Ravens' Will

by Terry Graves

  “We want our hearts back,” whispered Bergelmir.

  “How do you know?” Glöð ignored him. Her eyes were the color of glowing embers and, when she spoke, a wisp of smoke came out of her lips.

  “I am mother of vargs. Wolves and moon are two of a kind. I should know.”

  But the giantess was not satisfied with this answer. “Very well, but what do you expect from us? Haven’t we done enough already?”

  “Let me tell a story, Glöð, daughter of Múspell.” Angrboða paced slowly and her steps echoed in the large chamber. The time for courtesies had passed. “Perhaps you’re familiar with it. It starts about a hundred years ago, when a Jötunn named Surt came to the doors of this very same castle and requested the hearts of all the frost giants. A Jötunn — mind this — who has not come here tonight with the Múspelheim’s entourage. I wonder if he’s too ashamed.”

  “Surt is indisposed, as you very well know,” said Logi.

  “I know nothing, but I choose to believe you,” Angrboða responded, and nodded lightly. “Nonetheless, the frost giants are still missing their hearts, and the Fimbulvetr must end so Ragnarök must begin. We have waited enough. I have waited enough.”

  “You’re not a frost giant but you speak as if you were one.” Logi stood up and faced her. “You have certainly spent too much time in their company and have forgotten many things, Angrboða, the-one-who-brings-sorrow-to-the-world. Your tongue has become frosted and you talk as if Jötunheim were all there is. Worse than that, you hold the fire giants responsible for the frost giants’ demise,” he paused to give more weight to his next statement, “however, you’re quick to forget that it is one of their kind who’s causing all trouble.”

  Bergfinn hit the table with his fist. A leg broke and it tilted to one side, sending dishes and bones to the floor. “I won’t stand here listening to vile accusations!”

  “Then don’t let a witch speak through your lips.” Logi laughed sourly, sending out a rain of sparks. The flames that burned in his beard increased in brightness and turned quickly from orange to hot red, then back to orange again. He confronted Angrboða then. “All this would have been avoided if you had kept your legs closed. If it was not for your vicious womb, we should not be here today. I bow my head to you, a king in his own right, descendant of the great Thrym. But I would not bow before a dethroned queen.”

  “I may have lost my crown, but I’m still a queen.” Angrboða sent a cold glance to Logi, concealing her anger.

  “So you claim,” Glöð said with disdain. “But there is no queen today in Ironwood, no one to reign over the trees and the bogs and the squirrels.”

  Angrboða did not fall for the provocation, as there were more pressing matters to attend to. She had been stripped of her crown during the battle, when someone had taken the golden circlet from her head while she lay, wounded, on the Bifröst Bridge. Now the crown was lost, but the kingdom remained. Perhaps the idolatrous trolls of Ironwood may have forgotten her already, but one day, when she came back to the ancient forest, she would make her subjects remember.

  “As I was saying,” Angrboða continued, “the Fimbulvetr is about to end, and so we must prepare ourselves for Ragnarök. We shall expect opposition, and not just from the Æsir.”

  What Ragnarök meant to a Jötunn was very different to what it meant for other creatures. For giants, it was only the end from a certain point of view. They would go back to the earth, to be reunited with the soil and the clouds and the rivers. They would return home, truly and completely, to become a single being again, part of Ymir, the primeval giant. But for the Æsir, for humans, and who knew, maybe for the dwarves and the elves as well, it would mean something entirely different.

  “We’re not yet ready for war,” said Ægir. It was the first time he had spoken since he arrived. “And the Naglfar ship is not yet completed. The Seeress’s prophecy states that the Æsir will face the fire giants in Bifröst but, as of today, Ásgarð is empty. I believe that you’re rushing things again, Angrboða, just to be reunited with your children.”

  “And would that be such a hideous crime?”

  “Yes, it would. We will face more casualties, more death, because of your whims. I say let the frost witch rule in Ásgarð for a thousand years. Let Hel rule the Underworld, while her army grows day after day with the souls of the dead. Let the Serpent grow larger and thicker in the bottom of the ocean, let the Fenrirwolf grow more and more angry in the depths of the earth.”

  “It’s my children you’re talking about. You fool.” In a blink, Angrboða had reached the other end of the room, where Ægir’s daughters awaited in silence. Her legs had disappeared, and all there was under her skirt was a squamous serpentine tail, which coiled around one of them and pressed her body so tightly that when her mouth opened to scream, not a single sound left her throat. “Tell me you wouldn’t kill me here on the spot, me and all your brothers, to save a single one of your daughters. I dare you.”

  Weapons were drawn, swords were unsheathed. The eight remaining daughters of the sea jumped back at the same time. But Ægir simply laughed, a stentorian cackle that went on for quite a long time.

  “Very well, Angrboða. You have made your point.” He turned around and addressed all the Jötnar who gathered around the broken table. “By all the sacred altars in the earth and the sunken cities of the sea, let the woman speak!” he bellowed. There was no way to know if he was mocking her, but she loosened her grip, and the girl fell to the floor and took a long deep breath. Ægir grinned at her, a smile devoid of joy or happiness. “But let me tell you this. You threaten my beautiful Bára but you forget that your hideous serpent-daughter is prisoner in my domains. That’s all I wanted to say. It is not a threat, just something that came to my mind. Not a threat at all, you see? Now, finish your speech, say what you want to say. Let’s get this over with.”

  Angrboða composed herself and forced a smile. Jötnar liked to brag, to threat, to brawl. Such harsh remarks and the more harmful insults were used as common words among them. It was in their nature, but not so much in Angrboða herself, who had always preferred the more civilized manners of the humans, with their half-meanings and their double intentions. She glanced at the girl named Bára and saw fear in her eyes. A red rash still remained as a shadow on her pale neck, like the sting of a jellyfish. She would remember this day, and the thought pleased her.

  “Thank you, Ægir.” She bowed and then raised her voice. “The truth is, I had a dream during the blood moon. I saw the reign of Skaði ending, the bridge breaking down, the sky splitting in two and the flaming sword falling over Ásgarð. And I understand if that is not much, because that’s what the Seeress’s prophecy says; but what it doesn’t say is when. And yet, I also witnessed other things: a dart of fire, and a broken heart, and these things are new. And when I woke up some words from the dream still lingered in my mind and came to my mouth. And the words were: ‘Bring them here.’”

  “Bring us?” said Kâri. “For what?”

  “I don’t know yet. I just know that the answer will present itself to us here, in this hall. Tonight.”

  They all looked around, as if they were going to see this “answer” falling from the ceiling. But nothing happened, and an oppressive silence fell upon them. Kâri broke it again, and his words and the sympathetic smile that went with them harmed Angrboða more than the most spiteful curse.

  “My dear queen,” he said. “It seems that finally the sorrow and the pain have taken their toll and have clouded your judgment.”

  “I think is time for us to leave,” said Rán.

  She was about to get up when the doors burst open and a Jötunn came in, sending about a rain of powdered snow. Angrboða recognized Vafthrúðnir, one of the oldest frost giants. She studied his face. It was weathered like a rock, full of crevices and cracks, but his eyes were bright. And when he started shouting that he had finally found the answer, that he knew how to put an end to the Fimbulvetr, Angrboða knew at once that she
had succeeded.

  From this point on, they would listen.

  TWENTY

  It was still snowing softly. Runa left Sigrún and Gerda sleeping, pulled out the board with the nail, and went outside. She had had a bad dream, something relating to Gerda. It was the second night in a row. Runa had gotten used to nightmares about dogs and wolves chasing her, but these dreams were something new and more vivid, and scared her in a whole different way.

  Some snowflakes got tangled in her dark brown hair, others made their way under her neck and melted. She opened the brooch of her cloak and walked ten steps into the forest, left it over one of the lower tree branches, squatted down, pulled up her skirt, and peed.

  She found Gyllir under the scarce cover of the roof. Steam came out of its nostrils in wisps that vanished in the gelid air. She stroked its hindquarters and patted its back. Then she hugged its broad muscular neck and muttered silly things into its ear, the kind of nonsense one would say to a baby. Runa had never had a horse before, but when Gyllir looked back at her with its brown gentle eyes and pawed the ground, she felt that it was happy to see her.

  “Are you thirsty? Are you?” she said in a low voice. “Let’s get you something to drink.”

  She unfettered the horse, grabbed the reins, and started walking away from the cabin, following the small, almost invisible trail back to the cattle route. It was dawn, but the darkness had not yet vanished completely. Runa was used to this half-light that changed the shape of things and tricked the eye. She knew it well because it was the best time to get some game, as animals roamed outside and had their guard down when they went to the river to drink. The chill at dawn was also different from any other. The sun had been away during the night and everything on the face of the earth seemed to have lost its heat. The bark from the trees was cold, and so were the leaves and the stones and the water. Dead cold.

  Soon, the forest started to thin out and they came to the area of steep rocky hills they had been crossing the day before. Runa gazed at the distant mountains. She did not feel homesick, neither was she excited to have left Veraheim. During the last two days she had seen Gerda experiencing all the possible stages and emotions: going crazy about the journey, complaining about the smallest things, then joking and laughing as if she was filled with rapture and awe. Runa, though, was surprised that nothing about the trip mattered to her much on a personal level. She missed Kai, though, and wanted to save him from whatever trouble he was in. She missed Alarr too. But she did not miss home, her shack, or her old life.

  By the time they reached the lake the snow had stopped and a soft mist covered the water and fogged the air. Runa led Gyllir to the shore and let it drink for a long time. She was thirsty too, but the brooks were frozen and the water from the lake seemed stale. Later, when she was back in the cabin, she would melt some snow to fill the skins before they left.

  She paced around the lake instead, being careful on the slippery stones, feeling an oppression in her chest whose origin she could not identify. After a while wandering about, she kneeled, brought her face closer, and studied her reflection in the surface. The water seemed almost black, her image shadowy enough for the marks of the hounds to be invisible.

  She leaned forward and examined herself as if for the first time, but a thread of saliva dribbled from the paralyzed corner of her lip and fell into the lake, spoiling the moment. Runa shook her head, made a bowl with her hands, and lifted some water to clean her face.

  She was about to get up and look for Gyllir to walk back when a voice whispered behind her.

  “Beautiful. Oh, so beautiful.”

  Runa turned around with one hand already on her knife. There was no one there, but the mist had gotten thicker and now she could not see the rock with the old cascade or the horse drinking on the shore. She was sure she had heard a voice and she knew that the fog sometimes played with sounds, creating echoes. She drew the knife, bent to her knees, and waited, turning around and facing all directions.

  “Oh, even splendorous, I daresay. Don’t you agree?” the voice said. It was clear and musical, but it had a humid quality, as when someone spoke too close to your ear.

  “Who are you?” she shouted at the fog. “Show yourself!”

  “But I’m showing, and I am seeing you. I see your hair, gorgeous, the color of dark honey, of ancient oaks with sturdy roots. I see your eyes, oh, as gray as the sea after the storm. I could get lost in those eyes and swim forever and never, ever reach shore. I see your beautiful lips, the pureness of your skin. And if I see you, you must be capable of seeing me. You just need to look intently.”

  Runa tried to pierce the fog with her sight and, slowly, she began to perceive a figure standing above the water. He was a man, of sorts; small, fragile, with a harp in his hand. She felt something in her stomach, the urge to respond to him with a smile, with a bow. But she resisted.

  “You’re mocking me, whoever you are, because I’m old enough to know that I’m not beautiful, not worthy of such praise. Now state your purpose or get on your way, or I swear by the gods I’ll stick my knife into your belly and gut you like a fish.”

  He looked genuinely saddened by her words and she felt such sorrow in return that she wanted to take them back immediately. The man’s eyes were big and round like those of a cat, watery and dark green. “You saw the same thing I do when you looked at yourself through the veil of water. There are mirrors which lie and others which don’t. But I will answer your question. I fell in love with you the very same moment I saw you, a long time ago. That day, the sun up in the blue sky, I was expecting you to come closer, like the others, but you never did. What a tragedy, dear! And then, wof! You came back, as if you knew. So I’m here to greet you.”

  Runa knew she should have questions. About how a man could stand on top of the water, for example. About how he knew what had happened years ago in that same place, when she was alone with her friends. But it was as if the fog that engulfed the lake outside was getting into her head, and none came to her.

  “You would be disappointed,” said Runa, “if it was not for the water concealing my flaws.”

  “Your flaws… what a load of nonsense!”

  “I don’t know you and I don’t want you,” she said, but her voice came out hesitant, unsure, and the message did not carry across the way she would have liked. She put her knife back into its sheath.

  “I have got a song for you.” The man raised the harp, as if that explained everything. “It goes like this…” He did not play a single note, but he hummed the melody, and his voice was enough to send vibrations all across her body that made her dizzy. “You want to listen to it?”

  She hesitated and the man smiled and drew closer. He was the handsomest boy she had ever seen, and he was barely an ell away. His skin glinted with silver glares, like the scaly belly of a kelt. And she found that yes, she wanted to listen to it.

  “Play it for me,” Runa said, rather timidly.

  The man seemed content with this, so he sat on the water’s surface as if he was as weightless as a fallen leaf. He leaned the harp against his body, rested his face over the curve of the neck, and his fingers started to move, slowly caressing the strings. Despite the distance, Runa somehow felt his fingers on her skin, and moaned softly. There was nothing in the sound that came out of it that could be explained by mere words. Whatever troubled her was not there anymore. As long as the song kept playing, Runa had no questions, no urges, no needs.

  But the song ended, and the silence that followed was insufferable.

  “Play it again,” Runa demanded. But she felt that saying it was not enough, and she really wanted to hear it, so she added: “Please.”

  A smell of rotten fish and algae came to her nostrils, but she blocked it. The fog had definitely gotten into her mind, clouding her thoughts.

  “I will play it, yes, as many times as you wish, my beautiful girl, till the end of times if that brings you joy. But first, I have a small request.”

  He
stroked his golden hair, full of ringlets, and smiled again, and there was something in that smile that was truly happiness, and something else that was not. Runa waited, feeling that whatever the young man would request of her would be a small price to pay for enjoying such a melody forever. “Ask away.”

  “Would you agree to marry me?” the man said. And before Runa could reply to this question, he kept talking. “I was a king, you see, in a kingdom beyond the sea, and I was trapped here by a sorceress so I could learn humbleness. I’m sure that these stories are not unheard of in the place where you’re from. I was so self-obsessed in those times that I would have started looking at my reflection in this lake and fallen in love with myself and died of thirst. But I’ve changed because of you. And I’ve learnt my lesson, and the spell will be broken and we can reign together, and you will have riches, wealth so...”

  He would have kept talking, but Runa did not let him. She had heard the stories, yes. Maidens combing their hair on the shores of the lakes with chests of treasure hidden in the water, and evil sorceresses trapping poor princes under the skins of bears or turning princesses into trolls. She had heard the stories, but she had just remembered Kai, and Gerda, and Alarr. A stray thought had come to her faintly, as if it had not even been hers, but she held on to it.

  “I cannot marry you, for I am on a quest to save my friend,” she said with great care. Her gaze was fixed on the eyes of the man, which were getting cloudy like the bottom of a pond. “But I can promise I will marry you on the way back.”