Odin's Child

by Siri Pettersen

  Hirka got out of bed. She was still wearing her clothes. She went out into the cool night. The trees whispered their warnings, but Hirka had made up her mind. She knew what she had to do.

  She walked around the cabin to the lean-to that served—had served—as Father’s workshop. The hinges creaked when she opened the door. There lay Father. In the middle of the room, on his workbench. He lay on the oiled linen cloth, which had to be wrapped around him before the cremation. Ramoja and Nora had dressed him in a simple black shirt, with no cord around the waist. His tail was hidden beneath him, reminding Hirka of how she looked to other people. Two arms, two feet, no tail.

  Maybe she should take some of his tail? Hirka pulled her knife carefully out of its sheath. No, there wasn’t enough flesh on the tail.

  She heard a scream behind her.

  Kolkagga! Hirka spun around with the knife in front of her. The door! She hadn’t shut the door. Stupid girl. With her heart in her mouth, she shut the door behind her. She walked back to Father and swallowed hard. She had no idea what she should do. How much did she need for it to mean something? She couldn’t take something that people would notice. She had to conceal it or be prepared to meet the Council in far worse circumstances than the Rite. After tonight she would be an outlaw.

  Hirka pulled up Father’s shirt. She placed the knife against his stomach. The blade quivered. His skin resisted, and she changed her mind. This was going to be more difficult than she had thought. She had been with Father several times when he’d had to slice open others—many of whom still lived, because of him. She had done it herself, under Father’s watchful eye. But this was different. This was as dark as the night. Everything she breathed was black.

  Hirka collected herself and moved the knife to his waist. She leaned on the blade and it sunk down into the skin. She held the wolfskin ready in her other hand, but no blood came from the cut. Even so, Father looked like he might wake up at any moment. As though he was just patiently waiting for Hirka to finish.

  The first cut was the most difficult. After that it was like she was in a daze. In the end, Hirka stood with a fistful of Father. She plugged the wound with fur from the wolfskin rug and pulled down the shirt. Nobody would know what had happened.

  The Seer sees. The Seer knows.

  It didn’t matter. If the Seer knew, then He would understand. He would agree that Father deserved to live on. And if He didn’t understand, he wasn’t the Seer she had heard about.

  She took the scrap remaining from the wolfskin rug and wrapped it around the dead piece of flesh, Father’s salvation. She wrapped her hand around the package. In the dark, it looked like a fuzzy club. She went back out into the night. The door was silent this time.

  What have I done?

  The wind had picked up now. The trees shook their leaves when she went past. They bent aside to get away from her. She was a desecrator of corpses. Hirka smiled crookedly to herself. What else could they expect? She was one of Odin’s kin.

  Hirka took long strides and looked around in the darkness. Would she find him? Maybe he was asleep? At the top of the cliff she unwrapped her sin and cut it up into smaller chunks, and then at last she heard wings flapping behind her. Good.

  Kuro waited until she had pulled away before he began to feast. For a moment she worried he would save some of it for later, but he must have been hungry. Either that or he understood his job. Hirka squeezed the now-empty wolfskin into a ball and threw it into the sea. The waves crashed against the cliff. They were more amenable than the trees. The waves promised to conceal her misdeed, forever. She sat down on the grass and wiped her knife before she stuck it back in its sheath. She saw Kuro take to the skies. He disappeared above the trees. Along with Father.

  It was done.

  Heavy drops fell down on her hands. For a moment she thought it was rain, but it wasn’t. She was crying. She felt exhaustion seize her. She climbed to her feet and walked down toward the cabin. All she wanted was to go to sleep, but she found herself stopping in front of the workshop. She had to go back in. She wiped her nose on her tunic sleeve before she opened the door.

  The hinges groaned and she wriggled in through the opening. Everything looked like it had when she left. What had she expected?

  The black-clad figure still lay in the middle of the room. Hirka went over and stared down at it. It had Father’s face, but Father himself was long gone. There was nobody here now. Only an empty shell remained.

  Suddenly it hit her. Children of Odin had to have fathers as well. And mothers. And for the first time, Hirka felt something other than panic while thinking about who she was. She felt a strange tingling she had no other word for than curiosity.

  THE PYRE

  Darkness observed the crowd gathered on the rocks at Svartskaret, inching as close as it dared to the torches burning at the water’s edge. Rain drizzled down.

  Hirka felt like a pocket of darkness in a pool of light. She looked up. The miller was carrying the bier along with Vidar, Iron Jarke, Annar, and Sylja’s older brother, Leiv. Annar was probably only doing it for the sake of appearances. He didn’t have the strength to carry much. Father was wrapped in linen. A shrouded figure on a wooden frame. It could have been anyone.

  They inched forward. Hirka wished they could go faster, but they had to keep time with the monotonous drumming behind them. Who decided these things? Decreed the customs and how fast people should walk? Or was that just the way it was?

  Hirka looked past the procession toward the pyre. The wood had been arranged just right, like two giant interlinked combs. Father would be set down on top of them. Dry kindling had been stacked on the ground beneath.

  The men stopped and moved Father forward across their shoulders until he was lying where he was supposed to. Then they retreated into the crowd. Hirka turned to follow, but then there was a gentle hand on her shoulder. Ramoja gave her one of the torches.

  Of course. She would have to light the pyre herself.

  Hirka took the torch and held it to the rags they had woven through the kindling. They had been dipped in oil, so the pyre was ablaze in only a moment, despite the rain. Hirka took a couple steps back as the heat hit her. She could see everyone’s faces through the fire. She’d lived here for years but didn’t feel like she knew anyone here now. That was what came of keeping to yourself. People never stopped being strangers. Kaisa and Sylja, both in black dresses. Nora. Vetle.

  Rime!

  He was standing diagonally opposite her, all in black and half-hidden by the flames. What was he doing here? He and Ilume were supposed to have left already. Had they been delayed? His white hair glowed against the dark sky and sea behind him. His eyes rested on Father’s body, which was now hard to see for the flames. The fire crackled and snapped.

  Rime looked up and met Hirka’s gaze. He looked at her with raw, naked grief. The solidarity was so unexpected that she raised a hand to her heart in a futile attempt to keep him out. His eyes were fixed on hers. They cut through the flames and into her heart. Hirka could almost hear him talking. Not about grief, but about surviving.

  We’re alive. You and I, Hirka.

  She felt arms around her. It was Ramoja, embracing her, pulling her close. Hirka looked away, and when she looked back, he wasn’t looking at her anymore.

  Father burned.

  He burned until they could hear the sound of the waves over the fire again. People started to leave. They’d decided the flames had done their job. Kept the blind away and shown Thorrald the way to Slokna. So now they left her, crossing the bridge and heading back into the village. A solemnly dressed line of people, wending their way along the shore. You’d think they were the ones who’d died.

  Hirka huffed out a laugh. Father wasn’t sleeping in Slokna. He was in heaven. With the ravens. Or was he in both places?

  He was everywhere.

  Now it was up to the sea to claim what remained.

  She, Ramoja, and Vetle were the last to leave. They followed the line of sh
adows to the inn and the ale. Hirka didn’t really want to go. But Ramoja and the other women had been busy baking pretzels, honey bread, and cakes all day long. Hirka had been spared that work. The least she could do was show her face. She made a mental note to thank them.

  There weren’t many chairs left at the inn. Hirka and Vetle sat at the bar. Hirka couldn’t remember the last time she’d voluntarily spent time with so many other people. What would Father have said?

  Ramoja and Nora handed out ale and bread baked with dried fruit. The room was lit by a hundred candles. Children ran about while adults drank tankards of ale and talked among themselves. Hirka sat as if in a trance, oblivious to anything anyone was saying.

  Until Kaisa mentioned Father.

  Hirka didn’t hear exactly what she’d said, but she heard Sylja’s reply: “What do you mean?”

  Kaisa raised her voice. “I mean that if he’d been a half-decent healer, he probably would have been able to save himself.”

  Hirka got up and walked over to Sylja’s mother. “My father helped people.”

  Kaisa wouldn’t look her in the eye. Instead, she leaned over to her daughter and whispered: “The wolves took her composure along with her tail.”

  It wasn’t the first time Hirka had heard Kaisa say that about her, but she refused to let anyone talk about Father that way. Hirka didn’t stop to think. It was as if her body took over, lifting her arm and upending the tankard. The contents poured over Kaisa, who shrieked as if she’d been stabbed. Her hair dripped with ale and stuck to her skin. Her dress was sopping wet to her waist. She gasped out a few unintelligible words. Sylja gaped. Vetle laughed, and Ramoja put a hand over his mouth.

  Everyone was looking at Hirka, but she wasn’t afraid. Her fury was burning hotter than Father’s funeral pyre, and she couldn’t contain herself.

  “My father saved lives! He saved you from lung fever! He helped a lot of people who worked at Glimmeråsen. He built new stables for you.” Hirka could hear her voice getting thicker, but she wouldn’t cry. She needed to say this.

  “And what did you give him in return, Kaisa? Where were you when that beam fell? He never walked again, and you wouldn’t so much as look at him.”

  The silence was palpable. But it wasn’t her that everyone was staring at now. They were staring at Kaisa. Hirka felt a stab of triumph amid the despair. The others knew. They knew it was true.

  Kaisa of Glimmeråsen was speechless, but only for a moment. She looked around, realizing she would have to answer, and quickly. She put one hand on her hip and pointed at Hirka using the other. “Blindspawn! He never did teach you manners. Glimmeråsen can’t be blamed for your father’s foolishness.”

  Hirka lifted her fist, but someone grabbed her and dragged her toward the door. Rime. She had little choice but to go with him, Kaisa screeching behind her, “How dare you! You can leave, but you can’t escape the reach of Glimmeråsen!”

  “Her father was cremated today.” Rime’s voice was tense, but level, and it silenced Kaisa. The inn door slammed shut behind them, and after a moment of silence, Hirka heard everyone start talking again inside. That shouting match would keep them going for a while. She drew cold air into her lungs. She felt suffocated by the words she had just heard.

  You can leave, but you can’t escape the reach of Glimmeråsen!

  How had Kaisa even known they’d been planning to leave? Then Hirka remembered. Sylja. Sylja down by the shore, through a wine bottle. Hirka had told her they were leaving. And what had Sylja done? Told her mother, apparently. And Kaisa had betrayed them.

  Kaisa. Not Rime.

  He tugged her along after him. The voices from the inn faded behind them. She was starting to worry that Rime would drag her all the way home, to the cabin. That empty, meaningless cabin. She tried to twist from his grasp, but he wasn’t having it.

  “Let go of me!” She aimed a kick at his shin but lost her footing. Rime caught her and put an arm around her. Then he started to bind. A dirty trick she couldn’t fight. He pulled her toward him until she could bury her face in his chest. His hand cupped the back of her head. Hirka tried to hide her grief from the Might, but it was useless. It ripped through her, finding all her open wounds, pulling her apart and betraying her. When had she let Rime get so close? This was madness!

  Stay away from the rot. It kills.

  She started shaking. Rime wasn’t only binding to comfort or calm her. He was making her a promise.

  “I’ll make sure I’m there for you.”

  Hirka laughed despairingly against his chest. If only he knew. Everything had changed. She wouldn’t be going to the Rite. Under no circumstances. Never. Nothing in the world could make her turn up to something that had the power to hound Father into Slokna. He’d sacrificed everything for her. He’d known the Rite would be her downfall. That everyone would find out, recognize the rot. But he’d also known she’d never run while he lived—never leave him behind. In his own backward way, he’d been trying to help her.

  She wouldn’t give Rime the chance to do the same. What if the Seer found out? What if Kolkagga were sent after him? He could lose everything because of her. Just like Father had.

  Hirka grudgingly tore herself away from him so he wouldn’t see through her deception.

  “One point to me if I beat you there.”

  THE DRAWING

  Urd slammed the book closed. Dust fled over the balustrade and drifted down through the library’s many levels. Taciturn men dressed in gray raised their eyes from their inane tasks and frowned at him as though he had pissed on the floor. They were called shepherds, he had been told. One of them stood a couple of steps away, his finger frozen on the spine of a book he had been busy putting into place. Urd bared his teeth at him. The pale figure backed away and disappeared between the massive bookcases.

  Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  He had spent half the night in this useless place without finding anything at all he could use. And they called it a Seer’s hall for the written word? What a joke! It was a hall for smug writers who worshipped their own ideas. Endless pages of tediousness. Rolls of parchment that smelled of mildew.

  They had writings about practically everything. About the Seer, about the wars, about the glory of Mannfalla, about classical shoe stitching from Bokesj and deranged butterflies in Norrvarje that emerged in winter. The most absurd things! Words from yesterday, words from a thousand years ago. Urd found mentions of stone circles that hadn’t been torn down after the war, yet he couldn’t find something as sensible as a map. Or a list. He wasn’t asking for much. A single book would suffice. Accursed Blindból, just one tiny book! One so small it could fit up your ass!

  The raven rings. Was that so much to ask for?

  Urd threw the book down on a haphazard pile of other books that had already disappointed him. He clenched his teeth so hard they ground together. What if everything was lost? Destroyed many generations ago, in a wave of hysteria? Knowledge forgotten and forbidden, knowledge about blindcraft. About binding the way the blind did. The way ymlings had also done once, as hard as they tried to repress that fact.

  Urd had to find something he could use. It was getting urgent. They were restless. Every night worse than the last. Voices whispered from stone, eating their way into his head and making his blood vessels dilate. Other men would have lost their minds, thrown the stone fragments in the Ora where the water was deepest, and fallen to their knees in front of the Seer’s hall. But Urd was a greater man. He controlled them.

  He couldn’t release them, of course. They would devour the world. Including his own part of it. That was the bloody problem with the blind. They were, well, blind.

  The gong sounded outside. He had run out of time. The meeting was due to start at the next gong, so he had to get to the Council Chamber. This meeting was his first, and it was the last before Ilume returned. She was his biggest headache. The others he could handle. The question was whether he had enough to go on. A half-drunk informant’s rumor
s of a gathering of nobles in Ravnhov. Hardly reliable, but worth using. What he really needed was nowhere to be found: a document that could prove that the stone circle in Ravnhov was more than a myth. He’d wanted the effect of throwing a map down on the table. Something he could point to and say: “There! That’s where the blind come from!” If he could find that, then the Council would send every single man to Ravnhov. Kolkagga, guardsmen, merchants, even half dead fishermen. Anything that could crawl or walk.

  But he’d find a way. Obviously. He had to find a way. Before the hourglass emptied again.

  He flung his cloak over his shoulder and turned to leave. He heard one of the stacks come crashing down. A shepherd ran over like it was crystal that had fallen, not worthless books. Urd was struck by how idiotic the term shepherd was in this context. Books were dead things. Not something you needed to watch over.

  He cast a glance back. The shepherd was crouched over, picking up books. He clasped them to his chest, thin arms cradling the load. One of the books lay on the floor, its pages splayed open. And in it, Urd glimpsed a drawing.

  Curiosity seized him, and Urd took a couple of steps back to look. Urd picked up the book lying by the cringing shepherd’s feet and flung it on the reading table. The drawing was faded, but detailed. In flaking gold, and brown that may once have been black.

  Urd’s heart beat faster in his chest. It wasn’t a map. It was something completely different from what he had been looking for. But it was perfect. This he could use.

  Urd pointed at the shepherd. “Make a copy of this for me before the hourglass turns.”

  The shepherd nervously shook his head. “It-it can’t be done, fadri. Gretel is in the repository today and nobody can …”

  Urd rolled his eyes. He would have to take the matter into his own hands. As usual. The shepherds spent their lives in the shadows, flitting between shelves, living to archive, to record. They had no clue what the world was really about. In the library in Eisvaldr, the blind did not exist. There were no enemies. No dangers. And wealth meant nothing. A book falling was about the most exciting thing that ever happened in this tower.