Icefall

by Matthew J. Kirby

  How must it be to love someone and know that you can never be with them? Perhaps her guilt over this war is not the only reason for the sadness that has so consumed her. Now I do pity her, but still can’t think of a way to tell her that I know about Per. Not without shaming her. Not without risking the ruin of my friendship with Per, such as it is.

  “You’re right,” I say. “It was better then.”

  No one confesses to putting the cows out. But I doubt that anyone expected the enemy to actually step forward. Hake’s offer last night was not an act of compassion. It was meant to satisfy honor, and to justify him should the enemy be found out.

  I do not want to be there to see it when Hake finds the traitor.

  Winter continues to gather our steading in its arms, closer to its frigid chest. Storms rush up the fjord in their tumble from sea to land. Snowbanks rise almost to the roofline of the hall and threaten to bury the smaller outbuildings. The berserkers find themselves tasked with keeping the doorways and yard clear.

  Muninn has grown quite calm in his cage. He doesn’t flinch from me at all anymore. In fact, when I come near the cage, he hops as close to me as he can, right up to the bars. So I decide to let him out. Only this time, I shout an announcement in the yard to let everyone know, and I bar the doors to the hall.

  Once again, there is an audience encouraging me as I open the cage and step back. My raven is not so quick coming out this time, as though he has come to mistrust what is not his prison. And he doesn’t stray far from the cage once he’s free.

  I keep still and wait near him, my chin up, following him with my eyes.

  “His wing is still crooked,” I hear Harald whisper from nearby. “But at least his feathers grew back!”

  “Shh, lad,” one of the berserkers says.

  “Come to me,” I whisper. “Come, my memory, bird of Odin.”

  Muninn cocks his head to one side, his eye pointed right at me. Then he hops over to my feet and climbs up on the toe of my boot. He shifts a bit, side to side, and settles there.

  “That’s not your shoulder,” Harald says.

  I ignore him, and slowly offer Muninn my finger. He regards it from his inch-high perch. I bring my finger closer, sliding it right under his belly. His feathers are so soft I can’t say that I truly feel them, but I feel the heat off his little black coal of a body.

  When I’ve almost reached his legs, he raises one foot up and grips my finger. Then he raises the other, and I feel his weight on my hand, heavier than I would have thought. His long twig-toes are cool against my skin. I almost giggle at this success, but keep it in so I don’t startle him away. Then I lift him up near my neck. Muninn requires no coaxing to climb onto my shoulder, and once there, he flaps his wings twice and begins to pick at my braid. Now I do laugh, because I can’t contain it, and so do others around me.

  Muninn perches there for the rest of the day, and for much of the days that follow. Whenever I am in the hall, I try to have him on my shoulder. Sometimes he flutters about up in the rafters, and sometimes he hops among the benches, rooting in the straw that lines the floor for crumbs and food scraps. He stays close to me even when they open the hall doors, although I still don’t trust him enough to take him outside. He is with me when I sew, or cook, or eat, and I feed him from my own plate. Even though he eats but little, I don’t want to give anyone cause to complain. So I don’t ask for any extra food for him, and instead share with him from my ration.

  I am often hungry, as are we all.

  Telling stories hasn’t become any easier for me in the past weeks. I expected it to after that night when I told the story of Loki and the dwarves, but nothing like that has happened since. I keep making mistakes. I forget important parts of the story and Alric has to go back and add it later. I think it is frustrating to him, and I know it is to me. I’ve tried doing what I did that night, picking one person in the audience to tell the story to, but that hasn’t helped.

  I’ve come to regret starting down this path, because I don’t think it’s going to take me anywhere after all. I dread standing up there most nights, as I do tonight. I’m hiding in a corner of the room, Muninn on my shoulder, hoping Alric doesn’t feel like entertaining, and if he does, that he wants all the attention for himself.

  But he calls on me soon enough.

  I sigh and move into the light of the hearth where everyone can see me. Before I begin, I search out Raudi, and Bera, and Harald in the crowd. That way, I know where to look if I start to do poorly. Which I surely will.

  But I raise my voice anyway. “Tonight we will share with you the story of —”

  But everyone is looking at me with odd expressions of amusement. They smile and elbow each other. I turn to Alric, and he gives a nod and flicks his eyes to my shoulder. Oh. I had forgotten that I still had Muninn there with me.

  I laugh a little. “I’ve been forgetting some of the stories lately,” I say. “So I brought my memory with me.”

  Now the audience laughs, too, easing my nervousness.

  “Will you help me?” I say to Muninn. “Will you whisper the stories in my ear as you whisper in Odin’s?”

  The raven responds by gently pecking at my earlobe.

  I never hear Muninn’s voice, but for some reason the story goes well that night with him beside me, better than it has in weeks. Not as good as that night after the cows, but almost, and I feel a deeper kind of love for my raven.

  “And I never would have thought of it,” Alric says to me afterward.

  “Thought of what?” I ask.

  “Having your raven with you. It was brilliant!”

  “I didn’t mean to. I forgot he was there.”

  “But it gave you an air of magic, or legend. Like a skald of ancient times. And the way you suggested that the bird whispered to you only confirmed the image in the audience’s mind. It was magnificent, Solveig.”

  “I’m glad it went well.” All the praise has started to make me feel a little uncomfortable.

  “You should have Muninn with you from now on. Never perform without him.”

  “Really?” That is a comforting thought, actually.

  “You can build a reputation on this kind of thing.”

  After Alric goes to find a place to sleep, I put Muninn away in his cage. I lean close and whisper a thank-you to him, and as I do, I catch a glimpse of something dark in the straw beneath his feet.

  “What is that?” I ask, and reach in.

  He flutters out of the way, and I pull out an iron key. The larder key that Bera normally keeps at her brooch.

  “Where did you get this?” I ask, but he says nothing as I steal back his treasure.

  Bera is surprised when I return it to her.

  “But how did he …?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “It was just there in his cage.”

  “What a mischievous little fellow,” she says. “You’ll have to keep an eye on him. Things go missing around the steading, I’ll know right where to look.” She winks at me, and we say good night.

  I climb into bed, burrow into the blankets, and feel contented. I am so grateful to Hake for his gift to me, for my mischievous little fellow, my story-whisperer, my key-stealer, my courage-giver, my friend.

  I have grown up with war. It seems at times that my life has been made up entirely of two feelings: fear and relief. They are like two opposing elements of nature, the ocean and the rocky shore, and I dwell in the breach, dashed back and forth between them. Fear that I will lose someone I love in battle; relief when my father and his army return home safely.

  I remember when you learned of your brother’s death, Raudi, and I cried for you. I hope it does not cause you pain for me to speak of it. You stood before my father and accepted a gold ring in your brother’s stead, an honor bestowed for his valor before he fell.

  “And with this ring,” my father said, “I charge you to honor your brother’s memory, and to one day serve me as did he.”

  You bowed low, and tho
ugh I grieved with you, I was proud of you, too.

  Per, you were there when Raudi’s brother died. And you stood beside my father as he laid that burden on my friend. You stood in your armor, your hair pulled back, your beard trimmed, and I could see that you meant to look after Raudi. That comforted me.

  Did it comfort you, Bera? I think that it must have, mourning the loss of one son even as you took the first step toward the loss of the next.

  CHAPTER 10

  DOUBTS

  When all the pork is gone, they eat Hilda. Bera warns me, and I look away from the meat steaming on plates all around me. Some of the others refrain from eating out of respect for me. Bera, Raudi, Ole, my brother and sister, and Per. Alric, too, and I am surprised to see Hake sitting quietly, fingering his empty bowl. I know he must be hungry, how he must crave the taste of meat, and a feeling of gratitude toward the berserker captain swells in me. Before long, I have to leave the hall. I can’t bear the smell, and I wait outside in the cold night alone.

  Ole hasn’t been able to catch any fish through the ice. After Hilda is gone, there will be no more meat.

  Another day passes, and I begin to regret giving Raudi and Ole my skyr. All I want is a taste of its deliciously sour flavor, the feel of its creaminess on my tongue. If I had the only bowl of it left in the world, I don’t think I would share a single bite with anyone. But the last of the milk and butter are long gone from the steading.

  The hunger is making everyone more irritable, and an irritated berserker is a frightening thing. Fights break out more frequently and are met with harsher punishments. There have already been two today: one this morning in the hall that then spilled out into a second fight in the yard. So far, no one has been seriously hurt, for the drawing of weapons within the steading walls has been expressly forbidden. I hope we can at least enjoy the night meal in peace.

  I sit next to Alric, Muninn on my shoulder, as we discuss which story we will tell tonight.

  “You choose,” Alric says.

  “I wouldn’t know which one.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I don’t.”

  “But you did before. Better than I did.”

  “That was different. And I’m not sure I want to tell stories anymore.”

  Alric frowns. “When will you learn to trust yourself? You keep yourself captive, Solveig. You could throw off the fetters at any time, for you hold both ends.”

  I am speechless. And angry. I did not choose my birth order. I did not choose to be plain. I did not choose to be born without any qualities of worth. And this skald sits here and taunts me. Throw off my fetters? What would he have me do, wash away my face? Does he think I’ve been hiding my charm and beauty, strength and bravery? I want to shove him away from me.

  But instead, I speak in a low and even tone. “I am who I am, sir.” Muninn stirs on my shoulder. Perhaps he can feel my anger through his feet.

  “If that is what you believe, then that is the problem.”

  “What is?”

  “You don’t really know yourself.” He rubs his thighs and then stands. “I will tell the tale tonight. You needn’t worry.”

  I am still glowering long after he has walked away. And I am not worrying about any tale. I am poking at his words, stirring embers, raising sparks. Who could I know better than myself? If I don’t know myself, then I don’t know anyone.

  A shout and clamor rouses me back to the room. Two angry men face each other, Egill and one of the berserkers, their noses almost touching. The berserker bares his teeth. In that instant, Egill strikes a blow to the berserker’s mouth, and he goes down.

  The room erupts.

  Curses, shouts, and fists tear free, the sounds of splintered wood and shattered crockery. Enraged berserkers battle Egill and Gunnarr, and battle with one another, as if they don’t care whose jaw they crack or whose face they bloody. And then, above it all, I hear the metallic ring of a sword pulled free of its scabbard, its whisper through the air, and then a grunt. I want to run and hide.

  “Stop!” I barely hear Hake above the roar. “Stop!” he shouts again, but the room doesn’t slow. So he charges into the middle of it.

  He isn’t armed. But he doesn’t need any weapon. He swings his war-hammer fists, a giant crashing through a wood, breaking trees. One blow and men fall before him. And as the brawlers become aware of him, they scatter out of the way like gulls.

  And then, for no reason I can tell, Hake halts. His eyes roll back and his face turns an angry red. He begins to shiver and tremble, his teeth chatter. Something is happening to him. There is a moment of pause in which everyone notices the berserker captain, and then his men shout alarms. They rush to him, calling his name as though trying to reach him across a great distance.

  Alric hurries up to me and pulls me back. “You must come away.”

  “What is happening?” I ask, stumbling.

  “The berserkergang is coming upon him.”

  My eyes widen. I look back at Hake. He is breathing hard, his head and shoulders heaving above the chanting wall his men have formed around him. I have never seen the battle fury take a berserker, and I am both curious and terrified.

  “Come away, Solveig,” Alric whispers. “He won’t know you. Please.”

  I let him guide me to a far corner, where Bera and Raudi shield Harald. I crane my neck, watch, and wait. Across the room, a low growl rumbles from the midst of the berserkers. They raise their voices and press in tighter.

  “What’s wrong with Hake?” Harald asks.

  “He isn’t himself,” Bera says, stroking my brother’s hair.

  I listen to the berserkers chant. They pray to Odin, calling on him to draw the fury out of Hake, to calm the bear.

  “He could kill us all,” Raudi says.

  Harald’s eyes dart up, and Bera slaps her son.

  “Quiet,” she hisses.

  I add my own silent plea to the chanting, which has begun to swell. The berserkers are in their own kind of trance around Hake, rising, rising like a rushing wave. The rhythm of their chant thunders through my chest, terrible and consuming. And then at the moment when I fear it will overwhelm me, it breaks and begins a slow retreat. The beating of my heart seems to fall in step with it, calming me. Hake’s shoulders sag, his breath comes easier. And when the other berserkers are silent, he lifts his head. He looks around, blinking, and when we make eye contact, I see that he recognizes me. The wall of berserkers tumbles away from him.

  Hake straightens his back, his face pale and sweaty.

  He sweeps the room with his gaze and immediately stops on Egill. Hake’s eyes widen, and then I see the blood on Egill’s shoulder.

  “A blade has been drawn,” Hake says. “Raise it if you have any honor.”

  Across the room, a berserker lifts his sword.

  Hake motions to him. “Bring it here.”

  The berserker marches over, kneels, and offers up his weapon. Hake takes it, and for a moment I fear he will execute the berserker with his own sword on the spot. But he doesn’t.

  “You are no longer of my company,” Hake says. “From this moment forward, none of my men will share a fire with you. None shall feed you. None shall defend you. None shall remember you.”

  The berserker is still kneeling.

  “Rise and be no more.”

  The berserker stands, and as one, every other berserker in the hall turns their back on him. The act takes my breath with its coldness. The only eyes remaining on the lone berserker are mine, Alric’s, and Harald’s. Even Bera and Raudi look away.

  The forgotten one seems to me a man drowning. Weak, sliding beneath the waves, resigned to his death, bereft of the soul that gave him buoyancy. He bows his head and backs away, and a part of me wants to reach out to him.

  At the doors, he bumps into Per, who is just coming in from outside. And I see that Asa is with him. The forgotten one doesn’t lift his eyes, but slips past them both into the night.

  “What is going on?” Per ask
s.

  Asa slinks away from him, as though she is trying not to be noticed.

  “Discipline,” Hake says. “Your man is injured.”

  “What?”

  Several berserkers and Gunnarr are already addressing the wound. From what I can see, it appears serious, but not fatal if treated with care.

  “What happened?” Per demands.

  “Your man started a brawl. One of my men lifted his sword, so I banished him.”

  “Banished him where?” Per asks. “There’s nowhere for him to go.”

  “There is the forest,” Hake says.

  “That’s a death sentence,” Per says.

  Hake says nothing.

  Per turns to his warriors. “What started this?”

  Egill winces and speaks. “I was late for my watch. The berserker accused me of being a traitor for leaving the gate unguarded.”

  “That’s all?” Per asks. “So it has become an act of treason to be late?”

  “No more an act of treason than seducing the daughter of the king,” Hake says.

  I gasp.

  Per appears stunned at first, mouth open. Then he snaps it shut. “Do you have an accusation to bring before the steading, Hake?”

  The berserker captain chuckles. “No. No, I don’t. Your own eyes accuse you.”

  Ole clears his throat. “And would it be treason for a berserker to blindly kill the children of his king?”

  Per spins around. “What?”

  Ole gestures toward Hake. “The berserkergang nearly took him in the brawl.”

  “He is right,” Hake says and then lowers his voice. “The fault is mine. It will not happen again.”

  “You’re an animal,” Per says. “You and your kind have no place among us.”

  Hake nods. “Perhaps not. But the king has made one for us. And we are honest about who and what we are. Can you say the same?”

  “Listen to me,” Per says. “All of you! There is nothing in my conduct that would compromise the virtue of the king’s daughter. Do you understand? I love her only as I love her father.”