The Strange Maid

by Tessa Gratton

“Change the world,” I murmur contentedly.

  “Don’t you mean destroy your enemies and paint your face with their blood?”

  “Isn’t that the definition of change?”

  “Ambitious.”

  “No good reason to aim low.”

  His shoulder trembles and I realize he’s laughing. I poke his ribs and he catches my hand. He turns it over and smooths out my fingers until he can see the binding rune. As he taps my scar with his thumb, a hot line sears from my palm to my belly. “Death Chooser,” he says. “Strange Maid.”

  “What?” I whisper. The runes bound together into my palm are an odd variation of death and choice and servant. After parsing them out years ago, I had assumed they only meant to mark me as a Valkyrie. A Death Chooser.

  “This binding rune is from a very old thread of language …” His breath touches my temple, curling down my cheek until I turn into it. There are his rain-colored eyes, alight with truth. He says, “Death is linguistically connected to otherness, to foreigners and … strangeness. Death and stranger, like different fruit on the same linguistic branch. You can trace all kinds of names through the binding rune. Like … Alfather—Valfather. Valborn, Valkyrie, Valtheow, death-born, Death Chooser, servant of death, death maid … Strange Maid.”

  My breath catches in my throat. We are the Strange Maid and Ned the Spiritless, finally together again. The thought comes from nowhere as Unferth closes his eyes and settles his head against the wall, his hand loose around mine.

  FIVE

  ON MY BIRTHDAY I wake alone in the cellar and slowly realize there’s no metallic click of tin cups or the unconscious groan Unferth makes when he sits or stands. He’s not sipping his doctored chocolate on a squeaky stool, waiting for the right moment to limp over here and nudge me awake with the toe of his boot.

  I throw off the heavy sleeping bag and grab my seax out of the scabbard before heading up the cellar stairs.

  Late-morning sunlight streams through the roof and cracked windows, bringing fire to the shards of glass spilled across the wooden floor. The front of the abandoned meadery is even sadder in daylight, and I crunch through it to the rear, where all the old shelves and bottle boxes are shoved to the side to create a clear arena. Three troll-spears lean against the wall; there are his bootprints and mine, scuffs and shuffles from sparring. A chipped wooden round-shield tilts upside down like a turtle on its shell.

  And one of the old tarps is spread out at my feet, paint scrawled across it to read: Find me. He’s written the rune for spirit and crossed it out as an ironic sort of signature.

  It’s a test.

  I dash back downstairs for my belt and coat, though I dump the unnecessary items from the pockets: comb, hairpins, a copy of Birds of the Middle World, and a slim volume of Freyan songs Rathi gave me with a gentle inscription that always makes me feel guilty. I keep my fishing line, matches and lighter, mini-flashlight, insultingly small wad of notes, and pocketknife. I grab two of the protein bars and a bag of trail mix, stuffing both into the pocket that formerly housed the books. I wash up fast, use the toilet, and braid up all my hair into a messy crown. Before starting out I return to the meadery for one of the troll-spears and sling the shield across my back.

  My guess is I’m not hunting Unferth, I’m hunting Unferth-pretending-to-be-a-troll, so it’s troll-sign I should look for: broken tree limbs, flattened underbrush, stone, or fire. There’s nothing at the edges of the parking lot, though I walk the perimeter twice and slowly. I head for the creek, because he said they need water.

  It’s a quick hike over rough forested land, cold and dim from the heavy evergreens pressing all around. But there’s no snow and the frost is thin, melting in patches so I can’t even tell if he came this way. Birds trill at odd intervals and everything smells of crisp ice and tangy evergreen sap. I can’t help smiling, despite the heavy shield and awkward troll-spear I have to wedge in the crook of my elbow so my whole arm carries the weight instead of only hand and wrist.

  The creek is wide enough I couldn’t leap across without the spear to use as a pole. There’s no sign of Unferth here, but I head downstream, deciding the creek might widen or spill into a larger body of water, where either a troll could hide or there might be a deposit of glacier boulders or other exposed stone.

  I go quietly now, knowing that though the sun is high, the oldest trolls could be awake in this pockmarked shade. Unferth said the adolescents can’t take sunlight filtered through cloud cover and when they calcify they look like rough-cut marble statues of themselves. But the strongest, and the troll mothers, not only can move slowly through morning or evening light; they can force their calcification into bulky, nonspecific shapes and truly huddle like boulders.

  The banks of the creek grow steeper. The trees lean around me. Heavy clouds roll over the sky and it grows dark, but my eyes adjust to the variations of shadow. I keep them up on the trees, searching for a swath of broken branches, and finally see a row of baby trees cracked halfway up their trunks as if something quite huge shoved through.

  I pull myself up the bank with a wrist-thick root to where there was a small fire. The smell hangs lonely around it. I hover my hand over the ashes, but there’s no residual heat: it’s been out for a while. Scouring the area, I find a print hidden half under the weeping feathers of grass. It’s nearly circular, with deep gouges where the claws would be, impressed into the ground litter. I settle for a moment, leaning on the troll-spear, and drink some water. Eat a handful of nut mix. Then I take off at a jog, going parallel to the creek but up on the bank. The spear knocks against my shoulder, and the round-shield rubs the small of my back.

  In perhaps another half kilometer I burst out through a layer of trees and nearly fall headlong into a meter-deep gully. With a tiny cry, I catch myself on the rough trunk of a tree and hold tight, entirely winded and heart pounding. A flatter stream, more like runoff from rain, spreads beneath me, reflecting the gray cloudy sunlight. The mud clearly displays troll footprints.

  Sliding haphazardly down the bank, my boots crack through a thin layer of ice and sink into a layer of slimy mud. I inspect the prints. They’re two hand spans across, but I see the tread of Unferth’s boots in them. He must’ve stamped out these vaguely troll-shaped tracks. I laugh a little.

  The tracks lead away from the creek.

  Ice begins to fall from the sky, hissing against the bare branches and thick umbrellas of pine needles. I hook the shield off my back and lift it over my head to keep ice out of my eyes as I follow this uphill path marked only by crushed and slightly disturbed undergrowth. My arms tire quickly and I’m huffing before long.

  Once or twice I worry I’ve lost the trail, and I stop. I close my eyes and listen. I breathe deeply through my nose, trying to smell smoke or the sweetness Unferth insists is the greater mountain troll scent. There’s only the dull moan of wind and hiss of snow. I press on, both times finding sign again: first an uprooted baby tree, and second, three fresh gouges in a reddish trunk that are too perfect to be made by actual claws.

  I come to a meadow and wince away from the white glare of sunlight on ice and snow. Tucking against a tree until my vision adjusts, I realize there are rocks here, large ones on the opposite edge of the meadow, where the land cuts up sharply into a short mountain. A perfect place for troll-Unferth to hide.

  But there’s nothing to see besides gray and white and dismal yellow deadfall. I start across and something hard hits my shoulder.

  Spinning, tearing the shield down before me, I fall into a ready stance, knees bent, and I slam the butt of the thick troll-spear into the frozen grass and brace it with the sole of my boot just as Ned Unferth throws his body against me. The blunt tip dents the huge leather cushion he’s got strapped to his torso, but he rolls and shoves into the shaft with a yell. I stumble, and swing the spear around in a fast arc to hit his shoulder. He retaliates with a hard punch to my ribs with weighted mitts that turn his fists into hammers.

  They make him slower, bu
t his punch knocks the breath out of me.

  Cold wind burns down my throat as I gasp for air. Ned charges sluggishly forward, like the very trolls he’s teaching me to fight, and raises both fists up for a heavy blow.

  I scuttle back, dropping everything, and head for the boulders. He gives chase, laughing out a guttural roar like the challenging cry of a real greater mountain troll. I run full out, hitting the tallest boulder hard, and scramble up onto it. Unferth can’t follow me with his troll gear. I stand and yell wordlessly. He glares up at me with his colorless eyes, opens his mouth to chastise me, no doubt for escaping, when I bend my knees and smile.

  He only has time to realize what I’m doing before I launch myself down at him.

  We slam together into the meadow.

  All the leather cushioning and Ned keep me safe, but I roll off him fast before he can get a good grip. He doesn’t move.

  I spread out my arms and pant, sweat tingling at my hairline. Tiny pellets of snow prick my cheeks, melting down the hot skin. “Does that … count … as a win?” I gasp after a moment.

  There’s no immediate response besides his own labored breathing, and if I had the energy, I’d crow with triumph.

  “You took your time getting here,” he eventually grumbles.

  Rolling, I slap my hand against his stomach, forgetting about the leather cushion. He smiles as I cradle my smarting fingers. “It was well-enough done, little raven,” he admits. “Much longer and we’d have been snowed out. But you did let down your guard.”

  “You said find me, not beware of sudden attacks.”

  “More the fool, you.”

  I climb to my feet and stare down at him. “Can you stand in that? You look like a beached walrus.”

  His head is tiny as a pin over the wide, scuffed leather cushion tied around him. He strips off the gloves and unties the heavy ropes securing the cushion. When he stands, it falls off around him like he’s shedding a shell. His shirt sticks to his stomach and shoulders, molding into the shape of his muscles like a shellac. He puts his hand on the back of my neck, his fingers freezing against my hot skin. I shiver but return his victorious grin.

  Like we’re teammates, or partners, Unferth tugs me under his arm, against his side, and clasps me there. I put my arm around his back, hand tentative on his hip, and we face back the way we came. Side by side. His shoulders lift and fall as he sighs with absolute satisfaction.

  Steely gray swirling clouds press low to the blackening tree line and snow falls silently, muffling the wind around us. We’re the only two people in the world.

  Unferth and I drag the cushions, shield, and troll-spear to the other side of the boulders, where he’s hidden a sled. It all stacks easily, secured by bungee cords, and we each take a rein to drag it like a pair of workhorses. Snow falls harder as we go, but there’s a gravel path this way, narrow and curving widely back toward the meadery. I wish for gloves immediately, and a hood and scarf as I bend into the snow. The wisps of hair loose from my braids freeze to my neck and forehead, and the only thing keeping me warm is the rough work of pulling the sled. We don’t speak, our hot breath puffing in rhythm. I lose track of time but for night falling. The wind blows harder and my legs shake from effort and there’s as much sweat streaking down my back as snow dripping down my face. My skull begins to throb.

  A low moan, like a distant horn, calls out to us. Elf-kisses draw up my spine: we are too close to home, too far from Montreal.

  Unferth stops and swings a hand out to stop me, too. “That’s not the twilight call.”

  I blink snow from my eyes and reach for my seax. “What is it?”

  His chin is up, eyes on the sky, and when the call repeats I see the tight line of his mouth, the shift of muscles at his jaw. “Danger.” He drops the rein with one sharp shake of his head and jerks his hand for me to follow as he pushes on faster. I struggle to catch up. Unferth grabs my coat at the shoulder, bunching it in his fist to keep us together.

  The meadery rises through the trees at the end of the gravel road, black and leaning on one side. I never noticed from the front. That low moan calls again, louder and right here. It sounds as if the cry echoes from lungs as large and cavernous as the hollowed-out building. Unferth pulls me close and says into my ear, “Go to the truck and get the UV light from the glove compartment.”

  Snow topples onto me when I tug open the passenger door, and I shake it off to dig into the narrow glove compartment. There’s a wide-faced flashlight that must be the UV. I grab it in stiff fingers and head for the meadery. Its door hangs open, half off the hinges. Unferth is a lithe shadow waiting there, and he nods, points to the button that will turn on the light, and again leans close to whisper in my ear. His breath is warm and all my nerves crystallize into hot, bright excitement at its touch against my neck.

  “I’ll go first and you follow right after. Be ready to turn it on, and aim for the face. If we blind it—calcify the eyes—it won’t be able to defend itself. I’m going to go for the lockbox in the cellar and my sword. You calcify as much as possible and stay out of its way. Understand?”

  I nod.

  With no further warning, Unferth slips inside.

  I follow. The roar comes fast, tripping me as if it’s a physical force. I roar back without thinking and flip on the flashlight.

  The spear of light scours over the wall and flies across part of the ceiling, bobbing everywhere as I spin, and there! It catches the edge of a bulbous shoulder and I go to my knees as a huge arm swipes for me. I jerk the light up, pinning the spot of it onto the rageful face of a greater mountain troll.

  It stumbles back, shaking the floorboards, and cries again, this time high-pitched. I immediately think, It’s terrified.

  Knees burning from the broken glass I landed on, I stand, training the light on the hulking black shadow of the troll.

  It hides its face with one hand, still backing up, messily, heavily. I follow. Under my light, the troll’s bluish skin cracks and hardens, turning paler and mottled bluish gray, but only as long as the light remains. It turns, knocking shoulders into the wall, careening the other direction until it hits the counter and then lashes out at me.

  I fall back, seeing stubby tusks and bright fangs flash. I catch myself hard on one hand, bite my tongue, but keep the light up as my shield.

  There’s Unferth suddenly, tossing a chain around the troll’s neck, putting his sword to its throat. The monster’s small yellow eyes roll and I shine my light directly into them. It cries again, but it hunkers down. It covers its head with one arm, curls into a ball. It’s missing its other arm, and the stump bleeds thick purple ichor.

  “Hold it, Signy,” Unferth says calmly, evenly. “Take my sword in your other hand.”

  He transfers the grip to me and I try not to shake. The tip of the sword scrapes against the troll’s shoulder and the light bobs, tracing an uneven line of calcification from the troll’s head down its chest. The poor thing moans, digging its fingers into its hardening skin.

  Unbelievably, my heart aches. It must be in pain. Afraid and alone.

  Even as small as it can make itself, the troll remains a solid two meters at the shoulder, and if it stood straight it would certainly be three. Unferth tightens the chain around its neck, puts more around its wrists and feet, too, punching it to get it to shift and let him in. He’s unafraid, methodical, and excellent at looping the chains. He has a sledgehammer from somewhere and hammers the ends of the chains into the wooden floor.

  Just before my strength gives out, Unferth gently takes back his sword, and the UV light as well.

  Outside the snowstorm howls.

  “Happy birthday, Signy,” Unferth finally says.

  SIX

  SNOW CRYSTALS HANG off the troll’s blunt tusks, glittering in the thin morning light from the broken windows. Because he’s young, his calcified features are a rough sketch carved into the stone. He’s a beautiful pale blue, with darker blue veins like polished marble. His right arm is missi
ng from just below the shoulder, torn away—recently, too, by the thick purplish blood now crystallized into amethyst. The edge of the shoulder is sharp and rough, like broken rock. A line of reddish lichen crawls down his spine. Unferth says it’ll get thicker as he ages.

  We’ve waited until the sun arrived in order to take this next step in a more controlled fashion, so the troll is trapped inside the meadery just in case.

  “Shut it,” I say, gripping my seax in my fist.

  From atop a ladder missing several rungs, Unferth reaches out and swings the shutters closed. Snow puffs down. “He might be too young, and so even this ambient light could keep him calcified.…” His voice fades away as the beast’s entire body shivers.

  I lift my seax to put the sharp tip of the broken back blade against the troll’s marble chest. Over his heart. I hold my breath, wondering why the entire world doesn’t pause for the occasion. Here I am, ready to slice into this martyr who came to me like a gift. The stone heart will be crusted with blood crystallized to amethyst.

  As the troll wakes, dust flakes away from his skin and settles onto the mangy rug. The chain looped around his neck rattles. Tiny cracks appear all over his body, like the bed of a sun-baked river.

  A fissure catches my eye: it looks like the rune child.

  I suck in a quick breath and pull back the seax.

  “The gift of mothers,” I whisper to myself. A kenning for sacrifice. Mothers always lose the most, they say.

  A thin layer of stone sloughs off from his chest. The pieces clatter and clink down to the floor.

  This is too easy. Here is a lost troll, crippled and weak, hardly ferocious, as trolls are supposed to be. I’m not even afraid of him. Defeating him barely counts as a triumph.

  “Signy,” Unferth says softly from right beside me. “Why do you hesitate?”

  The troll opens his mouth, revealing square molars, and he moans. His breath is sweet like rotten bananas.

  “This is wrong,” I say, thinking of the rune sacrifice in Malchai Elizabethson’s iris. I will know my martyr when I see him.