Betsy Tobin

by Ice Land (v5)

  “What is truth, Berling? I myself do not recognise it.”

  Berling frowns. “This is how I see it, Dvalin.We are small. And we dwell below the earth’s surface. These things are true. But we have a home.We have a place within the world.”

  Dvalin sighs. “Yes, of course.”

  “And a purpose. We have that too.”

  “Yes.”

  “And knowledge. We have our knowledge of all things past. That is more than some are blessed with. And our skill as craftsmen, that as well.”

  “Yes, Berling.” Dvalin spans his hand across his temples, as if to hide from Berling’s words. The ache in his head does not recede.

  Berling entreats him. “Does this not amount to something?”

  “Of course it does.”

  “Then what did you mean?”

  “Sometimes, I do not know myself. The words flew out before I had a chance to stop them.”

  Berling gives a rueful smile. At once, his face floods with compassion for the man next to him. “Small birds of truth, eh Dvalin?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “In the eyes of the world, we are low.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  Berlings laughs self-consciously, then gives a small shrug. “Of course I knew this. But one does not often hear it said in these dark walls.”

  “Perhaps it is best that way.”

  “Yes,” he says doubtfully.

  Dvalin frowns. “Berling,” he says, “what matters most is what your own eyes see. That is what you need to know.”

  “Yes, Dvalin.”

  Berling’s face swells with doubt, however. Dvalin closes his eyes, the pain scratching once again at the places in his head. He utters a silent oath for his earlier outburst. The boy needs nothing of stone-cold truths; he must focus only on his own survival, evade the harsh web of the world. Dvalin opens his eyes. Beside him, Berling’s expression has eased. He toys with an ember that has landed at his feet. He taps it with a stone, turning and tapping until the last glow of red is gone and only dust remains. Not for the first time, Dvalin wonders when Berling will reach manhood.

  Berling looks up at him with a wistful expression. “Do you think we’ll see her again?” he asks.

  Dvalin frowns. “I don’t know.” He hesitates. “Berling, you didn’t . . . you’re not in love with her, are you?”

  Berling shrugs. “I just liked her, Dvalin. Is that a crime?”

  “Of course not.”

  “The caves are dull without her here.”

  Dvalin looks at him. He has tried not to think of what went on between Freya and Berling, though the idea gnaws at him. “Berling,” he says finally, “did you . . .” he breaks off.

  Berling looks up at him. “What?”

  “Never mind.” He picks up an iron poker and prods the fire. The flames leap to life.

  Berling stares at him thoughtfully for a moment. “No,” he says then. “The answer is no.” Dvalin meets his gaze for an instant, before a noise startles them both.

  “What was the question?” says Gerd good-naturedly. She has entered silently and is standing a few feet from them, smiling. They both turn to look at her, speechless.

  Dvalin jumps to his feet. “I’m sorry, we didn’t hear you.”

  “Are you home for good now?” she asks.

  “Yes,” he says.

  “And your journey? How was it?”

  “Unremarkable.”

  “Excellent,” she smiles. “We must celebrate your return.” She turns to Berling. “Berling, go and fetch a jug of wine from your uncle.”

  Berling moans. “Must I?”

  “You must,” she says. Berling sighs and rises to his feet. They both watch him go, then take their seats by the fire. “And Freya?” she asks, turning back to him.

  “She’s returned to Asgard.”

  “With the Brisingamen.”

  “Yes.”

  She nods thoughtfully. “I never saw it,” she remarks.

  Dvalin shrugs. “It was only a necklace.”

  She hesitates, measuring the truth of his words. “Yes, of course,” she replies. She picks up a piece of kindling and throws it upon the flames. After a moment, the fire crackles. “I had a tiny fear you might not return,” she says self-consciously.

  “Why?”

  “It sometimes seems as if only part of you is here with us,” she says. “And another part of you dwells somewhere else.”

  “Sometimes I feel that way myself.”

  “Where is that place, Dvalin?”

  He smiles and shakes his head. “I wish I knew.”

  She turns and looks at him. “Dvalin, have you never thought that you and I . . . ?” She lays a hand upon his arm. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? For Berling’s sake. And for our own?”

  Dvalin casts his eyes down to her slender fingers. “Gerd,” he says softly, “you are my father’s wife.”

  “Was,” she says emphatically. “Am I to be a widow forever?” Her voice contains the barest tremor.

  Dvalin shakes his head. “Only to me.”

  “Your father was a great man. Full of passion and committed to his people. But I have passions of my own, Dvalin. I am still young.” She looks at him intently.

  “I know this, Gerd.”

  “We needn’t be alone, you and I.”

  “I know this too,” he says quietly. His gaze falls to the ground. Gerd’s fingers slip from his arm. He can think of nothing else to say. He cannot love her, though whether it is for the reasons he has given, he isn’t certain. Gerd’s face slowly drains of expression, as if he has torn the life from her. Her eyes drift across the room. The silence spirals out between them. Dvalin berates himself.

  They hear footsteps in the passage, and in the next instant Berling rushes in, carrying a jug and a pair of wooden cups. “Wine,” he announces breathlessly, flopping down beside them. He holds up the cups and looks at them. Something in their manner alerts him. His smile fades, the cups fall to his side.

  His mother takes a deep breath. “We’ll have that toast then, shall we?”

  FREYA

  I’ve called him Sky. I thought it fitting. He cannot tell me his real name, so there was no point in asking, but he seems content with this one. The hawk followed us here, just as I knew it would, and the two of them have adjusted with surprising ease to life in Asgard. The boy spends his days roaming the hills around Sessruminger. Each time, he brings me something he has found along the way. This morning, it was a beautiful piece of rose quartz. Yesterday, it was the tail feather of an arctic tern. The day before, a giant seed pod. He gives these things to me without fanfare, as if he is quietly repaying me for the life I have bestowed upon him.

  He was nervous at first. The cats alarmed him. I don’t think he’d come across such animals before. He froze with terror the first time one leapt into his lap. Now he seems to like them, though I’ve noticed that he doesn’t handle them in the presence of the hawk. I’ve encouraged him to let the bird fly free from time to time, as I cannot bear to see it tethered. He was reluctant to do so at first, but when he realised that it would return of its own accord, he grew more willing. Now the hawk flies free each morning, accompanying him on his rambles.

  He gains a little in confidence each day. I wish that I knew more about him. When I first asked his age, he seemed uncertain, and for a moment, I thought he didn’t know. Then he picked up a piece of charred wood from the fire, and carefully drew thirteen marks upon the hearthstone. “Thirteen,” I commented lightly. “No longer a child. Not yet a man.” At once, I regretted this remark. His eyes flickered with dismay, and I realised then that perhaps he had never been a child in the true sense of the word. Had he ever lived without the burden of responsibility? I wondered. I felt guilty then, as if it was I who had snatched away his youth, and not circumstance.

  Gradually, I’ve learned a few details about his past. His parents are dead. And Dvalin killed two of his brothers, though I do not speak of this. He confirme
d that the men he was with when we first came across him were kin. But whenever I question him about his family, his manner instantly alters and he retreats even further into silence. Does he mourn all those he’s lost? I wonder.

  This morning, my father surprises me with a visit. I’ve not seen him in some weeks. His own house lies to the east, and though it is only an hour’s ride, neither of us makes the journey often. The bond between us has never been an easy one. When Freyr and I were young, my mother’s death hung over him like a shadow. Rather than bring him closer to us, it somehow pushed him further away. Freyr and I responded in kind, by maintaining a childish alliance that we excluded him from. But as we grew older, Freyr and I moved apart. As he drifted towards manhood he became more and more like my father, inheriting certain aspects of his personality, especially his distrust of those outside his circle.

  I walk out to greet him in the yard. “Father. It’s good to see you,” I say as he climbs off his horse. In truth, I am surprised by the state of him, for he has aged these past few months at an alarming rate. “Come and rest from your ride.”

  Once inside, he takes stock of me in his usual peremptory manner. “You look thin,” he declares. I immediately feel the warmth of the necklace against my breast. I readjust my clothes, to make certain it is well hidden.

  “I’ve been travelling.”

  “So I’ve heard. What’s all this about Nidavellir?”

  “One of many places I visited,” I say evasively.

  He gives me a piercing look. “You’ve not seen Od again, have you?”

  “No, Father,” I say, relieved. “Od is dead, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Good.” My father has long regarded my marriage as an illness that might recur. He was set against Od from the beginning. He could not fathom my decision to marry outside the Aesir. “Why choose bread made of barley, when wheat is your due?” he asked me. The question typified him. He lived his own life as an allegory, never daring to confront its harsher truths. When his second marriage fell apart, he endeavoured to explain its failure in purely geographic terms. He could not live without the sea, he told me earnestly, while his new wife was firmly tethered to the mountains. “I cannot bear the ceaseless baying of wolves,” he said. “And she cannot endure the endless lapping of waves.” The fact that they could not abide each other’s voices was lost on him.

  Like me, my father had married outside his own. His second wife, Skadi, belonged to the race of giants. She was young and beautiful, and had been lured into the alliance through deceptive means. In fact she’d been betrayed by the beauty of his feet, for it was these she’d seen first: small for a man, perfectly proportioned, with pale crescent moons upon each toe. Her own father had been slain in battle by the Aesir, and they had offered her a choice of husbands from among them as a concession, with the only stipulation that she must choose them solely by their feet. Those men who were eligible were assembled, my widowed father among them, and cloaks were thrown over their bodies.That summer, it was rumoured that Skadi was infatuated with Odin’s son Balder, he of the smooth-faced smile and dark, lustrous eyes.Who could blame her, for I too had been tempted by Balder’s innocent charms. How unfortunate for her, then, the state of his corn-ridden feet. In the end, it was my father she unwittingly chose. Not surprisingly, the marriage went quickly awry.

  I watch my father stroll restlessly about the room. He has put on weight this last year, and while he has always been a handsome man, his looks have filled out to the point of bloat edness. His hair is the colour of grey ice, though unlike many men of his age, he has it in abundance. His features are large and overly expressive, and they go hand in hand with his manner, which tends to be extravagant.

  “What of you?” I ask. “Have you and Skadi reconciled?” He gives an irritated wave. “I’ve not seen her in months. She refuses to leave that cabin of hers in the mountains. I don’t know what she does up there.”

  I smiled. “She hunts and skis. It sounds very pleasant.” He narrows his eyes at me. “And what news of Freyr?” I ask.

  “Still in Sweden,” he says distractedly. “Uppsala, I think. The farmers there adore him. To excess, I fear. They’ll be the ruin of him.” Freyr has a devoted following in Sweden. In Uppsala, every household has a shrine to him, in hopes that he will favour their harvest.

  “Perhaps not,” I venture. “Our world is changing, Father. You must know this.”

  He raises a sceptical eyebrow. “I know what I’ve seen. Men with wooden crosses who roll off their ships and plant themselves among us like bad seeds. They will never thrive here. Their ideas will not take hold. You will see.” He gives a dismissive wave of one hand.

  Sky enters the room then, having just returned from his morning ramble.The hawk perches quietly upon his forearm, and when he sees my father, he stops short and looks at me uncertainly. My father also turns to me with a look of alarm, as if to say, who is this, then? “Father, this is Sky,” I offer. Sky nods at him shyly. “He doesn’t speak,” I add.

  My father looks him up and down. “Can’t or won’t?” he asks, frowning. Sky looks at me worriedly.

  “He is mute,” I say quietly.

  “Oh,” he replies, embarrassed. “Greetings, son.” Sky nods briefly, then turns and walks out of the house. My father turns to me with a raised eyebrow. “What kind of name is Sky?”

  “One of my choosing,” I reply.

  He makes a face. “Where did you find him?” “Jotunheim.”

  “Well, that explains his height,” he murmurs. “But I don’t understand: why is he here?”

  “Because I invited him,” I say. “His kin are dead.” My father raises a dubious eyebrow.

  “Do you employ him?” he asks tentatively.

  “No, Father, he’s a guest.”

  “A guest.” My father repeats the word, somewhat disbelieving. He crosses to the door and peers outside, where he can see Sky standing in the garden. “Well, at least he’s quiet,” he says, turning back to me.

  “Why have you come?”

  He looks offended. “Must I have a reason?”

  “Of course not. But you usually do.”

  He sits down heavily in an armchair with a sigh. “If you must know, there’s been talk,” he says with a little flourish of his hands.

  “Ignore it,” I say.

  He frowns, clearly annoyed. “What’s all this about a necklace, Freya?”

  I shrug. “Idle gossip.”

  “And dwarves,” he says, more pointedly.

  I look him in the eye. “Lies.”

  He squirms uncomfortably. “Freya, in case you’ve forgotten, we have a certain position to maintain here in Asgard. You, me, your brother. We have a function to fulfil.”

  I stare at him. The Aesir have no purpose other than to bring about their own destruction, I think. But my father does not see this. Perhaps he was not meant to. I walk over to the doorway. Sky sits upon a rock wall in the garden, while the hawk wheels high overhead. Behind them, Hekla smoulders patiently. “Hekla is uneasy,” I say, changing the subject.

  My father comes up behind me and peers over my shoulder. “Hekla has always been this way,” he says, frowning. “For as long as we’ve been here.”

  I shake my head. “No. Something is different. I am certain of it.”

  I watch him weigh my words. “If this were true, then we would know,” he says finally, dismissively. He turns back to me. “So there is nothing you wish to tell me?”

  I have tried, I think. “No,” I reply.

  He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, his nostrils widening. “What will become of you, Freya?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your marriage has failed. You rarely see anyone. You’ve only the cats for company. Except for . . . bird-boy.” He waves his hand in the direction of the garden.

  “Sky,” I correct him.

  “It isn’t healthy.”

  “I am content, Father.”

  He sighs. “Very well.
I can see you don’t want my interfer ence.”

  “I’m grateful for your interest,” I say in a conciliatory manner. “But I can manage my own affairs.”

  “As you wish,” he says wearily, rising to go.

  All at once, I do not want him to leave. It is a fleeting childish moment, but the feeling is so powerful that I cannot shake it free. “Please,” I say, my voice breaking, “don’t go.”

  He turns and gives me a curious look. “I’m afraid I must,” he says. “The weather’s unsettled.They’ll be making offerings at sea, with no one there to receive them,” he explains earnestly. He takes up his cloak and turns to me one last time. “Do use some sense, Freya. Remember who you are.” And then he disappears out the door, leaving me alone.

  Almost without thinking, I pull the Brisingamen out from beneath my dress and squeeze the pendant tightly in my hand. The feeling of panic slowly ebbs, and a veil of calm drops over me. There is no need to worry, I think. Skuld would not let me down.

  The next morning, the first thing I see when I open my eyes is the bird looking down at me, its head tilted to one side, its gaze characteristically fierce. Sky stands beside my bed, with the hawk perched upon his arm. He looks exhausted; his eyes are ringed in shadow, and he seems desperately unhappy. I sit up at once, pulling the bedclothes over myself. “Sky, what’s wrong?” I ask. He blinks a few times, his distress obvious, then motions awkwardly towards my chest. I do not even need to look down, because in that instant I know that it is gone. The realisation pierces me like a fine steel blade: I feel a sharp pain somewhere deep inside.

  “What happened?” I ask in a paper-thin voice. Sky shakes his head a few times, then with his free hand, mimics a complex set of motions that end in the hand flying away. “I don’t understand,” I tell him. He hesitates, pursing his lips. He tries again with his hand: this time he makes only the flying motion. “A bird?” I ask. He nods earnestly. “A bird took my necklace?” I say, incredulous. His nod is long and slow, and his eyes apologetic. I glance at the hawk. “Your bird?” I ask. He shakes his head quickly, emphatically.