4
So I walked all the way around the world, beginning to wonder whether my resolution might prove as fatal as King Swegde’s vow to seek Odin’s dwelling-place; a dwarf enticed him into a boulder, promising him his heart’s desire, and he never came out. The longer I searched, the less I cared for gifting Ingrid and the more I desired the swan-shirt for myself, although perhaps I had no use for it, either. So I became old, hence unworthy of the loving gaze of Ingrid with her freckled young face. I had to remind myself of the fact that I loved Ingrid so very much, because she was beautiful and her vagina knew a special sucking trick. Counting red cows and black cows on the old green grave-mounds, I proceeded toward the queen’s grave, which, as a kindly sexton told me, lay on the sea-meadow just over the hill from Ingrid’s. That night I dreamed three times of Ingrid calmly refusing to make love to me, and each time I woke up in tears with an erection. Tomorrow would be the last day of my three years.
5
Ingrid lived where the sea resembled the interior of a mussel shell, and in her back meadow, just past the pigsty, rose Frey’s mound, a fine old green hill where long ago, it is said, there was a door with three holes in it, one for gold, one for silver and one for copper; into these people paid their taxes to the god, in exchange for fat cows and good seasons. Since Ingrid had told me to keep away from there—and she never expressed her prohibitions but once—I avoided that place now, with its breath-sucking wind, all the more since I preferred for her not to catch sight of me until I had succeeded or failed. Besides, why should I mind detouring around a hill when I had already circumnavigated the world? Around the hill I went, and then down to the salmon-creeks and sheep-fields where all the lesser mounds were. One cold sunny morning long ago, before I ever met Ingrid, I came here to watch the salmonberries dance in the wind with the sea so bright behind them, while I wondered why I was squandering my life. Now that my life had been safely spent on Ingrid in any event, that flock of regrets had long since flown off to roost on some younger hero’s shoulders. Rich in moss, grass and islands, such most happily remained my life; and even if my travels had not precisely accomplished my hopes, there is something to be said for not sitting at home, especially just now, when, feeling excited that I could soon present myself to Ingrid one way or the other, I enjoyed so sweetly striding along, with ahead of me the sea-ribbon wrapping grey and ultramarine around green grass. Past where I was going, the pale reddish dunes reminded me of Ingrid’s pubic hair.
At first I could see that long green howe among the lesser gravel-scattered graves, but as I drew closer, the lowlier mounds puffed up their own claims, for, after all, every barrow-wight deserves to be noticed, even if he can only boast of dark iron tweezers and a green-rusted cloakpin, while his gruesome neighbor might be squatting on an entire moldy sack of tarnished silver coins with holes in them. I suppose that the scald Einar Audunsson had their realm in mind when he sang:
A troll will scarcely sit at home
if he can dig a new kingdom
—a verse whose main virtue is to frighten children.
Out of a hole now rose an old woman in a moss-colored dress. Her hair was as the lank orange sea-grass between graves, and she said: Love me, and I’ll weave you a mole-shirt, so you can creep among the roots with me forever.— I can’t say this offer left me unmoved, but since I had come all this way (never mind that had I avoided tramping all the way around the world, this place wasn’t but two hours from Ingrid’s house), it seemed most befitting to persist in my purpose, so I gave her a kiss, although her frozen mouth tore the skin right off my lips, which she considerately salved with troll-fat, and then she pointed out my way across the green waves of howes over the fields, to where the queen’s grave rose alone. Where King Yngvar was buried I wished to ask, but dreading either to pay the fee of another kiss or else to disappoint her by turning away from her hard and glistening blue-grey mouth, I thanked her with all my heart, sending my best wishes to her cousins the moles, at which, scratching my shoulder in what she meant to be a caress, she chuckled fondly and melted back under the earth. As for me, I made my way toward those white sheep-ovals in a line halfway up a rock-boned emerald hill all by itself, not as high as some, but all the same it must have cost her thralls and lendermen some pains to build. Between afternoon and evening I got there. Forgetting the old woman with the orange hair, I wondered what could be as chilly as the green-maned shoulder of the queen’s grave, where I threw myself down, breathing in the scent of wet dirt; and now the autumn sun made landfall at the rocky river-mouth, rested upon the sea-horizon like a fabulous egg, then left me, just as Ingrid meant to do.
So darkness oozed up out of the sea, and presently a whole crew of grave-wights wailed and giggled all about me, longing to be givers or takers, if I were only willing; and to me each proposition seemed as good as the next, except of course for Ingrid’s, so I declined them all with thanks, at which some of them turned sour, and even snicked their teeth at me, while the rest either popped back down to their bones or else took on that lovely abstraction one sees on women’s firelit faces when they are plaiting cord. I was introduced to a fetching goddess of an old headdress; I met many goddesses of the serpent’s bed; their dead flesh was as white as the barnacles on black rocks. Without boasting I assure you that had I wished, I could have been suffocated in a troll-woman’s bristly arms; she offered honest lust, and her breath was as cold as frozen meat. An elf-wife kissed her hand to me and gave me a silver coin. A troll-hag took a jab at me with a poisoned ice-needle; that was when I found out that my gold bracelet from the cormorant-trapper’s daughter gave me magic protection, which I had to confess made me all the fonder of her. At any rate, I continued about my business of waiting for the queen. And soon enough, being no less weak and flighty than I, those ghosts and such moaned back down to their holes.
Now indeed came the time to lay down my gift from the cormorant-trapper’s daughter, which I had faithfully kept upon my wrist all over the world, sometimes thinking, I admit, to offer it to my darling Ingrid, although she would have repaid me with anger—for Ingrid could be superstitious; I had found her unwilling to give her arm to be devoured in the gape of a gold bracelet of unknown provenance, in case it enslaved her by means of some spell. Kissing the arm-ring, I laid it down in the grass, and prayed the dead queen of her kindness.
First came a silver-blue shimmering of noble lady-sprites—evidently the mead-maidens and weaving-dames of Queen Hnoss’s court. I bowed to each and all, wishing them joy of the cold air. And presently, when the night once again became as cold and black as an iron axehead, two skeleton-hands blossomed up through the turf, offering me a wide bronze bowl with snakeheaded handles. Even in death she remained a generous queen; her husband King Yngvar must have been very lucky, at least at one time. Had I accepted this gift from her, all might have gone differently, for me if not for Ingrid. Instead, I placed my silver coin in it, and greedily it rushed back under the earth.
Now the queen’s old skull emerged from the turf, without hesitation, as if she did not know or did not care how hideous she might appear to me. In fact I have never met a woman entirely without charm, and this goes equally for dead ones, so the queen and I got on well enough. She wore a long-sleeved, wine-red dress with braids of gold and silver at the sleeve. Her hair, wet like fresh-cut grass, was combed down as carefully as the threads in her warp-weighted loom, and she wore snails for earrings.
She offered me a gold axehead which was shining with engraved serpent-men, but all I prayed of her was that snowy swan-shirt.
That’s good, then, said the queen. You passed the test. You refrained from what you couldn’t use.
I’ve heard of your openhandedness, said I. That’s why I came to you.
I’ll give you all a man desires, she replied. First, I’ll give you a bride.
Ingrid?
Ingrid is not for such as you. It’s wandering she’d rather be, and good riddanc
e to her. Your destiny is the cormorant-trapper’s daughter. Do you remember her name?
Turid, I said. The instant I said it, I fell in love. Turid means beautiful.
That’s right. For the rest of your life, whenever you forget what you need to do, ask Turid. She’ll take care of you. Do you promise me?
I swear by Freya.
You could have sworn by me. But here’s how you get the shirt: Open my grave at sunrise, and dig down to me. Cut off the little finger of my left hand, and leave everything else alone. Cover me up again, or my husband will punish you. As soon as you see Ingrid, throw my finger in her face.
And when the shirt comes, shall I keep it for Turid?
No, man, you must give Ingrid the shirt, so that she has had her use of you. And take back the arm-ring that Turid gave you. It will defend you against Ingrid. Farewell.
On the queen’s green grave I lay all night. A maiden in weeds of gold smiled sadly, reaching for my hair. Whenever trolls sought to choke me in their lichen-scabbed arms, I diverted myself by thinking about Turid. Was she lying awake? When I last left her house, a morning sun-ray had struck the crossbars of her leaning loom, and her bread was rising.
6
At dawn small dark birds exploded from a leafless tree, and the salmon stream began to glow. I peeled the turf off the summit of the queen’s grave. Then I dug down with a sheep scapula until I found a bog-iron brooch, whose edge scraped the earth as nicely as could be. So I came to the rectangular stone-walled trench. Closest to the surface, but in a side-chamber, I uncovered the skeletons of all those court ladies I had glimpsed the night before, the cruel clay having long since tightened about them, drawing their skulls together like a woman’s yarn bobbins. Begging their pardons and giving them each a kiss, I kept digging, a chore which although it was not easy proved less tiring than my walk around the world. Before noon I reached her. There she lay, rubble of bone in rags of linen, and no sadder thing have I ever seen than the dead queen’s broken twill.
Once she had reigned here with her skeleton-hands outspread across her ribs like fans, but slowly the worms and roots dislodged her finger-rings; then they bent her ribs apart and groped up toward the sun. Then a farmer dug her up and robbed her of her spider-figured golden brooch. A subsequent crofter showed better heart, although his deed might have been misguided; thanks to him a rune-cut lead cross was buried with her in the grave. Gently setting this aside, I stroked away the dirt from the queen’s hand, and found that the little finger was all the poor lady had left. There was no need to cut it off; it came up in my hand.
At her side the tines of her bone comb lay outspread like the fingers she no longer had. At her feet was a cracked bowl of dark clay, with my silver coin in it.
Behind her head a stone passage went down. With the sun now overhead, I could see some way in. There lay good Queen Hnoss, and far beneath her was a boy’s skeleton on its side, gaping like a panting dog.
Bowing to my hostess, I gave her back her lead cross. Then I covered everything up, and replaced the living turf.
7
It was night when I came home to Ingrid. I fear I was haggard and grubby after my travels. The door opened, and there stood Ingrid, who always made her dresses so elegant with the bright hooks and waves of tablet-woven braid. She was decked out as if for company, in double brooches, and a thrice-bright woven braid across her breast, a chain of silver dipping down. Perhaps it was I she had been waiting for. Her hair was brighter than morning sunlight on the sea, and she was smiling her old smile of mirth without cheer, brightness without friendliness, invitation without promise. Needless to say, I desired her as much as ever.
You didn’t bring it, I see, was the first thing she said.
Straightaway, I threw the queen’s finger-bone in her face, and my poor Ingrid went pale and rigid. Then she began marching into the darkness. Thinking it a pity for her clothes to get spoiled, I helped her out of them, not that she thanked me, and then allowed her to go nightwalking in her shift, as so she plainly desired, with her pretty bottom showing, and her not even knowing it. The last I saw of her, she was already in the sky, trudging obediently off across the moonbeams, her hands out before her as if she were a timid child on horseback who dared not let go the reins.
Thinking I might as well get something for myself out of all this while my darling was gone, I pushed her bedstead aside, which she had told me never to do, and behind it were three secret chambers connected to Frey’s mound, one for the copper, one for the silver and one for the gold. Since there was so much more copper than anything else, I decided not to deprive Ingrid of what she evidently preferred to collect, and contented myself with taking all the gold and silver I could carry. Then I pushed back the bed and sat eating up Ingrid’s bread and cheese, for walking all the way around the world is hungry work, never mind digging up graves, and Ingrid had neglected to offer me anything. After that I felt caught up on my obligations. The only other thing I might have done was to set free her enchanted pigs, but for all I knew they were happier as they were; I myself could have made the best of it as one of Ingrid’s pigs, provided that she pulled my tail every now and then.
Here at dawn came my poor Ingrid, creeping down from the white sky’s grey cloud-cobbles, sinking to the ankle in the wet green pasturage churned up by the cows, shivering and sweating without knowing that she did, with her blonde hair down, her night-shift sopping wet and that swan-shirt, courtesy of the cormorant-trapper’s daughter, held tight against her bosom.
I threw the queen’s finger-bone in her face again, and back to herself she came, my sweet old Ingrid, awarding me quite the hateful look. Needless to say, I was wearing Turid’s arm-ring, so Ingrid couldn’t enchant me. She stood there dripping with dew and rain, and her mouth twitched while she decided how best to lay hands on me.
Good morning to you, I said.
In a rage, she bit her lower lip. Just then she noticed what she had in her arms, and her expression changed. Right away she commenced to coo and sigh over it, kissing the feathers one by one, until she remembered me again and sent her evil eye my way, in case I meant to rob her of her fine swan-shirt.
Where did I get this? she demanded.
You went barefoot to Lapland and back, I said. An easy walk, I should say, since you didn’t get any blisters.
That was when she finally realized that my heart had changed. I should have felt sorry for her, but my indifference resembled the green grass that conquers a pillaged grave-hole.
Sulking, Ingrid rushed off to the duckpond to bathe. I made a point of not watching. When she returned, the morning was strengthening, and she was naked and white to tempt me.
Well, said Ingrid, don’t you even feel like making love?
But your swan-shirt came a day late.
Oh, don’t worry about that, said she, as sweet as I had ever heard. The main thing is that I have my heart’s desire, no matter how. And so we’ll live happily ever after, until I leave you.
When might that be?
That’s no concern of yours. Now, do you want to make love or not?— And she swung her hips a trifle, so that I knew what she wished me to say.
Since doing the opposite of whatever she asked was bringing me such success, I said: Well, well, Ingrid, since that swan-shirt put us both to so much trouble, I’m curious to see how you look in it.
Of course Ingrid could not resist that; she longed more than anything to become a swan and fly away. So she pulled the beautiful thing over her head, slid her arms through the sleeves, and she was naked from her belly down, while from her belly up the perfect white swan-feathers sparkled like sea-waves, each one of them trapped so cunningly in the alternate-leaved V’s of linen, the quills rustling so sweetly with her heartbeats, and her long blonde hair spilling loose and windblown across all that precious whiteness, although I must admit that this set me to thinking of the queen’s hair ornaments scattered
about her hairless skull. Turning her back to me, she began singing down to the grey ocean. Then she turned into a white swan and flew off.
As for me, I went home to my Turid, whose ways were as bright as lake-edge flowers. On the way I reburied the queen’s finger-bone in her grave, and poured in a double handful of gold, because a generous queen can never have enough of that. I also gave a gold coin apiece to the elf-wife and the old woman with the orange hair. As for the silver, I scattered that from mound to mound, so that the other wights would have joy of me.
Turid was standing in the doorway smiling, with a serpent-pin at the throat of her soft grey shift. She had the white breast and proud neck of a Norwegian wooden church. We went straight to bed. Once I asked her what she saw in me, and she replied that she liked a man who was easily satisfied. I gave her the rest of Ingrid’s gold, or Frey’s as I should say, which she buried in her cave of cormorants, in case we might ever need it. From what the birds told us, Ingrid was very happy, and enjoyed taking her lovers in the air. (I fear her pigs all starved.) Whenever she flew to our house in hopes of bewitching me again, Turid went out to deal with her, and hid me in her eiderdown nest. In time she gave me a whole brood of bird-children, and our life together grew as moist as sea-wind over the sweet-grassed graves.
STAR OF NORWAY
To never again suffer the failing of the light I thought to give anything. We played on an old mound. The blue-grey light of spring clothed us all night. But to never again suffer the failing of the light, to have done with dancing strings of birch leaves, wasn’t that to change fear for sorrow?
Between grey lakes and black rocks rose a hill:— There’s my house.— Take me with you.— Too steep for you!
Behind the hill was her favorite river.— Then let me go there with you.— You’d never come back.
Last Stories and Other Stories (9780698135482) Page 51
