The Witch's Heart

by Genevieve Gornichec

  Hel started and glowered at him but didn’t pull away. “That’s quite bold of you, Baldur Odinsson. Don’t forget, I was your queen once.”

  “And you can be my queen again, Hel Lokadottir, if you come with me to Idavoll.”

  “Angrbodudottir,” Hel amended, looking down at their clasped hands. When he gave her a questioning look, she said, “My father went by Loki Laufeyjarson—he used his mother’s name instead of his father’s, so I shall do the same.”

  After a moment, she added, “Everyone knows I’m my father’s daughter. It’s my mother they always seem to forget.”

  Baldur gave her a sad smile. “I think she would be proud to hear that.”

  “I will not go to Idavoll with you,” said Hel, finally tearing her gaze away from their hands and looking up at him. “Trouble me no more with your furtive glances. They’re only because I’m the last woman on earth and because my corpse legs are healed.”

  Yet she still did not pull her hands from his.

  “On the contrary, I’ve troubled you with furtive glances for some years now, and I plan to trouble you with them for many years to come,” Baldur said, straight-faced. “And I should like to see these legs of yours to prove you’re telling the truth of them.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you should, but you won’t. Begone with you.”

  “Also,” he went on, ignoring her, “you’re not the last woman on earth. Just the only one whose company I desire. I fear life is quite dull without our ceaseless banter. It passed the time quite well when I was dead, didn’t it?”

  “Is that a roundabout Asgardian way of saying that you missed me?” Hel asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “Possibly, in so many words.”

  Hel shook her head, forcing down the pleasant feeling bubbling up in her chest. Her hands seemed to move of their own volition as they disengaged from his and moved up to either side of his face, smoothing his short beard. “Your place is with your people.”

  “My place,” he said, leaning in close and moving his hands to her waist, “is with you. And if your place is here, then so is mine. You won’t be rid of me so easily.”

  “Ridiculous man,” she breathed, and then Baldur’s lips were upon hers, and she found herself completely lost in a moment she’d been dreaming of since she was very small.

  If hope is for fools, then so be it.

  I am my mother’s daughter, after all.

  * * *

  • • •

  So Hel and Baldur raised their children in peace in the forest at the edge of the world, where she was born. Baldur’s family would often come out from Idavoll to join them for some time, and they would laugh and talk of all the beauty and wonders of this new world and reminisce about the gods of the old, their kin. Their children—and the children of Idavoll—eventually spread out into the world at large, mingling with human beings for generations until their earliest ancestors were nothing more than a distant cultural memory.

  And life went on.

  Every night until the day they died, Hel and Baldur gathered their children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren around the hearth fire and told them stories of how things had been before, in the days when gods and giants walked the earth.

  They spoke of one-eyed Odin and his quest for knowledge; of mighty Thor and his hammer; of beautiful, fierce Freyja and her treasured necklace. They told tales of how Tyr lost his hand, of the theft of Idun’s golden apples, of the Norns and Mimir’s head, of the mead of poetry and the intricate crafts of the dwarfs, of mortal heroes who had already faded into legend long before Ragnarok had come to pass. They told of Frey’s marriage to Gerd and the loss of his sword, and Freyja’s almost-marriage to a giant or two, and the building of Asgard’s wall.

  They spoke of a wolf so huge that his gaping jaws touched both ground and sky, and of a serpent so large that he encircled the earth. They spoke of the ancient giantesses of these very woods.

  They told of brash, brave Skadi taking up all manner of armor and weapons and marching right to the gods’ doorstep to avenge her father.

  They told of handsome, cunning Loki, of his antics and wit and charm.

  And every now and then a child or two would come home after catching glimpses of figures moving through the forest: a woman in a man’s tunic guiding animals to their traps or aiding their hunt; a nimble man with grass-green eyes grinning at them as he dashed through the trees, as if walking on air, daring them to give chase; a man in a broad-brimmed hat inclining his head in pride as they passed; or a woman in a tattered traveling cloak giving them a serene smile from beneath her hood before vanishing into the morning mist.

  In one case Hel’s own great-granddaughter stumbled into the clearing and clutched Hel’s knobby knees as she stood from her gardening work. Baldur had passed on some years before, leaving Hel alone once more in the cave, but their sons and daughters were never far—they’d founded a small village in the clearing where the Jarnvidjur used to live. And they visited her daily with fresh oatcakes in their linen-wrapped bundle, which the little one held to her chest in fright.

  “You needn’t fear them, child,” Hel said, bending down to the girl’s level with much effort. “They mean you no harm. They’re only watching over you.”

  “But you said the gods and giants were dead,” the child protested.

  “Dead, aye, but not gone,” Hel replied. “Nothing ever dies. Not truly.”

  “Who was the woman? The woman in the hood?” The girl was young; she had not yet committed every tale to memory.

  Hel smiled.

  “They say a witch used to live in these woods a long, long time ago,” she began.

  And this is what the little girl would tell her children, and what they would tell their children long after the ones who came before were gone:

  They say an old witch lived in the east, in Ironwood, and there she bore the wolves who chase the sun and moon.

  They say she went to Asgard and was burned three times upon a pyre, and three times was she reborn before she fled.

  They say she loved a man with scarred lips and a sharp tongue, a man who gave her back her heart and more.

  They say she loved a woman, too, a sword-wielding bride of the gods as bold as any man and fiercer still.

  They say she wandered, giving aid to those who needed it most, healing them with potions and spells.

  They say she stood her ground against the fires of Ragnarok until the very end, until she was burned a final time, all but her heart reduced to ashes once more.

  But others say she lives yet.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing a novel may be a solitary endeavor, but what comes after is anything but. I would like to extend my heartfelt gratitude to the following people:

  To my agent, Rhea Lyons: Thank you for championing this book, for being my biggest cheerleader, and for being so patient with me and so generous with your advice. I never in a million years dreamed I would have an agent who was so passionate about my work, and I would be utterly lost without you.

  To my editor, Jessica Wade, for continuously challenging me to make this book better. Thank you for your brilliant insights, your meticulous edits, and your firm belief that I could work out a better ending for Angrboda without compromising my vision of what I wanted this story to be. The old witch and I are eternally grateful for your guidance; we couldn’t have navigated Ragnarok without you.

  To the team at Penguin Random House, with special thanks to Miranda Hill, Alexis Nixon, Brittanie Black, Jessica Mangicaro, Elisha Katz, and everyone else who helped bring The Witch’s Heart to life. And to Adam Auerbach, for this absolutely stunning cover.

  To Kristin Ell, Angela Rodriguez, Emily DeTar Birt, and Kirsten Linsenmeyer: You were the very first people to ever set their eyes on this book. Thank you for your encouragement, critiques, and feedback; it meant so much to me that
you fell in love with Angrboda’s story, and it helped push me forward when things were rough.

  To Shannon Mullally, Mirria Martin-Tesone, Emma Tanskanen, Marisa Schamerhorn, Mel Campbell, Sarah Gunnoe, Jessica Lundi, Allen Chamberlin, Candyce Beal, Ryann Burke, and Terryl Bandy: Thank you all for cheering me on, and for looking out for me when I needed it most.

  To my local authors squad: Andi Lawrencovna, Marj Ivancic, and Darlene Kuncytes, for hours of laughter, solid advice, and writerly commiseration, even.

  To my Viking family, for keeping my spirits up when all else seemed bleak: “Stay the same. Be better.”

  To my Book Twitter family, for their support right out of the gate. Thank you especially to Kati Felix, Joshua Gillingham, Villimey Sigurbjörnsdóttir, Katie Masters, Siobhán Clark, S. Qiouyi Lu, Lizy, Miranda, Allie, and so many more.

  To M. J. Kuhn, Hannah M. Long, and the rest of the #2021debuts: I wouldn’t have had anyone else by my side as we went on our respective journeys together. We made it.

  To Merrill Kaplan, for fostering my love of Norse myths and sagas, and for fielding my very specific novel-related Old Norse questions, both then and now. I wrote the first draft of this book over the course of three weeks when I should have been working on my term paper for your Norse mythology course, and suffice it to say, I was a different person before I stepped into your classroom. Takk fyrir.

  To Daina Faulhaber: I may be a writer, but it’s hard for me to find words to describe what your friendship means to me. Thank you not only for your steadfast support of this reclusive cave witch (and Angrboda), but also for being willing to yell about Norse mythology with me, for always telling me what I need to hear even when it sucks, and for climbing down into that cave to take my author photo. Everyone deserves a friend like you.

  To my sister, Bridget; my mother, Lisa; my dad, Ron; my uncle Rory; and to Grama Jo and the rest of my (very large) family for blessing me with a lifetime of unwavering support.

  To my grandfather, to whom this book is dedicated, and who I wish could be here to read it. A Swede by birth and an American by choice, he told me once, in conspiratorial tones, that he knew the old gods were still around. While I’ll never know what he thinks of my interpretations, I can only hope he would be proud.

  And finally, to you, dear reader: Thank you for giving Angrboda a chance.

  APPENDIX

  I chose to Anglicize the Old Norse place-names and personal names in this novel, so they may appear differently in other retellings and translations of Norse mythology (ex. Freyr instead of Frey, Óðinn for Odin, Ásgarðr for Asgard). The Old Norse names in their nominative case are listed in parentheses where relevant, indicated by “ON.”

  Please note that the Prose Edda and the Poetic Edda, the two main sources of what we know about Norse mythology, were my sources for this novel. Every translation of the Eddas is slightly different; the translations I used are listed below. All of the poems mentioned are compiled in the Poetic Edda.

  People

  Angrboda—a giantess, mentioned once by name in each of the Eddas, and both times in relation to Loki and their children. Some connect her to “the Old One,” who lives in Ironwood and birthed the wolves who chase the sun and moon: “Fenrir’s kin” (sometimes translated as “brood” or “offspring”), as attested in the Prose Edda. There is also cause to connect her to the seeress whom Odin, traveling in disguise as Vegtam, raises from the grave in the poem “Baldr’s Dreams,” and whom he calls “the mother of three [giants/trolls/ogres].”

  Hyndla—a giantess whom Freyja visits in the poem “The Song of Hyndla” to ask for information about her lover’s family line. The giantess reluctantly gives her this information, and then suddenly starts reciting a mini-prophecy of Ragnarok. Freyja tells Hyndla to get one of her wolves out of the stables and ride alongside Freyja to Valhalla for some reason.

  Hyrrokkin—a giantess who appears riding a wolf with snakes for reins, summoned by the gods to push Baldur’s funeral pyre into the water when no one else could, as attested in the Prose Edda

  Gullveig/Heid—a mysterious witch mentioned in stanzas of the poem “The Seeress’s Prophecy” (ON: Völuspá), in which Gullveig shows up in Asgard in its early days, is burned three times by the gods, and is reborn three times, before traveling as Heid to dispense spells and practice sorcery (ON: seiðr). Very little is known about her, but most believe her to be Freyja.

  The Seeress—the mysterious woman who narrates the poem “The Seeress’s Prophecy,” sometimes in first person and sometimes in third person. She claims to have been present at the beginning of the worlds, and describes in great detail the event Ragnarok, the doom of the gods.

  Loki—shape-shifting god of Norse mythology, whose father is thought to be a giant and whose mother, Laufey, is possibly a goddess. Blood brother to Odin, Loki is canonically handsome, cunning, and unpredictable, according to the Prose Edda. He is known mostly for getting the gods into and out of trouble with his trickery. He eventually orchestrates the death of Odin’s son Baldur, is bound in torment soon after, and fights against the gods at Ragnarok. He is also said to have eaten the half-burnt heart of a woman and spawned the race of trolls, according to the poem “The Song of Hyndla.”

  Skadi—a giantess who is most famous for taking up sword and shield and marching to Asgard to demand compensation after her father is killed by the gods. Instead, she receives a husband from among the gods and “a bellyful of laughter” as her payment. She is also cited as being the one to hang a venomous snake over Loki’s head when he is bound. Enumerated among the goddesses after her marriage, Skadi is represented primarily as the goddess of bowhunting.

  Gerd—a giantess who is coerced into marrying the god Frey, as attested in the poem “Skirnir’s Journey”

  Hel—ruler of the Norse underworld, daughter of Loki and Angrboda; described as being half-dead, she is most commonly depicted with one side of her body rotting and the other side alive. Hel famously decreed that Baldur could come back from her realms if all the worlds would weep for him, proving how much he was missed.

  Fenrir—the giant wolf, son of Loki and Angrboda. The gods attempted to bind him multiple times and failed, and it was only through trickery that they were able to tie him up—and at great cost (he bit off Tyr’s hand in the process). Fenrir is fated to devour Odin at Ragnarok.

  Jormungand—the Midgard Serpent, son of Loki and Angrboda, who is so large that he encircles the realm of Midgard and bites his own tail. He is fated to be free at Ragnarok, along with his father and brother, and to slay Thor.

  Odin—the highest of the Norse gods. He likes to travel in disguise, in a broad-brimmed hat and cloak, and uses many different names, among them Grimnir and Vegtam. His valkyries choose who is to die in battle and escort them to Valhalla, Odin’s hall of the slain, where they are said to feast and fight every day until Ragnarok. Odin has two ravens, Hugin and Munin, who fly around the worlds and report back to him what they’ve seen.

  Thor—Odin’s son by the giantess Jord/Fjorgyn. He is arguably the most well-known of the Norse gods, for his thunderous temper and his hammer, Mjolnir.

  Freyja (or Freya)—a priestess of the Vanir and seid (ON: seiðr). Freyja is most commonly associated with sex and war, and receives half the slain in her hall while the other half go to Odin in Valhalla. Freyja’s most famous attributes are her golden necklace, Brisingamen, and her feathered cloak, which turns the wearer into a falcon.

  Tyr—Possibly a son of Odin, Tyr is a god associated with war and justice, and had his hand bitten off by Fenrir.

  Frey—Vanir and brother of Freyja, who sits on Odin’s chair Hlidskjalf when forbidden to do so and gazes out over all the worlds. He catches a glimpse of the giantess Gerd and falls in love with her, and gives his famous sword to his servant, Skirnir, in exchange for the latter convincing Gerd to marry him. As a result, Frey is fated to be slain by the fire giant Surt at R
agnarok. He is also associated with fertility.

  Sigyn—Wife of Loki, Sigyn famously holds up a bowl to collect the venom dripping down from the snake above Loki’s head when he is bound.

  Frigg—Odin’s wife and Baldur’s mother, who is said to know the fates of all men

  Baldur (or Baldr, Balder)—Odin’s son, slain by his blind brother, Hod (whose hand was guided by Loki). Youngest, most beautiful, and most beloved of the gods.

  Njord—Vanir, sea god, father of Frey and Freyja, husband to Skadi.

  The Norns—While a norn is a female spirit associated with shaping fate, the Norns are three female deities somewhat like the Fates in Greek mythology, who dwell in a hall at the Well of Urd, at one of the three roots of the World Tree, Yggdrasil.

  Mimir—a god traded as a hostage to the Vanir, who cut off his head and sent it back to Odin, who magically preserved it and its wisdom. Mimir’s head resides at Mimir’s well at one of the three roots of Yggdrasil, where Odin left his eye in exchange for wisdom.

  Heimdall—guardian of Bifrost, the rainbow bridge

  Skrymir—ruler of Utgard, the citadel of the giants, in Jotunheim. Famous for tricking Thor and Loki with impossible tasks while they are off on an adventure.

  Surt—leader of the fire giants of Muspelheim, the realm of fire

  Idun—goddess who is keeper of the gods’ golden apples of immortality

  Thjazi—Skadi’s father, who orchestrates the kidnapping of Idun for her golden apples and is slain by the gods

  Races

  Aesir (ON: Æsir; feminine: Ásynjur)—the Norse pantheon of gods, the highest of whom is Odin. They inhabit Asgard.

  Vanir—another race of gods, associated with fertility and wisdom, whose notable members (Njord, Frey, and Freyja) are essentially subsumed into the Aesir following the Aesir-Vanir War. The Vanir inhabit Vanaheim.

  Giants—the sworn enemies of the gods. “Giants” was originally a mistranslation of jötun (plural: jötnar). The giants inhabit the world Jotunheim. Giants can be either large or small, attractive or grotesque, depending on the story. Interestingly, the first giant was the primeval being Ymir, from whom even the gods are descended.