by Wendy Delsol
“Stop it!” I screamed.
Wade laughed, an evil and menacing sound, but he didn’t speak as he cinched a final knot around my legs, bunching my ridiculous tulle skirt and ensnaring me like a fish in a net.
I looked around frantically. We were in a clearing where a ring of four trees had been cut down to form a small, intimate circle of chairs. I gasped. It was so eerily like the scene from my dreams that I could feel my heart rattling within my rib cage. Huge lanterns lit the perimeter and country music filled the air, but this was no party, nothing public, anyway.
I heard a groan from the center of the grassy area. I turned my head to see Jack, also tied with thick ropes, struggling to stand. Wade picked a rock up off the ground and strode over to him. I watched, in horror, as Wade slammed it over Jack’s head. He crumpled to the ground. It took me several seconds to realize that the anguished sound buckling the air around me was my own scream.
In another moment, Wade was standing over me again. He grabbed my legs and dragged me farther into the clearing.
“What are you doing?” I yelled. “Are you crazy? Let go of me!”
Wade dropped my legs roughly to the ground. “I suppose a few explanations are in order.” He stopped, looked to where Jack lay unconscious, and slapped his palms together in a gesture of satisfaction. “You two were such easy marks, but I suppose that’s the nice thing about the truly good; they’re so trusting. No need, even, to use my persuasive powers.”
A part of me knew I needed to calm down, take a moment to figure things out, buy myself — and Jack —some time. Another part, the majority share, was in a full-throttle frenzy and wanted to exercise one of the few things I still had use of — my voice. “What the hell do you want?” I yelled, trying to push to a sitting position, not an easy task without the use of my arms.
Wade strode over to me and kicked me back down to the ground. “Be good,” he said, “and I’ll explain. Be bad, and you’ll both pay.” He took a seat on one of the stumps, as if he had all the time in the world. “Where to even begin?” he said casually. “I suppose the basics — who, what, when, where, and why — are in order. Let’s start with where. Do you like the location? We’re not technically on my family’s property anymore, but you two didn’t know any better. It was once a place sacred to the Chippewa. It’s in private hands now, a hunting property; the owners have no idea what they’ve got.”
He leaned back and crossed his legs. “And how was your trip through? I only ask because the first time I stumbled onto this place I ended up flat on my face. You should have seen the two of you.” He tried to keep his tone light, but I could see the tension twisting through his neck and throat. “You’re at a portal. Not accessible to just anyone. Had I tried to take any other two lumps from the dance, they’d have found nothing but more trail and trees on the other side.”
A panic began at the base of my skull, soaking steadily down through my shoulders and along my spine. I stretched to look at Jack. He still wasn’t moving.
“How about who next? You know I’ve heard about you Storks for years.”
Oh, my God. How much did he know?
“My bird-brained grandmother thought she was preparing my sister for her destiny, so she told us all about the legends, the realms — all of it. And about the good forces as well as the evil.”
With the mention of evil, a shiver racked me.
“And lately,” Wade went on, “it’s just gotten worse. She’s obsessed with the Storks, you in particular. Stupid woman led me straight to one whose death would complete the third and final covenant — the only one Hanna’s death didn’t fulfill.”
I fought for breath. I couldn’t help it. Did Wade just say he killed his sister? And that he sought to fulfill initiation covenants? Where had I heard that before? From Hulda. Realization dawned on me. “You’re a Raven?” I gasped.
“How easily shocked you are. As startled as those old birds were. They questioned me about Hanna’s death, under the guise of pity or concern — for me, of all things. To have witnessed such a horrible thing at such a tender age. In the end they were convinced I knew nothing more of the significance of the summer solstice than I knew of the geological classification of the rock face I pushed Hanna over. Little did they suspect I’d attempted all three covenants at once: starting with first kill on the solstice; next, murder of one related by blood; and third the removal of one born to greatness. My delusional grandmother had been convinced her Hanna was exceptional. She wasn’t — but you are. Aren’t you?”
I was paralyzed with fear.
Wade wagged his finger at me. “Killing you has proved difficult. Why did that bear charge in the wrong direction? Beasts are normally simple to manipulate. And how did you escape that truck when I had the driver so completely under my control? Maybe I’ve become somewhat lazy, wasting my skills to keep Monique under my thumb. Or is it that I’ve encountered an able opponent in you?”
So, Wade had some kind of power. An ability to persuade would explain how he’d managed to kill his sister and get off scot-free. And me, too, nearly. He was likely to finish the job here, especially as he saw me as an “opponent.” It wasn’t easy, but I remained still and let him do the talking. All the while, I kept looking over to where Jack lay unconscious. I was choking with fear for his life as much as my own. How hard had Wade hit him? With the distance separating us, I couldn’t even tell if he was breathing.
Wade then stood and walked to the perimeter of the clearing where hay bales were stacked neatly. He picked one up and carried it back to the center, talking as he went: “My grandmother, the family tyrant, was so eager to prepare Hanna for her destiny, she both neglected and underestimated me. From her, I learned of the Ravens and their gift of immortality.”
My peripheral vision became a kaleidoscope of raging fears. A minute ago I thought I’d been dealing with the school jerk and bully. I now realized I was up against something bigger.
“What do you want?” I asked, my voice hoarse with terror.
“At first, I was thrilled to think the elusive third covenant was within my reach. To my absolute delight, however, I realized you two offer even more.”
“What are you talking about?” The rope was too tight. My fingers were going numb. I squirmed to readjust by even the smallest of margins.
“Which brings us, quite nicely, to the why — you two offer passage to the other realms. Legend has it that in Asgard, at Valhalla — home of the great Odin — warriors are rewarded with great powers.”
“Wade, seriously, untie me so we can talk.” I wrestled again with the ropes. They didn’t budge. “You’re not making any sense. I can’t offer you passage to anywhere.”
“You can’t alone, but the two of you together, now, that’s a different story.” Wade continued to gather bales and bring them to the clearing. It seemed he was shaping some sort of ring out of them, with Jack at its center.
I looked again at Jack; he still wasn’t moving. “Why do you need us?”
He stopped, balancing an armful of hay. “The mysterious Vernal Incantation. My silly grandmother telling me how, for hundreds — if not thousands — of years, magical creatures gathered at portals throughout the world on the day of the spring equinox. The only day each year when the bridge can be lowered.”
“Today’s not the spring equinox. It’s not even the fall equinox.”
Wade dragged another bale into the clearing. He had completed a tight circle around Jack. He then pulled a metal canister of something from his pocket. It was lighter fluid. My hopes plunged.
“No, it’s not, which is why we can skip the when. All those idiots, for all that time, were looking for a convergence of time — not of people.” Wade walked in a loop, dousing the hay. “And you are more than a Stork, aren’t you? You are the Robin, the sign of spring.”
I inhaled quickly, audibly. Could Dorit really be so careless with her tongue?
“And Jack, rumor has it, is one of the Winter People.” Wade set th
e canister on the ground, walked to the edge of the clearing, and returned with a flaming torch. “It’s really quite simple once you contemplate the Vernal Incantation as referring to beings, not dates. I had to congratulate myself on that one: pegging you two as the personifications of spring and winter. So instead of a calendar date, you two conveniently made a Homecoming date. And it’s all foretold in a funny little poem.” Wade held the torch to the side of his face, creating an eerie hollow of incandescence. He spoke in a rhythmic chant:
“Heimdall, keeper of the Bifrost Bridge,
We call you lo this keening.
Sound Gjallar, your trusted horn,
While Spring from Winter is weaning.
A key we offer you, Brave Heimdall,
Ostara’s Dawning, it’s ken by.
To Water, to Ice, or to Asgard’s Sky,
Open passage ’fore the Frost doth die.”
I knew where Wade had perfected the poet’s cadence he’d skillfully affected at the Asking Fire: at Dorit’s knee, learning the Vernal Incantation.
Wade then touched the torch to one of the hay bales. It caught instantly with a whoosh and crackle, and quickly ignited the entire wheel of straw. “If the what isn’t clear to you yet,” he said, his eyes sparking like the flames below him, “your presence at Jack’s death will open the legendary portal — the Bifrost Bridge.”
The fire encircling Jack was growing. Flames, ferried by the night winds, licked high into the air. The heat had to be tangible.
The smoke burned my throat and stung my eyes. The smell made me sick to my stomach. I watched, in both relief and dismay, as Jack stirred, moaning and pulling at his constraints. “Stop it!” I yelled to Wade. “He’ll burn.”
Wade’s nasty laugh again permeated the clearing. “What better way to kill winter than with fire and heat?”
Once more, Jack moved and groaned.
“Jack!” I yelled, though my voice was now choked with tears. “Wake up! Can you hear me?”
Wade approached the growing fire, now dangerously closing in on Jack. With a flick of his wrist, he sprayed more lighter fluid over the blaze. The flames kicked high into the air.
“Getting closer,” Wade said. “As one of the Winter clan, his tolerance of heat is much lower than yours or mine. A degree or two increase in body temperature, while an annoyance to most, is fatal to poor Jack here. The heat from this fire is cooking him alive. Another wonderful tidbit my grandmother shared with me.” Wade paced, watching and rubbing his palms together. “Roasting nicely.”
As if he heard, Jack howled in response.
I momentarily rejoiced that he was coming to, though everything seemed to be building much too quickly to some sort of finale. I had to think fast. What good was soul delivery in a situation like this? Not much, I thought with a spill of panic. And birds? Where was my guardian eagle now? I closed my eyes to the immediacy of the situation, not easy with Jack moaning in pain. I suddenly found myself in the clearing of my dreams, the place where my newly discovered gift had felt its most powerful, its most magical. A light breeze lifted tendrils of my hair; sunlight warmed my cheeks. As I gazed in wonder at my mystical woodland clearing, I sensed that I was at the origin of my magic. Two steps took me to one of the stump-carved chairs; I ran my hand over its nubby bark. I approached the earthen bed where the baby had lain. Kneeling to gather a fistful of leaves and soft petals, I was overcome with an extraordinary sense of determination and resolve. I felt my instincts rising and with them the memory of an ancient voice. I opened my mouth, and I cawed. I called to the eagle, the owl, the gull, and even the arrogant peacock. I had no idea what emanated from me, whether the cries, screeches, and squawks were audible in the real world or just my dream one. I feared I was wasting precious time, but I couldn’t stop. What I experienced was visceral and primitive, a distress call predating language itself.
When I opened my eyes, I could barely see Jack for shooting flames, but I could still hear him. He was in agony, but at least alive.
And then Wade loomed over me. He sneered and heaved me over his shoulder like a duffel bag. I continued to fight, squirming and twisting, but it was useless with the thick ropes binding me. From this elevated position, I got a look at Jack, whose entire body was convulsing in pain. I noticed blisters on his face and arms.
“You’ll need to come with me,” Wade said. “You are, after all, Ostara’s Dawning — the key. All we need now is for his last few gasps of life. He really can’t take the heat.”
I screamed. It was loud and shrill. I felt my throat strip with ribbons of pain, but I continued screaming. I heard a thunderous sound — and then birds rushed in from every direction. They dove at the fire, hundreds of them, the weight of their bodies suffocating the flames, extinguishing the light. Their wings flapped in angry snaps and they gouged at Wade with diving beaks and sharp talons. Wade continued to carry me like a sack, using my body as a shield against the attacking birds. They buffeted and bumped me, but spared me their beaks and claws.
A river of air, loud and angry, roared down on us, and I watched in wonder as a milky substance materialized in the sky, lowering and descending in a cloudlike swell. A bridge appeared through the mist. Wade tightened his hold on me with one arm, while pawing at the air with his other, as if he could quicken the descent of the billowy span. It soon lowered to the ground, and although birds dove at us from every angle, Wade stepped onto the bridge. There was a flash of light, then a cracking sound boomed from above, and I felt a jolt that knocked me out of Wade’s arms and onto the cold, hard ground. I looked up to see Wade crumble to the ground, clutching his chest in shock and agony.
Confusion gripped me as the birds descended, pecking and nibbling at me. It took several moments before I realized I was unharmed and free of the ropes. I looked around. Feathers and birds choked the air and blanketed Jack’s body. Hundreds more lay dead in the smoldering ashes. I stumbled to him, stepping over carcasses large and small, and through burning embers. Though the birds had picked him free of his bindings, Jack wasn’t moving, wasn’t breathing, and the skin on his face and arms was bright red and shiny. I fell to my knees, choking with emotion and afraid to touch him. I assumed the worst. Tears ran down my face.
“A catastrophe! I tell you, Fru Hulda, a catastrophe!” The harsh voice of Grim filled the air. “How long was the portal open? What has been wrought this horrible night?” That acidic tone was pure joy to me. I lifted my head and saw her and Hulda step into the clearing.
Hulda rushed over to Jack. “Quick,” she commanded. “The white clay, the aurr, from the base of the ash. And the herbs. Did you bring them?”
Hulda sifted through a leather bag stuffed with leaves, berries, barks, and small medicine bottles. She extracted a mortar and began adding ingredients, crushing some with a pestle, and crumbling others with her fingers. Grim rushed to a nearby tree and began pawing at the ground, filling her apron with clumps of mud. She firmly pushed me aside and began pressing the white paste onto Jack’s burns, with long, quick strokes covering his arms and face. Hulda continued with her potions, adding a single drop from a bottle of inky black liquid, and a healthy glug from another containing something yellow and foamy. A sharp scent filled my nostrils. Hulda held the concoction under Jack’s nose. I sat back on my heels, watching and feeling useless as the two women tended to Jack, who didn’t seem to have the slightest flutter of life in him.
“I fear we’re too late,” Grim said in a sad voice.
“He used his last spit of life saving our Katla,” Hulda said. She caressed the white mud over his face in tender strokes.
“No!” I yelled, throwing myself on Jack’s chest. “He’s not dead. Jack, you’re not dead. We survive. Remember? We find a way to survive.”
My grief-stricken body was so racked with emotion that I didn’t notice the rise and fall of his chest. But then Jack coughed and moaned in pure anguish. Never had the sound of misery and suffering been so welcome.
“Praise be,”
Hulda said.
I was crying too hard to form coherent thoughts, never mind words or sentences.
“Let us do our work now, Katla,” Hulda said.
I scooted back again.
Hulda continued to hold the mysterious rub under his nose, while Grim pressed the salve into his burns. Jack was soon covered in a ghastly white plaster; his breath was ragged, and he rocked in spasms of pain. The two of them muttered softly to each other. Grim moved back and forth collecting armfuls of leaves. Soon, over the layer of white clay, there was a blanket of foliage covering him. And then they chanted something in Icelandic over and over, their voices plaintive and solemn. For a long, long time I didn’t dare interrupt them, or ask questions, or get in the way. I was vaguely aware of other movement in the strange clearing. I thought I recognized Fru Birta — in a long, white hooded coat, and others similarly clad — dragging and lifting and clearing things from the scene, one of which I realized was Wade’s heavy body.
Finally Grim began to brush the leaves from Jack. Hulda, using the tails of her apron, wiped the thick clay from his arms.
He stirred and slowly opened his eyes. “What happened?” he asked, his voice parched.
“A terrible thing,” Hulda said. “A breach of many years’ peace.” Hulda waved at the air in front of her. “We don’t talk of such things now. Now we focus on healing.” Hulda continued to wipe the clay from him.
I gasped as I realized he was unscathed: no char, no blisters, no twisted skin.
Jack struggled to a sitting position. Color returned to the bits of him visible through the splotchy dried mud. “What about Wade?”
“Dead,” Hulda said.
Jack clutched his knees to his chest. “That was intense,” he said, looking up to where I stood.
I hurried over, crouched next to him on the ground, and threw my arms around him. I started to cry again. He rubbed my arm up and down in response.
“Fru Hulda, Fru Grimilla,” I said, wiping my eyes and struggling to control the shake in my voice. “I can’t thank you enough. How did you do it? How did you heal him so fast?”
