We cross the pass without incident, much to my relief, then continue down the mountain. It is late afternoon when we reach the place where the three of us must part. Dvalin and I have already agreed that he will return to the caves with the horses, while the mute and I will use the falcon suit to fly to Sessruminger. When I explain this to the lad, his eyes grow round as dates. He takes a deep breath, then glances at the hawk with concern. “Don’t worry,” I say. “When we fly, the bird will follow.” He frowns, then unties the leather thong which binds the bird’s feet to his wrist and raises his arm to the sky. He makes a noise with his throat, and the hawk takes wing, rising above us in circles, until it is no more than a dot in the sky.The lad watches it, blinking into the sun, then turns to me. “Are you ready?” I ask. He nods. I cross over to where Dvalin stands beside his horse, the other two already roped behind him.
I choose my words. “There are things I still don’t understand,” I say. “About the necklace. And you.”
“Perhaps too much knowledge is a bad thing,” he replies. His eyes linger on mine, and I feel the heat rise in my face.
“Go safely,” I say.
“And you.”
I walk back to where the boy waits and don the falcon suit. “Put your arms around my neck,” I tell him. As he does, I feel his body tense. I lift us both into the air. We climb upwards, tracing the hawk’s circular flight. The wind buffets us gently. After a minute, the boy relaxes slightly. I glance over my shoulder and see his eyes shine with wonder. He has waited all his life for this moment. Perhaps inside he has always known the joy of flight. I look down at the ground. Far below us, Dvalin recedes quickly. He stands staring up into the sky, his expression already lost to the wind.
THE NORNS
Animals understand the secret whisperings of the earth.When the crust prepares to rearrange itself, it is they who take heed: hens refuse to lay, bees flee their hives, and fish jump out of rivers.The slow constant movement of the crust produces stress that rocks cannot withstand. Eventually a fault occurs: opposing sides of rock fracture open, are thrust together or wrenched past one another. It is not a graceful process.The crust judders and jumps, resulting in a quake.The energy released is enormously destructive: it radiates outwards in waves from the centre, wreaking havoc on the land.Volcanoes are not immune to these forces. A few hours before Hekla erupts, she will begin to tremble.As magma reaches the surface, she will burst open and the ground beneath her will vibrate almost continuously, like the strings of an enormous earth-bound instrument.
FULLA
Fulla hands Hogni a wooden bowl full of pale brown gruel. “What is this?” he asks suspiciously. It is three days since they returned from the Althing. His mood has been sour throughout.
“Porridge. Made from barley,” she says. “A trader passed by yesterday.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Your grandmother was fond of barley.” He sniffs at it. “Is there no butter?”
Fulla rises and retreats into the storeroom, returning a moment later with a lump of yellow butter. Hogni grunts his appreciation, stirring the butter into the porridge, while Fulla seats herself again beside him and begins to eat.
“Was she a good cook?” she asks.
Hogni nods. “She was good at everything. It was her biggest fault. Perhaps her only fault,” he adds.
Fulla smiles. “I’m sorry I did not know her.”
“She too would have been sorry.”
“How did you meet?”
“At the Shyling Festival. She didn’t approve of me at first. I don’t know why, but it was obvious from her manner. She thought I was impulsive. And high-minded. Perhaps I was. I certainly remember being impatient at that age.” He takes a bite of porridge and chews methodically, the fleshy corners of his mouth moving slowly up and down.
“How did you win her favour?”
“Every day for a week I walked up to the high meadows and brought her a bouquet of flowers. She refused them for the first four days. On the fifth day, she said, ‘If I accept them will you stop?’ ‘Probably not,’ I told her. On the sixth day, she laughed and asked if there was nothing else I could present her with. So on the seventh day, I brought her a wheel of cheese. She told me that she preferred flowers.‘Woman, you are difficult to please!’ I said. Then she looked me in the eye and said, ‘Yes. I am.’”
Hogni pauses, smiling at the memory. “She was right,” he continues. “In marriage she was exacting. She held me to higher standards than I held myself.We worked hard. And laughed too seldom. Though perhaps we didn’t realise it at the time.” He frowns. “Love eluded us for a time. And then it came upon us suddenly, like a spring storm. When it was almost too late,” he adds slowly. “She became pregnant with our second child, and for a brief time we knew great happiness. But the birth proved too much for both of them, and Jarl and I were left alone.” His voice dwindles to a hoarse whisper. He stirs the remaining porridge in his bowl. “For a long time, I could not reconcile myself to the idea that it was love that killed her. Perhaps if we had not found it so late, she would still be here today.”
Fulla lays down her bowl. “Why did you not re-marry?” “I thought of it. Many times in the first few years. But her memory clung to me. And in the end, I could not.”
“It is a blessing you found love with her, then.”
“But it took time,” he says, eyeing her. “Love is not like a spring flood, Fulla. It comes to us in tiny increments. And there are many things that masquerade in its name.” He pauses. “I do not believe that you would have found love with Skallagrim’s grandson,” he continues. “The men of his clan are not like our own.”
“But he is not like his kin,” she protests quickly.
“How do you know?” Hogni says emphatically, cutting her off. “You have spent how much time in his company altogether ? Three hours? Four?”
“I knew Rolf even less,” she counters, “when you offered me as his bride.”
Hogni shakes his head slowly. “I have known Rolf and his kin all my life. He is a good man. He could have made you happy.”
“How do you know?” she echoes his words.
Hogni sighs. “I never had a daughter,” he says wearily. “Only a son. And now, not even that.”
“I never had a mother,” she replies evenly. “Only a father. And now, not even that.” Her words are wounding, though she does not know if she intended them to be. In that instant, the gulf between them seems to widen, until it is a vast expanse they cannot cross.
The following afternoon, a quartet of riders appears on the horizon. Hogni is in the stable yard when he sees them. He pauses in his work and walks out to greet them. Two of the men he has never seen before: they are dressed in coarse brown cassocks and wear crosses around their necks. The third is Gizurr, a godi he knows from the neighbouring district, and one of the first to take the oath of conversion. The fourth rider he recognises from the Althing as the missionary Thangbrand. Both Gizurr and Thangbrand wear vests of chainmail over their tunics and carry swords and shields. The four riders come to a halt just in front of him, but do not dismount. “Greetings,” he calls to them.
“Greetings, Hogni,” says Gizurr. The other men nod.
“You are welcome to stop and rest.”
Gizurr shakes his head. “Thank you, but we’ll pass by. We hope to reach Husafell by nightfall.”
“As you wish.”
“You left the Althing early,” continues Gizurr.
“Aye.”
“Too early to take the sacrament of baptism,” he adds.
Hogni looks from Gizurr to Thangbrand, then back again. “We forgot,” he says flatly.Thangbrand’s eyebrow shoots up in response.
“Then you can have no objection to receiving it now,” he interjects.
Hogni turns to him. “I bathe when it suits me.”
“We have been told to ensure that every man receives the sacrament of baptism.”
“By whom?”
“The lawspeaker.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then under the law you can be prosecuted.”
“Christian law.”
“The law of our country. The only law.”
“As I said before, I will enter the waters at a time of my own choosing,” Hogni declares. He and Thangbrand eye each other for a long moment.
“Obstinate minds cling fast to their beliefs,” says Thangbrand slowly.
“Better obstinate than indifferent.” Hogni shifts his gaze to Gizurr. “I’ll not abandon my faith at the first puff of opposition.”
“Yet sooner or later, you will have to,” says Thangbrand.
“Then let it be later.”
Thangbrand narrows his eyes. “As you wish,” he says after a moment’s consideration. He turns to his companions and addresses them. “After all, one does not reach the summit in leaps; one mounts it step by step.” He turns back to Hogni. “We ride east now to Husafell.We will pass through Laxardal again in a fortnight. Be prepared to take the sacrament then.” He does not wait for a response, but turns his horse around and nudges it into movement.The others follow. Gizurr nods coldly to Hogni, who merely raises an eyebrow in response. Fulla steps forward to Hogni’s side, and they watch the figures retreat into the distance.
“Grandfather, you risk your freedom with these men,” she says once they are out of earshot.
“I worship whom I please.”
“But you will have to submit to what they ask.”
“Perhaps,” he says, turning away. “But not today.”
The next morning, when Fulla returns from her ride, she sees a strange horse tied up in the yard. She enters the house where Hogni is deep in conversation with a tall heavy-set man she has never seen before. The man is grey-haired but younger-looking than Hogni. He is richly dressed in an elaborate dark green cloak, its borders decorated with silver thread. They sit by the fire, each with a tankard of ale, and they both turn and look at her expectantly when she enters.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Not at all,” says the stranger, standing. Hogni too rises to his feet. She sees at once that his mood has lifted. His face is slightly flushed with drink, and his eyes sparkle with anticipation.
“Fulla, this is Gunnar. He’s a very old friend of mine.”
Gunnar smiles at her. “I am pleased to meet you,” he says in a heavy accent.
“And I, you,” she replies politely. An awkward silence follows, and Fulla realises that she has interrupted their business. She excuses herself and the two men sit down again in front of the fire. She goes to the scullery, where Helga is busy over preparations for a stew.
Helga hands her a bowl of onions and a knife. “Peel.” Fulla takes the bowl and pulls up a small stool, seating herself.
“Who is he?” she asks quietly, nodding towards the other room.
Helga shrugs. “Norwegian, from the accent. I’ve not set eyes on him before.”
“What business do they discuss?”
“It’s no concern of ours,” Helga admonishes, picking up a knife. She begins to briskly chop a head of cabbage. After a moment, she lays down the knife. “Though I did hear mention of a ship’s passage,” she says, without raising her eyes.
Fulla frowns. “Ship’s passage? To where?”
Helga shrugs. “Who knows?”
Fulla finishes peeling the onions and hands the bowl to Helga. She stands and returns to the main hall, in time to see Hogni and Gunnar shake hands warmly.
“Safe journey on your return,” says Hogni.
“Are you leaving?” asks Fulla.
“I must. I sail tomorrow back to Norway,” Gunnar says with a smile, “where I shall carry the most favourable of reports from Laxardal.”
His words make her uneasy. She watches as Hogni walks Gunnar out into the yard to see him off. The two men clasp arms affectionately. When Hogni returns, she confronts him. “What reports are these? And who is he reporting to?”
“Gunnar is an old friend of mine,” says Hogni in a placating tone. “It was his ship that brought me here from Norway as a young man. I have known him all my life.”
“And?”
“And . . . he brings us news of our kin at home. Good news. It seems our family prospers there.”
“I thought this was our home,” she says distrustfully.
Hogni ignores this last comment. “My cousin is a wealthy man now. As a youth he was unpromising. But he inherited a huge landholding south of Bognor, and it seems that he has managed it wisely.” Hogni pauses. “His eldest son now seeks a wife. It appears they’ve heard reports of you. They asked Gunnar to enquire whether you are spoken for.”
Fulla hesitates, her heart racing. “Am I?” she asks.
Hogni turns towards the fire and thrusts his hands out to warm them. “I’m told he is a fine man of good character. He will, of course, inherit his father’s lands.”
Fulla stares at him. “I saw you clasp hands with him,” she says slowly. “You’ve come to an agreement, haven’t you?”
Hogni turns to face her. “What I do, I do solely for your well being,” he says.
“Please answer me,” she says urgently.
“He is kin, Fulla. There can be no better match than this one.”
She shakes her head, incredulous. “You did not even consult me,” she says accusingly.
“I did not think it necessary,” he replies sternly.
“Because I do not merit even the smallest amount of consideration!”
“Because you refuse to display even the smallest amount of reason!”
“Yes,” she says, her eyes lit with anger. “Reason is indeed beyond me. Though hatred is still within my grasp.” She pushes past him out the door.
DVALIN
With two animals in tow, the journey back to Nidavellir seems endless. Each time he glances behind him, the sight of the riderless horses jars him. He does not feel as he should, heading home. He should feel elated, or at the very least relieved. Instead, he feels empty.
By the time he arrives, night has fallen, hastened by a sudden lowering of clouds. The dark membrane of storm appears over the jagged tops of the mountains and within minutes, has slid across the entire ceiling of the valley, where it huddles low, anticipating. Dvalin draws his horse up outside the cave’s entrance, just as the first rush of gale reaches him. The wind leans him hard into the mare’s side, and she sidesteps nervously. Freya’s mount jumps backwards. He grabs hold of the leading rein.
“Steady.” He cups a palm against the horse’s nose and pushes his forehead into its cheek, as he reaches under with the other hand to untie it. The animal’s hide is wet with effort from the ride.
A crunch of stone sounds from inside the cave. Grerr ma terialises out of the darkness, as if he has just passed from one world to the next. Dvalin sees at once that he is agitated. His eyes wear a frenzied look like one who has not slept in days.
“The necklace?” he asks intently.
“I left it with her.” Dvalin lifts the saddle from his horse and lays it upon the stone ledge, then turns to Freya’s mount. The pony tosses its head and snorts. Grerr narrows his eyes suspiciously.
“She paid for it?”
Dvalin stops for a moment and meets his gaze. “Yes,” he says firmly. He finishes unsaddling the horses, then turns them out onto the grass. The horses move off to join a clutch of others grazing nearby. Dvalin turns towards the cave, but Grerr blocks his way.
“I don’t believe you.”
Dvalin pushes past him. “Suit yourself.”
Grerr follows him and grabs his arm. “You never had her.” The words fall slowly, thick with disdain.
Dvalin’s face tightens. “The choice was mine,” he says stiffly.
“The price was four nights. One for each. She owes us still.”
“She owes us nothing. I set my own price.”
“A coward’s reckoning.”
Dvalin shakes his head. “Call it what
you like,” he says wearily. “But it’s none of your business.”
“She is not all you think her to be, brother.”
“Maybe not.” Dvalin shrugs. “Maybe she is more.”
Grerr throws back his head and bellows loudly, his laughter bouncing off the stone. “Let me tell you something: the night she came to me she was smiling.”
“You’re a fool.”
“A fool who knows the wetness of a woman’s want.”
Dvalin says nothing. Instead, his body seems to swell slightly in the gloom.
Grerr leers. “I tasted hers, brother.”
Dvalin grabs him by the shirtfront, hoisting him onto his toes, until their noses almost meet. His teeth are tightly clenched. “It was the necklace she wanted, you foul maggot!” he hisses.
Grerr waves his arms like an insect, his face slowly reddening. He splutters and chokes, but a triumphant smile forms upon his face. He spits the words out in half-strangled gasps. “You said it, brother.We’re all maggots of Ymir’s flesh. You. Me. Our father’s father. His father before him. Grasping dwarves who dwell in darkness. Did you really think she’d want one of our own?”
Dvalin releases him suddenly, tossing him to the ground. “I care not,” he says flatly. Grerr lands heavily in the dirt, his arms splayed behind him. Dvalin turns away. He walks towards the cave’s entrance. Berling, his face ashen, stands watching from the shadows just inside. Dvalin brushes by him.
“Dvalin!” Berling calls after him, his voice beseeching. But Dvalin has already disappeared inside the cave’s darkness.
Later, they sit beside the fire in Dvalin’s cave. Berling crouches next to him, his knees drawn up tight beneath his chin. He traces a circle on the ground with his forefinger. “Was it truth you spoke to Grerr?” His voice is small, that of a child. Dvalin feels a stab of regret.
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