Betsy Tobin

by Ice Land (v5)

  “Then how did you lose consciousness?”

  “The cloak. It unbalanced me.”

  “What cloak?”

  “They forced a cloak over my head, and then I fell.” Helga pauses for a moment, her face confused. Her hands are full of leeks, and she stares down at her fingers, as if they belong to someone else.

  “You fell over?”

  “No,” she says, shaking her head slowly. “I fell a long way. As if I’d been pushed from a great height.”

  “And when you landed?”

  “There was no landing. I fell and fell, and then I woke.”

  Dvalin frowns. Helga exhales heavily and plunges the leeks into the water, throttling them vigorously to clear the dirt from their layers. “Tell me more of the cloak,” says Dvalin slowly. “What colour was it?”

  She shakes her head. “It had no colour.”

  “Wool or flax?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “Tell me something, Helga!”

  Helga sighs and pulls her hands from the water, throwing the leeks upon the table. She sits back and dries her hands on her apron, then looks up at him. “I remember only how it felt, for it was as soft as down, and had the lightness of a feather.”

  Dvalin stares at her. “The woman,” he says, his voice dropping low. “Describe her.”

  Helga looks at him imploringly. “I have tried and tried, but I cannot see her face. It is as if she robbed me of my senses, as well as the child.” A single tear forms and slides down her cheek. She wipes at it with the heel of her hand, then looks up at him in despair. “I remember only the softness of the cloak,” she murmurs, the tears coming again. “And how it carried me away.”

  Dvalin tells Hogni that he wishes to see for himself where Fulla disappeared. He rides east to the baths, a place he has not been to in many years. But they have changed little during the interim, and as he descends the hill of dwarf birch, he cannot help but think of Jarl, for as teenagers they often rode here together when a day’s work was done, to soak in the soothing thermal waters and contemplate the future. As young men, it did not occur to them that their lives would not run in tandem. But that was before Dvalin’s father had died, when he was forced to return to Nidavellir, and before Jarl’s marriage to Fulla’s mother, events which altered the course of things and severed them from each other. Dvalin climbs down from the horse, breathing in the familiar smell of sulphur. The day is fine, and a cool breeze lightly roughs the surface of the water. Slowly, he walks around the pool’s circumference, studying the ground for clues. He is not sure what he is looking for.

  After a few minutes, he stops several paces from the stone bench. He stoops down to retrieve something in the grass. Small, brown, weightless, unthinkably soft: a falcon feather. With a lurch, he realises that the woman he is seeking is Freya. And though he cannot conceive of her motives, the idea that his fate will once again be yoked with hers unsettles him even more than Fulla’s disappearance.

  At home, Hogni lies in bed cursing the pain in his shoulder. Like most men of his generation, his body is a small map of scars. But each wound seems to heal more slowly than the last. Right now, he can feel the fever raging through his body like a bush fire. He calls for Helga, his voice rasping loudly. She comes in after a moment, wiping her hands on her apron, before reaching forward to feel his brow.

  “I need a drink,” he says.

  “You need more than that,” she murmurs. She leaves the room and returns a moment later with a large jug of water and a cup. He empties the cup and hands it back to her. She refills it and sets it on the table by his bed.Then she pours the water into a small soapstone basin and soaks a cloth in it, wringing the excess out before laying it across his forehead. Hogni unfolds the cloth and spreads it across his entire face.

  “That’s better,” he murmurs, breathing in the cool, wet fibre.

  “I’ve got to tend the fire,” she says. She leaves him, and before long, the coolness has evaporated, and the cloth is warm and cloying on his face. He is too tired to remove it, and he lies in the fading darkness of the room, his eyes and nose shrouded. After a few minutes, he hears a noise just outside the room and gives a small cough.

  “Helga, is that you?” he wheezes. He listens to the silence for a moment. His mind drifts towards sleep. And then he hears the unmistakable sound of footfall by his door. He jerks upright with a spasm of pain and whips the cloth from his face, only to see Vili standing in the doorway. “You!” Hogni cries. The pain shoots through his shoulder, and he gingerly eases himself back down. “What on earth are you doing here?” he gasps.

  “I came to find Fulla.”

  “Did Holstein send you?”

  Vili shakes his head. “No.”

  “Do they know you’ve come?”

  Vili takes a step forward. “No.”

  “That’s far enough,” says Hogni tersely.

  “Your shoulder.” Vili nods towards the wound.

  “What of it?”

  “I can smell the infection from here.”

  “I’m an old man,” replies Hogni staunchly. “I heal badly.”

  “I’m good with wounds.”

  Hogni eyes him sceptically. “You must be mad,” he says, incredulous.

  “Perhaps I am.” There is a hint of challenge in the boy’s voice.

  Hogni sighs and leans back, eyeing him suspiciously. “What are you waiting for?” he says finally.

  Vili advances slowly towards the bedside. When he reaches Hogni, he carefully peels back the dressing on his shoulder. The wound beneath is small but angry-looking.Yellow pus has crusted around its edge, and the surrounding skin is red and swollen. “You need a poultice,” he says. “If we don’t stop the infection, it will spread to the arm.”

  Hogni eyes him. “How do I know Holstein hasn’t sent you here to kill me?”

  “You don’t. But either way you’ll die.”

  “Then get on with it.”

  Vili turns and disappears from the bedchamber. He returns after a few minutes laden with supplies. He works quickly, laying out on the bed beside Hogni a small selection of ingredients he has ransacked from the scullery and the garden. The old man watches as he prepares a thick brown paste from rendered lard and herbs, pounding it vigorously in a mortar and pestle. A sharply pungent smell fills the air as he works. “What is that?” Hogni sniffs at it suspiciously.

  “Comfrey roots. Camomile. Angelica. It will lessen the inflammation and help bind the wound.” Once finished, he washes the area thoroughly with clean water, then smears the salve directly onto the wound.

  Hogni winces. “Ow!”

  “Hold still. I’m nearly finished.”

  “It burns like the fires of hell!”

  “The pain will lessen in a minute.” Vili dresses the wound carefully with a clean piece of linen, while Hogni looks on.

  “Where did you learn this?”

  “My grandmother was a healer. She taught my mother. My mother taught me.”

  Hogni raises an eyebrow. “Your mother is dead now?”

  “They both are.” Vili carries the soiled dressing out to the larger room and flings it onto the fire, then returns to Hogni’s bedside. He picks up the water jug and refills Hogni’s cup. “Here,” he says, holding it out. Hogni takes the cup, draining it noisily. He hands the cup back to Vili.

  “Tell me what you know of Fulla,” says Vili abruptly.

  Hogni glares at him, now indebted. “I know nothing. She disappeared from the baths.”

  Vili weighs up the old man’s answer. At length, he lowers himself onto a chair by the bed. For the first time, Hogni sees how tired he is.

  “I’ve done nothing but scour both our farms for the past three days,” says Vili. “She is nowhere.”

  Hogni nods. “We’ve come to the same conclusion.”

  “Where did she go? And with whom?”

  “I wish I knew.” Hogni stares at the boy. He is obviously in torment. Yet he knows nothing of their plans to leave for
Norway. Hogni feels a sudden rush of guilt.They hear a noise in the hall, and a second later Helga appears in the doorway. Her mouth forms a circle of astonishment.

  “Who’s this?” she says.Vili leaps to his feet uncomfortably.

  “It’s all right,” says Hogni. “He’s made a poultice.” Helga walks over to the wound and peeks under the dressing with a frown. Hogni winces. She sniffs at it suspiciously, then turns to Vili.

  “You’ve not poisoned him, have you?”

  Vili shakes his head. “No.”

  “Hold your tongue, woman! And fix the boy some food. Can’t you see he’s starving?”

  Helga makes a face at him, and leaves the room with a clucking sound. Vili turns to Hogni. “Thank you,” he says. Hogni gives a flick of his good hand, before lying back down and closing his eyes.

  An hour later Dvalin returns. When he enters the hall, he does not notice the boy sleeping soundly on a pallet near the fire. Dvalin crosses the room and enters Hogni’s bedchamber. The old man stirs at once and sits up in the darkness. “Dvalin,” he says.

  “Let me light a lamp.” Dvalin lights a small oil lamp with a piece of kindling from the fire. It casts an eerie glow about the room. He seats himself on the edge of the bed. “How are you?”

  “Better,” says Hogni. “What have you learnt?”

  Dvalin pauses. “I have an idea who the woman was.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s only a theory,” he says cautiously.

  “Don’t be coy, Dvalin,” Hogni says with irritation.

  A noise startles them both.They turn to see the boy standing in the doorway, his face bleary with sleep. Hogni nods to him. “Vili, leave us, if you please.”

  Vili hesitates, then turns away and crosses back to his pallet by the fire. Dvalin turns back to Hogni, dropping his voice. “Who is he?”

  “Skallagrim’s grandson,” says Hogni grimly.

  It takes a moment for Dvalin to realise the significance of his words. His eyes widen. “Not the son of -”

  Hogni raises a hand to silence him. “He is not like his father.”

  “Why is he here?”

  Hogni takes a deep breath. “He and Fulla . . . are friends.”

  “Friends.”

  “Well, something more, I suppose.” Hogni concedes.

  Dvalin stares at him in disbelief. “That is why you are taking her to Norway,” he says slowly.

  “No,” protests Hogni. Dvalin looks at him sceptically. “Well, in part, yes,” he admits. “But it is not the only reason.”

  “Where you have betrothed her to your cousin.”

  Hogni shrugs.

  “Against her will,” continues Dvalin.

  Hogni nods reluctantly.

  Dvalin eyes him. “And now she has run away,” he says.

  “She was taken! You spoke to Helga!”

  “It is all beginning to make sense,” says Dvalin.

  “You do not understand. She knew she could not make a life with this boy!”

  “Did she?” Vili’s voice comes to them from behind. Both men turn and see him standing in the doorway. He takes a step into the room. “She said this?” His eyes lock onto Hogni’s.

  “She knew this in her heart,” Hogni says slowly. “Even if she was not prepared to admit it.”

  Vili stares at him angrily. “You have no right to dictate our future,” he says accusingly.

  “I have every right!” Hogni says furiously.

  Vili glares at him. “Then I should not have saved you,” he says hotly. He turns and flees the room.

  Hogni turns to Dvalin with a guilty shrug. “My plans have all gone awry,” he says gloomily.

  “Perhaps they were meant to,” admonishes Dvalin. He stands up. “You must rest now.”

  “What of Fulla?” demands Hogni. “You know where she is, don’t you?”

  Dvalin looks down at him with a frown. “I have a fairly good idea.”

  “What will you do?” asks Hogni cautiously.

  “First I will find her. Then I will let her choose.”

  Hogni regards him for a moment, and lies back with a sigh. “Then luck be with you,” he says wearily.

  The next morning, Dvalin rises before dawn and saddles his horse in the darkness. He wants an early start, partly so Hogni cannot send his men after him. On his way out, he finds two loaves of bread and a cheese by the door, together with a flask of ale. A parting gift from Helga, he suspects. As he leads the horse out of the yard, he hears a footstep behind him. Vili steps out of the last stall, where he has clearly spent the night.There are bits of straw hanging from his clothes and hair. “Where are you going?” asks the boy.

  “To find Fulla.”

  “Take me with you.”

  Dvalin hesitates. “If I take you with me,” he says slowly, “then your people are sure to follow.” The boy considers this, frowning. “Let me find her first, Vili. I will bring her back to you.” Dvalin starts to lead the horse out of the stable.

  Vili steps into his path. “Please,” he says urgently.

  “If you love her,” says Dvalin, “you will stay here, and make peace with her kin.”

  Vili takes a deep breath, then nods. Dvalin leads his horse out into the yard, where the first hint of ragged light has appeared along the edge of the mountains. He mounts the horse and walks it out of the yard, leaving the lovelorn figure of the boy behind him.

  THE NORNS

  The first men landed here by accident, blown off course by stormy seas. They were mystified by what they saw: snow in midsummer, a midnight sun that never set, and smoke that rose without fire from the land. They also found hot water bubbling straight out of the ground—the island’s secret source of warmth.They did not know that Iceland sits atop a plume of magma that pumps an endless supply of heat into its rock.The volcanic bedrock beneath her is like a sponge. Rain falls from the sky and trickles down to settle in the bowels of the earth, where it is heated by the core, then rises back up through cracks in the rock. As it nears the surface, the water searches out weak points in the crust, where it eventually escapes in the form of a spring. When the water remains trapped deep beneath the ground, a ghost of steam appears—as if the earth has just exhaled.

  FREYA

  The girl was waiting to be stolen. I felt the restlessness in her at once, like the trembling of water just before it rises to the boil. I could see as well that she was unhappy. A thin, almost imperceptible veil of loss hung over her. But she was too proud to parade her discontent. It lay smothered beneath her sense of duty and obedience. These things I divined from observing her, both alone and with her maidservant, together with the more obvious fact that she was uncommonly beautiful. Perhaps she really is Odin’s daughter, I thought, watching her slide into the waters like a nymph.

  She was drawn to me. She approached me at once and introduced herself. I did not tell her my name. Not at first, anyway. We spoke of her grandfather’s land, and of the baths and their setting, and the storms that had passed only recently. Idle conversation, though she listened intently and regarded me throughout. After a time, we ceased talking and lolled about in the warm thermal waters. I waited for an opportunity to present itself. Before long, her maidservant went to relieve herself, and I too slipped away. The girl did not take much notice, for the day had turned sunny, and she was leaning back upon the rock with her eyes closed. A few minutes later I returned alone. She opened her eyes and looked at me.

  “Where is Helga?” she asked.

  “Asleep,” I replied. It was only the tiniest of lies.

  The girl frowned. “How strange,” she said.

  “Perhaps she is tired.”

  She looked at me curiously. “Where are you from?”

  “Asgard.”

  “Asgard,” she repeated slowly. Her eyebrows shot up like tiny arrows. “Do you mean, in the sky?”

  All men think that Asgard lies in some distant heavenly realm, a notion the Aesir put about long ago. They do not realise that we all w
alk the same earth, breathe the same air, drink the same water, as they do. “Not exactly,” I said. “But over the mountains, yes.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “I flew.”

  She smiled with disbelief. “How?” she asked.

  “I have a cloak made of falcon feathers.”

  Her expression changed. “I’ve heard of such things,” she murmured. “But I didn’t know that they were real.” She looked at me intently. “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I am Freya.”

  A slow smile spread across her face. “You’ve come to help me.” It was not a question, and I scarcely knew what she referred to. But I did not dissuade her.

  “I’ve come to take you away,” I replied.

  “To Asgard?”

  “Yes.”

  She hesitated a moment. I could see her mind working quickly. She glanced briefly at the trees. “Now?” There was a hint of challenge in her voice.

  “Yes.”

  She stood, and the water ran in streams down her naked body. She leaned across and reached for her clothing, which she hastily pulled over her head. Then she turned to me expectantly, her face slick with wet. “We must go quickly,” she said.

  I understood at once that I was not stealing her. She was running away.

  That was three days ago. Already she has settled well here. Sessruminger appeals to her, with its dramatic setting and views of Hekla. She continues to surprise me, with her blunt-spoken ways and her impulsive manner. But she is not without regard for others: she has an intuitive sense of those around her, and is strangely trusting of me, though I am not sure why.

  Only a few times has she mentioned her kin. I can see that it disturbs her to think of them, for she must know the worry her disappearance has caused. She told me that her parents are both dead, and that her only living blood relation is her grand- father. Though she did not say it, I got the sense that she was already anticipating his passing and the time when she would be alone. Still, she mentioned nothing of his plans for her: neither of her impending marriage, nor of his intention to take her abroad. And I was left wondering what her own intentions had been. Had she planned to run away before I arrived?