Bauldr's Tears

by Alydia Rackham

  Loki didn’t speak for a long time. He didn’t even breathe.

  Then, he suddenly straightened and turned around, stepping away from her. He stopped, putting his left hand over his mouth.

  “What does it mean?” Marina asked, pushing the bench back and standing up. “Is he…Is he not really dead?”

  Loki didn’t answer. Marina closed her hand to a fist.

  “Is he dead or not?” she demanded.

  “He is dead,” Loki muttered.

  “Then what?” Marina kept on, her heart starting to pick up. “What does it mean?”

  Loki stayed silent for several minutes. Marina waited, holding her breath.

  “It means,” he finally said, lowering his hand. “That I have to get that stone out of the mountain before Hel and Fenris kill us.”

  “Why would they want to kill us?” Marina gasped.

  “Because,” Loki looked at her over his shoulder, his eyes ocean-blue again. “Bauldr told you how to bring him back from Helheim.”

  Marina stood stunned.

  “Is that possible?”

  Loki tilted his head.

  “Some say so.”

  “With a stone?”

  Loki ignored her, his attention drifting off. Marina shifted gears.

  “Why would they want to kill us for trying to bring him back?”

  Loki’s aspect darkened.

  “Ask them,” he muttered. He stepped back toward her and picked up her plate and cup with one hand. He carried them to the sink.

  “I’d rather not,” Marina answered. He said nothing. Marina frowned at him as he vigorously scrubbed soap suds all over the plate and cup, then rinsed them in the clean water. And she noticed, for the first time, heavy bandages bound around his wrists underneath his loose sleeves. A cold feeling settled down through her.

  “And…why do you want to get the stone?” she asked slowly, wrapping her arms around her middle. “To finish the job and make sure Bird stays dead?”

  Loki took the cup and hurled it at the wall in front of him.

  It smashed—pieces exploded and shattered all over the counter.

  Marina jumped back and knocked her bench over with a bang.

  Loki set his hands on the edge of the counter, bowed his head and closed his eyes, his jaw clenching. His hair blackened. Marina didn’t move.

  “I wish,” he rasped. “That you would stop calling him Bird.”

  “That’s…” Marina started trembling. “That’s his name.”

  “Only to his family and most intimate friends,” Loki answered back. Marina swallowed.

  “I’m his friend.”

  Loki sneered down at the suds, then shook his head and chuckled poisonously to himself.

  “Listen, you little broken, crooked thing…” He raised up, opened his eyes and looked at her. Fire overtook the blue in his gaze until his eyes smoldered. “You’ve memorized scraps of nonsense passed down by word of mouth from your ancestors. So you condescend to understand us and how we think and what our lives are like. And that can be amusing at dinner parties.” He leveled a paralyzing look at her. “But the truth is, you don’t know anything about anything—and somehow your visit to Bilskirnir and the hospitality shown to you by every single Aesir, despite your offensive presumptions, failed to teach you that.” He threw the plate down into the water. It splashed all over. “You are stupid and ignorant and you judge your hosts and saviors by thousand-year-old hearsay.” He advanced two steps closer, raising his eyebrows and pointing at himself. “You want to know what happened to Bird but you’re surprised when I’m disinclined to tell you? Well, here’s the reason, then.” He leaned down toward her, bracing his fingertips on the table, liquid savagery in his voice. “It is none of your blasted business. You are a stranger to the house of Odin and you are a stranger to me. Conceited, arrogant mortal—you are nothing to any of us. You are here and you’ll be gone—” he snapped his fingers in her face. “—before anybody notices.” He glared straight into her eyes. “Just stay out of my way and be thankful I’m honoring my word—no matter how worthless you think it is.”

  He shoved on the table. It rattled.

  Marina jumped back again. He stood up straight, narrowing his eyes. At last, he lifted his chin and turned away.

  “Now get out of here and find clothes fit for snow,” he bit out. “I am packing up the house and leaving in half an hour. If you don’t want to be killed when the walls fold up, I suggest you hurry.”

  Marina stared at him, ice in her veins. He stayed where he was. So she crept around the table, avoided looking at him at all costs, then shoved through the door and bolted up the stairs.

  Marina stood outside, hands in her pockets, ankle-deep in snow. After she had staggered up the stairs and flung open the door, she had then frozen in the center of her bedroom for fifteen minutes, fighting back a horrifying fit of shuddering.

  Finally, she’d been able to gather herself enough to go open the trunk, and there found find knee-high fur-lined snow-boots, a knee-length leather-and-fur gray coat with a deep hood, and gloves. She had hurried into them, feeling weak, sick and jumpy all at once, tightly tied the sash on the coat and climbed down the stairs just as Loki’s dark form had strode out of the house ahead of her.

  Now, she watched him from a safe distance as he faced the little pale-wood house, its thin chimney quietly puffing like an old man’s pipe. Loki wore a knee-length coat as well—black—its sleeves, edges and hood lined with gray fur. His ruffled, curly hair now matched the deep tint of his coat, and his skin looked as white as the snow. His narrowed eyes studied the house for a long time.

  He lifted his bare hands, cupped them and blew into them, then rubbed them swiftly together. Then, he cleared his throat, and casually crooked his fingers toward the house.

  The chimney sucked noisily down into the roof.

  Marina straightened.

  The shingles curled up and clattered up to the peak, then vanished—

  The peak split open and retreated in both downward directions, rustling and clattering as the walls began to melt. The shutters slapped open and disappeared. The door swung open and was gone. The window and door holes winked shut; the walls disintegrated and everything trailed down into the snow, until all that remained were tiny red sparks.

  Loki beckoned with his fingers again.

  The sparks leaped up, whizzing through the air, and landed in his palm. He closed his hand. For just a moment, his fist glowed. Then, the light faded.

  He huffed, and drew himself up. His breath clouded around his face as he turned and looked at her. He still had circles around his vivid eyes—eyes that now mirrored the color of the hard winter sky above them.

  “We walk during the day,” he said shortly, putting on a pair of gloves. “Neither Hel nor Fenris are too fond of traveling while the sun is up. And any use of magic to transport us would be like shooting up a beacon right in their faces.” He glanced at her sideways. “Good news is, the same goes for them.” He waved his left hand out to the side, and a pearly-handled, waist-high crook blinked into existence. He grasped it, and planted it firmly into the snow, then kicked his head to the side. “Come on.” And he started off, heading up the ravine through the deep, flawless snow, Marina trailing after, keeping her mouth firmly shut.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  They hiked for several hours without a word, traipsing up the floor of the ravine, snow crunching beneath their boots. The narrow canyon wound and bent, thin trees tangling around each other and hugging the stone walls. Marina tried to follow in Loki’s footsteps, but often his strides were so long she couldn’t manage it. She stumbled more than once, but he ignored her, and pressed onward even if she started falling behind.

  All day long, as she strained to keep up, silence pressed in around her—muffled, weighty silence, only broken by the persistent stump-stump of their boots.

  Finally, the ravine opened up to a wide, steep valley. Forested foothills and then mountains loomed to either
side. Pines hung thick with snow, and here and there, Marina caught sight of bushes and vines whose bright, eager blooms had frozen mid-life. Loki, several paces in front of her, wove easily between the trees, pausing only occasionally to glance around and listen.

  But then the snow got deep.

  All of a sudden, Marina found herself stumbling into thigh-deep white fluff. Loki did the same—only he sank almost up to his waist.

  “Oh, for the love of…” he muttered, following that with several low Norse curses as he jerked his crook out of the snow. He switched his walking stick to his other hand, bit the fingers of his glove and pulled it off, then snapped his fingers several times, impatiently. Then, he rammed his glove back on, bent his knees and jumped nimbly into the air.

  Ice flew. He kicked his feet out and landed—

  On the snow. His boots only sank perhaps a centimeter. Heaving a quick sigh, he bent and slapped the snow off of his trousers, tossed his crook easily into his left hand and strode onward, as easily as if he were strolling on cement.

  Marina stayed where she was. Staring at him in disbelief.

  But also stuck.

  After a moment, she shook herself, set her teeth and battled her way forward, swinging her arms with the effort of lifting her legs. But when she got to the place where Loki had sunk, she tripped and fell face-first.

  She threw out her right hand to catch herself, but it went straight through and the snow swallowed her.

  “Gah,” she sputtered, rolling onto her side as downy ice buried her. She tried to sit up, to stand up, but her feet slipped and snow collapsed in around her shoulders.

  A hand gripped her right upper arm.

  The next second, she lifted straight up into the air, pulling free of the snow.

  Loki held her with one hand, as if she weighed no more than a loaf of bread. She stiffened, her breath catching.

  He bit off his glove again, snapped his fingers, then flicked the shoulder of her coat. He set her down.

  Her feet rested on the powdery snow. They sank about as far as a leaf would.

  “There,” Loki said around his glove, then stuffed it back on his hand. “What would you have done without me?” He re-conjured his walking stick with a flourish, then started forward.

  “Thank you,” Marina said, half stunned.

  He stopped. Frowned. Glanced over at her.

  Started onward again.

  Marina stared down at her feet, oblivious to the ice and snow covering her.

  “Magic,” she realized.

  “Very astute,” Loki remarked. She looked up at his retreating back.

  “But…I thought you said magic would be too obvious,” she said. “That Hel and Fenris would find us.”

  Loki spun on his heel and faced her.

  “Well, this right here is what you would call Practical Magic,” he pointed at Marina’s feet with his stick. “And it’s not uncommon on Midgard at all. If you looked closely enough you’d find it working in most of your communication devices, computers, and,” he almost smiled. “A few German and Italian-made sports cars.”

  Marina looked at him in surprise. He assessed the trees around them.

  “What we have to avoid is Flash Magic. Instant transport of ourselves, or the house—anything that creates too much light or heat or noise.” He lifted an eyebrow at her. “Any of that, and they’d come running.”

  “Right,” she murmured.

  “Which means we have to walk faster,” he said, catching up his stick and continuing on. “I trust you’ll be able to keep from blundering into any trees without my assistance.”

  Marina just grinned to herself as she watched herself take one step forward, then another, then another. She didn’t sink at all, even though the snow wouldn’t have held up a small bird that landed on it.

  “This is incredible,” she whispered.

  “Sorry?” Loki looked back. She found his eyes, and halfway smiled.

  “This is incredible,” she repeated, a little louder. He watched her a moment.

  “All right, no more dallying. Come on,” he ordered again—and this time, Marina easily kept up with him.

  Marina sighed. It came out as a cold shudder, and she wrapped her arms around herself. The sun had gone down half an hour ago, and the temperature had plunged. Her trousers were wet; she’d lost feeling in her toes, her ears, her nose and her fingers. Her left side ached and twinged. Clouds still covered the sky, so darkness dominated the valley. She could barely see Loki’s black form in front of her, facing the cliff. He disappeared his cane, pried off his ice-coated gloves and breathed into his bare hands.

  Red sparks blazed from his fingers like fireworks, and hit the snow. With renewed fascination, Marina watched the little house, Festning, grow up out of the sparks—twining and twisting—until light glowed through the gaps in the shutters, and she could glimpse a faint puff of smoke emitting from the chimney.

  “Let’s get inside,” Loki huffed, striding forward. “I’m about to expire.”

  Marina hurried after him. He tapped the metal goblin’s nose and the door swung open. Loki swept in, Marina on his heels.

  As soon as her feet touched the fur rug, she felt her weight settle again. The spell had broken. She shut the door behind her and pulled off her gloves, her nose and cheeks stinging.

  Loki, just a foot away from her, coughed and stomped his boots on the rug. He then dashed the snow off his coat, unbuttoned it and pulled it off, and hung it on a peg near the kitchen door—a peg Marina knew had not been there last time. He wore the same black, high-collared winter clothes as before—though Marina thought she detected a faint pattern of silver embroidery in the sleeves.

  Loki scrubbed his fingers through his hair, turned and ducked into the library, heading for the fire. Marina pulled off her own coat, very careful of her stiff, aching left arm, and hung it up on another peg that had certainly not been there before. Carefully, watching his back, she ventured into the library after him. She edged closer to the fire, wanting to stretch her hand out toward it…

  Loki caught sight of her. Frowned.

  “What are you doing?”

  She jumped.

  “I…”

  “You have your own fireplace, don’t you?” he asked. “I mean, Bestemor lit it for you last time.”

  Marina nodded.

  “And you’ll want to change into something that isn’t wet,” he added, turning back to the fire and folding his arms. “I know you’re probably accustomed to eating more than once a day, so we’ll dig out something hot once you’re ready.” He fell silent, staring intently down into the flames. Marina hesitated, then withdrew, turned around and made for the staircase, forcing herself not to look back at him.

  Marina trailed carefully down the creaky steps, her right hand pressed to the wooden wall as she watched her feet, trying not to trip on her skirt. Now, she wore a warm, long-sleeved red fleece dress, dry trousers, stockings and leather shoes, and the ache in her side had faded.

  She reached the bottom and approached the kitchen door, which stood a little open. Clattering noises issued from inside. She pushed it aside, and eased over the threshold.

  Fire burnt in the stove, and the door of it hung open. Two candles on wooden spools flickered on the little table, and a glowing lamp with glass chimney sat on the counter, back near the wall. Otherwise, the kitchen felt dark—but the flamelight richened the darkness, and brought out the colors of the wood. In here, it smelled like roasted meat and boiling potatoes, and perhaps spiced cider…

  Loki stood off to the left in front of the counter—a knife clacked against a cutting board. Marina stepped slowly up to his right side. Pulled her left arm up against her.

  “Anything I can do?” she asked quietly.

  “Yes,” Loki answered, focused entirely on the salted meat he was busily slicing into pieces. “There are more potatoes in the sink, there. Cut them up, and put them into the bigger pot that’s on the stove.”

  Marina found t
he bowl of potatoes and hefted them out onto the right side of the counter.

  “I need a knife,” she said. Loki pulled open a drawer near him and whipped out a flashing silver knife, and presented it to her handle-first.

  “Thank you,” she said, and took it. He said nothing, just returned to work. Marina, in a slightly-awkward-but-practiced manner, held the potato down with the side of her crippled hand and cut with her strong right one. In very little time, she had finished the potato, set down the knife and carried the pieces over to the large, simmering pot. She dropped the potatoes in, careful not to splash, then returned to cut up the others. She had hardly put the last one in the pot before Loki dug five long carrots out of a burlap sack and set them down at her station. Without a word, she started in on those, too. Loki finished his meat, carried it in both hands over to the pot and tossed it in, then returned. Marina traded places with him, dumping the carrots in this time.

  “Come, put these bones in there,” Loki said, holding out two meaty bones to her. “Oh, and start stirring it.” He picked up a long wooden spoon and held it out, too. “After it boils a while, cool it down and taste it. We may need to add pepper.”

  Marina nodded, took everything in her right hand, stepped to the stove and eased the bones down into the hot water, reveling in the feeling of the steam washing over her hands. She also eased over and took a breath of the other simmering pot. That was where the lovely scent of spiced cider came from. Then she took up the spoon and started stirring the stew, taking deep breaths of the delicious, rolling smells.

  Clink. Clink. Clink.

  She frowned, and peered down into the pot. She could hardly see anything, because of the dim light, but she could almost be sure…

  “There’s a nail in the bottom,” she realized.

  “Mhm,” Loki replied, tapping on the curved, old-fashioned faucet. Water gushed out. He began scrubbing his cutting board.

  “Why is there a nail in the pot?” Marina asked.

  For a long while, Loki didn’t answer—and she started to wonder if he had heard her.

  Then, he drew a breath—and when he spoke, his voice was so low Marina didn’t dare move, for fear of missing a word.