With another sigh, she extracted a strip of dried meat from her pack basket to munch on, even though she wasn’t particularly hungry. Night was beginning to fall. She made a small fire and wondered if she should just go back to her cave and shelter there tonight before taking off into the wider worlds.
But where would she go? She chewed dismally on her jerky. She’d been so certain there would be a clue here—something that would lead her in the right direction.
Just when she was beginning to believe she had truly imagined the entire thing—the voices, “Mother Witch,” the presence itself—the wind picked up. The tree branches began to sway above her in the dying light. She finished her jerky and was seconds away from dousing her fire and going back to her cave when she saw the little girl.
At first she thought the girl was Hel, and her heart jolted in her chest. But no—the girl was a bit older, with copper red hair and gray eyes, and she didn’t seem to notice Angrboda sitting there, watching her. She was circling the clearing, looking intently at the plants that bordered the tree line.
Angrboda perked up. “Hello?”
The girl ignored her. She was wearing rough-hewn wools and what looked like a fur cape about her shoulders, pinned with a rough circular brooch. Feathers and small animal bones were threaded into her hair, and her gaze was determined. The witch could not remember ever seeing anyone dressed like her.
Angrboda tried to stand abruptly and faltered, her head pounding, and so instead she approached the girl on all fours, her palms and knees crunching loudly in the snowy underbrush. The child didn’t look up.
“You’ll have to go farther than that to find willow, dear,” a woman’s voice called, sounding amused. Angrboda looked around wildly as she tried to determine where the woman was—her voice seemed to be coming from nowhere.
“Who are you?” Angrboda whispered, but as she crawled forward, she noticed something disturbing: In the firelight, the little girl no longer appeared solid, and the witch suddenly sat back and stared as she realized she was seeing a ghost. That’s why the girl wasn’t paying her any mind. Angrboda was witnessing something that had already happened, long ago.
“It’ll be closer to the river,” the woman’s disembodied voice continued. “And be quick about it—Mother Witch is going to show you how to make her healing salve. Don’t keep her waiting.”
“Yes, yes.” The little girl sighed and started to walk away from Angrboda. Her small leather shoes didn’t leave footprints in the snow.
“Wait,” Angrboda called after her weakly, certain she’d receive no response.
But to her utter and eternal surprise, the child stopped and looked over her shoulder, her stone gray eyes boring into Angrboda’s blue-green.
“Do you understand yet?” the girl asked her.
“I’m starting to,” Angrboda replied, though it was at least half a lie. “But where do I go from here?”
The girl gave her an impish smile. “You’ll always know where to find me, Mother Witch.”
Angrboda understood then that what she was seeing was a manifestation of that presence in her mind, and her heart leapt again. “But that’s just it. I don’t know—”
But she blinked, and the girl was gone.
* * *
• • •
Angrboda slept little and awoke with the sun. She ate more jerky and pondered what she’d seen the night before. She tried once again to perform seid, to no avail. She paced back and forth across the clearing, leaning heavily on her walking stick and muttering to herself. Willing herself to remember more. Willing the presence in her mind to bring back the little ghost girl from last night so she could talk to her in person again. Willing something, anything, to present a clue for what to do next.
“What did you bring back with you that you didn’t have before?”
“You’ll always know where to find me . . .”
“Whoever this person is, they sure seem confident that I already have all the answers I need,” Angrboda murmured to herself. She paused in the center of the clearing, next to the ruins of the fire pit, and closed her eyes. Perhaps I should be more confident, too.
“I know where to find you,” she declared to the empty clearing, feeling foolish. But then her voice grew stronger. “I know where to find you. I know where—”
She felt a nudge. Not a strong one, but a push that felt similar to the one she’d received when she’d been under, had felt the gentle presence guiding her back up to the surface. Only now, when she opened her eyes, it was guiding her west. A clue. A tug in the right direction.
Come find me, it said.
She took up her wagon and began to walk.
* * *
• • •
It took her nearly a day before she made it out of Ironwood and found herself at the river beside which she’d first rested after fleeing Asgard.
She could almost see herself sitting on the other side in the shade of a tree. The heartless witch, skin still healing from the burning, heavy wool obscuring her from the sun. Unaware that her life was about to change, that a man would slither up to her out of nowhere and give her back her half-burned heart.
And then break it so completely.
Angrboda shoved the thought of him from her mind. She walked upstream for a ways until she found a shallow point where she and the wagon could cross; then she continued on to Jotunheim, following the presence’s weak tug.
The days went on. The presence, it seemed, tended to come and go as she journeyed. Some days she would have a clear idea of where she was headed and felt she was closer than ever to finding out just what she was looking for; other days her wandering was aimless and hopeless, and she wondered over and over again if she should just go back to her cave and wait out the end of the worlds.
But she kept on. Eventually she was led from Jotunheim and into Midgard and back again—for those two worlds were very close—and in both realms she was welcomed into homes here and there, and with her potions and charms she cured the sick, healed wounds, attended births, eased the pain of the dying. It all felt natural to her, this aiding of those in need. As if it was something she had done before, in an earlier time.
She mostly slept alone under her cloak in the forests or the mountains. She bartered her potions and produced more as she went, pulling her little wagon behind her. She no longer needed the bandage wrapped around her head; nonetheless she kept her head down and her hood up to hide the scar.
Everywhere she went, the people whispered, and the whispers in Midgard were not always kind. She learned by eavesdropping that they called her “Heid,” a name meaning “bright one,” though she was not sure her presence in Midgard was a positive one. When she passed back into Jotunheim it was to visit the markets, to make sure her potions were getting to the people with whom Skadi usually traded, who had been relying on her wares for many winters.
At least Skadi had been correct about her clay pots. In both worlds, humans and giants alike recognized them. Some even went so far as to give her back their old empty pots so she could reuse them when she brought them something new. If she happened to pass through a market or settlement twice, people were kinder to her the second time.
They also tried to trade her fine things in exchange for her services—but she would accept nothing save a roof over her head on a night of ill weather, or a bite to eat before she was on her way. The only finery she possessed were the amber beads Loki had given her, her tablet-woven belt from Gerd, and her antler-handled knife from Skadi, which still hung from the sturdy leather belt she wore beneath Gerd’s woven one. Upon this belt she also wore a pouch, in which she kept her most cherished possession: Hel’s wolf figurine.
Some days her head hurt so badly that she could not walk at all, and she huddled up in the woods to rest. Other days, she could barely stagger to the next village before collapsing. And still other days she was fine, and
the worlds were beautiful, and nothing hurt.
On those days she’d sit in the woods and clear her mind and try to contact the presence again, or have another go at seid. The latter never resulted in her favor, as she continued to be pushed back into her body again and again, which frustrated her to no end.
There came a day when she was traveling and she got the distinct impression she was being followed. At the same time, the presence’s tug had been stronger that day, and it was guiding her somewhere more insistently than usual. Soon enough she found herself in the middle of a sparse forest with rocks piled in moss-covered heaps all around her.
The tug ceased all of a sudden when she reached a small, burbling creek. Angrboda scowled and looked around. It was nearly dusk, and this didn’t seem to be a suitable spot for camping.
“Where were you leading me?” she wondered aloud.
Then a wolf jumped down from the pile of rocks behind her, and she whirled to face it in surprise. The creature was nearly as big as a horse. Angrboda could tell by looking at it that it was old, battle-scarred as if from swords and spears, with a nicked ear and a grizzled maw.
It bared its teeth at her and snarled, and said in a rough, feminine voice that echoed through Angrboda’s head, You’re scaring away every other animal in the forest with that rickety cart of yours. I suppose if I can’t kill a deer for dinner, you’ll do just as fine instead.
Perhaps it was that she had a son who was a wolf, or perhaps it was because her tolerance for being mistreated had gotten lower and lower the longer she existed, but Angrboda only pulled off her hood and gave the animal a withering look.
“It’s a wagon. And it’s not rickety. It’s brand-new,” said the witch with a sidelong glance at the object in question, which looked a little worse for wear. It often made her wonder just how much time had passed since she’d left Ironwood.
You can hear me? The she-wolf had stopped snarling when it caught sight of her face. Now the creature sat back and stared at her and said in wonder, It’s you.
“Of course I can hear you.” Angrboda’s heart leapt. “You know me?”
Of course I know you, said the she-wolf with a sideways tilt of her head. Don’t you know me?
“You—are you—are you the one that led me here? The”—she made a vague hand motion at her temple—“person? In my head?”
No . . . The she-wolf blinked once, slowly, and seemed disappointed. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Maybe you’re not her after all.
Angrboda swallowed her disappointment and pressed on. “Not who?”
Mother Witch, the creature replied. My companion of old, and my dear friend.
“But—but I think I am,” Angrboda said, taking a step closer, blinking back sudden tears. “I just—I don’t know. I’m sorry I’m not what you expected, but I need answers.”
You don’t remember me at all? The she-wolf’s ears wilted.
Angrboda shook her head sadly.
Well, said the she-wolf, what’s the last thing you do remember? What happened to you?
“I think perhaps I should make camp before I tell you this tale,” Angrboda said. She felt fatigued from standing and longed to pull her bedroll out of her pack basket and sit down.
The she-wolf regarded her, then bobbed her head in assent. Now that you’ve stopped moving with that cart of yours, I have a chance of catching dinner. I’ll be back.
Once the creature loped away, Angrboda found an outcropping of rocks with an overhanging ledge she could camp beneath to stay out of the elements. She pulled her wagon over as quietly as she could, started a fire, and unpacked her blankets to sit on. Then she took out the last of her jerky and ate it as she waited.
The she-wolf came back a few hours later, when it was dark. Angrboda had started to lose hope that her new companion would return and was relieved beyond words when the she-wolf bounded up and sat opposite the fire from her, seemingly in a better mood than before.
So, what do you remember?
“I went to Asgard and Vanaheim,” Angrboda said. “I taught them my magic—”
The she-wolf’s eyes narrowed and she asked sharply, You taught them to travel?
“Yes, and I don’t know why.” She then explained her trials as Gullveig and eventual escape from the Aesir, and everything that came after. She had to pause every now and then to fetch a drink of water from the creek to wet her throat, for she did not remember the last time she had talked so much, if ever.
They were well into the night by the time Angrboda’s tale was complete. The she-wolf was silent for a long time after the witch had finished speaking.
So you did go home after Asgard, said the she-wolf at length. Home to Ironwood, that is. You just didn’t know what led you there. And then things went sour for you.
“I suppose,” said Angrboda. “So Ironwood . . . is home?”
Of course it is. We two are of the Jarnvidjur.
“Jarnvidjur,” Angrboda breathed. The ancient giantesses of the forest. She thought back to the stone foundations, which of course triggered the memory of the ghost girl. “What happened to everyone else?”
When you never came back, they left. Or died. It was so long ago. The she-wolf shook her head, then set it down on her front paws. I don’t even remember why you left in the first place, but I stayed behind to protect the other Jarnvidjur. And then they dispersed or passed on, and so I left, too.
Angrboda felt a sudden ache in her chest, for reasons she couldn’t quite describe.
It’s all so foggy—I’m so very old, the she-wolf went on. I wish only to die now.
“I understand,” said Angrboda, with feeling. “Can I ask what your name is?”
I don’t think I ever had one, and I’m too old to care, said the she-wolf. And what should I call you, then?
“They’ve called me Heid in my wanderings.”
But that’s not your name. What do you call yourself?
The witch thought for a time before saying, “Angrboda.”
“Herald of sorrows,” said the she-wolf, amused. Are you sure you weren’t practicing seid when you picked that name? Seems rather prophetic to me.
“I suppose not,” Angrboda said with a smile. Then she sobered. “Would that I could practice seid now. It would help me get to the bottom of things.”
Well, I can be of help. Several things became clear to me over the course of your tale, said the she-wolf. She lifted her head and held Angrboda’s gaze. The first is that presence of yours—the one who brought you back when you sank too far down—is you.
“Me,” Angrboda repeated, unbelieving.
You, as you were. As you were meant to be. As Mother Witch. It seems to me that she’s the part of you that you brought back into the light. The part of you that you lost as Gullveig, the part of you that you can’t remember. She—you—led you to me, to reunite us. It was your own instinct that brought you here.
“But—that can’t be. It can’t . . . she can’t . . . be me. Can she?”
Indeed, said the she-wolf. Tell me, what did you feel while you were down there?
“Comfortable,” whispered Angrboda. “Safe. And powerful. I never wanted to leave.” She shivered. “I could feel the void just below me, though. I wonder what would happen if I went there willingly and not under Odin’s control—if I embraced it. But the truth is, I fear going down there again. I fear I would be lost to it this time.”
Why? To tap into that power is to reach your true potential. To become yourself again. I wouldn’t doubt that’s the next place Mother Witch will call you to, to that place deep inside yourself where the power lies. You’d be a fool not to access it, after what you’ve just told me.
“Well, unfortunately for her—I mean, for me—I won’t be doing any traveling of that sort anytime soon, since I’m still unable to perform seid.”
That is tr
oubling, the she-wolf said pensively. You need that to tap into your true power, and you need your true power to save your daughter.
“But why do I need that power to save her? I don’t even know what I’m going to do, let alone how I’m going to go about doing it.”
The she-wolf set her head down on her paws again and let out a small huff. Tell me again how the worlds are to end?
“Three years of winter,” Angrboda said, recalling her vision, “in which there are wars and slaughter all over the worlds. Then the wolves who chase the sun and moon will catch their prey, plunging everything into darkness. Yggdrasil will tremble and all the bonds in the universe will break.” Including those holding my sons, she thought, though she hadn’t heard yet of Fenrir being bound, and Jormungand was trapped nowhere other than beneath the sea. “Then the gods and giants will go to battle, and the fire giant Surt will burn all the worlds down, from which a new world will be born.”
Ah, said the she-wolf. Does anyone survive?
Angrboda fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Some of the young gods, yes. But I don’t know how they—” She paused. “I don’t know how they survive.”
And your daughter doesn’t go to the battle, does she?
“Not that I saw,” said Angrboda carefully, “but—listen. There’s something else. I saw Odin’s son Baldur die—that’s what sets all this off. He was slain by a dart of mistletoe, loosed by his brother’s own hand. And if I saw it, then Odin knows it. And if he’s not trying to prevent it, then he’s going to let his own son die—but while the rest of the gods are all slain, Baldur comes back when the new world is born. Odin still wins, doesn’t he? Because his son survives. But how? How does anyone survive Surt’s fire? It’s to burn every realm, even that of the dead.”
It’s a good thing, then, that your daughter has a mother who’s survived a burning not once but thrice, isn’t it?
Angrboda stared across the fire at the she-wolf. The she-wolf stared back at her.
“That’s it,” Angrboda breathed. “That’s the answer. I just need—some kind of protection against fire. Like some kind of shield, or . . .” But then her hope faded. “How did I survive the flames as Gullveig, though? Did I truly die three times, or did I just protect myself somehow?”
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