by Terry Graves
“I’ve been thinking.” Runa kept her eyes low. “If there are ghosts indeed, we can maybe talk to them.”
“What for?”
“Well, we can ask the dead if Kai is with them. Then we’ll know for sure if the trip is worth it.”
“Kai is alive. I know he is.”
“I know it too,” Runa said in a conciliatory tone. “But this way, we will be sure.”
Gerda did not reply. She did not need proof of Kai, or perhaps she did not want to know. She felt alone and miserable, as if she was the only one who cared.
They reached the place. It was on top of a hill, a simple circle of stones with one taller stone at the center, carved with old runes and covered in moss and snow. Sigrún walked closer and cleaned it with a gloved hand.
“What does it say?” Gerda asked her.
“Nothing. Just the warriors’ names, and I’ve never heard of them.” Sigrún sniffed the air and contorted, as if she could smell the stench of rotting corpses from a hundred years ago. “I’m afraid one of us will have to enter.”
“Then I’ll go,” said Gerda. “Even though this was not my idea.”
The entrance was a hole in the ground covered by a rotten lid that had probably been stripped from the top of a barrel. They pushed it away and Gerda peered into the darkness below. She used her arm to clean away a layer of cobwebs. They were not old or dusty, so they had been probably weaved during the night. Snow had been filtering through and had created a muddy puddle just below the door.
Gerda sat with her feet hanging in the hole. She breathed in, trying to find her courage. Bravery was her thing, after all.
“Wish me luck,” she said, and let herself go.
TWENTY-FOUR
“It is quite simple, really. But I will explain it again for the benefit of the slow ones.”
Hrímnir leaned back and smiled. It was amusing because Vafthrúðnir also talked very slowly, and every syllable was an agony of deep breaths and gurgles. The other Jötnar were growing impatient. Those from the water and the wind were still sympathetic, but the fire giants were suffering, for they were used to burning quickly and disappearing. It was painful to see, even for someone like Hrímnir who had nothing better to do than smash unbreakable ice with his hammer all day long. Still, courtesy obliged them to behave, and they remained on the benches and listened.
It was a good plan, after all, and it was worth hearing it a second time.
He and Mögthrasir were waiting against the bone-white rock wall, almost as if they were two more of the human thralls who were next to them with their pitchers and their pompous clothes. Mögthrasir had his eyes cast low and hunched more than usual. All these kings and queens together cowed him. There was no reason for them to be here, among lords and ladies, but they were with Vafthrúðnir when he stormed into Útgarðheim in the middle of the night, and he had requested their presence that day too for some reason. Perhaps the old Jötunn was being foul with them, because they had bothered him all these years with their “good days” and their “nice weathers”. Perhaps this was vengeance on his part. All Jötnar were brothers and sisters, fathers and sons, all part of a single lineage that went back to Ymir. But they were not equal. Some were precious stones and others were river pebbles. Hrímnir was a pebble, he cherished no doubts about it, and Mögthrasir was one too.
“Where was I?” Vafthrúðnir said to himself. “Oh, yes. The arrow, the parabola, the bridge. Let’s start with the arrow, then. We need the finest shaft, light and fast, but tough and heavy enough to make the proper arc in the air.”
“I can provide it,” said Angrboða with a gesture, as if it was a little thing. “My ancestors planted some seeds from the Laerad tree deep in Ironwood. It is the best you can find in the Nine Realms, dark as the abyss and perfectly balanced. I will sacrifice one of the spokes on the wheel of my royal chariot for this very purpose. And I have a bow made from the same wood which I will lend you.”
“And for the arrowhead,” Vafthrúðnir said, “we need the best possible material too.”
“Flint is far too common. I would choose obsidian, or jasper,” said Bergelmir.
“Obsidian is very proud and very stubborn,” mumbled Vafthrúðnir, as if he was talking about an old friend. After all, he was halfway through the process of turning into a rock. That was the reason why he had spent the last few years sitting in the same place, thinking on this perfect plan, but more frequently snoozing. And sometimes snoring, if one was to believe Mögthrasir. “No obsidian.”
“Jasper it is,” Bergelmir conceded. “What else?”
“Someone will have to get to one end of Bifröst.”
“This is where the complications start.” Bergfinn rose from the bench and the gemstones of his shoulders glinted under the firelight. “Many have tried to climb the Thrym Mountains to evade the blockade and reach Miðgarð. So far, none have succeeded. Can we not send the arrow from here?”
“No, we can’t, Your Majesty. The Bifröst Bridge is the only path to Ásgarð. The arrow will have to follow the exact curvature of the structure just above it. It is a narrow tunnel and it must go from one end to the other.”
“The ascent will be perilous, but we have to try,” said Angrboða. “We will only send the best.”
“I’m not sure about the best.” Vafthrúðnir grinned with bitter teeth. His eyes were lost in thought. “But we need one for air, one from fire, one from frost, one from water, and one from the forest. One for each, that is. We need an air Jötunn to befriend the wicked wind of the Fimbulvetr so it helps the arrow to reach its destiny. We need a fire Jötunn to set the arrowhead in flames so it burns most of the way. That way, the wind can see it in the storm to correct its course. We need a water Jötunn to extinguish the fire at the last moment so Skaði won’t see it coming and dodge it. We frost giants don’t have magic of our own anymore, but I trust yours to be strong enough to perform these menial tasks.”
This information was new to them. Vafthrúðnir had slyly avoided mentioning this the first time.
“I’m the only one from the wind,” said Kâri, “and therefore I can’t refuse without putting an end to the whole venture. You can count on me, my Queen.” He bowed so exaggeratedly that the feathers from his hair touched the cold stone floor of the palace. Angrboða nodded and smiled lightly. “What about the others? You’re kings, princes, warriors in your own lands. I’m sure this group is not short of bravery.”
“I´ll go,” said Logi, “but not because of your pathetic charade. The plan is sound, and I want to put an end to the misery of my brothers. I will set the sky ablaze if necessary.” He hit his palm with his fist to accompany his words, and a burst of flames, almost white, covered both his hands.
“You have my gratitude, Logi, son of Fornjótr,” said Angrboða. “Your courage won’t be forgotten.”
There was a brief silence while all looks turned to Ægir and his family, who had not spoken yet. He stepped forward from the group and wandered across the hall for a while, as if undecided whether to speak. He shook his head.
“Not so long ago, we followed Surt into battle. We climbed Bifröst with you although we don’t have an interest in it. We dwell in the ocean, far away from human matters, and not even the Æsir dare to come to my home. I couldn’t care less about Ásgarð. But I had two sons, and I lost them that night. Tyr killed the first one, so they say, for I did not witness it. The other died while fighting Viðarr. They perished up above in the sky, as far from the sea as one could be.” Ægir’s voice grew low and rough. “They died and their corpses are still lost. Maybe they’re in Miðgarð, but I doubt it. I think they’re still trapped in the ice of the bridge.”
They waited for the second part; surely there had to be one. Ægir tore at his beard. It was made of thin kelps and seaweeds, with tangled bits of red and yellow corals. A couple of hermit crabs ran away from his fingers and disappeared to safety.
“Now, who do you want me to sacrifice this time? I don’t have any m
ore sons for you, but you can take one of my daughters. Kólga is the fairest one, but Blóðughadda is the fiercest. However, Himinglæva is quite good with riddles, so perhaps you prefer to enjoy her company during the journey.”
“Father, I’ll go,” said one of them. Her hair was the bleached red of algae, her skin pallid and bluish.
“No, Bára, you won’t.” Ægir held her arm. “I won’t have it.”
But Bára pulled her shoulders back and rose proudly against her father. “I’m old enough. I can make my own decisions.” Her eyes sparkled. She sent Angrboða a cryptic gaze, but the woman smiled kindly and nodded toward her. Whatever the affront was that she wanted to set right, Angrboða could not have cared less.
“You have your answer, then,” said Ægir, addressing the whole room. “Against my will.”
He walked back and sat on the cold floor. He looked much older, as old as Vafthrúðnir, old as the mountains. Hrímnir had lost many friends and siblings during the Bifröst offensive; but not a son. He could only wonder how the pain of a father would feel. It must be like losing a limb, one that would never grow back; and you would wake every morning having forgotten the loss, and try to move it, and still feel it itching.
“Why one from the frost?” asked Bergelmir.
“Not one,” Vafthrúðnir turned around to point at Hrímnir with one crooked finger. “This one.”
Hrímnir felt a pang of panic. This was no jest. There were no laughs, no pun for the joke.
“Him? I wondered what he was doing here.” Bergelmir raised his head to face Hrímnir, and he lowered his in response.
“Hrímnir will throw the arrow.”
“I’m not so good an archer, Lord, I’m sure there are better options.”
“Yes, I suppose there are. We could announce an archery contest, send word all across Jötunheim and offer a handsome prize to the winner. And meanwhile, the season will turn into summer, and the summer into autumn, and nothing will be done at the end. So you will do it.”
“But why me?”
“It’s because of the way you use the hammer, that monstrous thing. You know I sit every day on the same rock, lost in thought, while you hammer and hammer against the ice wall. It was quite bothersome at first. But then I found a pattern in it and I could relax. After a while, the thinking became simpler because of your noises. And I could listen to the mountain replying. You always strike exactly the same spot, day after day. The mountain told me it hurts, real bad. It said that one day it won’t stand it anymore and it will break to shatters. So there you have it.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“You make things simpler, Hrímnir, that’s your skill. You can break the roots of a mountain if given enough time. You can help an old giant have a new idea.” Vafthrúðnir closed his eyes, pleased. “So you will go and you will throw the arrow and I don’t want to hear another word about this.”
“I beg your pardon, Lord,” said Mögthrasir, fidgeting with a lock of hair. “I understand about Hrímnir. But what am I doing here? I don’t make things simpler; most days, I think I make them more complicated. I’m the kind of creature who gets tricked by little boys and ends up missing the magic ring, the one that is beheaded at the end of stories.”
“You’re going too,” said Vafthrúðnir plainly.
“But why?”
“For balance, if nothing else.” The Jötunn smiled, lay his hand on Mögthrasir’s head and ruffled his thick mane. “Besides, we need one of each, I told you. You’re the one from the forest. You certainly look like a troll, don’t you think?”
“So it’s settled then,” said Bergfinn. “Five have been chosen to climb to Thrymheim, one for each of the families present. We will start with the preparations straight away, so you can depart before the summer starts. We will craft the best arrow the world has seen and give you the best bow we can make.”
“And that will kill the witch?” asked Glöð, still dubious.
“And that will kill the witch,” Vafthrúðnir replied.
TWENTY-FIVE
Gerda had expected a big cave or a chamber, but the mound’s interior was a simple hole. Wind and water had dragged in fallen leaves that now decayed on the floor, forming a thick layer of mud. She looked around in the darkness and saw some carved stones piled in a corner. A piece of dark cloth hung from a root. It could be a ragged cloak or a blanket, or perhaps a shroud.
“There’s nothing here. Not even old bones,” she shouted. The walls had a weird echo that Gerda found eerie. The voice that came back was not the same as that she had used, as if someone else was mimicking her. She resolved not to shout again while she was inside.
Sigrún’s arm lingered over her head. She held a light brown root in her hand. “Chew this,” she said. “It will help.”
“Help how?”
“If there’s something to see down there, you will see it.”
Gerda gnawed the root. It was hard, earthy, and bitter. She munched it until it became a paste in her mouth, and she spat and coughed. Her mouth was full of the nasty flavor of rotten dead things.
She crouched inside the mound and waited with her knees against her chin, roots poking out from the walls scraping her arms and her back. The wind howled above her head, fiercer than before. Even though the hole was warm, she could see her breath coming out from her mouth.
After a while, Gerda grew bored and her mind started to stray. She thought of Kai first, as she did always, and tried to find a trace of his kisses on her lips, but all she found was the bitter, foul flavor of Sigrún’s root. Then her thoughts went to the Queen, to her cold but mesmerizing beauty and the gracefulness with which she had slain the giant. She could never compete with her, not with swordsmanship or with looks. But she loved Kai more. She needed Kai more.
After that, her mind wandered to other places. To her father and his stories, to the fossegrim and the noise it had made when she stuck her sword in its throat, to the way Sigrún had jumped into the pond, with no doubts or hesitation, to the giant and the stone-heart and all the things in her life she could no longer change. She thought about Alarr, stretched out on the floor of the byre, his eyes closed as if he was dead, and how she said “I don’t love you” to him and how she shouldn’t have. You don’t say those things to friends. At the very least, she should have said: “I don’t love you in that way.” Even though it would have hurt the same. What if Kai had said that to her?
Time had passed and she did not feel any different. There was nothing in the mound, Gerda concluded. The dead were far away and their bones had cracked and mixed with the mud a long time ago. She was crouching in that hole for a superstitious goatherd.
How long till twilight? she ruminated. It will start to snow soon after and we will have trouble finding our way back.
She was about to complain when she captured a movement in the darkness, followed by the noise of something being dragged across the ground. She squinted. The piece of cloth was moving, as if shaken by the wind. But there was no wind in the hole.
Gerda held her breath.
The cloth danced, as if mocking her, and then hung loosely in the shape of a cloak. She could barely see the contours of the roots that sprouted from the soil behind it, but when she peered intently, she distinguished a sort of a contorted face made of wooden tangled things. She could have sworn it was not there before.
Gerda looked up at the opening she had used to come down, but there was no light anymore. Maybe it was night already or maybe Sigrún and Runa had slid the lid back and had left her.
She suppressed the urge to call out to them. She was not a coward.
“What are you?” Gerda whispered, and dug into her boot and pulled out her knife.
The ghost of wood and fabric smiled with his dry-rot lips. His mouth opened and closed two times, as if he was practicing. His jaw moved left and right with a creak. Earthworms sprouted from the mud, coiling, almost jumping, as if the soil burned.
“I’m what’s left at the
very end,” it replied, eluding the question with a voice made of bitter howling wind that raised bumps on her skin. “And what are you?”
“I’m a girl,” she said. But she thought that was not enough, so she added: “Name’s Gerda. I want you to tell me if my friend Kai is alive, you nasty thing, and then I want you to leave this place, go back to Helheim, and let people live in peace.”
“Don’t you smell it, Gerda?” She did. Something burning, the smell of scorching wood and fabric. “Now, let’s play a little game, you and I. You will try to guess who I am. Tell me, and I will answer your question.”
“You are just tree roots and an old cloth,” she said, not giving it much thought.
“Wrong.” But the thing seemed pleased. Now Gerda’s nostrils were also full of the smell of burning flesh, and carbonized bones and teeth. The room was misty, engulfed in a cloud of smoke. Gerda heard faraway chants, muffled by the walls. Think, damn it. It was not a forest fire, but a funeral one: a pyre. She was in a burial mound, and therefore she was talking with a ghost. She remembered Knútr’s words and guessed:
“You are one of seven warriors who died in a war, or you are the seven warriors all together.”
“Wrong again.” The wooden thing laughed. “If you fail once more, I will bite off your beautiful nose.”
Gerda coughed. The fumes stung her eyes like wild things and she was starting to have trouble breathing. There was no way she could know the answer. Sigrún had not revealed the names she had read in the runes carved in the memorial stones above, and she was convinced that asking her directly would be cheating. But she did not know the story of the mound or the people who had been buried there.
“I’m what’s left at the very end,” the creature had said. Was that supposed to be a clue? What’s left at the very end? She cogitated. Nothing, perhaps, but that could not be it, because the wooden thing was clearly something, apart from roots and an old cloth, which had been her first guess. So maybe the wooden thing was not even a ghost. Perhaps it had never been human or alive before. The creature was part of the earth, made from rot and worms and roots, and therefore it had been fed and nurtured by all dead things. It had knowledge of those who were deceased, and it was impersonating one of them, someone who had been burned on a pyre.
