Bauldr's Tears

by Alydia Rackham

He shook his head.

  “I think you have the wrong idea.”

  She frowned at him.

  “What do you mean?”

  He knelt down in front of it, and reached out toward its thick, wicked branches. Marina flinched back…

  But he didn’t recoil. Instead, he gingerly moved the branches, feeling them, studying their form. Then, he turned, and picked up her clippers from the grass, and began strategically cutting at the small, withered branches.

  “This bush is a different kind from the ones along your walkway,” he explained quietly as he clipped. “Those were bought in this part of the country—they were bred for this weather. But this one…” he paused, and pulled a few dead leaves off and flicked them aside. “This is from somewhere else entirely. A different climate, different soil. Picked up on some faraway travels, I suppose. And see, it’s a climbing rose, and those are not.” He gestured back to the others. The pain of Marina’s wound faded as she watched him, measuring what he said.

  “It’s had to survive far harsher winters than it was meant for, and a lot less sunlight than it needed,” he went on. “But it did what it had to in order to survive—it leaned up against the house, near the fireplace here, see? The warmth and shelter of the house has kept it alive. And the one who built the house was wise enough to plant this bush on the south side, away from the brutal north wind—and that same person nursed it and fought off frost and bugs for probably twenty or thirty years before the bush got strong enough to fend for itself. But it wouldn’t leave the house then, even though it could.” He sat back on his haunches, his arms unbloodied, even though he had been elbow deep in the teeth of that bush. Bird glanced up at Marina, holding her still with his gaze.

  “It’s a late bloomer,” he said, giving her a crooked smile. “But I think, if you’ll have a little patience with its difficult attitude, it might turn out to be the prettiest rose you’ve got.”

  Marina looked at him for a moment, marveling at the way his speech flowed from practical to decorous, and how he talked about the rosebush as if it were a person.

  “Okay,” she found herself saying, answering his smile. “I’ll see if I can keep from killing it.”

  He grinned, and stood up, then stepped closer and eyed her cut.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she answered, nodding. “I’ll just go clean it up.”

  “Are you sure? It looks like it hurts,” he said, watching her face.

  “Ha,” she laughed, a bitter gall rising in her throat. “Believe me, I’ve had a lot worse.”

  His brow tightened and concern lit up his eyes. She forced a smile and stepped around him, heading for the house. And as she pushed open the door, she almost swore she heard him murmur something soothing to that rosebush—but she couldn’t understand a word.

  Chapter Four

  “There you go—what do you think?” Bird asked breathlessly as he hopped down from the third rung of the ladder and trotted across the grass over to her. Marina stood up from her garden stool and dusted her hand off on her jeans, then reached up and adjusted the crooked chain of the necklace that hid under her collar. She shot him a startled look.

  “Are you finished already?” she asked. “It’s only been two days!”

  “Yep,” he said triumphantly, folding his strong arms and facing the house. Marina glanced past him and up, and let her eyes wander over all of the now-perfect-and-painted windows.

  “Looks great,” she nodded. “Very pretty.”

  “Good,” he nodded. He heaved a deep breath. “That means I have time for that herb garden.”

  Marina blinked.

  “The what?”

  He strode around the house, past the bushes and toward the side of her vegetable garden.

  “Your herb garden,” he repeated. “You’ve got a lot of stuff growing—asparagus, rhubarb, spearmint, dill, garlic…You just can’t see them because of all the weeds.”

  Marina frowned, dropping the clippers from her left hand into the dirt and following him.

  “But I…” she tried, blushing in spite of herself. “I…I can’t pay you for—I mean, I can’t afford—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he waved her off as he paused in front of a small section of earth that had been plotted out with now half-buried bricks. “My work day just ended a few minutes ago, and the rhubarb has been crying to me all afternoon.” He glanced over his shoulder at her and flashed a grin. She paused, and raised a sardonic eyebrow.

  “Crying to you,” she said flatly.

  “Well, maybe crying is the wrong word,” he shrugged one shoulder.

  “Probably ‘sweetly requesting’ would be better. I could say the same thing about the asparagus, just take the ‘sweet’ part out—asparagus get all stuffy-acting when they’re asking favors.” He turned back toward the garden. “The spearmint I just had to ignore—they’re pushy and overpowering, as you know, unless you keep them at a distance. I can personally only take them in small doses. And the dill is just plain saucy about it, and the garlic is downright loud, making a lot more fuss than the situation actually warrants, so you see…”

  Marina was already grinning and shaking her head too hard to hear the rest, and he trailed off, grinning at her. She calmed down, pressing the back of her wrist to her mouth, hiding her smile.

  “So you see,” he finished. “They’re all whining about the weed situation.” He canted his head. “Want to help me get them to shut up?”

  “Sure,” Marina shrugged helplessly and beamed. “Can’t have my herbs complaining, can I?”

  “Is this really how you like to spend your Saturdays?”

  Bird glanced up at her over the tall stalks and green leaves of the white lilies. He then continued to pull up weeds from between the feet of the elegant flowers and toss them to the side. His arms were dirty up to the elbows, as were the knees of his jeans, and he had a smear of dirt across his forehead.

  “Look who’s talking,” he answered, then sent her a twinkling glance. Marina chuckled, and sat back on her stool. She peeled off her work gloves and tried not to wince as the worn leather came loose of her left hand, then brushed a strand of hair out of her face.

  “You’ve been done with the house for a week now,” she pointed out. “But you keep coming back to work in this garden in the afternoons, even though I’m not paying you, and now you’re here on a Saturday—”

  “Would you like me to leave?”

  Marina stopped. He met her eyes, perfectly serious, his eyebrows raised.

  “No!” she said quickly, sitting up straight. Her face heated up—again, and she stammered. “I mean…No, I’m not telling you to leave. In fact, I like…I mean, I appreciate…” she pulled her arm toward her, then swallowed. “I was just wondering why—”

  “You have one of the best gardens I’ve ever seen,” Bird interrupted seamlessly, still weeding. “And one of the oldest. I know you want to fix all this up, make it look nice—but that’s a lot of work. Lucky for you, I love getting my hands covered with dirt.” He tossed a dandelion over his shoulder. “Plus, you just moved here, and you don’t know anybody.” He sat up, and dusted his hands off. He looked at her squarely, then gave her a quiet smile. “And I won’t let anybody sit alone in a great big house if she looks like she needs some company.”

  For a moment, she just gazed back at him, her cheeks still flushed—but a soft glow guttered to life in her chest.

  “Really?” she murmured.

  His eyes flickered.

  For just an instant, she almost frowned. Then, his expression cleared, and he nodded. She ducked her head, smiling again, and shrugged.

  “Well…” she managed. “Thanks.”

  He was silent for a second. Then, he cleared his throat.

  “’course, I may have to say something about the weird color of green that you picked to frame the door…”

  She threw a clod of dirt at him. He ducked, laughing.

  They continued working
in companionable silence, and so the heat in her face faded—but the warmth deep inside her did not.

  “How’s work today?” Marina asked, taking a long sip of her cherry limeade, then pushing aside the remnants of her sandwich wrappings and leaning back in the red-padded diner chair. She canted her head at Bird, who sat across from her at the tiny two-person table right next to the sunlit ceiling-to-floor front window of Theresa’s.

  “Busy this morning,” he admitted, his brow furrowing as he poured more catsup out onto his fries. “Mr. Petrson cut down a line of oaks by his driveway—we had to pull out the stumps.”

  Marina studied him. He sullenly clenched his jaw.

  “You all right?” she asked.

  He shook his head, still not looking up.

  “It’s the oaks.”

  “What about them?”

  “They were healthy,” he said, putting the catsup down with more than necessary force. His jaw tightened. “There was nothing wrong with them. And they had to be at least a hundred years old.”

  Marina frowned.

  “Why did he cut them down, then?”

  He shrugged.

  “Don’t know. Didn’t like them blocking the view of the bay, I guess,” he muttered. He shoved his food basket away and sat back abruptly, crossing his arms and looking out the window. He huffed, and shook his head.

  “What right does Petrson have to take them down?” He ground his teeth. “A century they’ve survived, through ice and snow and drought—and he fells them in one afternoon. They’re his elders. He should have some respect.”

  They went silent. Marina bit her lip, and glanced outside at the empty main street. Bird stayed petulantly quiet. Marina hooked her thumb through the necklace at her throat and pulled the chain out of her collar, and fingered the pendant. She glanced at him—he still stared out the window.

  “I was thinking of planting an oak off to the side of my house,” she said, tilting her head, and glancing back at him.

  He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, his mouth still tight. Then, the hardness in his face melted into warmth, and he smiled.

  “I can probably get you a good deal on a sapling,” he said.

  “Good,” she smiled at him, the weight of his mood lifting off her like clouds opening up to the sun. She sat forward. “Actually, I—”

  “What’s that?”

  Marina halted. Bird’s bright blue eyes had sharpened in a keen stare at her—no, at her necklace.

  “Oh, uh—this?” Her brow furrowed and she glanced down at the pendant. Something lodged in her throat. She had to fight for a moment to find her voice again. “My…My dad gave it to me. It’s—”

  “Mjollnir,” he finished, his eyes still fixed on it. Marina’s eyebrows shot up.

  “You…You know what this is?”

  “Sure I do,” he nodded. “Could I…?”

  Before he could finish his question, or she could answer it, he had reached out and taken hold of her pendant. Their fingers brushed. She gasped, and almost jerked back—then stopped herself to keep from pulling it out of his grasp.

  She held very still as he leaned forward, until their heads were not six inches apart. His forehead tightened and his eyes narrowed as he held the pendant with his first two fingers and his thumb. Marina risked a glance down at it—it was a decorative interpretation of Thor’s hammer, made of silver, slightly tarnished.

  “The designs on it are beautiful—very delicate,” he observed quietly. “Is it an antique?”

  “I think so,” Marina answered, unable to summon much volume with him so close. “But I can’t remember. I’ve worn it for several years.”

  He didn’t answer—just ran his thumb over the “T” portion of the hammer.

  “You’re…” she ventured. “You’re interested in old Norse myths?”

  He halfway smiled.

  “Ever since I was born.” He lifted his bright eyes to hers. “Are you? Or was this just a present?”

  “No, I…” she started, her heartbeat starting to pound in her throat. “I mean, my dad and I are Old Norse scholars. Well, I…I am. My dad…was.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Scholars?” he repeated, mercifully leaving the subject of her father alone. “In what capacity?”

  “Archaeology, mostly,” she said, absently realizing that he still had hold of her pendant, and had not leaned back. “And…And literature. Dad collected manuscripts and antique books.”

  “Really?” he sounded pleased, astonished.

  “Yeah,” Marina answered, surprised.

  A slow smile bloomed on his face.

  “Would you...I mean, could I see them?”

  “Um…” she swallowed hard, but she couldn’t think clearly at all with his fingers just inches from her face. “Sure—?”

  “I mean, I won’t if you don’t want me to,” he said hastily. “I just think all that stuff is so—”

  “No, it’s okay,” she cut in. “Sure. Sure, you can see it,” she nodded, finally realizing that she meant it. She smiled at him. “Would this evening work?”

  He dropped her pendant and leaned back, grinning.

  “I’ll be there with bells on.”

  “What a fantastic library,” Bird remarked quietly as he stepped through the door, his tea cup in hand, and slowly gazed from one corner of the room to the other.

  “Thanks,” Marina said, following him in. It was still halfway light outside, but since there were no windows in the library, so it was dark except for the standing lamp, the fire in the fireplace, and the candles she’d lit on the mantelpiece. She put her hands in her pockets and shoved a half-full packing box with her toe.

  “Sorry about the mess,” she said. “I tried to straighten a little this afternoon, put more stuff up on the shelves, but there’s so much. And, you know, I’ve been outside mostly for the past couple weeks…”

  “Sure,” Bird said lightly, stepping further in to study the spines of the books on the far wall. Marina paused by the fireplace, watching him in the gold half light. It was chilly this evening—he wore a dark blue sweater and nice jeans and boots, and he had combed his hair. He seemed softer, stronger—and older, somehow. But more vivid, alive—close. He sent a casual glance over at her, and her heart suspended. He smiled.

  “You sure you have enough shelf space for all this?” he asked, gesturing to the remaining full boxes and taking a sip of tea.

  “Ha, I hope so,” Marina smiled crookedly. “I’d hate to leave something homeless.”

  He came closer, and leaned over one of the boxes. Then, something in his face changed.

  “What are these?”

  Marina stepped up next to him and looked down.

  “Oh—a few of the artifacts my dad came across on our…on our last dig.” She paused, forcing that familiar, wicked pain back down her throat. She wrapped her arms around her middle and straightened.

  Then, Bird bent down and picked one up. Startled, Marina tried to say something to stop him, but nothing came out. He carefully lifted one of the small, squatty stone figures up out of the box, and held it in front of him.

  “Loki,” he stated. Marina stared at Bird.

  “You recognize him?”

  His eyes never left the statue, which he held almost gently.

  “Well,” he said quietly. “I recognize that it’s supposed to be him. Being punished by the snake, right?” he glanced at her. For a moment, she thought she saw the skin around his eyes tighten. She nodded.

  “I actually think he deserved it, don’t you?” she murmured. “For killing Bauldr?”

  He was silent for a long time.

  “But that brings Ragnarok, doesn’t it?” he said. “Makes Loki so angry that he wants to destroy everyone and everything.”

  “Yes,” Marina said carefully, studying Bird’s profile. “I suppose so.”

  For a while, they were quiet. Then, Bird took a low breath.

  “Kjóll ferr austan, koma munu Múspells
,” he murmured.

  of lög lýðir, en Loki stýrir;

  fara fíflmegir með freka allir,

  þeim er bróðir Býleists í för.

  Surtr ferr sunnan með sviga lævi,

  skínn af sverði sól valtíva;

  grjótbjörg gnata, en gífr rata,

  troða halir helveg, en himinn klofnar.”

  Marina couldn’t take her eyes from him. The Old Norse words flowed easily from his lips, lilting with his deep voice. When he stopped speaking, she could swear he could hear her heart pounding. But if he did, he didn’t show it—he stared at the statue. So she took a breath of her own.

  "O'er the sea from the east there sails a ship,” she translated, hushed.

  With the people of Muspell, at the helm stands Loki;

  After the wolf do wild men follow,

  And with them the brother of Byleist goes.”

  Bird turned to look at her, fixing his gaze on her. The firelight flickered against his eyes. She swallowed, but he waited, so she went on.

  “Surt fares from the south with the scourge of branches,

  The sun of the battle-gods shone from his sword;

  The crags are sundered, the giant-women sink,

  The dead throng Hel-way, and heaven is cloven.”

  She stopped to catch her breath. He watched her.

  “You memorized the Edda?”

  She lifted her eyebrow.

  “You memorized it in Old Norse,” she countered.

  He suddenly chuckled.

  “Yeah, well…” he bent, and put the Loki statue back. “I’m a geek like that.”

  “You’re not a geek,” Marina said quietly. He straightened, and met her eyes. She cleared her throat and looked the other way, hiding her blush yet again.

  She sensed him open his mouth to say something—but then he stopped. She turned, and frowned at him.

  He was looking at the framed artifact above the fireplace.

  “What’s this?” he whispered, his voice entirely different—enough to make a chill run down her spine. He stepped around her to stand right in front of the mantle. He set his tea down next to one of the candlesticks, then didn’t move.