The Lost Sun

by Tessa Gratton

  I surreptitiously run through a breathing exercise, as best I can while folded into the front seat of the Spark. My hands on the wheel work for grounding, since I can’t have my feet flat under me. In, counting the lines painted down the center of the road to twenty; out, counting to thirty. In and out, keeping focused on my body against the seat, my palms against the leather wheel.

  Baldur, now clothed in a tight, long-sleeved T-shirt with a Denver City Stoneball logo emblazoned across the front, drinks from his soda. The noise from his open window muffles the slurping.

  A look in the rearview mirror shows me Astrid leaning back in the center of the bench. Her hair hangs all around her face, and I can only see her eyes. They are on him alone.

  “Baldur,” I say too loudly, even with the roar of wind, “I don’t understand why you don’t remember. You have to remember more than … more than dreams.”

  “He’s been dead,” Astrid says.

  Both Baldur and I look at her, and I want to stop the car. To turn all the way around and grasp her shoulders, make her look at me instead of him. But I drive, resigning myself to simply shaking my head. “That explains nothing to me.”

  “Nor to me,” Baldur says.

  “Memory loss is associated with the dead.” She leans forward and presses her temple against the corner of my seat, angling her face toward Baldur. “My mother was a seethkona, a prophetess who could dance into death and speak through the gates of Hel, Baldur. I witnessed her raise a man at his year-old burial mound once, and I’ve read accounts of other revenants. The dead must be grounded somehow into their old lives, or they may leave their memories in the comfort of Freya’s embrace. I’m not surprised you’re having difficulty. You’ll remember more as you go, or you should. And there will be fits and starts of memory. Sensations you know, images or words you remember, but that you might not be able to place.”

  I think of the binding-by-light. “He’s alive, though, not undead. Not a revenant. This memory loss never happens to him.”

  “Not under regular circumstances, no.” She sighs. “Perhaps there’s something the Alfather has for him, or my Freya, that will reinvigorate his mind.”

  “I feel invigorated in the sun,” the god murmurs, hanging his hand outside the car. His fingers move like he’s playing a piano against the wind.

  “Let me try to help.” Astrid squeezes Baldur’s shoulder, and in the low, swaying voice of a poet she says, “Over two thousand years ago, the elder poets say, Odin the Wanderer fell in love with Tova, a woman of Freyr’s tribe.”

  Baldur’s fingers stop moving. He sets his soda back into the cup holder.

  Astrid continues: “This woman Tova gave birth to a son named Pol Darrathr, the Arrow of Odin. No more beautiful man had walked the earth, nor any more accurate with a spear, or more joyous or friendly or strong. Pol gathered to him men of all kinds, forming a great band of warriors in Odin’s name. He was bold and wise, loyal and true, and when he swore himself to a king on earth, none doubted his word. Across the land, princes and kings bowed to Pol and his king, and all who fought challenge against him fell.

  “Until one day Pol’s half brother by Tova came to join the commit, bringing his promised-wife Nanna. In moments, Nanna and Pol loved each other as vastly as the gulf between stars.”

  Baldur draws his hand inside the car and folds it carefully with the other in his lap. He stares straight ahead, his face expressionless.

  “Pol and Hoder, his half brother, fought the holmgang over Nanna, and Pol cut Hoder to the ground but refused to kill him because of their shared blood. For this honor and loyalty, Pol was brought to his father Odin’s side and called Baldur, an ancient word naming him a prince.

  “The gods of Asgard welcomed the new Baldur, giving him an apple from Idun’s orchard and mead from the Poet’s Cup. Baldur married Nanna, and together they lived happily. Yet Baldur’s brother Hoder was not satisfied. With Nanna’s father, Hoder plotted to trick Baldur into death. The two called him from his home in Asgard, the Shining Hall, to join with them in a game of spear tossing. Baldur, being loyal to his brother and loving toward his wife’s father, went. Never suspicious. Never wary. Always trusting.”

  Baldur’s hands, so carefully folded in his lap, curl into fists.

  Reaching to touch his shoulder in comfort, Astrid says, “As Hoder’s turn came to throw his spear, he faced his brother. With a cry of rage, he cast the spear, driving it through Baldur’s heart. The Shining Hall fell into shadow. In nine steps down from heaven, Odin Alfather struck Hoder, crying blood price for his most-beloved Baldur.

  “Baldur’s funeral was glorious. Every god came, every goddess, too, and half the warriors of the world. Giants came to honor his light, and trolls and sea monsters. Even Thor Thunderer put down his hammer so that the fiends and gods might mourn together. Nanna, wife of Baldur, walked onto the fire-ship and threw herself across her husband’s still-bright body. Together they burned.”

  Astrid pauses to wipe her fingers across her cheek. When she continues, her voice is thick. “Odin rode his eight-legged horse to the black river that floods into Hel. There he met the witch-goddess Freya, seer of all and the queen of Hel’s magic. ‘Freya: lover, friend, teacher. My prophetess,’ the Alfather begged, ‘give my son back to me, back to all the world, which loved him dearly.’ And Freya ruffled her many-feathered cloak to reply, ‘So he is loved, yet so he died, Odin Deceiver, Old Man Dreaming.’ ‘Freya, you who rule half of death, who rule by love, who know it better than any god, tell me what I might do to win my son back from you.’ The witch-goddess laughed and said, ‘This thing only: make all the living world weep for Baldur, show their lamentations and wailing with silver tears to call back the sun.’ ‘If I do this, he will live again?’ ‘If you do this, Odin One-Eye, you may have him half the year. For that he is half of your blood, and half of the blood of mortal men, he shall be half-alive and half-dead from now to the end of the nine worlds.’

  “So Odin returned from Hel and sent all the spirits and men upon whom he might call, his wolves and ravens, his Valkyrie and Lonely Warriors, spreading the truth of Baldur and his death, that all the world might mourn. The earth tilted with the wails of grief, and soon the grass was wet with dewy tears. Everyone cried, everyone wept, except for Tova, the mother of Baldur and Hoder. It was Loki who discovered her, and the boy-trickster crouched before Tova and asked why she would not cry for her son. ‘Because I have lost both my sons, yet no one weeps for Hoder.’ Loki, a mother himself, frowned and offered Tova a tea he claimed was for betrayed mothers. Whispering thanks, Tova accepted. As she drank, Loki laughed, for the tea was poisoned. The woman perished, and so Loki returned to Asgard and declared that no living being on the whole of earth refused to cry for Baldur.”

  Sitting up, Astrid says, her voice free of tears, “Thus, with every spring, Baldur rises from Hel to bring joy and life and sunlight to the nine worlds.”

  As her words fade, the only sounds are the rush of highway, the thundering draft through the window, and the rumble of engine. I am not certain any of us breathes.

  The first new word comes many miles later, when we’ve found Highway 18 and the sun reflects off a lake, glimmering in my eyes.

  “And so,” Baldur says, “I’ll die again in a few months.”

  I squint against the bright flickering light, then flip the sunshade down. But the glare comes from below, so it doesn’t help.

  Astrid, from where she’s rested back into the rear of the car, says, “Yes, but it isn’t a thing to fear.”

  “I think … that it is.” Sighing, Baldur stretches his hand back out the window to catch sunlight. His head turns away from me.

  “You remember something?” Her voice rings with hope.

  “No. Not really. Every word you spoke drew something from inside me. Hints of memory, perhaps. A flash of face, the sharp clash of swords. Fire. I remember fire, and the spear. In my chest. It’s all like a dream. Like these dreams I have had that leave me with nothin
g but the impression of who I might have been. But if I loved this woman Nanna so much, why can I not remember her?”

  Astrid says, “It was hundreds of years ago, Baldur. She has never risen with you. No one expects you to remember.”

  The look he casts her over his shoulder almost makes me forgive him.

  And I don’t even know exactly what I want to forgive him for. In the silence my anger builds up again. Anger that he’s forgotten everything. Forgotten us. Anger that he was missing in the first place. Anger that the gods couldn’t find him—that Odin Alfather lost his own son. Anger that there are riots and city parks full of fearing pilgrims. That trolls paraded through Vinland and destroyed all those people.

  Anger that he holds Astrid’s attention.

  My hands grip the wheel tighter again. There will be impressions of my fingers in the leather by the time we stop. This fury is not worthy of me, except that I always carry it with me, cutting up at my heart.

  I hear Astrid shift behind me, but my gaze darts between the road and Baldur only. He watches me, a slight frown marring his face. His eyes reflect the same hard light as the far-passed lake. I clamp my teeth together and can feel my jaw muscles tightening. But I don’t care that they can tell I’m angry. All my bones are tense.

  “Soren!” Astrid pushes forward again, putting a hand on my shoulder. I shrug it off. My battle-rage shudders in my stomach, reaching out like a grasping squid.

  “It is well, Astrid,” Baldur says lightly. “Soren, stop the car.”

  “What?” Both Astrid and I protest.

  “Soren, I need you to pull over. We can’t resolve this while you’re driving.”

  His measured words cause me to obey without thinking further. The wheels skid on the gravel shoulder as we roll off the highway. Astrid says, “Resolve what?”

  There’s a field here, old soybeans waiting for the new seeds to grow. Baldur pushes out of the Spark and I follow. The day is warmer than any since last summer. Everywhere the light of the sun fills the air with energy. I drink deep breaths and keep my eyes on Baldur. He strides out into the field, curving left toward a grove of trees. “Get your spear, Soren,” he calls back.

  A thrill roots me to the ground for a moment. My heart thunders more loudly than goblin forges, drowning my ears in the rhythm.

  Yes.

  Whirling, I run back to the car. Astrid blocks my way. “Soren.”

  I smile at her unkindly, and her eyelids flutter closed. Even then a voice is whispering in my head to calm down, to spare her this side of me.

  “Soren,” she says again, forcing her eyes open. She puts her hands on my chest, pushing firmly so I stop. “Be careful.”

  “Oh, I will.” I step forward. She doesn’t move.

  “I won’t forgive you if he hurts you.”

  Laughter bursts out from my bear-smile. If Baldur is a god, he has a chance! I take her shoulders and move her out of my way. I draw my spear off the roof and quickly unwind the wrapping. Astrid pops the trunk and gets her seething kit.

  With the shaft of the spear smooth and strong in my hand, I start after Baldur. But Astrid does not follow. I turn. “You aren’t coming?” The first true shadow of doubt settles across my shoulders.

  Astrid folds herself down to sit, legs crossed, at the edge of the field. She spreads open her bag. “I will not go watch my allies try to murder each other.”

  “It’s your duty to bear witness.”

  “Not to foolishness!” she snaps, eyes up and locking with mine. Her cheeks flare pink.

  I don’t know how to explain to Astrid why I need to do this. Why everything Baldur has said to me has led to this holmgang I’m fighting now, for Baldur to prove his honor to me, regardless of his godhood or his memories. I stare at her, so small beside the sedan, in a violet dress and thin gray cardigan. Her plastic pearls reflect the sun like black mirrors, and her fingers dance over the tiny pockets sewn into the seething kit, as if hunting for consolation.

  When I turn from her and stride toward the grove of trees, I’m no longer furious. But not any less determined.

  Baldur waits for me with a straight branch in his hand. The trees form a thick curtain around us. Inside, all is quiet and still. The grass is sparse, the earth covered in wrinkled brown leaves. A ditch that must run with water after rain cuts through the northern edge of the grove. Although the trees are bare, their interlaced branches shade the ground. Only a few sun spots dapple the air, and Baldur has found the largest. The light shines on him even as he steps closer to me, following him like a loyal dog.

  “I would prefer swords, I think,” he says. “But this will have to do.”

  Because his feet are bare, I stoop to remove my boots.

  “That is unnecessary.” Baldur drops into a fighting crouch.

  He attacks the moment he sees me ready. I smack at his staff with my spear, and we bounce off each other, then begin to circle. The dead leaves crunch under our feet, and a breeze makes the dry limbs overhead clatter together. Though I haven’t stretched or warmed up, I hardly notice. I am so alive and ready to spar—to fight! I’ve not faced a real opponent in so long.

  And what an opponent! He may not consciously remember who he is, but his body knows. I see his movements in his face as he steps forward to attack, see the feint in time to catch his true blow. I skid with him, the two of us spinning with our weapons locked together. I’m smiling—grinning—then laughing. His own lips press together into a determined smile and he shoves me back.

  I land on my knee and one hand, spear raised to defend, but am on my feet again in an instant, stabbing at him. He swerves in time, air huffing out of him. The butt of his staff knocks into my shoulder, and I whack my spear back into his thigh.

  We pause, panting and staring at each other.

  His fighting—his battle sense—reaches for mine, and in the cool spring clearing there’s nothing in the world but the two of us. My blood roars in my ears, my arms are alive with wind, my heart aflame, and the spear in my hand is a bright bolt.

  I’ve heard it said that a proper battle is fought between two champions, and indeed most wars in our past were decided that way. And I’ve heard that a great battle is one in which the warriors do not clash, do not oppose, but one in which they dance. Together, back and forth, giving and taking, reaching always for the sudden jolting moment when one weapon pierces through the other’s defense and everything ends.

  I dance with Baldur the Beautiful.

  And I can barely keep up. I push myself, past the aches in my bones, past the screaming muscles: attack, defend, withdraw, dash forward to attack again, whirl back, trip away, and always the thud of our weapons together, the hard smack of my shoulder into his chest, his knee slamming behind mine to drop me to the grass. I roll and am up again and again, faster than he expects, to drive him closer to the dry creek ditch. He leaps over it and I follow—we push against the trees.

  Suddenly I feel it stronger: the dark, waiting chaos. It burns inside me, promising that if I break it open the world will explode with light.

  I falter. I push it down, shake myself free. I grip my spear in both hands and attack Baldur in a flurry of short snapping swings.

  He says, panting, “You are holding out on me, Bearskin.”

  “No,” I manage. Every snap of my spear he meets with his own. The staccato echoes through the grove.

  “Stop.” He brings his staff over his head and slams it down. I block and the reverberations rattle my teeth. “Holding.” Again, his weapon crashes into mine. “Back.” With the third blow my knees buckle.

  Baldur flings his staff away and catches my spear in both hands. He shakes me and I fall.

  My hips and shoulders hit the ground, and then my head, snapping against the yielding leaves. My vision bursts into black. I push my palms into the ground and open my eyes.

  He stands over me, ready. The tip of my own sharp spear presses into the weak hollow just over my collarbone. His head blocks the sun, and all around
his dark form the sky is alive with light.

  “Now, Soren Bearskin, are you ready to take me wherever I need to go?”

  I allow myself time to breathe. His arm is steady; the spear never trembles. I keep my eyes on his. He’s sweating and his breath comes almost as hard as my own. He could kill me now; it would be his right. But his face is calm. Pleasant, even. He does not frown or grimace, but waits with mouth relaxed, eyes calm. With the infinite patience of the sun.

  I say, “I am ready, Prince. Under the sun, and to the edges of the world.”

  His mouth widens into a wry smile and he removes the spearhead from my throat. “Then up you come!” With a jaunty laugh, Baldur offers down his free arm. I clasp it, and he heaves me to my feet.

  My body is shaking. By the pattern of shadows against the grass, I know we’ve been in the grove for nearly an hour. A long battle. I need water, and perhaps to collapse for a day or two.

  Astrid has rolled away her seething kit by the time we climb up the shoulder to the car. She sits against the front wheel, arms crossed, glaring at us.

  Baldur and I pause, and we share a look. He smiles first, then I do, and soon we’re laughing. I’m suddenly light-headed.

  “You bastards,” she sneers, shoving to her feet. Baldur leaves me where I can put out a hand to support myself against the car as the ground spins.

  “Astrid, don’t be angry.” Baldur reaches to touch her arm, his voice gentle and pleading. “We didn’t hurt each other.”

  “I might pass out,” I insert, and for some reason am not ashamed to admit it.

  Astrid opens her mouth but says nothing. Her lips press together and she glances between us, her expression slowly settling into resignation. “Well, good. Let’s go.” She pulls open the passenger door and waves her seething kit. “Baldur, can you drive? I’m working on something.”

  “Um.”

  I nod. “Man can fight. So, driving—that’s like riding a bike.”

  Baldur frowns at me, his head tilted quizzically. But Astrid opens the rear door. “Get in, Soren. You’re delirious.”