“It’s nothing,” he says. “Only a flesh wound.”
“It’s deep and needs tending.” She smears the poultice gently on the wound as he winces, then reties the bandage as best she can. “Let me look at the back of your head.”
He raises his head slightly, allowing her to examine it.
She bends down closely to see. “You were lucky.”
“We both were.”
For the first time, she looks into his eyes. “I thought you were dead.”
“And I you.”
They stare at each other for a moment, until she turns away. “I must light a fire,” she says unsteadily. She gathers a pile of dead leaves, then removes a flint from her pouch. He watches as she struggles with the flint, resisting the temptation to reach out to grasp her hand. Finally, a tiny flame sputters into life, catching on the leaves. Quickly she feeds the fire with small twigs.
“What of Asgard? And your people?” he asks.
She gives a brief shake of her head. “Asgard is destroyed.”
He hesitates. “Did you fly over Nidavellir?”
She looks over to him and nods slowly. “I’m sorry,” she says. “The entire plain has collapsed. I flew over it but saw nothing. No sign of life.”
His eyes drift to the fire. “I did not think it would be spared,” he says finally. He looks up at her and for the first time sees the Brisingamen around her neck. “The necklace!” he exclaims.
She stops and fingers it. “Odin sent me to the coast to recover it. I was there when Hekla blew.” She looks down at it, then back at him. “I was wrong about the necklace. It saved my life.”
“We were both wrong,” he replies.
She continues feeding the fire until it is established, then sits down next to him. After a moment, she reaches back and undoes the clasp of the necklace, and holds it out to him.
“Here,” she says.
He frowns. “What is this?”
“I’m returning it.”
“Why?”
“Because it has done what it was meant to. I can ask nothing more of it.”
He takes the Brisingamen from her and studies it. “I, too, am finished with it,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because it represents all my faults.”
She smiles. “What faults are these?” she asks teasingly. “I was not aware you had any.”
“Oh yes,” he admits, studying the gold. “Each one is here, burnt into the ore.You see this, at the top?” She leans towards him, peering closely. He shows her the ornate clasp that holds the chain together. “This here is the sin of pride.”
She studies it. “There are worse crimes,” she pronounces. “And this,” he continues, holding up the link between the chain and the pendant, “this one is anger.”
She smiles. “Perhaps I was aware of that one.”
“And this,” he says, holding up the chain. “This represents the sin of solitude.”
She looks at him askance. “Solitude is an offence?”
“It can be,” he says.
“Then I, too, have committed it.”
“Perhaps,” he acknowledges. He takes a deep breath before continuing. “But the worst one is here.” He holds up the pendant. “This one represents fear.”
She frowns at the pendant, then raises her gaze to his. “What are you afraid of?” she asks slowly.
“Myself.” He pauses and gazes at her. “You.” Somewhere deep inside him, a tremendous force of longing is unleashed.
“You do not want the necklace?” she asks.
He shakes his head. “I want you.”
Slowly, she leans in towards him, and brings her lips right to his own. He kisses her urgently, for he has waited much too long. He hears her whisper his name, her voice mingling with the desire in his brain. He lifts her up into the air with both arms and pulls her right on top of him, so he can feel the warm weight of her body atop his.This is where he wants her to remain, he thinks. Here with him, on the ground.
FULLA
A short distance from the coast, Fulla and Vili meet an old man on the road riding a large white mare. He is modestly clothed in a dark red woollen cloak and wears a wide-brimmed felt hat, together with a leather patch over one eye. His other eye is of a startling blue, however. Fulla cannot help but stare at it. The old man appears from nowhere and smiles at them amiably. “May I ride along with you?” he asks.
Fulla and Vili exchange a bemused glance. “Of course,” Fulla answers politely. She does not know why, but the old man strikes her as oddly familiar. Perhaps he is wary of travelling alone, she thinks, though he seems oblivious to danger.
“Where do you journey?” he asks.
“To the coast,” answers Vili. “We intend to find passage on a ship bound for Norway.”
“Ah, Norway,” muses the old man. “A fine country. Full of trees, they say.”
“You’ve not been there?” Fulla asks.
The old man smiles at her. “My home is here.”
She meets his gaze for a moment, and something in it unnerves her.
“Do you go to visit or to live?” the old man asks after a moment.
Vili smiles at Fulla. “We intend to start a new life there,” he says proudly. “We are newly betrothed, but will marry as soon as we arrive on Norwegian shores. It was her grandfather’s last request that she should be married in Norway.”
The old man nods thoughtfully. “One must respect the wishes of the dead,” he says. “You are good to do so.”
They ride along in silence for a time, until they reach the crest of a long hill. In the distance, the shimmering turquoise of the ocean comes into sight. “Look!” exclaims Fulla, pulling her horse to a stop. She smiles broadly at the vast expanse of water stretching endlessly towards the horizon. The enormous swell of it takes her breath away.
“This is your first journey across the water?” the old man asks politely. She nods.
He reaches in a small leather pouch hung about his neck and withdraws something, then advances towards her. “Here,” he says, pulling his horse to a stop beside hers. “I should like you to have this.” He leans forward and extends his hand. In his palm is a small gold ring.
Fulla looks at him with confusion. “No,” she protests. “I could not.”
“Please,” he answers. “I am an old man. I might die tomorrow. It would give me great pleasure if you’d accept.”
Fulla hesitates. She glances uncertainly at Vili, who raises an eyebrow almost imperceptibly. “Thank you,” she says after a moment, taking the ring. She slips it onto her finger. It fits as if it had been made for her.
“I wish you well in your new life,” says the old man intently. Without another word, he turns his horse in the opposite direction and rides away.
Vili watches him go, then laughs, shaking his head. He leans over, peering closely at the ring. “It is very fine,” he acknowledges.
Fulla stares after the old man. “I did not even ask his name,” she murmurs.
“What an odd thing to do.”
“Yes,” she concurs.
“Perhaps he was taken with your beauty,” says Vili with a grin. He urges his horse back to a walk. After one last glance, Fulla follows. Every now and then she looks down at the ring. Already, it looks as if it has grown there.The sight pleases her. Without thinking, she reaches for the necklace hidden beneath her dress. She feels for the pendant and holds it for a moment. The old man seemed harmless enough. Perhaps he only wanted company, after all.
FREYA
It has been three months since Hekla blew. Each morning, Dvalin and I must contend with her legacy. Much of Hogni’s land was destroyed in the aftermath of the eruption. Little pasture has been left that is suitable for grazing, and many of the crops have failed. Two-thirds of the livestock have perished from starvation. We have struggled to find food for the remainder, as well as nourishment for ourselves. Even the rivers are unsafe, their waters poisoned by Hekla’s fury. It will be many years, pe
rhaps generations, before order is restored. But we are alive and we are together. For these things we are grateful.
The weather continues to behave unpredictably, like an ill-tempered child. Each night, the sun sets with unearthly beauty, as if the heavens are awash with the blood of those who have died. We watch in awe and in sorrow. Berling remains with us and every day, he sheds another layer of grief, and of childhood. Death and destruction have made him wise beyond his years; he has seen enough of both to last a lifetime. He has grown to love life above the ground and spends hours exploring the land around Hogni’s farm.
But he does not do so alone. Two days after Dvalin and I returned to Laxardal, a rider appeared in the yard outside Hogni’s farm. He was unrecognisable, so black was his skin and hair from the ash.The horse appeared to be barely standing, its exhaused head nearly slumped to the ground. I walked outside to greet this stranger, and when I looked into his eyes, I nearly fainted with relief. Sky gazed down at me with that same familiar look of hope and trepidation.
“Sky,” I said. Slowly he slid off the horse, and I folded him into an embrace. The blackness of his skin came off on me. I felt his enormous frame tremble with relief. Eventually, he pulled back and looked at me. “Where is Odin?” I asked.
He shook his head. “He showed me the way through the mountain, but would not come with me.” I stared at him, and understood that Odin had taken his own path.
Each week, Helga and the others quietly make offerings to Thor, even while the new religion spreads like windblown seeds across the land. Unlike the pagan gods of old, the new god they preach of is both faultless and pure. While Thor remains a symbol of both strength and protection, he must now yield to Christ in the eyes of many here.The godi have all been baptised now, and a bishop has been appointed to oversee the region. There are plans for a church to be built nearby.
I used to think that the people here laboured under false belief. Now I see that there is no such thing, for belief itself is as powerful and impervious as Hekla. I have come to understand that men are governed by their faith—whatever form it may assume. And it is faith that underpins both their identity and their purpose.
Long ago, the poets prophesied that a new world would arise after the storm age, ever green, and that all those who survived would meet again on the great plain to recall the deeds and ancient secrets of old. I know that the Aesir will continue to dwell in our stories and our memories. And that is how it shall remain for all time.
The Brisingamen is no longer with us. We have given it to Fulla, to keep her safe on her passage to her new life. Now I do not fear its power, for it has proved its worth, and I am certain it will serve Fulla well. Even the feather form is gone, the last vestige of my life with the Aesir. Not long after we returned to Laxardal, I burned it in the same spot where Hogni was cremated. Dvalin seemed surprised, but did not argue. I think he was relieved. Though the cloak saved our life more than once, he prefers life upon the ground. Now we live like ordinary people, who rise each day with the sun and labour until dark.
Last night, as I drifted into sleep, I felt a quickening in my belly. For the first time since the eruption, I dreamt of Skuld. Asgard may be gone, but I am certain the Norns remain, casting their long shadows over our lives. In my dream, Skuld placed her hands upon my stomach and smiled. “Two hands,” she said. “One for each child. Beautiful daughters, with names like jewels.”
When I told Dvalin of my dream this morning, he looked at me askance. “Twins?” He said with a raised eyebrow. I laughed. He does not know it, but I have already chosen their names. I shall name them after precious stones, according to Skuld’s prophecy, for she has never let me down.
And what do I think of love, now that it has caught me in its grasp? I have come to understand its terrible beauty, as well as its capacity to cleave the soul. But I also know that love is a truth that must be learnt, rather than taught. And that it should never be ignored.
a cognizant original v5 release october 10 2010
AUTHOR’S NOTE
As the title suggests, this book is heavily steeped in the history, geology, mythology and ancient lore of Iceland. Norse myth, though drawn from all of Scandinavian culture, uses imagery that is unique to Iceland. In particular, the prophecy of creation and destruction (Ragnorak) which underpins the entire cycle of myths can only refer to the turbulent geology of that country.Thus, the tenacity of the book’s central characters mirrors that of the Icelandic people themselves, who settled in this volatile land more than a millennium ago and refused to be driven out by its destructive nature.
Through the centuries, the Icelandic people have endured countless eruptions, some of them catastrophic. Mount Hekla, the infamous volcano at the centre of this story, first erupted in 1104. During that explosion, she deposited two and a half cubic kilometers of ash and rock upon her inhabitants. An entire valley was obliterated. None of the early farmers who laid claim to her flanks during the first years of settlement realised they were living atop such a beast. It is no wonder Hekla subsequently came to be regarded as the gate to Hell.
At the heart of the novel is Freya, the Norse goddess of love. The story is loosely inspired by the myth of the Brisingamen, which tells of Freya’s quest for a magnificent gold necklace, and her decision to sell herself to the four brothers who created it. The myth has been widely embellished and reinterpreted over the centuries, but I have taken further liberties with it, altering both Freya’s motivations and the outcome of her journey.
While Norse mythology is dominated by men, it is Freya who emerges as the most complex and intriguing of the pantheon. Although she represents romance and fertility, she herself is unlucky in love, having been deserted by her mortal husband Od. Freya suffers enormously when Od abandons her; indeed it is said that her tears flooded the earth with her sorrow.Yet she ultimately takes charge of her own destiny and lives independently outside marriage. Perhaps because of this she is often portrayed as a woman of dubious virtue.
Freya’s portrait in the myths is consistent with ancient Icelandic society, where women had the right to divorce their husbands and be land-holders. Many did just that. The Icelandic Sagas are full of tales of powerful women, such as the clever and formidable Gudrun of Laxardal, who outlived four husbands and became a legend of her own time.
But it is not just Freya’s story I have borrowed from.The book draws on many other mythic elements: the story of Menglad and her betrothal necklace, Idun’s rape by giants and subsequent fall into an ice crevasse, Nord’s failed marriage with the young giantess Skadi, Odin’s lecherous desire for Freya and his strange interdependence with the evil trickster Loki. All of these characters are based loosely on the mythic poems.
I was equally influenced by the Icelandic Sagas, that astonishing body of prose stories that forms the basis of our understanding of life as it was lived a thousand years ago. In these tales, which were recounted around open fires for generations before they were ever set down on paper, people argue, fight battles, fall in and out of love, commit infidelities, murder their relatives, set fire to their neighbours’ houses, and confront ghosts in the dead of night. The Icelandic Sagas are as entertaining today as they were then, and they have no equivalent in medieval English literature. Just as Freya’s story is underpinned by the myths, the character of Fulla and her forbidden love for Vili is inspired by the Sagas.
If there is a moment where the mythic poetry converges with the prose Sagas, it is around the theme of kinship.What attracted me to the Norse pantheon was not its fantastic element (though indeed the gods can change shape, throw spears of lightning and drive chariots across the sky). Rather it was their humanity (or relative inhumanity) that I was drawn to. The Aesir are portrayed as one large dysfunctional family, beset with lust, petty jealousies, envy, rivalry, corruption and malice of every kind. Despite their supernatural strength, they are morally weak, and it is this that brings about their destruction.
Kinship, honour and loyalty were the lynchpin
s of Viking society. Every individual was anchored by their obligations to those around them. The greatest punishment was outlawry: to be separated forever from one’s loved ones was the worst fate a man could endure. And yet the sagas are full of tales of families torn asunder by feuding, and the myths themselves prophesy that just before Ragnorak, ‘brothers will do battle unto death and sons of sisters will fight their own kin.’ It is this point of thwarted kinship and divided loyalties that I chose to probe.
Asgard, the realm of the gods, is represented in the myths as a walled citadel above earth that can only be reached by crossing the shimmering rainbow bridge Bifrost. I have portrayed it as a mountainous region far inland where each of the gods occupies their own homestead, just as ordinary settlers did. Unlike elsewhere in Viking society, the Icelandic people did not settle in towns or villages until the eighteenth century.They lived in extended family units on large farmholdings, often in extreme isolation.
Despite this, they were a sociable people. They travelled frequently and came together often, for weddings, harvest festivals, governance and merry-making, which sometime lasted days. Their climate was a treacherous one. Hospitality and generosity were both essential and highly valued. If a guest pitched up on your threshold, it was your moral duty to furnish him with a warm hearth to sleep on and some form of sustenance. Winters were long, cold and dark. In the evenings, Icelandic farmers sought refuge in drink, poetry and story-telling.
True to their image, they were a violent people. Fighting and vengeance were part of everyday life: if you insulted your neighbour’s wife then you had better not ride out unarmed, as someone would be waiting for you. Weapons were crude and dangerous, and the injuries men sustained were horrific.The Sagas are replete with gory descriptions of these brutal encounters.
Betsy Tobin Page 29