Dvalin shakes his head in amazement. “Do you mean that all this time you’ve been silent out of choice?”
The boy nods again.
“Answer me!” Dvalin says.
“Yes,” says Sky. His voice is slightly hoarse.
Dvalin stares at him a moment, and gives a short derisive laugh. The boy eyes him uneasily. Dvalin wheels on him. “I should thrash you!”
Sky leaps to his feet and backs away.
“Sit down,” says Dvalin with a shake of his head.
Sky hesitates, then returns to his seat. His fingers move to stroke the bird, but it ducks and bobs away from his hand.
Dvalin glares at him. “Why?”
The boy takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I could not,” he says finally.
“You would not,” corrects Dvalin.
“Would not,” admits Sky.
Dvalin scowls and turns back to the fire. Sky watches him intently. “I saw things,” he says. “Things I did not wish to speak of.” Dvalin turns to face him, his eyes narrowing.
“What things?”
Sky hesitates. “I saw you kill my brothers.”
Dvalin frowns. “That is not the only thing you saw,” he says. “I hated them for what they did that day,” Sky replies evenly. “But I hated you as well.”
“They got what they deserved.”
“Perhaps.” Sky looks away into the fire. “Most of all, I hated myself,” he says then. “For I did not have the strength to oppose them. Not that day, nor any of the others . . .”
“You were only a child.”
Sky shakes his head. “Silence is the path of cowards.”
Dvalin lays a hand upon his shoulder. “You are too harsh. Your brothers’ sins were not your own,” he says intently.
“Maybe not,” the boy says, “but I still feel their shame.” They hear a noise outside. Dvalin drops his voice. “Do the others know?” Sky gives a quick shake of his head, just as Fulla enters the room. Dvalin glances quickly back at Sky, who pleads with him silently. Dvalin rises and turns to greet Fulla.
“May I speak with you?” she asks Dvalin.
“Of course.”
Sky jumps to his feet. He nods to them and turns to go, and Fulla gives him a smile of thanks. She seats herself on the bench where Sky had been only moments before. “The lad is fond of you,” says Dvalin.
“And I of him. He is like a brother to me. I am very fond of both of them.”
Dvalin nods. “I know this.”
They both stare at the fire for a moment. Fulla takes a deep breath and turns to him. “It was wrong of me to run away. One always knows, deep inside, what is right from what is wrong.” She pauses, gathering her thoughts. “I feel as if my entire life has been lived inside the shadow of death. First my mother. Then my father. And now . . . now my grandfather wishes to return to his homeland, in order to die. Dvalin, I am too well acquainted with death and its ways not to recognise this. And though he has provided for my future, it is not one of my choosing.”
“You do not wish to go to Norway,” he says.
“No,” she says emphatically.
“Then you must tell him.”
She shakes her head. “He does not understand. I’ve spoken to him. And we do not agree . . .” She breaks off.
“And Vili? What has he to do with all this?”
She looks up at him with surprise. Her voice drops sharply. “How do you know about Vili?”
“He waits for you at Laxardal. I left him tending Hogni’s wounds.”
Her face creases with alarm. “What wounds?”
“Hogni is fine,” Dvalin says reassuringly. “He was stabbed in the shoulder.”
“By whom?”
“Thorstein.”
She stares at him, aghast. “Because of me,” she utters. “Yes. But you could not have foreseen it.”
“Nonetheless, the blame is mine! Had I not run away . . .”
“It might have happened anyway,” he interjects. “There was bad blood between them long before, Fulla. Remember this.”
She shakes her head. “Hate has poisoned all of us,” she says. Dvalin sighs. “Perhaps.”
She looks around the room. “I must go to them.”
Dvalin hesitates, suddenly riddled with doubt. “But what of Odin?”
“As you said, he will have to come to me.” She rises to her feet. “We must leave at once. I’ll speak to Freya and ready my things.” She turns and hurries from the room.
Dvalin crosses to the small bedchamber and begins to stuff his few possessions into a satchel. When he is finished, he folds the bedclothes they have given him to sleep upon. Freya stands silently in the doorway watching him. “She is leaving,” says Freya.
He turns around, startled. “Yes,” he admits.
“You were very persuasive.”
“The choice was hers.”
“Perhaps it is the right one.”
Dvalin says nothing.
“I did not expect her to remain with us for good. Sky will be disappointed, however,” she adds. “We are his family now.”
Dvalin wonders briefly whether to speak of the boy’s revelation, but decides against it. “What about the necklace?” he says instead.
“It remains with Odin.”
“You would surrender it that easily?”
“What choice do I have?”
Dvalin ponders this. “You are its rightful owner. Odin must know this.You must persuade him to return it.”
She frowns. “By what means? Would you have me debase myself with him as well?” she says tartly.
He colours. “Of course not,” he stammers. “I only meant . . .”
“Maybe I was wrong to put my faith in the necklace, for it has done nothing but cause strife since it came to me.”
The words hit him bluntly. “Perhaps you are right,” he says. “Perhaps it was not meant for you.”
“Perhaps not.” She stares at him, and the gulf between them seems to widen. “It is time for you to go,” she says. “I’ll see that your horses are made ready.” She turns to leave, and they both see Sky standing by the fire like a ghost. Without a sound, he flees.
FREYA
Was it truth I spoke about the necklace? The words came from nowhere, but once they’d landed in the space between us, I felt the harsh weight of them. I saw a flash of something in Dvalin’s eyes when I uttered them: whether it was anger or regret I cannot say. I do not know why Skuld sent me to retrieve the Brisingamen. Nor whose purpose it was destined to serve. But it has done little to alleviate Hekla’s anger since my return. The mountain continues to behave in strange, unpredictable ways. One moment, she spews forth acrid clouds of smoke, the next, she is menacingly quiet. I do not trust her silence nor her outbursts, and I am beginning to believe that my faith in the necklace was misjudged. In the end, the Brisingamen has merely succeeded in dividing us. And a part of me now feels relieved that it is gone.
So let them return to their people. Sky and I will contend with Hekla on our own.
But a short while later, when they are about to leave, Sky is nowhere to be found. We look for him at length, calling all around the house and grounds. Finally, we are forced to abandon our search. Fulla turns to me with dismay. “I wanted to say goodbye,” she says.
“Tell him we’re sorry,” says Dvalin. I shoot him a look, but he seems sincere.
“Will you visit me?” asks Fulla.
I force a smile. My quarrel is not with her, after all. “Perhaps,” I reply. I hardly think her grandfather would welcome me, however. I cast my gaze briefly towards Dvalin; his expression is remote.
“We must go, Fulla,” he says then.
She embraces me, before turning to her horse. Dvalin holds the reins while she mounts, then climbs upon his own. I do not say goodbye to him, but when he has brought his horse around towards the gate, he turns and nods to me, just once. Our eyes meet, and I realise that I cannot read the darkness in them. The man is unknowable, I t
hink, as I watch them both ride out of the yard.
After they have gone, I return to the house, feeling empty. Where is Sky? I wonder. And why did he disappear so quickly? My eyes roam restlessly about the room and eventually settle on the carved wooden trunk that holds the feather form. Without thinking I cross to it and lift the lid. The box is empty. Sky has stolen the feather form. I feel a sudden clench of fear deep inside: without the form I am powerless. I can do nothing now but hope that he returns.
I spend the rest of the day weaving. When my spirit is unsettled, the loom quiets me. Today I choose flax to weave with. My fingers caress the fine threads, feel the roughness of the cloth as it is formed. I shove the worn wooden shuttle back and forth, trying to lose myself in the rhythm of its dance. Every now and then, my feet brush against the polished stone circles that anchor the warp. Their weight reminds me that we are all tethered to one another, for better or for worse. I know that now, even if I didn’t always.
When I finally stop, the late summer sun has nearly finished its descent. I take up my cloak and climb the slope behind the house, my feet sending loose stones skittering down the mountain behind me. Eventually I reach a small crag and sit upon a rock ledge. In front of me, the dying sun is a vast orb of red. I watch it slip behind the mountains far to the west. To my left, Hekla sits squarely, her perfect cone emitting a dark breath of sulphurous smoke. She gives a little cough now and then, as if reminding me of her presence, and for the first time I see that one flank of her cone bulges slightly, like the puffed up bladder of a pig. Once again a dark curtain of fear sweeps through me. I have lived in Hekla’s shadow all my life, but never have I seen her so alive. I reach for the Brisingamen without thinking, but my hands clutch at nothing. I pray that Sky returns, for I do not know how much longer Hekla will wait.
THE NORNS
The people here call it hraun, the burnt wilderness left behind when lava has grown cold. Much of the lava here is thick and rich in gas; it erupts infrequently but with enormous explosiveness. Gnarled and bumpy, this type of lava can flow at the pace of a snail, sometimes advancing only a few feet a day. It crumbles forward, glowing lumps breaking off and tumbling down the front edge of the slope, forming a surface that is ugly and impassable.When magma is less thick, it produces lava that flows in smooth, ropy channels like a flaming river. It quickly forms a hard skin on its surface. Red-hot lava runs beneath this skin, distorting it into coils like the pipes of an organ.These pipes direct the flow of lava away from the crater, sometimes over long distances. If a pipe empties at the end of an eruption, a cave forms. But all lava is savage in its treatment of the land: the ruined earth reclaims itself by degrees, often taking generations to recover.
DVALIN
They ride first to Nidavellir. It is dark when they arrive, and the caves are eerily quiet. Once they have fed and watered the horses, Dvalin takes up a torch and hands a second one to Fulla, then leads her through the labyrinth of twisting tunnels. The caves are clammy and the air is pungent with the smell of minerals. Fulla shivers and pulls her cloak more tightly around her. “Is it always this cold?” she asks.
Dvalin grins at her. “You get used to it.”
“Where are the people?”
“Asleep mainly. Night comes early to the caves. There is little to occupy us after dark. Watch your step here.” He motions towards a stream of water that cuts directly across their path, before disappearing down a hole in the wall.
Fulla steps across it. “Water is everywhere here,” Dvalin continues. “The caves were formed thousands of years ago by underground rivers. The water is our lifeblood. Without it we would perish.”
“So all those years, when you went away from us, this is where you returned to?” Her voice contains a hint of incredulity.
He laughs. “Yes, believe it or not.”
“Did you bring my father here?”
“Only once. Once was enough. Jarl thought that I was mad to live in darkness, when I could have the sun and stars.”
Fulla glances at him sideways. “But you are fond of it here.”
He shrugs. “In spite of myself, yes, I suppose I am.”
Finally, they reach Dvalin’s cave. He stands to one side and motions for her to enter. Fulla wanders about the room with interest, pausing now and then to examine his things, while Dvalin kneels and lays a fire. When she discovers the bowl of coloured beads, she exclaims with delight, running her fingers through them repeatedly.
“These are lovely! Where did you get them?”
“They were my mother’s. She collected them on her travels.”
Fulla frowns. “Your mother travelled?”
“My mother was one of the Aesir. In fact, she was a swan maiden.”
“I never knew this.”
He shrugs. “Why would you?”
“A swan maiden,” she murmurs. “Could she fly?”
He nods. “Yes.”
“Like Freya,” Fulla says.
Dvalin purses his lips. “Yes.” He turns away and crosses to an oak barrel in the corner, where he decants two cups of ale. “Here.” He hands one to her.
“How did she meet your father?”
“By chance. He came across her bathing in a river. In fact, it was her feathers he discovered. She was then bound to him, according to the laws of the Aesir.”
“Bound to him?”
Dvalin nods. “For seven years. That was her punishment: the feather form was not meant to be out of her possession, even for an instant.”
“So she returned with him to the caves?”
“Yes. They were married.”
“And after seven years?”
“She left.”
“She did not love him?”
He ponders this. “No,” he says eventually. “I do not think so.”
“Did he love her?”
Dvalin finishes the ale and sets the cup down. “Yes. Though I think he knew in his heart she would not stay.”
Fulla frowns. “How sad.” She runs her fingers again through the beads. She eventually chooses a small red one and holds it up to the light. “But she left these behind.”
“Yes,” he replies. “And me.”
Fulla looks up at him with surprise.
“She took my sister with her. And left the stones and me with my father. I suppose we were her parting gift.” He gives a wan smile.
“What a sorry tale,” she says quietly. “But I suppose my own family did not fare much better.”
“Life is full of such stories,” he says.
She nods. “You look tired.”
He smiles. “A fortnight on horseback will tire anyone.”
“I’m sorry. The fault is mine. We should rest.”
She looks around towards the bed. “You sleep there,” Dvalin says. “I’ll take a pallet by the fire. We’ve got another long ride tomorrow.”
“Dvalin.” She pauses. “I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused.”
“Your father only wanted your happiness.”
“Happiness is an elusive thing,” she replies.
“I believe you made him happy.”
“Perhaps. But we’ll never know, will we?”
He sleeps deeply, without dreams, his mind and body desperate for release. When he wakes, he sees at once that Fulla has already risen. She smiles at him. “Good morning,” she says. “You were sleeping so peacefully, I couldn’t bear to wake you.”
“I’m grateful,” he says with a smile. He sees that her hair is freshly combed, and that she has lit a fire and even prepared a simple meal for him out of the remains of their food, which she has laid out neatly on the bench by the fire.
“Are you hungry?” she asks, motioning towards the bench.
“I’m famished.” He rises and crosses to the bench, surveying her efforts. A tiny crease of pain runs through him. He has lived all these years without the presence of another, much less the deft hand of a woman. He smiles at her. “The man who wins your hand will be very fortunate indeed
.”
She laughs. “Why? Because I have the good sense to make a meal?”
Before he can reply, they hear footsteps outside. Berling enters excitedly, followed by Gerd. “You’re back!” he says.
“Berling, Gerd. This is Jarl’s daughter, Fulla.”
Berling stares at Fulla, silenced by her beauty. “We’re pleased to meet you,” says Gerd warmly. “Indeed, we’ve heard much of your family all these years. Dvalin’s loyalty has been sharply divided between Laxardal and Nidavellir.”
“We’re on our way back to Laxardal,” explains Dvalin. “We arrived late last night.”
“You’re off again?” says Berling, disappointed.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Have you forgotten your promise to Berling?” asks Gerd gently.
“Yes, Dvalin, you gave your word,” says Berling eagerly.
Dvalin hesitates. “So I did,” he says then.
“Does that mean I can come?” asks Berling.
Dvalin nods. “If Fulla does not object.”
“Of course not.You would be more than welcome at my grandfather’s house.”
“We leave in an hour, Berling. Make ready your things,” says Dvalin.
Berling beams with pleasure, before rushing from the room. When he has gone, Gerd turns to him. “Thank you, Dvalin. It will do him a world of good. He’s been missing you. We all have,” she adds pointedly.
“We’ll take good care of him, Gerd.”
“I am certain of it. How long will you be gone?”
“Three days at most. Enough time for him to get a glimpse of the outside world, but not so long that he becomes accustomed to it.”
Gerd smiles. “Like his older brother, you mean.” She looks at him purposefully, and he colours. “Very well,” she says. “I’ll leave you to your preparations. Goodbye, Fulla. Please thank your grandfather for his hospitality.”
“Yes, of course.”
After Gerd has gone, Dvalin returns to the bench and seats himself. Fulla eyes him for a moment. “She’s a lovely woman,” she remarks.
“Yes. A good mother to Berling.”
“It’s not my business, but . . . she harbours feelings for you, does she not?”
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