Frost

by Wendy Delsol

  In a fog, I felt a soft wind on my face. My eyes flickered briefly onto a huge nostril, a white furry snout, and big black eyes, but my brain had difficulty processing the information, until . . . something licked me.

  Eeew. I rolled over, ignoring the dream and pulling the covers over me. Covers? Shiny covers?

  With a start, I jumped up. Jumped with two legs. Excellent news. No more sumo-suit. My blanket was the sealskin, now reverting to a capelike function. Weirdly, my feet were covered in booties of the same shiny material.

  In a state of confusion, I scrambled backward through powdery snow, bumping into something hard and scaring the something-licking into a buck and retreat of several paces. I jumped to my feet, senses alert, but my mind still wasn’t accepting the information as reliable. The something-hard turned out to be a giant tree of Sequoia proportions. Though it wasn’t a redwood, it had a height that was dizzying and a base that one couldn’t lap easily. Its furrowed bark was mahogany-brown; it had limblike buttresses from which the medieval architects might have been inspired; and its base had a hollow or cavity that you could drive a truck into. A few scattered leaves on the ground were the size of serving platters.

  I pulled the cape tight across my chest and looked around. The tongued thing — a reindeer? — had meandered over to a patch of field where grassy tufts had broken through the snow. I wondered, hoping I was wrong, but there was only one way to find out. I walked toward the antlered beast.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be Poro, would you?”

  It lifted its head and looked at me with doe-eyes. Some small flicker of understanding passed between us.

  Great. As guidance, I got Bambi’s arctic cousin. I took a better look at my sidekick. It was, at least, massive. Judging by the many-pointed rack, a male, I presumed. As confirmation, I stole my head around its backside; yep, a boy. I also took note of a kind of padded seat harnessed across his upper back with attached stirrups and reins. I’m supposed to ride this thing? I wasn’t much of a cowgirl. An incident involving me and a horse very fittingly named Bolt was probably still legend at the Shady Acres Ranch in Calabasas.

  Raising my gaze to a vast seascape behind the tree, I was overwhelmed by an endless stretch of rolling waves. Bobbing in the pale silver waters were a few icebergs; waves nipped at their pitching forms. I shivered and turned away from the imposing vista. On the front side of the tree, as if the tree were its wellspring and the hollow its mouth, a path meandered over a snow-cloaked tundra and then disappeared into a stand of snow-flocked evergreens, behind which a jagged-peaked mountain loomed.

  A serrated wind scratched across my cheek. Dang, it was cold. I pulled the hood over my ears and receded into the down of its lining. Whatever it was made of was crazy amazing, and could put GORE-TEX and Tyvek both out of business. And the booties, not the most styling of looks, but warm, wickedly warm. What had been gentle rolls around my ankles had unfurled to now extend coverage to mid-calf. My toes were warm and dry, despite standing in a foot of snow.

  Now what?

  Judging by the sun’s proximity to the horizon, there were only a few hours left in the day. Though the tree’s recessed cavity made a natural shelter, my instincts told me to press forward.

  “So, Poro, are we going to do this thing?”

  Without a sound, he lifted his head and looked at me. Well, I had to admit, strong and silent was definitely my type. I thought of Jack and felt something twist in my belly. Digging my left toe into the stirrup, I swung my right leg over Poro’s immense flank. He straightened his horned head, and I pulled on the reins, though his velvety antlers sure made tempting handlebars. So now that I had both a companion and a mode of transportation, all I needed was a destination. I didn’t suppose that Poro came with either GPS or OnStar. The path, interestingly enough, appeared to have but one direction: through the stand of trees and continuing up the mountain. Pressing in from every other direction was nothing but ice-clogged waves.

  All righty, then, forest and mountain it is.

  I gave Poro a gentle nudge, and he set out along the path. I knew then why Hulda had called Niflheim the land of mist and ice. A gauzy fog hung like curtains in the air, and it was so cold that icicles clung to my lashes. If it weren’t for the cape, I’m sure I would never have survived. Within an hour or so, we came out of the woods. To both sides of the path there was nothing but icy tundra. Not far ahead, I could see the road begin its spiral up the mountain. Suddenly, voices sounded from behind us. I went rigid with fear. Poro and I had no protection. Had we still been in the forest, we might have taken cover, but out here on this open stretch, we were completely exposed. I jumped off Poro’s back, as if escape planning required two feet on the ground. Too late, anyway, as a cluster of dark heads was already in sight.

  Holding Poro’s reins, I watched their approach, wondering how I was going to defend myself. I stiffened as the first two passed. Then another grouping of three overtook us without as much as a glance in my direction. Huh? Was I wearing some kind of invisibility cloak? Even if I was rendered transparent, surely my massive reindeer companion wasn’t. I raised my arm to examine the cape, and one man turned in my direction. Uh-oh. But he gave me the emptiest, most disinterested regard I’d ever encountered, and then looked away. It was as if I were nothing. I looked more closely at the men, and a few women, filing past; they were all vacant-eyed and impassive. It was weird. And unsettling. Made even more so by the fact that something in their coloring — dark hair and sky-blue eyes — reminded me of Jack. They wore simple, unadorned clothing: heavy boots, crude fur-lined blue tunics, thick blue leggings, and close-fitting hats with long, furry earflaps. Many carried tools strung across their backs: long, toothy saws or long-handled axes. Loggers? Miners?

  Toward the back of the group, a man ambled along, gnawing on a thick loaf of bread. My stomach lurched. I honestly didn’t know the last time I’d eaten. Without even thinking, I stepped forward.

  “Excuse me, sir, would you have a bite of bread to spare?” I couldn’t believe it even as the words were exiting my mouth. My empty belly had obviously hijacked my brain. And I’d clearly seen Oliver one too many times.

  He looked at me expressionless.

  Of course, I thought. Stupid me. Why would they speak English in Niflheim? It’s part of Norse legend, so maybe Norwegian or Icelandic, or possibly their own language. Niflish? Niflandic?

  “Brauð,” I said, using the Icelandic, even trying to give that stupid Icelandic d its th inflection at the end.

  Nothing.

  “Pain,” I tried in French.

  He dipped his head forward in confusion.

  “Bread,” I said, having run out of foreign words, but this time I spoke louder — because that always helps — and charaded my hands to my mouth and fake chewed.

  The man looked between me and the crusty bread without any show of emotion. He then broke the loaf in two and thrust one half in my hand. Without a word, he plodded on down the trail. I devoured it in a matter of moments. Food had never tasted so sweet, despite the fact that there were definitely crunchy bits of unknown origin sticking to my teeth.

  After the group had passed, I stood in the road, confused. For one, how had I gone so unnoticed? Not that I considered myself a traffic stopper, but completely unremarked upon? How many silver-cloaked, reindeer-riding girls did they pass on a daily basis? I was sure the answer was not many, so the question became: why hadn’t they reacted? And where were they going?

  Standing there, watching the path, I gazed up to the mountain beyond. I was struck by something I hadn’t noticed before. The clouds atop the mountain swirled and swarmed around its lofty spire with an intensity you wouldn’t see back on old Midgard. The clouds appeared to be alive, dive-bombing like a squadron of nighthawks.

  I swung up onto Poro’s back, and we headed for the mountain trail. I figured following the workers was as good a plan as any. As we rounded a switchback and with an unobstructed view of the trail ahead, a flash of blue tr
ipped my already skittish internal alarms. I swore I saw one of the workers, but the next moment he was gone. Huh? Within moments, I spied another — the one who gave me the bread — in the same area. I halted Poro, not wanting to alert the stranger to our presence. I held my breath and watched from a safe distance as the worker hopped up onto an outcropping of rock. At first, it looked as if he might climb the face. He lifted one hand up onto a small protruding edge. His other hand pressed against the rock wall at waist level with a soft, almost embracing gesture. He then leaned his torso into the wall. And all at once he was gone. Vanished. Turned to rock.

  I gasped, and Poro brayed. Pitching myself off Poro, I ran to the spot where the guy had just been. Running my hands all along the crevices of brown craggy stone, I looked for some sort of fissure or crease. There was none.

  “Stay here,” I said to Poro. I might not have bothered. My trusty sidekick was already backing away.

  Figuring it was worth a try, I stepped up and did as the worker had done. I raised my right hand to the small ledge of rock and extended my left at waist level, slowly shifting my weight into the cold, rigid stone. I felt the cold seeping in through my hands and cheek. And then, all at once, I was sliding.

  I found myself with my back to a wall, literally. It was cold and dank. Behind me a gray stone wall towered. Before me a village meandered, as if straight out of a Dickens novel. Drab buildings of two or three stories spread out in a warren of streets and alleys. The lanes were narrow and cobbled, and one thing was certain: this was not a joyous place, nor a prosperous one. A pale light leaked from under old-fashioned street lamps. I heard footsteps, saw figures approaching from my left, and instinctively darted into the first alley to my right. The second and third stories of the buildings protruded over the alley, creating a kind of balcony under which I crouched, hood down, shoulders hunched. I needn’t have bothered; the two people shambled past with an eyes-down disinterest. I cautiously returned to the street; it was eerily dark and vacant of voices. Having no immediate goal except to get my bearings, avoid notice, and find Jack, I pressed forward.

  Within a few minutes, the entrance to a small courtyard appeared on my left. It was poorly lit and reeked of garbage, which, in the gloom, I could see overflowing from a large bin. I could also make out a clothesline of laundry strung from one window to another. I took a few hesitant steps into the area. Dark blue garments, similar to those worn by the loggers, hung from crude pegs. Though so far no one had acknowledged me, I didn’t know what to expect ahead. The clothes were, at least, an opportunity to conform. In a corner, I removed my cape, slipped on the blue pants, tucked my long nightie into the waistband, and shrugged the loose blue tunic top over my shoulders. It was baggy, shapeless, and so void of style that no belt or boots could save it. Whatever. The goal was to blend. I twisted my cape into a knot, noting compactible as among its many attributes, and shoved it into the roomy front pocket of the dark blue pullover.

  I became aware of an upward tilt to the road. And then, over the rooftops, I saw turrets and towers rising above the cramped streets. My throat clamped with a knot of determination. A castle meant a queen; Brigid, I assumed. Where there was Brigid, I hoped to find Jack. My feet pounded the rising pavers urgently.

  Figuring the working end of the castle would be the easiest to sneak into, I found a back door. Luckily, security was lax. Made me wonder how often visitors found a wedge through to Niflheim and then managed to melt into the mountain. Not many had to be the answer, because I sure didn’t go through customs.

  I found myself in the kitchen, which was full of workers busy at various tasks. I kept my head down and fell in line with a crew of potato peelers. No one seemed to notice me or question my presence. On the sly, I cracked my teeth into a raw spud and stashed what remained into my pocket. I was that hungry. Growing bolder and going positively Pavlovian with the smells, I soon abandoned the peelers and followed another worker carrying a sack of nuts. She moved to a long worktable, where I watched her pull a small hammerlike instrument and a small, but sharp, knife from a shelf under the work-

  station. She first used the knife to score along the nut’s seam and then cracked it open with a single strike of the hammer. It was labor intensive, but not a bit of the nuts’ meat was crushed. I concentrated on her blank face, wondering how anyone could be so unaware of someone shadowing them. Helloo? Anybody home? I found twins to her knife-and-mallet set and began mirroring her movements. For every three nuts I shelled, I shoved one into my mouth and one into my pocket, especially the broken ones. Something told me there’d be hell to pay for a sloppy job.

  An older woman, with gray hair and a face with more lines than the DMV, approached carrying a wooden tray, a silver bowl, and a basket of dried fruits. She set the items down and turned away. I immediately dug my hand into the bowl of dried berries, intending to Hoover these, too, when she suddenly turned back and looked at me — really looked at me. I froze, waiting for her to sound the alarm. Instead, she dipped her head down and studied my shoes. Crap. My shoes. My metallic, sealskin booties. There hadn’t been any leather work boots in the courtyard, and I wasn’t about to walk through the cold streets barefoot, but now I saw just how much they exposed me.

  She lifted her hawk-eyes to mine. These were no empty sockets. They were lively and spry and now taking in everything from the dirt under my fingernails to the bulge of stolen items in my pocket. Double dang. I held my breath and steeled myself for some sort of confrontation. When — nothing. Hawk-eyes turned and left.

  I went to return the two tools to the small shelf, but instead slipped one of them into my pocket, the old be-prepared scout’s oath coming to mind. Next, I filled the silver bowl with a mixture of fruits and nuts, placed it upon the serving tray, and lifted both from the worktop. My coworker lifted her head briefly and then continued mechanically shelling nuts. The kitchen, I noticed then, was unsettlingly void of conversation. Though many workers toiled, the noises were inanimate: the hum of machines, clatter of bowls, and hiss of boiling pots. They took no notice of me, because they took no notice of one another. Period. There were exceptions, obviously, and I made a mental note to stay clear of the old eyeballing bootie-police. Coworkers, I decided, were like bullets, best when blank.

  I followed a line of servers heading toward what I hoped was the dining room. The Snow Queen was about to be served.

  The line of servers trudged into the dining hall: hall being an inadequate word for such a ginormous space. Interestingly, though, the room was mostly empty. One long, claw-footed table ran down the center, but it must have been built for many more. A series of many-branched candelabras spanned the length of the table, but the candles were drippy and half-used, and the tablecloth was stained and frayed. There was a stone fireplace, a massive thing big enough to roast an ox on a spit, but nothing but a smattering of ashes lay under its iron grates. The room was cold and lofty; its vaulted ceiling was supported with rough-hewn beams. The walls were wainscoted with panels of the same ebony wood, above which hung ancient-looking tapestries. Though threadbare in spots, there was no mistaking their themes. Nordic gods and goddesses in Viking garb and helmets threw lightning bolts, sailed monster-teeming seas, fought giants, and slew block-long snakes. The largest and grandest of all the scenes depicted a mist-haloed woman atop a frozen cliff with a world of barren ice below her. In one hand she brandished an icicle; from the other she dropped a black cloud; from her pursed lips funneling winds roared; under her right foot she crunched a pale yellow sun. That particular image curled my spine.

  Like the others, I set my offering on the table and stepped back, receding into a line of attendants. One after the other, we fell back against the wall. I shuffled to the end of the line, which was closest to the arched passageway leading into the kitchen. It offered not only an exit strategy but heavy drapes. I tucked my booties under their folds. From the other end of the room — through a taller, grander arched passageway — entered none other than Brigid, whom I’d hav
e recognized anywhere. She strode into the hall with a regal air. Her long, flowing, pale-blue gown billowed around her ankles as if hemmed in puffs of smoke; the tapered cuffs clinked at her wrists as if trimmed with icicles; and the sheer gem-blue overlay of her gown shimmered in an intricate pattern as if a million lacy snowflakes had been strung together.

  Seeing Brigid like this for the first time, knowing it was true — that she was some sort of out-of-this-world evil queen — made waves of nausea burble up my throat. And raw potato is not something you hope repeats. My mom had welcomed Brigid into our home. My dad, for Pete’s sake, had kind of dated her. Stanley, too, had entrusted her with access to his research. And Jack had followed her around like a leashed puppy. How had she fooled everyone? With a swell of my chest, I remembered she hadn’t fooled everyone. I had never liked her. But a fat load of good that did me now.