The Winter Riddle

by Sam Hooker

  “Thank you.” Volgha reluctantly settled for the wine. She took a sip. It was excellent as well, though it paled in comparison.

  “And thank you for trekking the ten thousand steps,” said Odin. “How do you find our realm?”

  “It’s lovely,” said Volgha, avoiding the issue of the stairs. Witch’s prerogative.

  “Tell me a tale,” Odin boomed. “Unfold for me the glorious battle that took place below.”

  “Glorious battle!” shouted all of the gods in unison again, on their feet with cups held aloft. Volgha jumped up as well, wondering if it would be the only compulsory phrase of the event.

  “It was a massive brawl,” said Volgha. “All of your Vikings seemed to enjoy it very much.”

  “And how were you inspired to start it?”

  “Well, in truth, it was Redcrow who started it.”

  Sure, blame the handsome one.

  Odin stood up and raised his cup. Everyone else followed suit.

  “To Redcrow,” he said. “Cousin to my ravens, whose fiery blood is plain on his breast. Battle bringer, blood avenger, may the songs of the bards carry your glory aloft!”

  “To Redcrow!” shouted everybody, who then drained their cups and cheered. Redcrow spread his wings and cawed, posing as though someone was painting a flag of him.

  A fellow could get used to this!

  “I can see how he inspired the Vikings to fight,” said Thor.

  “Not that it takes much,” said Frigga, on the other side of Odin.

  “He was trying to break a spell,” said Volgha.

  “A spell?” Odin put his cup down and leaned in toward her. “Was there another witch there? Or a wizard?”

  “It was Loki, actually.”

  “Loki!” Thor shouted, as though the name was a swear word. “What has that idiot done now?”

  Volgha saw an opportunity. Loki’s riddle had gotten out of hand, and it appeared as though he’d proven himself right in one regard: he was clever enough to outfox himself. Maybe the other gods could undo the damage before it got any worse.

  “Yes,” said Volgha. “Well, half of him anyway.” She explained the riddle to the gods, told them about the rising temperatures, and how she’d found him in the guise of a minstrel in Midgard below. All of the gods listened to her story, paying rapt attention and barely drinking heavily at all as she spoke.

  “So he’s fooled himself?” asked Odin.

  “It appears that way, yes.”

  Odin burst into laughter, as did all of the other gods.

  “Serves him right!” Thor’s fist pounded the table as he laughed, sending forks and knives clattering to the floor.

  “Perhaps,” said Volgha, “but it’s still getting hotter. That can’t be good, can it?”

  “It’s a small matter,” said Odin. “Let the fool work it out when he wakes up. It’s his affair, and we know better than to fall for his trickery.”

  “But I don’t know if he can work it out,” said Volgha. “It’s been so long already, and he’s only got half his mind to work with!”

  “He’ll do it soon enough.” Thor smiled broadly. “Until he does, enjoy the warm air!”

  Odin stopped laughing abruptly, and his face went pale. He sat back in his throne and took up a posture designed specifically for brooding.

  “What is it?” Volgha saw the concern in Odin’s face, and it mirrored the dark feeling that had been growing in her heart for a while.

  “It’s getting warmer … everywhere?”

  “Just in the high places, though it seems to be moving lower. The snow turned to water in my grove not long ago.”

  “What of Niflheim,” asked Odin, “is it warmer there as well?”

  Thor’s expression went grim at the question. He looked to Volgha for an answer. All of the gods had grown quiet.

  This doesn’t bode well, said Osgrey.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “I’ve never been to Niflheim. I didn’t think there was anything there.”

  There was a sense of urgency in Odin’s brooding. His eye shifted back and forth between Frigga and Thor, both of whom shared his dour expression.

  “The frost giants,” said Thor.

  Odin shot a pointed look in his direction, and he grew silent.

  “I thought the Vikings didn’t like the frost giants,” said Volgha. “Didn’t you banish them there, Odin?”

  “That’s right,” he answered. “A long time ago.”

  “Will something happen to them if Niflheim gets too warm?”

  “Possibly,” said Frigga, “but what do we care?” Her eyes widened as she stared at Odin.

  Strange, cawed Redcrow, how people open their eyes wide to tell someone to keep their mouth shut.

  “Right,” said Odin. “It’s nothing. Let the frost giants melt, for all we care! Thoughtless beasts, the lot of them!”

  The food was as good as the wine. Volgha ate her fill of pork and venison. Thor told her that they never ate beef because there was no glory in hunting a cow. Boar and deer, on the other hand, presented a challenge (insofar as hunting an animal can provide a challenge to a god).

  A plate was provided for Redcrow as well, and he quickly decided that anchovies were the most sublime food he’d ever tasted. He and Volgha both enjoyed themselves immensely, though Volgha could not help but think of her sleepy little cottage in the grove, now befouled by her sister’s ghastly green fire. It soured her mood, but that was just the sort of thing that made revenge sweeter in the end.

  By the time she left, the pain in her ankle was entirely gone. It seemed that nectar of the gods had miraculous curative powers, and it left her feeling very light and merry. She was relentlessly giggling, though she resisted the urge when anyone was looking. It was like being drunk, only without the impaired motor skills, the urge to vomit, or—in the case of clear spirits—the repetitive shouting of, “Woo hoo!”

  Past the golden doors again, she mounted her broom and took flight. The air grew cooler as she circled down toward Midgard, though the Asgardian wine kept her warm enough until she touched down at the Old Stone Hearth. Hans was nowhere to be seen, so she slipped in silently and went up the stairs to her room.

  That went rather well, cawed Redcrow.

  “In what sense?” asked Volgha. “We’re still on our own to sort out Loki’s mess.”

  Oh, right. I just meant the anchovies. Can we get some more?

  “Hard to come by in the North,” said Volgha. “Outside of Asgard anyway. But I’ll see what I can do.”

  Volgha’s head was still swimming, thanks to the nectar. She curled up in the blankets and drifted off to sleep. It may have been the most peacefully she’d ever dreamt, mostly just floating around on clouds and the like. Redcrow also slept well, blissfully unable to hear Volgha’s thoughts for once.

  When she awoke from her evening, there were things that needed doing. She ground herbs for Hans and borrowed some straw so that she could repair her broom. It would fly a bit sluggishly until she could get it attuned properly, but that would have to wait. Business had started to trickle into the Old Stone Hearth, now that Loki wasn’t mesmerizing a monopoly elsewhere.

  She made her way back over to the Leaping Stag, where they had already done a surprisingly good job of putting things back together. There were still splintered ends on the bannisters and the bar, and a carpenter was at work replacing the doors, but the place was capable of putting booze into Vikings.

  The bartender nodded to Volgha as she entered, but kept his eye contact to a minimum. One did not stare into the cold, black eyes of an angry witch and maintain a full measure of audacity. She gave him a prim smile.

  “Good morning, mistress,” greeted the bartender. “I trust the hour finds you well.”

  “Quite,” said Volgha, trying not to enjoy his cowering too much. “How is our guest?”

  “Still abed,” replied the bartender. “Or in his room, at least. Free of charge, of course!”

  Volgha nodded and w
alked to the stairs.

  “Third door on the right!”

  “Thank you,” she said without stopping. She found the door and knocked on it. There was no answer. She tried the handle, and it opened easily on its iron hinges.

  “Loki?”

  “Who’s there?”

  The room was dark. Volgha opened the door, and the dim light from the hallway outlined the shape of Loki sitting on the bed. Volgha walked inside and turned her attention to the stub of candle sitting on the little table. She didn’t know how much he remembered, but figured that a little bit of magic wouldn’t go amiss—just for dramatic effect, of course.

  She reached out with her mind, found a bit of fire residing in the tip of the wick, and coaxed it out. The candle sputtered to life. After closing the door behind her, she sat on the little chair by the table with Redcrow on her shoulder.

  “How did you do that?” he asked, a haunted look in his wide eyes. “Who are you?”

  “You don’t remember me? Pity. I’ll answer, but you go first.”

  “My name …” A quizzical expression overtook his haunted one. His eyes narrowed, and his fingers traced absently about his lips. “This shouldn’t be so difficult to answer.”

  “No,” said Volgha. “You’re right about that. What can you remember?”

  “The lute.” That much had come back to him without any consternation. He spoke more slowly after that, as though it were coming back to him in fragments.

  “I walked here,” he said. “From … very far away. I had this lute, but that was all. I’m not sure how I knew the way here. What is this place?”

  “Midgard.”

  “Should I know it?”

  “Oh yes. You’re close to home.”

  “I have a home nearby? Where? Can you take me?”

  “In due time,” said Volgha. “It might be dangerous if you don’t know who you are. Tell me about the lute, what was that song you were playing?”

  “Oh, that,” said Loki. “I don’t know, exactly. I started plucking the strings while I was walking, and I seemed to be pretty good. I assumed I was a minstrel, is that right?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Tell me about the song.”

  “They let me play on the stage, and I started going through songs as they popped into my head. That one, that song … it was bewitching, to be sure.”

  “Not the word I’d use, but not far from the mark.”

  “Sorry,” said Loki, apparently just noticing the pointy hat and black ensemble. “Anyway, I really enjoyed the sound of it, and so did everyone else. I just couldn’t seem to make myself stop playing it … not until your friend here stopped me, that is.”

  That’s right, cawed Redcrow, puffing his chest up a bit. And I’ll do it again, so don’t get any ideas.

  “Easy, Redcrow,” said Volgha. “Honestly, he thinks he’s a warrior now!”

  I’d have done the same, said Osgrey, if I had a body!

  “Now don’t you start,” said Volgha.

  “Who are you talking to?” asked Loki.

  “To him,” Volgha pointed to Redcrow, “as well as … never mind. How are you feeling?”

  “I could sleep through the winter,” said Loki.

  “Sleep then,” said Volgha. “I’ll have some food sent up for you.”

  “Thank you, but please, can you tell me who you are? Or who I am?”

  “My name is Volgha, the Winter Witch. Yours is Loki. Ring any bells?”

  “No. There’s a god named Loki, am I named after him?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” replied Volgha. “Rest up. I’ll come back for you when it’s time.”

  “Thanks.” Loki gave her a warm smile.

  Volgha wished she could have frozen the image somehow, so she could show it to him after she’d restored his mind. It would gall him endlessly to see himself simpering so.

  She simply nodded and left. She asked the bartender to send up some food, then made her way back to the Old Stone Hearth. She meant to have a look at Hans’ animals so she could clear her debt. When she walked into the bar, she saw a trio of people eating whom she recognized immediately as Faesolde elves from Santa’s Village.

  One of the Faesolde in particular seemed very familiar. She’d not gotten his name, but she’d seen him in Santa’s armory. His eyes met hers, and his head tilted just slightly. His gaze held a mix of familiarity and curiosity.

  “I’ve seen you before,” he said.

  “In Santa’s armory,” she replied.

  “Then you’re Volgha,” he said. “The witch from the valley. Santa speaks highly of you. Won’t you join us?”

  “Thank you.” She took the fourth chair at the little table. “And you are?”

  “Vaethul,” he replied. “And these are my brothers, Cuidesi and Fashide.”

  “I’m pleased to meet all of you. What brings you to Midgard?”

  “Our alliance with King Harald,” explained Cuidesi. “Northmen have traditions, and we help Santa observe them.”

  “Santa is a Northman, then?”

  “If you asked the Vikings,” said Vaethul, “they’d say he was a southerner. It’s all the same to us, but there are subtle differences.”

  “Such as?”

  “Santa doesn’t bend his knee to their gods,” Fashide answered. “There’s no enmity there, he’s just not one of them. Santa doesn’t agree with their ideas of glorious battle.”

  Volgha had to restrain herself from jumping up and toasting to glorious battle, a reflex she’d developed with alarming speed in Asgard. Fashide was right about their affinity for it, in the abstract at least.

  “But I’ve seen the armory,” said Volgha. “Santa is quite the warrior, from the looks of it.”

  “He was,” said Vaethul. “His life was hard before he came to the North. Suffice it to say that he doesn’t refer to his past as his glory days.”

  “Then why the grand armory? I’ve seen him go in several times. It doesn’t seem as though he’s trying to put the past behind him.”

  Vaethul inclined his head toward her. “There’s a difference between setting the sword aside and pretending never to have picked it up. If we forget the darkness of war, then it has taught us nothing; so we carry it with us.”

  Best to leave it at that, said Osgrey, just as Volgha was drawing a breath to ask another question. We delve into the mysteries of nature and the spirit. People’s mysteries are theirs alone. They’ll reveal what they care to.

  Volgha nodded.

  “How is Santa keeping?” asked Vaethul.

  Does he think Santa’s with us? cawed Redcrow.

  “I would imagine that you’ve seen him more recently than I have,” she said.

  “Not since before he left for Castle Borealis in his ... attire.”

  “We left there many evenings ago,” said Volgha. “Did he never return to the village?”

  Vaethul and Fashide exchanged a worried look.

  “He did,” said Cuidesi, “but not for long. He was in horrible shape, said he needed to lie low for a while.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “Someplace called ‘Howling Hill’,” replied Cuidesi. “I don’t know where that is, do you?”

  “I can find it,” said Volgha.

  “We would appreciate knowing that Santa is in good health,” said Fashide.

  “I’ll find out,” said Volgha, “and send news to the village.”

  They talked a while longer, then the elves went off to have their audience with King Harald. Volgha fulfilled her promise to Hans, finding nothing wrong with his animals that couldn’t be easily remedied. He thanked her, saying that his gout was already much improved by the tea.

  After a short nap, she took to the air and headed toward Santa’s Village. She’d try to Seek him out from there, which shouldn’t prove too difficult now that she had Redcrow’s assistance.

  16

  Volgha almost missed Santa’s shelter at the foot of the hill, but she’d seen the box
es over the howling eggs that he said he’d placed there before. It wasn’t until she’d flown down very low over the surface that she noticed the tent. The top was white and blended in with the snow. It was a sort of insulated tent, well-supported by stout wooden beams. Quite comfortable on the inside, actually. A far cry from roughing it in the wilderness, as she’d expected.

  “You’re a hard man to find,” said Volgha, unwrapping her scarf from around her face.

  “When I need to be,” said Santa. “Is that a red raven?”

  “Crow,” she replied with a smile. “He’s my familiar, the reason we went to all of the trouble at the castle.”

  So he does your dirty work for you, cawed Redcrow. Can I send him on an errand?

  “Hush, Redcrow,” said Volgha. “He owed me a favor, that’s all.”

  “You named him Redcrow?” Santa’s eyebrow went up. “A bit obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Sort of a misunderstanding that stuck,” said Volgha. “Anyway, thank you for playing your part. We’re square on the favor.”

  “Almost,” said Santa. “There’s the matter of your crazy sister trying to murder me.”

  “Hello, Volgha!” Krespo waved as he ran over to where they stood. He was wearing an apron and smelled like a cooking fire.

  “Did Santa tell you that we’re in hiding? Is your sister going to come after us?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Volgha. “She does this sort of thing from time to time, but she usually forgets about it as soon as something shiny catches her eye.”

  “She usually forgets?” Santa asked.

  “Well, yes.” Volgha’s mouth stayed open for a few more seconds, but nothing more reassuring found its way out, so she closed it.

  “That’s a relief,” said Krespo. “We’re scared to go back to the keep, in case she turns up there looking for us.”

  “We’re not scared, Krespo,” countered Santa. “We just don’t want to endanger everyone there.”

  “Right,” said Krespo, “because we’re afraid of the queen.”

  “Stop saying that! In any case, we’ll be square once you can assure me that she’s not hunting me.”