She turns to him with a dark look. “Why have you come, Dvalin?”
He takes a deep breath and begins to speak. He tells her of Idun, of barren wombs and waking sleeps, icy falls and raven-filled nightmares. He speaks slowly and carefully, anxious to convey only the facts, not conjecture.
“Why did you not bring her to me?”
“She is unfit to travel.”
“Unfit? Or unwilling? The Hill of Healing is available to any woman who cares to make its ascent.”
“And those who are unable?”
“I cannot help them,” she says simply.
He feels anger rise within him. “There was a time when your greatest quality was compassion,” he says.
“There was a time when your greatest quality was devotion,” she replies in steely tones.
“It was you who sent me away.”
“Because I was destined for another.”
“Then the blame lies with your destiny,” he says.
They eye each other fiercely for a moment. He can see the rise and fall of her chest. “What is it you want from me?” she says finally.
“Idun has three times lost a child in her womb. You have helped many others in her situation. Surely there is something you can offer from afar.”
She sighs. “From what you say, Dvalin, her mind is unhinged. She dreams of ravens feasting on her entrails and hurls herself from icy cliffs. If she is mad, I cannot make her sane.”
He stares at her a moment, then abruptly rises and crosses to the door. He is already outside when he hears her voice.
“Dvalin, wait!” He stops and turns around to face her. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It is anger speaking. Not me.”
He walks back into the house. “You’ve no right to be angry with me.”
She hesitates. “Perhaps it is myself I am angry with,” she replies, her voice dropping to barely more than a whisper. He sees a slight tremor in her lower lip. Slowly, she comes towards him, halting only inches away. She lays her hands upon his chest, so that he can feel the heat of her through her outstretched palms. She looks at him imploringly. “Dvalin, how could we have known what lay ahead?”
He says nothing for a moment. His mind casts back in time, to the feelings that bound them both like hostages, and the struggle that ensued. I knew, he thinks. And so did you. He looks down at her outstretched fingers and something inside him curdles. Suddenly, her hands are like a dead weight upon his chest. Unable to speak, he takes a small step backwards. Stunned, she drops her hands. Her face pales, and she turns away, crossing to the table. One hand comes to rest on its edge. She grips it firmly.
“There is a plant that may be of help,” she says, her voice now flat. She does not look at him. “It must be used within a short time of harvesting. Otherwise, its powers are depleted.”
“What is it called?”
“It’s a type of mandrake. It thrives in boggy places. There is a small patch beside the lake not far from here.”
He calculates. “It is two days’ journey to Idun.”
She shakes her head. “It would be worthless. It must be picked and consumed within the space of a day.”
“Then it is no use,” he says.
“What is no use?”
Dvalin turns to see Freya in the doorway, her damp hair curling in tendrils about her face, her pale skin glowing. She looks at him enquiringly, but in his mind’s eye she has already taken flight, carrying the prospect of a child to Idun.
They agree that Menglad will harvest the plant at dawn, and Freya will depart as soon as she returns. Once they have finalised the details, an awkward silence ensues. Menglad’s servant arrives with roasted squab, wild greens and unleavened bread. Freya eats hungrily, but Dvalin finds his own appetite lacking. Menglad too only picks at her food. Before long she rises, excusing herself. “I have remedies to attend to,” she says with a nod to them both. “My servant will show you to your sleeping quarters.”
After she is gone, Freya does not meet his eyes when she speaks. “I hope my presence has not been a hindrance to you.”
“Why would it be?” he replies.
She says nothing, and they finish eating in silence. The serving woman clears the plates, then asks that they follow her. She shows them to a small bed closet off the main hall, of the sort shared by husband and wife. Freya looks at him quickly and Dvalin at once feels a flush rise in his face. “I’m sorry,” he stammers. He motions to the outer room. “I’ll sleep by the fire.” He retreats hastily, leaving her alone in the bed closet. The servant closes the doors behind him, but not before he sees Freya staring out at him with a look he cannot decipher.
FREYA
I do not like her. The moods blow past her like spring storms. One moment, she looks at him with coal eyes, the next, with thinly concealed longing. They were clearly lovers at one time. But how did it finish, and by whose hand? Watching them, I cannot tell. Dvalin seems uneasy in her presence. Indeed, his manner altered even before we arrived. The past dropped over him like a shroud; it tempers his every move. But their pairing seems unlikely. I admit that she exudes a kind of earthy attractiveness, as if the trees themselves had somehow shed her. She is taller than I, and more generously proportioned. Her long, dark hair is horse-tail thick, and her features exaggerated in their lushness: large, round eyes and lips like overripe plums. She is charismatic, but in a vaguely menacing way. She uses her gaze as a weapon, pinpoints you just long enough to unsettle, then shifts her attentions elsewhere.
I sleep uneasily in the bed closet and wake at first light. When I emerge, I see that Menglad is already awake, and is preparing to depart in search of Idun’s cure. “Good morning,” I offer.
She turns to look at me, clearly startled. She stares at me for an instant, as if she is trying to remember my significance. “I trust you slept well?” she says finally.
“Yes, thank you,” I reply. “Would you like me to accompany you?” I ask.
She raises an eyebrow. “No,” she says, as if the idea is preposterous. “No, that won’t be necessary.” She finishes loading her tools into a leather pouch at her waist, then turns to go. At the door, she pauses. “Dvalin sleeps still,” she says.
“I will not wake him,” I reply.
She nods and slips out the door. For a moment, I am tempted to follow. But I do not. She is no doubt reluctant to reveal the source of her cures. She keeps a bevy of young women around her: servants, followers, admirers. But it is hard to imagine her disclosing her secrets to anyone. When I asked Dvalin who they were, he merely shrugged. “She collects people,” he said. “They come to be cured and never leave.”
“Why are there no men here?”
“Perhaps her husband prefers it that way.” He grinned. “What man wouldn’t?”
“But even he is not here.”
Dvalin nodded but said nothing. Maybe he takes offence on her behalf. For my part, I am only too happy to be leaving. There is something about her, and about this place, which I find disquieting.
She is gone for nearly two hours. Dvalin rises an hour after she has left. He eats some porridge that the serving girl puts out for him, then scratches a crude map on a piece of rawhide, showing the location of Bragi’s farmstead in the mountains. Afterwards, he paces by the fire, before eventually excusing himself, saying he must go and check the hounds. Perhaps it is the dogs he loved, and not their mistress.
Once he is gone, I am free to nose about the house. I find the room she shares with her husband, though there is precious little evidence that he lives here. The room smells of her, of pine needles and damp moss and forest floors. There is a low shelf in the corner with an array of small glass bottles in various hues. I uncork the first and smell the pungent scent of clove oil. Beneath the shelf is a wooden box with an ornately carved lid. At first, it appears locked, but then I discover that the lid slides backwards from the box. Inside is a small bronze brooch adorned with the figure of a lion, and a strand of coloured glass beads. Beneath them is a silk pouch of deepest
indigo. I open the pouch and peer inside. It is her betrothal necklace. I recognise certain aspects of the style, for though it is not as fine as the Brisingamen, it is not dissimilar. There is something else under the pouch: a thin iron chisel, of the sort used by goldsmiths for the most delicate work. I take it out and examine it, and think of Grerr’s words: in his absence, a goldsmith’s tools are revered just as he was. The chisel must be Dvalin’s. Did he give it to her, or did she steal it from him? And why does she keep it after all these years, when she is married to another man?
I hear a noise outside and quickly replace the box under the shelf, just as Menglad’s serving woman appears in the doorway. She looks at me a long moment. I can think of no excuse to justify my presence, so I simply nod and walk past her out the door. When I reach the main hall, I see that they have both returned. Dvalin nods towards the pantry, where I can hear Menglad issuing instructions. After a moment, she appears carrying a small linen pouch. She crosses over to me and holds the pouch out. “These are the roots and new leaves,” she says. “Tell her to pound them first, then make an infusion, which she should drink. Tell her not to delay, but to prepare them forthwith.”
“I will see that she does.”
Dvalin steps forward. He too hands me a small pouch.The instant it touches my hand, I know what it contains. Our eyes meet.
“You do not wish me to return?” I ask. For he has given me the Brisingamen.
He shakes his head. “You have no further obligation. I will leave here soon after you do. There is another matter I must attend to, and it cannot wait for your return.”
“You will travel through Jotunheim?”
He shrugs. “I must.”
I raise my eyebrow. “Then take care.”
He nods. I can feel Menglad’s eyes upon us, so I take up my feather form.
“Tell Idun I will come to her as soon as I am able,” he adds. “And that she is uppermost in my thoughts.” I nod and turn to go, but not before I glimpse a faint shadow of irritation cross Menglad’s face. Apparently, she is even jealous of his blood ties. When I leave, they follow me outside. They stand silently and watch me go, heads tilted back, each with one hand raised to shield their eyes against the morning sun. It is a fine day for flying. The sun shines and the biting wind that plagued us on our journey here has finally ceased. I circle once directly over them, then fly due east. I cannot help but think that Dvalin was anxious to be rid of me. Perhaps he was lying and intends to stay on here with Menglad, since her husband is so conveniently away. When I look down one last time, Menglad has disappeared inside the house. Only Dvalin remains, his face tilted towards the sky.
A few hours later, I reach Bragi’s farmstead.The house and surrounding buildings are exactly as Dvalin described. From the air, I can see the glacial river he was forced to swim, its jade green current swift and treacherous. I land a short distance from the house and pause for a few moments to catch my breath. Then I gather up my falcon suit and walk towards the house. It is Idun I see first. She is outside in the yard, drawing water from a well, and when she sees me, she drops the bucket and claps her hands together with surprise. She rushes to me, her pale face lit with a smile. “It’s Freya! Darling Freya!” She embraces me warmly, then shouts loudly over her shoulder. “Bragi! Come and see who is here!” Bragi emerges a moment later, wiping his hands upon a rag, a perplexed look upon his face. He too smiles when he sees me, though not as broadly.
“Well, well, Freya,” he exclaims. “Welcome to our home. It is not often we have visitors from Asgard. We pride ourselves on being hard to find.”
Idun frowns at him, then takes my arm and leads me to the house. “Your hands are freezing,” she says. “Come inside and warm yourself.”
“In fact, I’ve come from Jotunheim,” I say.
Bragi raises an eyebrow. “Jotunheim! Even rarer!” Once inside I turn to Idun. “Dvalin sent me,” I say quietly.
Idun’s eyes widen. “Dvalin?”
I nod. “We’ve been to see Menglad.”
“The Hill of Healing,” she murmurs. “He promised me.” She steers me towards a chair by the fire. I am already searching in my cloak for the leather pouch Menglad gave me. My hands brush against the Brisingamen. I’ve not yet looked at it, though I am almost painfully aware of its presence. I open Menglad’s pouch and hold it out for her.
“She sent you this.”
They both step forward and peer inside. Bragi frowns. “What is it?” he asks.
“A type of mandrake.You must first grind it, then make an infusion, which you must drink at once.”
Idun reaches out and takes the pouch a little hesitantly. “Of course,” she says. “I am very grateful to you.”
“Isn’t mandrake poisonous?” asks Bragi.
“The plant itself is poisonous. But the infusion is safe. It is known to help with conception. And it will strengthen her womb, so that she can carry a child to term.”
I can tell from Bragi’s face that he remains doubtful. But Idun is clearly pleased at the prospect of a cure. “Go now and prepare it,” I say.
“Yes, of course,” she says, disappearing into the pantry at the far end of the room.
Bragi turns to me. “You’d best be seated,” he says a little grudgingly. “I’ll fetch some ale.”
Later that night, Idun and I are finally alone. The mandrake infusion appears to have had a positive influence, for she seems relaxed and happy. Perhaps it is the prospect of hope that has elevated her spirits, or perhaps she is pleased to have a female companion. Bragi himself retired to bed early, after drinking several horns of ale. Not for the first time, I am struck by the incongruity of their ages, for already he seems an old man, while she is still in the flower of youth.
“I never knew you had a brother,” I say, once Bragi has gone.
“We were raised apart. But he is very dear to me.”
“And your mother. Did she regret leaving him behind?”
“She refused to speak of the past. Up until the time she died, I never once heard her say my father’s name. But I know she was haunted by thoughts of Dvalin.”
“How?”
Idun shrugs. “She must have been. Any woman forced to leave a child would be.”
I wonder whether she is right. “Dvalin told me what happened to you in Jotunheim,” I say quietly. Idun stares at me for a moment, then looks away.
“I’m sorry,” I add. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“No,” she says quickly. “It’s all right. It happened some time ago.” She smiles at me thinly. “Another lifetime.” She glances towards the door and lowers her voice. “Even Bragi doesn’t know all the details.”
“Dvalin told me he killed the men involved.”
She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “He killed two men. There were three altogether. The youngest was only a boy. He did not . . .” Idun hesitates, “. . .participate. I could see in his eyes that he was terrified, for he never said a word.” She shakes her head. “I was nearly eighteen at the time, and I remember thinking, ‘This boy is only a child! He is too young to be a part of this.’ The other two were his brothers. Dvalin killed them both in the fight that ensued. The boy escaped. Dvalin insisted on going after him, even though I begged him not to. I told him the boy had only watched, that he could not be held responsible for the actions of his kin.” Idun’s voice trembles at this last. She pauses for a moment. “But he was blind with rage. He caught the boy and brought him back to the house. They left him tied in the barn overnight, while they considered what to do with him. That night, while everyone slept, I crept into the barn. I spoke to him, and told him I did not hold him responsible. He never said a word, did not try to defend himself, nor apologise for what had happened. He just stared at me with the strangest look upon his face. In the end, I set him free.” Idun looks at me searchingly. “Even though they were guilty, I knew that the deaths of his brothers would hang like a shadow over my life. I did not want to be the cause of a
ny more violence. In the morning, when they found the barn empty, they assumed the boy had escaped of his own accord, or been rescued by his kin. I never told them what I’d done.” She hesitates. “I never told anyone.”
“You did what you had to,” I say reassuringly. But Idun does not hear. She is already lost within that other time. Something in her story snags my mind. A young boy in Jotunheim, I think. A boy who did not speak. And then I remember the strange look on Dvalin’s face when we first encountered the mute. Perhaps this is the pressing business he was so anxious to pursue. I had thought that his distracted manner was due to Menglad. But the more I ponder it, the more convinced I become that he recognised the boy. For Idun’s sake, he would feel obliged to pursue his earlier vendetta.
Idun is staring at me with a look of concern. “What is it?” she asks.
I smile at her. “Nothing. I am tired, that is all.The flight has made me weary.”
“Of course it has. I will show you to your bed.”
THE NORNS
No men dwell within the heart of this island, for at its centre sit enormous caps of ice.The ice has been here longer than us all. Each year new snow falls with the lightness of a feather, compressing that beneath it into luminous blue glass: the dense crystal heart of glaciers.When enough ice has gathered, the mass begins to creep under its own weight. It follows the landscape, flows down valleys and over cliffs, uproots and carries obstacles in its way.The people here must sometimes cross these ice caps, scarred by treacherous pits and crevasses. Many have been lost within. But the glacier always gives back what it takes: the ice inside it constantly circles, delivering up the bodies of the dead.
DVALIN
He watches until Freya disappears on the horizon, then follows Menglad inside the house. She is waiting for him by the fire and hands him a small cup of warm liquid.
He peers inside. “What is it?”
“A tonic.”
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