The Stone of Sorrow

by Brooke Carter

  “You’re Runa,” says Gerd, in her absent way.

  “Yes,” I say. I don’t remind her that we’ve spoken several times in the village. She would not remember, as it seems her thoughts fly away as soon as she has them. Amma would describe a person like this as having the spirit of a bird. I think that might not be so bad.

  “We’ve heard your sister will travel to moonwater tonight,” says Siv. “It’s so exciting. Don’t you wish you could go?”

  “Tonight?” I say, as much to myself as to them.

  “Yes,” says Gerd. “The Jötnar have visited our father this day. Look, they are here in the village now.”

  I follow her gaze up the shore to see two large men, both of them with the square faces and immense stature of their legendary ancestors, standing guard outside a dwelling. Moments later a young man emerges. He is much taller and slighter than the guards, and he carries himself with an uneasy energy, as if he’s expecting something to jump out at him. I wonder why he seems so nervous.

  “Who is that?” I ask.

  “That is Einar Ymirsson. He is the son of Ymir, the chief of the Jötnar,” says Siv.

  “Why is he here?” I ask, hoping these girls have paid close enough attention within their own dwelling to have useful knowledge beyond commonplace gossip.

  “I don’t know,” says Gerd. “But I hope it’s a marriage proposition.” They both giggle.

  I can’t bring myself to join in their enthusiasm. I never want to be married.

  I cast a glance to Frigg’s stand but don’t see my sister or Frigg. Where did they go? I hope Frigg stole Sýr away for a break.

  Siv continues to admire Einar from afar. “He is gorgeous, isn’t he?” she asks.

  “Oh yes,” says Gerd. “But can he be trusted?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?” I ask, confused. “Because he’s Jötnar?”

  “No,” Gerd replies. “Because he’s half elf.”

  I shrug. “Everyone has a little bit of elf blood in them. I do. I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  They laugh. “No, not everyone has elf blood, Runa,” says Siv.

  “And certainly not half,” her sister adds.

  “Well,” I say, “I have never met an elf, so I wouldn’t know.”

  Done with me, the girls both smile and then turn to scamper back up the beach, giggling the whole way. I know these are nice girls, but they are different from me, and a dark part of my mind suspects they are plotting to humiliate me. I try to push these thoughts away, but they are second nature. I’ve never understood how to make friends.

  I feel the dreamy darkness start to take hold of my mind again. I walk to the water’s edge and again watch the waves break and pull back, over and over.

  An image flashes in my mind. Sýr. Her face underwater again. I feel as though I am somewhere deep within the ocean. The water is cold and dark, and the current swirls, tossing my body like a limp strand of sea kelp. Then I feel the water shift around me, like something large is circling. Terror floods through me, because I know this thing is death, and it’s toying with me, waiting to strike. I close my eyes and wait for it, but it never comes.

  I open my eyes, waking from my dark dream, and find I am up to my waist in the water. I step back and stumble on some rocks, falling into the lapping waves. Shocked by the cold, I run from the water and up the beach, soaked through. I rip off my icy cloak and am wringing out the front of my dress when my amma appears, holding a blanket.

  “My girl,” calls Amma, hurrying to take my arm. “Have you gone into a dream again?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Hush. Come on,” she says, handing me the blanket. “You should be more careful at high tide. The undertow is strong here.”

  I nod. “I know, Amma.”

  “Besides,” she continues, “you never know what might be out in that water.”

  I look at her and see a knowing expression on her face. It is kind but has a glint of amusement to it.

  “Like what?” I ask, testing her.

  “Oh,” she says, “all manner of creatures, and not just green sharks. Strange things. Dark water spirits.”

  “Spirits?” I ask, thinking of the face I saw in the water.

  “Yes,” she says. “Did you see something? During your sickness?”

  Amma is looking at me so intently, it feels as if she’s staring into my soul. I want to give her an answer that will make sense, but I can’t find the words.

  “I…” I pause. “I don’t know. My mind doesn’t work the right way, I guess.”

  Amma nods. “I know, child,” she says. “I know.”

  She reaches out her hand, and I take it. She turns and leads me back up the path.

  “Come then, my ocean girl,” she says, pulling me toward her dwelling.

  I smile and follow her through the village. My amma has a way of making me feel like I belong to someone, and she never makes me feel bad about having my sickness. Amma thinks it is a gift that has yet to reveal itself. She always tries to see the good in everything. I can’t bear to tell her that I don’t think there’s anything special about me. The truth is, I was born into a body that doesn’t work the way it should, and wishing it was different or pretending I’m special doesn’t help me. I have to learn to live with what I have.

  We step inside Amma’s hut, and I breathe easier. Her house always feels like home to me. Perhaps it’s the scent of all her special herbs lined in neat rows. Or maybe it’s the translucent stones she strings from strips of leather and dangles from the roofbeams. They clink together in a gentle music that calms me. As my father’s mother, she benefits the most from the spoils of his adventures, collecting trinkets from faraway lands.

  Amma’s most treasured possessions are her scrolls. She has many of them, all written by people who lived long ago and in languages none of us can decipher. Sometimes she lets me touch the pages and feel how soft and thin their papers have become. I love the idea that these scrolls, with the ancient spells and potions contained within, are both strong with wisdom and physically vulnerable. My favorite ones are maps of strange lands and drawings of the sea and its currents. Our people come to Amma when they seek answers to questions about the world and about the vast realms most of us never get to see. A large scroll that seems to contain a map of all the waters of the world sits in a special place on Amma’s hearth. One day I will ask to borrow that scroll and use it to sail the sea. As I daydream, I can almost feel the salt spray and wind on my face.

  “You have such a sweet, brave hugr,” says Amma, “the soul of a traveler.” She loves to speak about these things, and can spend hours doing so.

  She has arranged herself on a pile of furs, her short legs curled under her so that she becomes one with the soft folds around her. Amma always seems so in control, so calm, so unlike me, and I wonder what I inherited from her side of the family. These days I have begun defining others by how they are different from me. It seems the ways are limitless.

  Amma notes my expression and my downcast eyes and makes a familiar clicking sound of disappointment at the back of her throat.

  “My girl, I won’t allow any self-pity in my home,” she says, shaking her long silver hair. “Come,” she says and extends a tattooed arm toward me.

  As usual, I am hypnotized by the mysteries of Amma’s skin and by the ink adorning it. Images of vines and roots and thorns and leaves curve and curl around her fingers, her wrists, her forearms and underneath her flowing robes. Her neck bears many fine thin lines, etched into it like the circles of a tree. She claims she has not had these lines applied but that they have appeared over time as she has aged.

  I sit next to Amma on the hides and breathe in her earthy smell. I meet her eyes and feel like she is staring into my soul.

  “My girl, you have questions,” says Amma.

  I nod. “I have these dreams. During my sickness. Of my mother, I think. They seem more confusing than before.”

  Amma purses her lips
. “Of course,” she says. “So much is changing now. You remind me of your mother.” She speaks softly, as she always does when discussing this subject. “Your mother was also brave and sweet, and she was the most talented runecaster I’ve ever seen. I always wished for a power like that, but I am me, and my part in the great story of life is to be keeper of the dreams.” She holds up a small scroll. “So many wonders within.”

  Amma leans forward and takes my hands. “Soon your sister will be leaving to find moonwater. But you needn’t be afraid. You are special, and you will find your own way.”

  I sigh. As much as I would like to believe what Amma says, I cannot.

  “You don’t believe me,” says Amma. “Well, that makes it hard to harness your own power, now doesn’t it?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “You mustn’t be sorry. You decide your fate,” she says. “And maybe a little gift will help.”

  Amma turns around and then produces a small bundle. She hands it to me, and I don’t know what to say.

  “Open it,” she says.

  I unfold the soft fabric, and inside is a golden cloak clasp in the shape of the vegvisir, the magical rune compass our people use whenever we embark on a sea voyage. It helps you find your way.

  “Oh, Amma,” I say. “It’s beautiful. But why? I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Why not?” she says with a smile. “Maybe you can use it to find your way out on the sea.” She winks at me.

  Amma is the only one I can confess my desires to. She knows I dream of sailing on the open ocean.

  “Seafaring is on my side of the bloodline,” Amma says, the pride evident in her voice. “You get that from me.”

  I smile back, happy to share this with her.

  “You are more than just one thing, Runa,” she says. “More than a runecaster. More than your hair and your eyes. You are my granddaughter. Perhaps you will discover the next great land. And then take me with you!”

  I laugh. She always knows just what to say. I suspect she has learned a lot from her many scrolls.

  “Get rid of that old ugly pin and wear this new one,” Amma says. “Don’t save it for a special day. Perhaps today is the special day, já?”

  “I will,” I say. “Thank you, Amma.”

  “Now go change clothes before you freeze,” she says.

  I stand and walk to the door.

  “Runa,” says Amma. “Walk through the village with your head high. Show those other girls what they don’t have.” She smiles her wicked smile and waves me on.

  Stepping out into the cold air, my wet clothing sticks to my body, and I feel eyes on me. I feel the wind in my hair, and then a sudden grip on my arm.

  I spin around. It’s Sýr. “There you are,” I start, but she shushes me.

  “I’m sorry, Runa. There’s no time,” she says. “I need you to go home as fast as possible and go into my cabinet and look for a blue pot with Bjarkan, the rune for secret etched on it.”

  “Why?” I ask. “Can I change first? I’m freezing.”

  “Why are you wet?” she asks, casting a furtive glance around her.

  “What’s wrong, Sýr?” Her manner is making me uneasy. Something isn’t right.

  “Nothing,” she says. “I need that jar. Please go now.”

  “Okay, fine,” I say. “I’ll go.” I shake her hand off, annoyed to be an errand girl.

  I make my way back up the path to our clifftop home, my leather sack of wooden runes jangling. I imagine the carved pieces tumbling over one another, speaking to each other and casting the spell that would grant me the gift of freedom. The power to go anywhere. Yes, that would be something.

  Sýr gave me these practice runes. A long time ago, when she was younger than I am now, she cut them from the bark of a birch tree and carved them in moonlight. At night I put them to bed under my pillow, and each morning I wake them. When I become a runecaster—if I ever do—I will need to make my own runes.

  This is in the tradition of the first rune mother, the goddess Iduna, who in her wisdom carved the first runes on the tongue of a young god who visited her magical apple garden.

  Many mornings and many nights I’ve sat atop our cliff, looking over the coastline and imagining setting sail in my own longboat. I see myself standing on new ground, places where the mud is not a dark purple and steam does not rise from the earth. Places where I can hear the strange sounds of a new language. Places where I can be someone else.

  When I reach our hut, I go to my room and find my other dress. This one is thinner and even uglier than my wet one, but at least it’s dry. I throw it on and then grab one of my father’s old, heavy cloaks out of a trunk.

  Núna’s cry comes from outside the window, and I open it to greet her, but she isn’t there.

  I search the sky and spot my raven circling overhead, calling out in shrill alarm. From the village a thick plume of black smoke billows, and when the wind changes direction it carries with it the scent of burning flesh and the screams of my people.

  My heart clenches hard in my chest before thumping out of control. I take a deep breath and hold it, forcing the air down and bearing into it. Sometimes this helps make the erratic hammering slow back down to a steady rhythm. If I don’t get my heart to calm itself, I will pass out. And I cannot lose consciousness. Not while there is such terror unfolding down in my village. I can’t have my sickness. Not now. Please, not now.

  From the window of the hut I cannot really see what is happening. I need to get to my lookout—a place farther up the path that I’ve built up out of rocks and odd stones and shells. I like to hide out there when I want to do nothing but stare at the sea and escape village life. From there, I will have a better view of the settlement below.

  Scrambling through my room and out the door, I fall over the threshold and crack my knee. I rub it as I hobble as fast as I can through the chill of the evening to my lookout.

  The air is acrid, filled with the scent of burning. Don’t look back, I tell myself, hurrying to reach the safety of my rocky barricade. I give a final push of energy as I run up the steep path and throw myself, heaving and shaking, over the low rock wall. I lie there on my belly a moment, ignoring the pain of sharp rocks digging into my ribs, and then raise up on my knees to peek over the other side.

  From here I can see everything. The open sea, the hills to the north, the rocky cliff path, and my village, now a scene of mayhem and fire. Jötnar warriors have come, and they are making their way through the village with ruthless speed. Sheep and horses run amok in a confused frenzy, having been released from their pens when the huge warriors invaded the stalls to kill the keepers. The Jötnar stab at animals and people alike with long spears or hack at them with axes as they run past. Sheep run headlong into burning piles, too stupid and scared to understand the danger. Those who escape the flames run instinctively for the high ground. Some scatter up and over the hillsides on the other side of the village, and others careen up the path toward me, only to fall over the perilous cliff edge to their deaths. Their bleating, sickening screams are matched only by the terrified sounds coming from my people.

  Sýr. Where is Sýr? Panic flushes through me. I need her. I know I have to fight, but I have no weapons, and my runes and my skills are not strong enough to cast a spell of consequence.

  Scanning the chaos, I try to find her among the men, women, and young ones fleeing their burning homes, but the smoke is too thick. And now there’s something else obscuring my vision.

  A yellow dust floats out over the village, swirling in menacing plumes, and I know right away that it is not a thing of nature. It is not of this realm. As the people of my clan hurl themselves into the throng to fight the invaders and try to protect one another, many of them drop to the ground as soon as they encounter the strange cloud.

  I trace the path of the plume to a higher point on the hills and see two men standing together. The larger of the two, a massive Jötnar warrior, is blowing the yellow dust from a long horn.
I can’t see well through the haze, but then the wind shifts, and for a moment I see the other figure. I can tell by the tall, lean frame that it’s Einar Ymirsson, the Jötnar heir, the one the girls were giggling about. He’s mixing something in a pot on the ground. As I watch, he scoops a yellow mixture into the horn for the enforcer to blow over my village. It is his doing! His poison that is felling my people! Einar’s expression is unreadable, and the warrior continues to blow.

  “Damn you!” I cry, directing all my fury at them. I clutch my runes. I have no confidence that a spell will work, but I will try.

  “Einar Ymirsson of the Jötnar,” I say, standing to get a better look at him, “I will cast you into the realm of Hel, and even the dead will shun you there.”

  Einar stops mixing and looks up. I drop back down, my heart once again skipping and the terror clenching my chest. I may die from fear. I have no way of knowing if he saw me, but it feels like he did. Though his eyes are not visible from this distance, something inside of me felt seen. Don’t panic. I try to calm my heart again, but I feel my grasp on this realm slipping.

  No. I have to stay here for Sýr. I cannot fall into my sickness. Not now. The air around me swirls, flashing lights in a sea of white, and I drift into the forgetting dream again.

  I wander in a fog-filled graveyard. All around me are the markers of the burial places of my people. I pause in front of a large stone marked with a blue circle. I know Sýr is buried here. I don’t know how or why I know, but the knowledge is in my bones. I drop to my knees and place my hands on the smooth rock. I will resurrect her. I will find a way.

  Stay with me.

  Sýr’s voice. She’s leading me through the fog. I follow her voice as it beckons. The haze clears a little, and I can see her waiting for me.

  Sýr, I call out, but she doesn’t answer. She stares at me with a sad look and then opens her cloak to reveal a deep wound in her belly.

  I hurry toward her, but as soon as I reach her, she disappears. I jerk back to reality again, my ears filled afresh with the screams of my people.