Helheimr

by Fynn F Gunnarson

  ‘Except,’ added Surtr, as something of an afterthought, ‘those mortals who drown... they join the Goddess Rán, in another Realm of the Dead, which is located at the bottom of the sea.’

  ‘So what is Valhalla like?’ asked Sharp Axe quickly; talk of drowning had reminded him, rather disagreeably, of how close he had been to paying Rán a visit, both a couple of years before, during his encounter with Kraken on the Norwegian Sea and, again, a few moments earlier, on the wooden bridge.

  ‘Valhalla – so I’m told, for I have never visited it,’ answered Surtr, with no obvious sign of regret, ‘is constructed entirely out of polished shields and spears. It has five hundred and forty doors, each one of them wide enough for eight hundred of its warriors to pass through, side by side.’

  [Impressed gasps from the men.]

  ‘The cook, Andhrimnir,’ continued Surtr, ‘prepares a meal of boar each night in his cauldron, Eldhrimnir. Every morning, this boar, who goes by the name of Saehrimnir, comes back to life and, every evening, he is cooked again and eaten.

  [Groans of disgust and general sympathy for the unfortunate boar from the men.]

  ‘Heidrun, the goat,’ continued Surtr, ‘eats needles from the tree known as Laerad and produces mead in her udders, for each evening’s feast’.

  [Mutterings of approval from the men.]

  ‘Voluptuous Valkyries serve drinks to the warriors at the banqueting-table,’ resumed Surtr.

  [Louder mutterings of approval from the men.]

  ‘These formidable maidens have been hand-picked for this duty by Odin, who attends the feast every evening. He does not eat, though; he prefers to give his food to the two wolves, Geri and Freki, who accompany him there, whilst he listens to news of the day’s events from two ravens, Huginn and Muninn, who sit on his shoulders.’

  ‘What do the warriors do during the day, when they are not feasting?’ enquired Randver, apparently weighing up the pros and cons of spending his retirement from life in Valhalla.

  ‘They train hard for what some call “The Final Battle”... ’, at which point, Surtr snorted quietly, ‘… a waste of time, truth be told,’ he added, with a sneer. ‘They train so hard, that some drop dead in the fields... then come to life again, later the same evening.’

  ‘But,’ piped up Jormunrek, wearing a confused expression, ‘how can they die… if they’re already dead?’

  Surtr shrugged his mighty shoulders. ‘I did not make the rules,’ he replied. ‘You will have to ask Odin that question.’

  ‘Sounds like a great place!’ said Hedin, from the back of the group and Hamdir agreed with him.

  ‘Sounds ghastly!’ said Alfgeir and almost everyone else agreed with him.

  ‘Sounds like a crow,’ said Aldaron, to several puzzled looks from the men who had not heard anything, but Aldaron was right.

  *

  ‘I need to know what it means,’ insisted Mithrén, with an air of defiance the Elven Elders had not seen in her for some time – probably not, in fact, since the second appearance of Sharp Axe in Álfheimr. He, for what the elders considered to be all his “faults” (in other words, the ways in which he was unlike a Light Elf), had certainly turned out to be a calming influence on the young, headstrong maiden healer, who had been something of a thorn in the elders’ sides, ever since the tragic and untimely passing of her parents, some years earlier, when Mithrén and Aldaron had been mere infants.

  The deaths of Mithrén’s mother and father were never discussed in Álfheimr, at least not amongst, or in front of, the elders. Their lives had been lost in a relentless (some said obsessive) pursuit of resurrecting long-dormant Elven magic – referred to in Elfdom as “Old Elven Magic”. Over a number of years, Mithrén’s parents had attempted to perform increasingly complex, deep and dangerous spells, for what reason it could now only be speculated but, whatever that reason was, it had ultimately proved to be their undoing. Spells of Old Elven Magic were recorded in the form of ancient writings, but their use had been restricted to a select and trusted few, including Mithrén’s mother (an experienced and skilled healer) and father (a highly-respected elder), for many centuries by order of successive Councils of Elders, expressly because of the danger those spells posed to the perpetrators and, more importantly, to others.

  After the passing of Mithrén’s parents it was decided, following some high-level debate, not to destroy the books containing the ancient spells, due to their significance to Light Elf culture and history, but to restrict access to them to the elders themselves and, even then, only with the unanimous approval of the entire council. In reality, none of the elders had any interest in performing Old Elven Magic, partly because they were simply uninterested in the subject, partly because they saw it as largely pointless, but mainly for reasons of self-preservation.

  Now, the elders could see familiar and unwelcome signs of the younger Mithrén surfacing: in particular, a refusal to accept their judgment and ruling on a matter about which she knew and understood very little, combined with what they saw as a general lack of respect for the authority of the Council of Elders.

  ‘We Light Elves,’ began one of the elders calmly though haughtily, ‘should not become involved in the events of Midgard and the Lower Worlds – ’

  ‘But Aldaron is already involved!’ returned Mithrén, thumping the ground on which she was sitting cross-legged, in front of the elders. ‘And even if you don’t care about Sharp Axe and Fynn, you should care about Aldaron... he’s one of our kind! He’s my brother! He’s in danger and he needs our help!’

  There was a collective sigh from the Elven Elders.

  ‘Please… ’ implored Mithrén, ‘… just tell me what it all means!’

  The elders looked at one another. One by one, each gave a reluctant, curt nod.

  ‘The signs,’ replied one of them eventually, in a rather grave tone, ‘do not appear to be very… favourable... ’

  *

  Surtr led the men not to the door set in the wall of Eljudnir which faced them, but to the left of the building, round the corner and then to another, very similar-looking door.

  ‘We should enter by the west door,’ he informed the men, many of whom were looking confused at having ignored the first door in favour of a second, in which they could see no difference, but which they had had to walk for another ten minutes to reach. ‘There is a protocol to be observed here.’

  Each of the men nodded, to indicate to Surtr that they had understood exactly what he meant, although almost none of them did.

  The Fire Giant approached the door and immediately struck it three times with a great clenched fist. There then passed several minutes of uncomfortable silence, which the men spent staring at the door, shuffling their feet awkwardly, looking around at one another uncertainly, or simply lost in their own thoughts, wishing they could be somewhere else.

  Eventually, to everyone’s relief, there was evidence of some activity behind the door. The activity, however, was far from urgent. It was slow. It was agonisingly slow.

  The slowness was, in fact, more than agonising; it was excruciating.

  Fynn looked at Sharp Axe and silently mouthed the words, ‘What’s going on in there?’

  Sharp Axe gave a shrugged response, to indicate he had no more idea than Fynn.

  The door began to creep open, gradually, at which point a few of the men, instinctively, began to move forward, as if to enter the building. The door continued to open so slowly, however, that there was insufficient space for them to pass through, so they had to halt in mid-step and continue to wait.

  Surtr did not appear to think there was anything unusual about the proceedings: he stood quite still, patiently awaiting whatever was on the other side of the door to complete the seemingly far-from-straightforward challenge of opening it.

  After what seemed like something approaching several lifetimes, enough space between the door and its frame had appeared to allow the Fire Giant to pass. Sharp Axe indicated to his men that Surtr should be th
e one to enter Eljudnir and this he did, followed by ten relieved men and a Light Elf, who was equally relieved that the unbearably-long wait was finally over.

  ‘Hello, Ganglati,’ boomed the voice of Surtr, pleasantly, as he entered the door. ‘We are here to see your mistress.’

  ‘H-h-h-h-h-e-e-e-e-e-l-l-l-l-l – ’ replied an apparently-motionless figure on the other side of the door but, by that time, Surtr had already gone past it, followed by the men.

  ‘ – l-l-l-l-l-o-o-o-o-o... S-s-s-s-s-u-u-u-u-u-r-r-r-r-r-t-t-t-t-t-r-r-r-r-r,‘ creaked the door-operator from somewhere behind everyone.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Jormunrek, not daring to look back, for fear of losing the group in a place where he did not want to spend so much as a second on his own.

  ‘That was Ganglati,’ replied Surtr, matter-of-factly. ‘He is Hel’s manservant. And here,’ gestured the Fire Giant, indicating a figure in a woollen dress on the men’s right, whom everyone had thought to be a statue, ‘is his partner, Ganglot – Hel’s maidservant.’

  ‘H-h-h-h-h-e-e-e-e-e-l-l-l-l-l – ’ began Ganglot in greeting, as the group went past.

  ‘Are they... all right?’ asked Alfgeir, somewhat concerned for the servants’ wellbeing.

  ‘Yes... ’ replied Surtr, ‘... more or less.’

  ‘ – l-l-l-l-l-o-o-o-o-o... S-s-s-s-s-u-u-u-u-u-r-r-r-r-r-t-t-t-t-t-r-r-r-r-r,‘ creaked Ganglot, from somewhere in the distance.

  ‘Well!’ exclaimed Fearless. ‘Conversations between those two must be an absolute riot!’

  ‘Time has no meaning, here,’ offered Surtr, by way of partial explanation. ‘In any case, they are rather more competent than Hel’s other servants, Delay, Slowness and Starvation.

  ‘I’m guessing Hel doesn’t entertain guests very often,’ muttered Fearless; Surtr offered no answer.

  ‘Will Hel be like Ganglati and Ganglot?’ enquired Sharp Axe, who had been hoping to collect the list for Harald Fairhair and take it to him while they were both still alive.

  ‘No… ’ said the Fire Giant evenly, to everyone’s relief, ‘… she is... not like them.’

  *

  After walking for several uncomfortable minutes through the gloomy, cavernous hall, there came into view what appeared to be a huge, wooden dining-table. Seated at it, side-ways on as the men looked, was a rather large female form, with long, snow-white hair, eating from what appeared to be a huge, pewter-coloured plate, with the aid of a large knife in her right hand.

  ‘Oh… ’ drawled Fearless, pretending to be disappointed, ‘… we’ve called at a bad time. Very rude of us. I don’t know about you, but I hate it when visitors call round, unannounced, during dinner! Let’s just – ’

  ‘Hel eats,’ said Surtr, ignoring Fearless and addressing the men, ‘from a plate called Misery and with a knife called Famine... she sleeps on a mattress called Sick Bed, decorated with hangings known as Glimmering Misfortune.’

  ‘And yet,’ piped up Hodbrodd, ‘she seems so cheerful, considering... ’

  As the party drew closer to the table Hel, sensing that she had company, lowered her knife and began to turn around to face the visitors. As she did so, Surtr addressed the men again.

  ‘You might want to – ’ he began, but before he could finish his warning, Hel turned to look straight at the men who, in unison, gasped and recoiled in horror.

  ‘ – prepare yourselves,’ concluded Surtr, slightly too late.

  The right side of Hel’s face, the side the men had already seen in profile, was fair, smooth-skinned and might almost have been described as attractive, but for the fact that the opposite side of her face, the left side, was quite hideous to the eye: dark-green, shrivelled, rotting flesh hung loosely and intermittently from her skull exposing, in places, the bone underneath and her sightless, motionless left eye looked permanently upwards. On the left side of her head, Hel’s hair was jet black.

  Several of the men put hands to mouth, to hold back the screams they desperately wanted to release, or to prevent themselves from being sick.

  Hel stood up, causing the legs of her chair to scrape loudly along Eljudnir’s stone floor, producing a ringing sound, which echoed and hung in the cold, silent air of the great hall. The men could see that Hel’s legs, visible below her knee-length black and white robe, were also covered with rotting flesh.

  ‘So... ’ said Hel, in a voice every bit as cold as the air it froze when she spoke, ‘... I have guests.’

  Hel looked at Surtr and gave a brief, but gracious nod in his direction. Surtr lowered his head in respectful reply to the Goddess of the Dead.

  ‘To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’ enquired Hel, looking down from man to man, each of whom was something close to half her height.

  Sharp Axe cleared his throat and, trying not to stare, impolitely, at the grotesque apparition above him, addressed Helheimr’s First Citizen.

  ‘We are on an errand,’ he explained, ‘for Harald Fairhair, son of the House of Yngling and rightful King of Norway.’

  Hel looked Sharp Axe squarely in the eye and, although he was already cold, he felt his body temperature plummet. Hel did not respond immediately, which Sharp Axe could not help but take as a bad sign.

  ‘Harald... Fairhair... ’ repeated Hel eventually, before casting the briefest glance at Surtr. ‘The mortal descendant of the Vanr, Freyr? Yes, I have heard tell of this man. What is your name?’

  ‘Erik Sharp Axe,’ replied Sharp Axe.

  ‘Well... Erik Sharp Axe,’ continued Hel, ‘tell me of this errand.’

  Sharp Axe explained everything to Hel that Harald Fairhair had told him.

  ‘You... would take the list?’ asked Hel slowly when Sharp Axe had finished, as if seeking his confirmation that she had understood the purpose of his errand correctly.

  ‘Er... yes... that’s it, basically,’ confirmed Sharp Axe, hoping Hel would raise no objections.

  ‘And Harald Fairhair told you that I would release it to you?’ continued Hel, in a tone which Sharp Axe found impossible to interpret.

  ‘He... seemed to think you would,’ replied Sharp Axe tentatively. Now that he thought about it, though, he could not actually remember Harald Fairhair saying that Hel would simply hand over the list, unquestioningly; it was an oversight for which he was just about to kick himself, when Hel spoke again.

  ‘What say you, Surtr?’ she enquired and Sharp Axe felt his heart sink even further. He doubted very much that he and his men had made a good impression on Surtr since their first meeting in Muspelheimr; now, Hel seemed to be asking for the Fire Giant’s advice, before making a decision on whether or not to release the precious list into the hands of those same men.

  ‘I know of Harald Fairhair,’ replied Surtr, slowly and emotionlessly. ‘Great deeds have, apparently, been done by him in Midgard. I am of the opinion that if he is, indeed, the rightful King of Norway, as decreed by the Vanr Freyr, he should have the opportunity to present evidence to prove it.’

  Hel considered this for a moment then, very slowly, deliberately and still looking at the Fire Giant, nodded her apparent agreement.

  ‘And what of this... Sharp Axe you have brought to me?’ asked Hel, addressing Surtr as though Sharp Axe were absent from the hall. ‘Do you deem him worthy to remove the list from Helheimr and take it to Fairhair?’

  ‘He... would seem to have the right... qualities,’ replied Surtr, after contemplating the question for a few moments. Sharp Axe was genuinely and pleasantly surprised by the Fire Giant’s reply.

  ‘I do not see what use the list would be to him… ’ went on Surtr, ‘... if he wanted the crown of Norway for himself – ’ at which point Sharp Axe made to protest, but Surtr raised a hand to prevent his being interrupted and continued, ‘ – the list would prove only whether or not Harald Fairhair had a right to the throne... unless, of course, Erik Sharp Axe were descended from Yngve and his name appeared on the list as well as, or instead of, Fairhair’s.’

  [Much face-pulling, head-scratchi
ng and shoulder-shrugging from the men, accompanied by much head-shaking from Sharp Axe.]

  ‘I see... ’ said Hel, who still appeared to be a little undecided or, possibly, confused in the wake of Surtr’s response, ‘… all right... hear this, Erik Sharp Axe – I shall give you the chance to take the list from Helheimr… ’

  [Quiet cheer from some of the men.]

  ‘… if you can remove it from the place where it resides.’

  [Silence.]

  Sharp Axe sighed as several unwelcome visions flashed before his eyes. In the first, he imagined the list’s place of residence being guarded by three hounds resembling Garmr; a second vision had the list perched on top of a rock, similar to Freyr’s Shield (the smooth, sheer rock face he had narrowly failed to climb in Álfheimr, during his quest to find Mjøllnir); his third vision had the list suspended amongst the roots of Yggdrasil, guarded by Nidhøggr and his inhospitable serpent companions; finally, he pictured it deep down, on the river bed of the Gjøll. At that point, Sharp Axe decided to stop having visions and to ask Hel a question, the answer to which he knew he would not like.

  ‘Where is it?’ he croaked.

  ‘I’ll show you,’ replied Hel, mysteriously. ‘Follow me,’ and she began to walk across the vast internal expanse of Eljudnir, taking a brief diversion to strike Ganglot angrily, with some considerable force, across the back of the head for no apparent reason.

  *

  Hel led Sharp Axe, his men and Surtr through the Great Hall of the Dead, to a flight of stone steps, which she descended. As the men followed her they heard, in the distance, a low-pitched, drawn-out, pained noise:

  ‘O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w!’

  Most of the men took this, correctly, to be Ganglot’s somewhat delayed reaction to Hel’s right hook, which had been smartly delivered some moments earlier.

  At the bottom of the steps was a large, plain wooden door, with a wrought-iron handle, which Hel twisted. She then pulled open the heavy-looking door and told Sharp Axe to enter.