.

  “You could have woken me.”

  He shrugs. “I needed time to ready the horses.” He fishes a small round loaf out of his bag and hands it to me. “Here,” he says.

  The bread is coarse and dark and full of husks. I break off a piece and take a bite. It crumbles in my hand and is dry and salty to the taste. “Where is the farmer?”

  “Gone to the fields.”

  “And his wife?”

  “In the barn.”

  “We should thank them.”

  “I already have.” He finishes tying on the saddlebags, then hands me my reins.

  “You’ve thought of everything,” I say coolly.

  “I usually do.”

  He mounts his horse with a grunt and turns it around.

  “How long will it take us to get to the Hill of Healing?”

  “We should be there by nightfall. As long as there are no setbacks.”

  “Setbacks?”

  He shrugs. “Interference.”

  “Is that what happened last time?” I say as he rides past me. “Interference?” “Interference?”

  “Last time was retribution,” he says over his shoulder.

  He urges his horse into a trot, and I watch as they disappear over a small hillock. Reluctantly, I mount my own horse, though my entire body protests from yesterday’s riding. I glance longingly at the feathers spilling from my saddlebag. We are fools not to fly.

  For the next few hours, our pace is rapid. I have never been to Jotunheim, and the landscape is truly beautiful. We pass through rolling wooded dales and broad undulating pastures criss-crossed with sparkling streams.There is more forest here, and the trees themselves are taller. To my relief, we meet no one. At noon, we break to rest and water the horses. Shortly after we have stopped, we hear the jingling sound of a harness. An oxcart comes into view, driven by a man and boy and pulled by two horses. They watch us silently as they approach, the boy’s expression openly curious, the father’s more guarded. As they draw near, I am reminded of the sheer scale of these people. The man is three or four heads taller than Dvalin and I, and even the boy, though hardly more than a lad, would look down on us. Apart from their height, there is little to distinguish them from ourselves, though I can see from their clothing that they are poor yeoman farmers. As the oxcart passes, the farmer gives the barest hint of a nod, while the boy merely stares at us open-mouthed. I can feel Dvalin’s relief once they are gone.We set off once again, hoping not to meet anyone else.

  But our hopes are soon dashed. The trail enters a dense pine forest and after several minutes of winding our way through the trees, we chance upon an encampment in a clearing. Three woollen tents have been pitched in the clearing, and half a dozen horses graze amongst the trees. A campfire spews a small spiral of smoke. Beside it lies a pile of dead wood and branches from the forest. At our approach, the nearest horse lifts its head and snorts. We halt and Dvalin glances around us quickly. He raises a finger to his lips and turns his horse in the opposite direction. I start to do the same, but my horse takes several steps backwards, the dry brush crackling loudly beneath its weight. Dvalin frowns at me as I try to get my horse under control, but no sooner have I done so than a bearded man pokes his head out from the nearest tent. He calls to his companions, and within a few moments, five enormous men have tumbled forth in various stages of dress. They have clearly been asleep, as they are bleary-eyed and yawning. One carries a sword, the other a small hatchet. The others are unarmed. The first steps forward.

  “Greetings, travellers,” he calls out. Despite his words, his tone is unfriendly, and I am instantly wary.

  “Greetings,” says Dvalin cautiously.

  “From where have you come?” He eyes us closely. “The far side of the mountains, by the look of you.”

  “From Nidavellir,” says Dvalin. I glance at him. The line of his jaw is rigid. The man walks slowly towards us. He has dark, curly hair and a large, coarse beard with a touch of auburn in it, and when he reaches us, he is tall enough to look us in the eye, even though we are mounted.

  “We do not often get your kind up here. What is your business in Jotunheim?”

  “We are merely passing through. On our way to the Hill of Healing.”

  The man swivels around to look at me. “The Hill of Healing,” he says, stepping closer to my horse. He raises a large bony hand to its nose. His skin is tanned and weathered; I can see the cracks in his lips. “And who are you?” he asks me.

  “I am Freya, daughter of Nord, sister of Freyr, from Asgard.” I speak as loudly and clearly as I can, though my voice betrays a tremor.

  The man smiles and turns to his companions. A rustle of laughter runs through the group. “The very one! Come down off your horse, Freya, daughter of Nord, and let us see you. For we’ve heard your beauty is so great that the sun itself would halt its journey across the sky to get a closer look.”

  I glance at Dvalin, who nods almost imperceptibly, so I slide off my mount to the ground. Now the man towers over me. He peruses me for a moment, then turns to his companions.

  “Perhaps a little rough around the edges. Bruised from the rigours of your journey.”

  At that moment, we hear a crackling in the undergrowth, and all of us turn towards the source of the sound. A boy emerges from the trees. He is much younger than the others, and though quite tall, he is beardless. Perched on his arm is a small hawk, its claws tethered to his wrist by a leather thong. The boy stops short when he sees us, his eyes widening. The others laugh. The man we have been talking to motions to him. “Come closer! We have visitors.” He gesticulates towards us.

  The boy steps forward, eyeing us cautiously. The leader turns to us with a wink. “The lad cannot speak, but fancies he can fly.” The others laugh, while the older man places a hand on his shoulder.The boy fixes his eyes on the hawk, his cheeks colouring. I glance at Dvalin. He is staring intently at the boy.

  The leader turns to me. “But we have heard that you can fly. Is this not the case?”

  “Today I ride,” I say.

  “What a pity. I should like to see you with your wings.”

  “I have a feather form.”

  “Feathers then! Why don’t you show us?”

  “Not today,” says Dvalin.

  The man turns to him with a dark look. “You did not say your name,” he says slowly.

  Dvalin hesitates. “Dvalin. Son of Ivaldi,” he replies.

  The man frowns. “Dvalin,” he repeats. “The name is known to me, though I am not sure why.” He looks from Dvalin to me. “One from Asgard. One from Nidavellir. The two could not be further apart,” he remarks. “Tell me, Freya, daughter of Nord, what do you see in him?” He turns to his companions with a raised eyebrow. “Surely not his stature.” The men laugh. I do not look at Dvalin. “Perhaps his attributes are of a different nature. Perhaps they are the sort that remain hidden from the eye,” he continues suggestively.

  “A finer man you will not find amongst you,” I say coldly.

  He laughs. “Is that so?” He looks at Dvalin sceptically. “High praise indeed, coming from one of the Aesir.”

  “We are
betrothed,” I add. I do not know what has prompted me to say this. Dvalin blinks with surprise. The man claps his hands together.

  “Betrothed! I see! But . . .” He turns to me with a curious look. “You are already married, are you not?”

  I feel myself redden.Truly, I have always hated giants.They are a suspicious and disgruntled people, their blood thick with envy. “I was,” I say finally.

  He turns to Dvalin. “A well-oiled bride! For a very short groom!”

  I glance at Dvalin. His entire body seems to swell with anger. “Time to go, Freya” he says tersely, his dark eyes locked on the giant’s face. I turn back to my horse and climb into the stirrup, when I feel the bearded man’s enormous hand fall upon my shoulder.

  “No need for haste,” he says, pinning me to the ground, his hand a dead weight upon my shoulder. “We’ve barely met.” This time, he makes no effort to disguise the threat in his tone.

  I turn around and he smiles at me lewdly, but before I can speak, Dvalin draws his knife and leaps straight from his horse onto the man’s head. His weight throws the man backwards and they both tumble to the ground. The other men rush closer until they form a circle, though they do not intervene, clearly regarding it all as great sport. The boy with the hawk does not move, though a look of alarm registers upon his face. He shields the hawk’s eyes with one hand.

  We watch as Dvalin and the bearded man roll back and forth in the dirt. I am at a loss for how to help, as we are greatly outnumbered. But even as I watch, the giant begins to get the better of Dvalin. Finally, when I can stand it no longer, I do the only thing that I can think of. I snatch the feather form from my saddlebag and in the next moment, I am airborne. The men who are not fighting immediately lift their heads to gawk at me, forgetting the two wrestling at their feet.The boy with the hawk lifts the bird up towards the sky, as if they both intend to follow.

  I rise steadily upwards, until I am circling at a great height, then I dive down towards the ground and grab Dvalin, pulling him upwards with me into the sky. The effort of lifting Dvalin aloft is almost too much for me. Still I manage, and we are soon soaring high over the forest. I can feel him struggling in my grip, but I continue to climb. Far below us, the men stand and gape helplessly.

  I fly a short distance to a different part of the forest, then lower us both to the ground. We land heavily, which I cannot help. Dvalin tumbles to the ground, then turns away from me and immediately vomits. Out of politeness I avert my eyes. When he is finished, he turns back to me, his expression furious. “Never do that again!” he says.

  “I saved your life!” I reply, indignantly.

  “You were the one in danger!”

  “They would have killed you! Are you completely mad, taking on five men?”

  He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. One eye has begun to twitch and the line of his jaw pulses against his cheek. “And what would they have done to you?” he says finally. Without waiting for an answer, he turns away and walks into the forest, whistling long and low for his horse.

  Presently, I hear a crackling in the undergrowth, and within a few moments, his horse appears through the trees, running at a brisk trot. My own horse trails behind.

  Dvalin greets his horse with affection and quickly mounts it, turning it around without another word. I glance back uneasily towards the direction of the camp, but evidently the giants have decided not to pursue us. I climb upon my horse and follow him north.

  THE NORNS

  The first settlers to land upon these shores had no compass to guide them. Instead they navigated by the sun and stars and the flight of ravens.They did not know of lodestones, nor that the earth is shrouded in a transparent veil of magnetism that is embedded in her rocks. Deep inside the earth is a ball of spinning iron, which transforms the core into a vast magnet. The pull of its force extends far into space, guiding the migrations of animals across the face of the planet. But the earth’s magnetism is capricious: it wavers like the point of a compass. Thus North and South, from one eon to the next, trade places like players in a dance.

  FULLA

  Hogni and Fulla wind their way through the crowd until they reach the vast field where the horse races are held. At one end, a clump of youths await the start of the next race, reining their mounts in tightly. Two men are busy setting out stakes at the field’s halfway point. Fulla watches as they tie a gull’s feather to the top of each stake. She has seen this race before: each rider must pluck a feather from a stake at full gallop, then loop around a single stake at the end, before racing back to the finish. Fulla’s eyes roam restlessly about the crowd. It has been two days since her betrothal to Rolf. Each time she thinks of it, she feels a sudden lurch deep inside.

  “Ari’s nephew races today,” remarks Hogni, eyeing up the contestants.

  “Who?”

  Hogni nods at the riders. “You remember. We met him that first day.”

  Fulla settles her gaze on the contestants, feigning interest. There are eleven brawny young men in all, including Ari’s nephew. Her eyes drift slowly down the line.With a start, she sees Vili. How could she have missed him the first time? She glances sideways at Hogni, but he does not appear to have noticed. Vili is at the far end, the last but one in the line. She watches as he positions his horse at the starting mark. Even from a distance, she can see the mare is bursting with the desire to sprint. Vili leans low into the horse’s neck and speaks into her ear. Then he straightens and awaits the signal, his eyes directed ahead. When the flag drops, the horses surge forward. Immediately three riders pull ahead, Vili one of them. As they pass the stakes, the feathers vanish in a blur of motion.The crowd cheers wildly.The remaining riders reach the stakes a split second later. Two miss the mark and are immediately forced to turn their mounts back. The others gallop hard towards the lone stake at the far end of the field. As the three frontrunners converge upon the stake, Fulla hears a strangled gasp from a woman by her side, followed by the shrill scream of a horse as it slips sideways, hitting another. Both horses go down in a flurry of dirt and hooves. The third horse leaps over the previous two, narrowly missing the riders, and those behind veer wildly in all directions. Fulla cranes her neck to see. With dismay, she realises that Vili is one of the two that have fallen.

  The race is now in disarray. Five riders gallop towards the finish, while three have come to a standstill beside those on the ground. After a moment, one of the fallen horses rolls unsteadily to its feet. Its rider too stands up. He turns and waves a little sheepishly towards the crowd. Now only Vili and his horse remain on the ground. He kneels next to the mare, his back turned, bent low over the animal’s neck. He signals to one of the other riders nearby, and the lad quickly dismounts and joins him. Hogni frowns. “Bad luck,” he remarks. Fulla realises that he has still not recognised Vili.

  Two older men come trotting across the field. Thorstein too emerges from the crowd, his face grave. He walks over to where Vili kneels and crouches down, laying a hand upon his shoulder. Fulla sees one of the men run his hands carefully across the horses flanks and legs, checking for signs of injury. After a minute,Thorstein urges Vili to his feet and nods to the other men. As Vili turns, Fulla sees that his face and clothes are smudged with dirt, and one arm is folded protectively against his chest. As Thorstein guides Vili across the field towards the edge, Hogni finally recognises them. “It’s Ranulph’s lad,” he mutters. Then he turns and scrutinises her face. “But perhaps you knew this already.”

  Fulla shakes her head. “I only just realised,” she replies. Hogni looks back at them. The remaining men now confer beside the horse. Every now and then, she sees the mare try to lift its head. Presently, one of the men steps forward, drawing his dagger.

  “Aach! Don’t look,” says Hogni suddenly, grabbing her arm. But it is too late, for she has already seen the man kneel and lift the horse’s head, severing the vein in its neck. She utters a cry and turns away, but the sight of blood spurting forth is trapped inside her. She glances quickl
y to see where Vili has gone, but he and Thorstein have already melted into the crowd. Hogni shakes his head in disgust. “A race is not worth the life of a horse,” he says bitterly, turning away. “Come. I’ve lost my appetite for sport.” He leads her through the crowd, while a cluster of men drag the mare’s body to the far edge of the field.

  That night, they dine with Rolf and his kinsmen. After the food has been eaten, there is much toasting. Again and again, they pass the drinking horn in her honour, until her face is flushed and her head begins to swim. At length, Rolf notices her discomfort. He leans towards her. “You are quiet. Are you unwell?” he murmurs.

  “I am fine. Only a little tired. Perhaps I will return ahead of the others.”

  “Shall I walk you to your booth?”

  “No,” she says quickly. “Please, you stay. It will only draw attention if you come.” She smiles at him.

  He leans in close, his face flushed with drink, and presses his lips against her forehead. “As you wish,” he says. “Sleep well.”

  She squeezes his hand gently. “Tell Hogni I have gone.” She slips quietly out of the booth into the cool night air. Once outside, she pauses, breathing deeply. She decides to walk the long way round in order to clear her head before sleep. The night is cool and the stars look as if they have been flung across the sky. Craving solitude, she makes her way to the perimeter of the encampment, then walks through the long grass, now slick with dew. Before long, her dress and shoes are damp, but she welcomes the sensation, for it takes away the numbness brought on by the ale. She walks for several minutes, concentrating on the feel of the earth beneath her feet. Eventually, she realises she has walked too far. She returns to the main path that links the booths, and sees that she has already passed Hogni’s, and is now halfway back to where she started.

  She turns around and sees Vili standing in the darkness several paces away, his arm in a leather sling. She draws a sharp breath. Vili walks over to where she stands.