Icefall (9 page)

“Before the earth, there was only fire and ice,” Alric says. “And from the rime frost rose Audumbla, the cow. She licked the salt from the ice, and as the ice melted away, it revealed the first god and father of Odin.”

“You choose this tale because of our cows,” I say.

“Yes, as I did with your goat. And so the audience will see that life comes from ice, and though we are frozen into this fjord, we shall emerge when spring, like the tongue of Audumbla, brings the thaw.” He sits back, obviously pleased with himself.

Perhaps he has forgotten about my dream, and what may come with the end of winter. But his thinking makes sense to me, and I trust him to know what the steading needs. Still, I am nervous when I imagine myself standing before the audience again.

“You will do fine,” Alric says. “Try to relax, and accept that you will make mistakes. You are just beginning, and that is inevitable. Remember what I said about stories? They only exist in the moment of their telling. Let whatever story you are telling be what it is, mistakes and all, for its moment will soon be at an end.”

This does not reassure me.

“And keep your breathing deep and even,” Alric says.

That night, Hake and Per stand before us. But while Per appears stern and calm, Hake appears furious. His beard twitches with the gritting of his jaw, and he glares at everyone, awl-eyed, as if trying to pierce their secrets by sight. I swallow and avoid his gaze. He makes me feel guilty for things I haven’t done.

Per speaks in a voice that carries through the hall. “You all know of our circumstances by now. We have lost our two cows, and we were counting on them for milk and meat to last the winter. Rations will be cut back, and we expect all to sacrifice. We will be hungry. Bera assures me that we will not starve.”

We do not need to starve to be weakened.

“But that is not what concerns me most over the loss of the cattle.” Per stops and looks at Hake.

The berserker captain nods. “Last night, while Alric and Solveig were telling their tale, the guards at the gate left their post to stand in the hall and hear the story.” He pauses. “Those warriors have been … appropriately punished for their negligence of duty.”

The way he says it chills me.

Hake raises his voice. “During the absence of the guards, someone led the two cows from their shed out into the woods. It may be that an enemy entered the unguarded gate and stole the cows away.” He pauses. “Or, it may be that an enemy within this steading put the cows out.”

Murmurs and whispers begin to slip through the hall.

“Know this!” Hake holds up one of his massive arms and everyone stills. “If there is a traitor within the sound of my voice, I will find you. I will execute you. There will be no hesitation. There will be no mercy unless you confess. If you come forward, you will be spared until we have returned home. Then, you will stand trial at the Thing, with judgment meted out by your people. Perhaps you will only be banished.” His voice descends into a growl. “But if you do not confess, I will kill you on the spot whenever and wherever I find you.”

He lowers his arm, and I relax as though he had been holding me up, pulling me toward him by a cord around my neck.

“You have until dawn to act,” Hake says.

T
he hall is silent and no one moves, except for the suspicious glances cast at one another. I can imagine the emotions racking the members of our steading. Fear. Anger. Dread. And I sense the coming hunger, a fearsome traveler skulking toward us with his belt of special knives.

Per clears his throat and continues. “Alric and Solveig have agreed to tell another tale. Something to lift the weight off our shoulders.”

He looks at me, and I wonder if I have the strength to do it. After Hake’s speech, I don’t know if I believe anyone would, even Alric.

The skald nods at me to begin. We agreed previously that I should speak first, as the apprentice. Alric will finish the tale
as it should be finished, because endings, as he says, are the most important element of a story, for that is where you discover the story’s purpose and meaning. But I can’t seem to work my legs, and my tongue feels as dry as a strip of stockfish. I take a deep breath, as Alric instructed, and manage the rise to my feet.

The time spent rehearsing was wasted. I stand here, a hall full of faces watching me, expecting me to make things right, and I can’t remember a thing. What story was I supposed to tell? What tale? It had to do with the cows we lost, I think. Yes, the cows. Why would we tell a story about the cows? Why would we want to be reminded of that?

I look into the eyes of my audience. The safety and future of the steading is so uncertain now, with dwindling food supplies, enemies outside our walls and possibly within. They need something they know, something predictable, something comfortable and safe. But what?

I see Harald, and something about him has changed. He isn’t smiling. His face bears the pain and shock of a child struck by his father for the first time. The reality of our situation here has finally penetrated his youthful shield of confident ignorance. He sits alone, vulnerable and afraid. I want to go to him, to comfort him, but I can’t. Not until I finish my tale.

So I will tell my story for him, one of his favorites, the story of the god Loki’s wager with the dwarves. He is my only audience. My mouth no longer feels dry, and I am no longer afraid.

“Loki, the Wolf-Father, god of dark mischief and murder, once saw the metal craftsmanship of the clever dwarves, and thinking himself clever, too, he offered them a wager.”

The eyes on me are impassive. Except for Harald, who leans forward, and Raudi, whose lips curl into a frown that fights a grin.

“Loki spoke with the dwarves and said, ‘The gods have been given many gifts. I’ll wager you my head that you can’t fashion any that are better.’ The dwarves, being proud, accepted Loki’s bet and began to labor at the forge, making three gifts for the gods. First, they made a golden boar for Freyja, whose bristles shine throughout the long nights, lighting the hall and the path before him.”

The men around me seem to have settled into the story, some reclining, hands behind their heads. Perhaps they are enjoying it.

“Second, they made a golden ring for Odin, a ring that multiplies itself on every ninth night so that eight new gold rings fall from it.”

And here comes Harald’s favorite part, a part that perhaps the berserkers will also appreciate.

“And finally, the dwarves made Mjollnir, mountain-breaker and bone-crusher, the war hammer of Thor. Never would it fail its wielder, whether swung or thrown; a fearsome weapon to sway the tide of any battle. Now, when the gods received these gifts, they deemed them worthy, and more than that, the
finest they had ever received. And so it seemed at first that Loki had lost his wager, and …” I pause.

Some in the audience lean forward.

“… almost lost his head. But clever Loki had planned this all along and said, ‘My neck was not included in the wager. You may have my head if you can take it without harming the place where it rests.’ And the dwarves realized they had been tricked, and in their vanity, they had freely given to the gods the three greatest treasures in all the world.”

I bow my head, and after an endless moment of silence, I hear applause. I look up, right at Harald. He is smiling, bright again, my little warrior once more. Everyone else is grinning, too, and nodding. It seems my story, short and simple, did what it was meant to do and lightened the mood.

I don’t want to look at Alric. He will be furious with me. I changed the story and finished it without leaving anything for him. But I can’t avoid him, and when I see him, he is clapping, too.

I hold up my hand to silence the hall and everyone grows quiet. “Thank you,” I say. “But now, Alric has a story to tell.”

“Nay,” Alric says. “I would not want to sully the air after you’ve just cleared it so thoroughly.”

It humbles me that he would leave my tale as the last for the evening. Before long, the warriors are settling down on the floor and benches to sleep. I get up, yawn, and move toward my bedcloset. Before I reach it, I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“I must have a word,” Alric says.

“I’m sorry I switched —” But he silences me with a finger to his lips.

“I am not angry,” he says. “You saw what the steading truly needed. Tomorrow, you must tell me
how
you saw it.”

“I don’t know that I can explain it.”

“Tomorrow, you will try. Good night, Solveig.”

“Good night,” I say. Alric leaves, and I look down at Muninn in his cage by the bedcloset. I check his food and find he still has some cabbage and barley grains he hasn’t eaten. I whisper a good night to him and climb into bed.

Asa is already there. As soon as I see her, the image of her and Per in the forest enters my mind. The memory drains away the excitement of the evening as a cold bed draws out a body’s heat. I lie there, not knowing how to act toward her.

“I enjoyed your story,” she says, as if nothing has changed between us when every thing has. I wonder how she can’t see it, even as I know there’s no way she could.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Should I tell her that I know about her feelings for Per? That I saw them together? What would she say? How would she feel?

“I haven’t heard that story in years,” she says. “It brought back good memories.”

“I’m glad.”

“Of when we were children.”

“Yes.”

“It was better then, wasn’t it?”

“When we were children?”

“Mm. No one expects anything from a child, not really. Respect or even fear, and that is all anyone requires of them. Not like the demands of womanhood.”

At first I am angry, and find it hard to summon any of my earlier sympathy for her. It sounds as though she’s complaining about being beautiful, the demands of being desirable. Does she not realize how I envy her? But she may have to marry one man when she is in love with another. Father would never wed her to one of his warriors, even one so highly regarded as Per. Per would bring nothing to the union, no advantage for my father’s coffers, lands, or armies.

How must it be to love someone and know that you can never be with them? Perhaps her guilt over this war is not the only reason for the sadness that has so consumed her. Now I do pity her, but still can’t think of a way to tell her that I know about Per. Not without shaming her. Not without risking the ruin of my friendship with Per, such as it is.

“You’re right,” I say. “It was better then.”

No one confesses to putting the cows out. But I doubt that anyone expected the enemy to actually step forward. Hake’s offer last night was not an act of compassion. It was meant to satisfy honor, and to justify him should the enemy be found out.

I do not want to be there to see it when Hake finds the traitor.

Winter continues to gather our steading in its arms, closer to its frigid chest. Storms rush up the fjord in their tumble from sea to land. Snowbanks rise almost to the roofline of the hall and threaten to bury the smaller outbuildings. The berserkers find themselves tasked with keeping the doorways and yard clear.

Muninn has grown quite calm in his cage. He doesn’t flinch from me at all anymore. In fact, when I come near the cage, he hops as close to me as he can, right up to the bars. So I decide to let him out. Only this time, I shout an announcement in the yard to let everyone know, and I bar the doors to the hall.

Once again, there is an audience encouraging me as I open the cage and step back. My raven is not so quick coming out this time, as though he has come to mistrust what is not his prison. And he doesn’t stray far from the cage once he’s free.

I keep still and wait near him, my chin up, following him with my eyes.

“His wing is still crooked,” I hear Harald whisper from nearby. “But at least his feathers grew back!”

“Shh, lad,” one of the berserkers says.

“Come to me,” I whisper. “Come, my memory, bird of Odin.”

Muninn cocks his head to one side, his eye pointed right at me. Then he hops over to my feet and climbs up on the toe of my boot. He shifts a bit, side to side, and settles there.

“That’s not your shoulder,” Harald says.

I ignore him, and slowly offer Muninn my finger. He regards it from his inch-high perch. I bring my finger closer, sliding it right under his belly. His feathers are so soft I can’t say that I truly feel them, but I feel the heat off his little black coal of a body.

When I’ve almost reached his legs, he raises one foot up and grips my finger. Then he raises the other, and I feel his weight on my hand, heavier than I would have thought. His long twig-toes are cool against my skin. I almost giggle at this success, but keep it in so I don’t startle him away. Then I lift him up near my neck. Muninn requires no coaxing to climb onto my shoulder, and once there, he flaps his wings twice and begins to pick at my braid. Now I do laugh, because I can’t contain it, and so do others around me.

Muninn perches there for the rest of the day, and for much of the days that follow. Whenever I am in the hall, I try to have him on my shoulder. Sometimes he flutters about up in the rafters, and sometimes he hops among the benches, rooting in the straw that lines the floor for crumbs and food scraps. He stays close to me even when they open the hall doors, although I still don’t trust him enough to take him outside. He is with me when I sew, or cook, or eat, and I feed him from
my own plate. Even though he eats but little, I don’t want to give anyone cause to complain. So I don’t ask for any extra food for him, and instead share with him from my ration.

I am often hungry, as are we all.

Telling stories hasn’t become any easier for me in the past weeks. I expected it to after that night when I told the story of Loki and the dwarves, but nothing like that has happened since. I keep making mistakes. I forget important parts of the story and Alric has to go back and add it later. I think it is frustrating to him, and I know it is to me. I’ve tried doing what I did that night, picking one person in the audience to tell the story to, but that hasn’t helped.

I’ve come to regret starting down this path, because I don’t think it’s going to take me anywhere after all. I dread standing up there most nights, as I do tonight. I’m hiding in a corner of the room, Muninn on my shoulder, hoping Alric doesn’t feel like entertaining, and if he does, that he wants all the attention for himself.

But he calls on me soon enough.

I sigh and move into the light of the hearth where everyone can see me. Before I begin, I search out Raudi, and Bera, and Harald in the crowd. That way, I know where to look if I start to do poorly. Which I surely will.

But I raise my voice anyway. “Tonight we will share with you the story of —”

But everyone is looking at me with odd expressions of
amusement. They smile and elbow each other. I turn to Alric, and he gives a nod and flicks his eyes to my shoulder. Oh. I had forgotten that I still had Muninn there with me.

I laugh a little. “I’ve been forgetting some of the stories lately,” I say. “So I brought my memory with me.”

Now the audience laughs, too, easing my nervousness.

“Will you help me?” I say to Muninn. “Will you whisper the stories in my ear as you whisper in Odin’s?”

The raven responds by gently pecking at my earlobe.

I never hear Muninn’s voice, but for some reason the story goes well that night with him beside me, better than it has in weeks. Not as good as that night after the cows, but almost, and I feel a deeper kind of love for my raven.

“And I never would have thought of it,” Alric says to me afterward.

“Thought of what?” I ask.

“Having your raven with you. It was brilliant!”

“I didn’t mean to. I forgot he was there.”

“But it gave you an air of magic, or legend. Like a skald of ancient times. And the way you suggested that the bird whispered to you only confirmed the image in the audience’s mind. It was magnificent, Solveig.”

“I’m glad it went well.” All the praise has started to make me feel a little uncomfortable.