by Terry Graves
He was in Ásgarð.
There were hills everywhere, and the halls and buildings of the Æsir had been built in white stone on the steep slopes. Some used the rocks of the hills as part of their structure, others stood alone. Where snow was not blocking his view, he noticed that all the roofs were thatched in gold, as were all the doors, which blinked in the sun. And there were many footbridges and walkways that connected one place to another, and cascades all around, falling down many feet below, but all the water streams were frozen and, ultimately, the place was deserted and transmitted an eerie feeling, as if it was haunted. The whole of Ásgarð was enclosed by a wall. Behind it, and far away, the mountains gleamed white.
Kai had stepped out into a meadow, under the shadow of Himinbjörg. All around him there were giant white reindeers pacing, of the same species that had pulled the sleigh of the White Queen. Their dark muzzles dug through the frosty crust to reach the grass beyond. Kai had heard about the reindeer the Saami people shepherded in the north, but the creatures in that meadow were from a totally different race.
He wondered if they could fly without their mistress, and pondered the possibility of jumping onto one and riding it back to Veraheim, but one look at their antlers made him disregard the idea. He sighed and walked into the sun, then pulled some snow away with his hands and sat on the ground. He enjoyed the view for a long time, trying to guess which hill, with its cluster of houses, would pertain to which god or goddess, and marveled at the builders’ skills. Then he leaned back, using the dark gray cloak as a blanket, and stared at the cloudless sky.
It seemed as if there was not much else to do.
Twilight came, and everything turned amber with the golden light. Kai watched the sunset behind the mountains and wondered if this would be his last. If that was the case, he would have liked to have shared it with Gerda. The cloak still smelled of her, so he closed his eyes for a minute and imagined her at his side, with their hands interlaced as if they were lovers already, as if they had reached that level of intimacy instead of just sharing some kisses under a byre’s roof.
When he opened his eyes again, the sun was gone. Kai stood up. Wind was blowing up the meadow, cold and harsh, freezing his bones. He took a last look at the city of the gods before going back inside the stronghold. The buildings still shone dimly, as if the white rocks and pillars had a vague luminescence. The reindeer had gathered under the nearby trees to spend the night.
Kai walked the same corridors, halls, and chambers, and these led him back into Himinbjörg’s great hall, or what he had taken as it. There were no lamps, but the place shone nonetheless, a light with no identifiable origin. On the table there were now two plates, two cups, and a tray with an assortment of winter berries and nuts.
Two plates. She was sending him a message, so he sat in the same place and waited.
Not much time passed before the Snow Queen came down the stairs and took a seat in front of him, without saying a word. Kai’s eyes were focused on the empty plate, so he felt her and heard her, but he did not raise his head just yet.
“Won’t you eat?” the Snow Queen said, after a while.
Kai took a blackberry from the tray and put it into his mouth. It was very sweet and juicy. He picked another, and the Queen seemed pleased. She had not yet touch the food.
“We have not been properly introduced. My name’s Kairan Aslaugsson. My father’s name I do not know, so I wear my mother’s, and I do it proudly.”
“And fittingly,” the Queen said. “Your hair is so black you could have been a Völsung.”
Kai tried to remember the story of Sigurd the Dragon Slayer, of whom Aslaug had been her daughter. But Kai’s mom was not related to the Völsungs in any way, except by the random choice of her name. She had been born in Veraheim and had died in Veraheim, and she was raven-haired — not a hint of gray — until the day she died. Nothing in her life would ever find its way into a tale or a legend.
“Everybody calls me Kai, anyway,” he said, and waited for the Queen to respond. His eyes were still low, but he could feel the cold that emanated from her body and suppressed a shiver.
“You know what everyone calls me.”
“The Snow Queen, yes. But you’re Skaði, the daughter of the giant Thjazi.”
At last, Kai raised his head and confronted the girl he had been dreaming about for many years. She had not aged a bit since then. Her features were still sharp, her eyes wide, her lips thin. Her face conveyed strength and frailty at the same time, as ice sometimes does. He thought that nothing in that face linked her in any way with the giant they had found under the lake. But it was not true. Her skin was of the same pale color, as if carved in marble, and her eyes were of the same blue hue as the untainted core of a glacier.
“There are some rules,” Skaði said, abruptly changing the topic, “that you will have to honor while you stay here. The north wing of Himinbjörg is where I live, and therefore is off-limits to you, especially the farthest and tallest tower. The rest of Ásgarð, you must not enter either; there may be dangerous things still roaming in the halls or magic that I am not aware of. And every day, after dinner, you will go straight to your room, where you will be locked until morning. Apart from this, you can do whatever you want and go wherever you please.”
She told him all this as if she was reciting it from memory, as if she had said it many times before.
“There is not much to do or many places to go,” said Kai.
“That I know.”
“So you’re not killing me, just yet, or there wouldn’t be any rules. Then why are you keeping me here?”
A pause. The Queen fidgeted with her fingers, her plate still empty.
“You’re old, older than the others, so you may understand. I need your death for the Fimbulvetr to go on. But you have to be the one who makes the sacrifice, and you have to accept it willingly. I cannot force it upon you.”
“So if I don’t want to die… I won’t?” She did not reply. “Then I will be here forever, for my answer will never change.”
“No, not forever. For if you refuse, I won’t be able to hold on for much longer. Ice will crack and the frost giants will leave Jötunheim and conquer Miðgarð, and Ragnarök will start. The end of everything. So not forever, whatever the case.”
Her expression was a mask, her voice gentle but firm. Suddenly, Kai got angry at her. She is torturing me with such a complex dilemma, forcing me to admit that I am selfish, as if giving up my life was going to save the world. It is not fair.
“Well, my answer is still no. And I have questions in return.”
Skaði sighed, the first real emotion that had broken through her. He felt her cold breath leaving her lips on the opposite side of the table. “Ask away.”
“Do you know where the gods are? Are they dead or have they just fallen?”
“I have not seen them since the Jötnar came. But they’re not dead. They cannot be if they have to rise again to battle during Ragnarök.”
“Aren’t you expecting them? Maybe they will come back eventually and fix things.”
“Gods don’t fix things,” she replied, and there was a latent anger in her tone. “If you think otherwise, you know nothing about them.”
“Why did you kiss me?”
The last question slipped through Kai’s lips; unconsciously, unwillingly. The Snow Queen widened her eyes. He had been asking himself that very same question for many years. That simple gesture had changed his life, had made him dream about her and pray for the winter girl to come back. The things he had read in that kiss he could not mention to anyone. He had craved something — love, perhaps — that now seemed childish, ridiculous. And he had to confront reality at last. He almost blushed when remembered his dreams, but the room was too cold for his cheeks to turn red.
She had never wanted him. She just wanted him to die for her.
“Dinner is over.”
Skaði rose from her chair and paced briskly toward the stairs. She had not
tried the food, nor had a sip from her cup.
“Wait!” Kai exclaimed. “I’m cold, and I need a fire, and proper furs to cover myself at night, and furniture and tools that are not made of ice.”
She turned around from the stairs, and her dress flew behind her like a whirlwind.
“You called me the Snow Queen,” she said to him. And now she was clearly angry. “And you’re now in the Snow Queen’s palace, and snow is all you’ll get. So you will be cold tonight, and cold tomorrow, and you will freeze to the tips of your fingers until you come to see reason and welcome your fate.”
She left Kai at the table and disappeared, and he stayed there thinking for a while. But soon he remembered the rule to go straight to his room after dinner. He left the tray with the berries and fruits almost untouched, but picked up the golden pitcher and the cup, and walked back to the place where he had woken up that morning.
When Kai entered, a strong frigid gale from the corridor closed the doors shut and, when he tried to open them again, he found that they were locked.
There was a song in his dream, but Kai could not understand the words. They were old, the kinds of verses one only found carved in runes on bone or stone. The words that were words but also spells, the hidden language of the world. Words a human throat could not utter, and shouldn’t.
The voice was so beautiful; he would do anything for her. The song was beautiful too, but sorrowful at the same time. It spoke to something inside him and Kai felt hoarfrost forming in his chest, and a cold that was warm at the same time. Kai knew that a man who was about to freeze to death suddenly felt comfortable and warm, and for that reason he should never stop moving.
He saw the Snow Queen in his dream, as he did every night since he had met her for the first time, but more vividly. Kai tried to find something familiar behind Skaði’s eyes, but he couldn’t; it was like glancing at the moon and expecting the moon to glance back. There was nothing else around, but a landscape that was pure white, and somehow Kai knew that everything that surrounded him was the Snow Queen too, part of her long mantle.
After that, the song became everything, and he dived into its notes until he melted with them and his body ceased to exist.
Then Kai woke up. The girl was gone, but the song persisted. He rose from the bed and let out a breath, a puff of pure white steam that frosted the corners of his mouth. He bent over and coughed until his chest hurt. The room was not completely dark. It shone faintly, reflecting the light of the moon and the stars. The verses of the song lingered in the walls and it was as if the whole of Himinbjörg was accompanying Skaði’s voice.
For all these years, she had been calling him.
Kai closed his eyes and forced his mind to conjure up Gerda’s face. He found solace in those features he knew so well, the rosy lips, the brown-red hair. She embraced him and he felt the warmth of her chest. But it didn’t last.
Kai climbed out of bed and peeked through the windows. There were snowflakes in the air, and they were dancing to the song. Down below, the mountains creaked like old bones as the rivers underground froze, as the water in the crevices turned into ice and fractured the rocks.
Kai had to lean and turn his head, but he managed to see the tallest tower in the north wing. At the top there was a pinnacle, and the Snow Queen stood there, her blonde hair dancing with the night’s wind. Even from far away, he noticed that Skaði was taller now, two or three times Kai’s size.
A Jötunn, he thought. A goddess.
EIGHTEEN
Gerda tried to decide if it was the same lake or not. The place was surrounded by rocky hills covered in untrodden snow, and the small path for animals that they had been following was the only thing barely visible under it. It was difficult to be sure, with all the snow changing the shapes of the landscape. But she was.
Gerda had been there before with her friends, about four or five seasons ago. It was summer then and, despite the cold, the sun had shone brightly in the deep blue sky, and they had removed their clothes and jumped from the top of the waterfalls into the cold water of the lake below. All except Runa, who was afraid of waterfalls, and of falls in general, and probably also afraid of being naked in front of them.
Now the brooks were frozen, and the lake was very different. Gerda fixed her eyes on the rock wall when they passed by, and found it not as high or as impressive as she remembered. She had dared the others to do it but, after all this time, that little jump into the water did not look like much.
“Yes, I remember it too,” Runa whispered. “The boys were scared, but you were the first, so there was not much they could do.”
Gerda nodded. They had waded for a while, enjoying the contact of the cold water against their bare skin, while Runa looked at them from the top of the waterfall.
“If that was today, you would have jumped too,” she said to her.
“I doubt it. But it’s alright. You jumped, so I don’t have to.”
Gerda remembered that, on that day, she had dallied in the water after the boys had got out to take a peep at their bodies. Alarr’s was strong and heavy-built. His shoulders and chest were wide and, although he was not an adult just yet, he had the body of one. By contrast, Kai was still a boy. Without his clothes he seemed even more vulnerable, like a fallen nestling bird, and she had felt a sudden urge to protect him. Then Gerda had noticed that Alarr’s skin was tanned but his legs were as pale as Kai’s, and she had giggled. They boys had looked puzzled at her, and she had blushed and swam away.
Sigrún turned around. “I don’t know what’s so interesting about the lake back there, but if you don’t rush we’re going to end up sleeping under the sky like last night.”
Gerda shivered. It had snowed lightly but nonstop, and they had nestled together, curled up to get some warmth. She had never spent a night out in the open before, under the cover of the tree crowns, but the experience had been bleak and miserable, and she had barely slept at all. At one point, snow had drifted down from the branches above, almost burying them.
“There is a cabin right behind those trees,” she said, and pointed somewhere around the pines that grew next to the cattle route, “for travelers and hunters. We can spend the night there.”
She had just remembered the place where they had slept that one night, before returning to the village. It was a refuge for those who were passing through, built as a gesture of goodwill and as a way to stimulate trade across long distances.
“Are you sure?” Sigrún frowned. “Have you been here before?”
“What do you think, that I’ve never left Veraheim in my life? I’ve traveled, you know. I’ve seen things.”
“I don’t doubt it. You must have traveled a lot to have a cloak like that.” Sigrún threw a meaningful look at Gerda’s ragged cloak, the one that her father had given to her.
“Gerda’s right,” said Runa politely, trying to avoid another argument. She led the horse by the reins, away from the path. She had named it Gyllir and had already grown quite fond of it. “I remember the cabin too. It’s really close.”
“Fine. Then let’s go.”
Gerda took it as a small triumph. She had figured that Sigrún would be a pain from the very beginning, and she had not been wrong. She did not speak much, except for her share of quirky comments and nasty remarks, and seemed to have an opinion about everything. She was always hastening them as if they were beasts of burden, complaining because they were constantly falling behind, or treating them like little girls, explaining obvious things to them in quite the tone. She barely needed to drink and she never grew tired or hungry, as if she had a secret stash of food.
Gerda threw a last look at the lake. She wondered if she would ever see the place again. There was something strange about it, a sort of attraction, almost as if the calm waters were calling her. Was it just the memory of that day that lured her away from the path or it was something else? She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and rushed after the others.
Gerda sighed with re
lief when she saw the ramshackle cabin among the trees, although it was more battered and ruinous than she had expected. The door was very weathered and the timber had holes, but the roof still stood, as did the walls, and Sigrún said that it would suffice.
The entrance was only secured with a board and a nail, which meant that there was nobody inside, and therefore that they could go in without fear. Still, Sigrún peered at the windows for a long time.
“It’s just an old hut,” said Gerda, “no need to be so cautious around here.”
Sigrún did not bother to reply, but took a last look at the darkness and got in. Runa tied the horse outside, stroked its back, and whispered something in its ear. Then Gerda and she entered together. It was as she remembered, a single room with a hearth for cooking, a pile of firewood, a couple of old chairs and not much else. However, the prospect of being sheltered from the cold and inclement wind for the first time in two days made Gerda find it inviting.
There were bones of small animals — chicken, hares, rats — scattered over the ground and old rotten leaves and dried mud. Sigrún asked them to clean and tidy up the place while she made the fire. Runa did it willingly, but Gerda only helped after some reluctance. They found an old broom in a corner and swept the rubbish into a pile, then pushed it through the door. When they finished, a small fire was already burning gaily into the hearth, but the room was still far from warm.
Sigrún examined the heap of rubbish outside.
“No, that’s not right. It is bad enough that we’re cooking in here. You must carry it further away and bury it. Otherwise the smell may bring wild things during the night.”
