by Ben Galley
Still the priest said nothing.
“You would keep silent? Then perhaps I will tell them everything I know.” Eyja turned from the priest, her heart racing with wild abandon, giddy with her own recklessness, and faced the villagers. “You have all been deceived. He is no true priest. He speaks the words, he makes the sacrifices, but the gods do not speak to him. Not even cunning Loki whispers in his ear.”
Stony faces met Eyja’s words and she felt her stomach clench, felt the cool night air chase away the heat of her righteous anger. She sought Kolli’s face, but there was no relief to be found in his eyes, no support. Instead she saw resignation and pity.
And suddenly, at a gesture from Ljotolf, torches descended on her and strong hands seized Eyja. Fighting their clutches, she fell to her knees and was dragged through the fish-slick ground. As Eyja was hauled away, she caught a glimpse of Ljotolf through the shadowy crowd. The priest did not bother to hide his satisfaction.
They deposited her at the edge of the fjord and left her to shiver in the cold mud. Her dress, torn and soiled, was no shield against the night, but for a long moment Eyja lay in the dark, bereft of the will to move and seek warmth.
But she was not alone.
The priest’s voice slid out of the night, sly and confident.
“You should blame your father, girl, not me. It was his choice.”
Eyja pushed herself to her bloody knees, then to her feet, mustering every shred of dignity she could. “I will not. My father gave me love and courage and kindness. You have given me only fear and hatred and bitterness.”
Ljotolf studied her for a moment. “You would like to kill me. I can see it in your eyes.” His weathered face cracked into a smile. “But do you know what I can also see? You will never be strong enough. Not of body or mind.”
Eyja stood straight and tall before him, determined not to let him see how his words ate at her heart.
“From the first time I laid eyes on you, I knew you would be less than useless. I knew you would be a disgrace to the gods, that you would shame your family. Now I see that when the gods blessed the race of men with a spark of life from Asgard, you received none. You might as well be dead.”
Ljotolf turned and left Eyja to the night.
Solhallow lay hidden in the clouds when Eyja approached. She had seen it twice before, the hall of Ingis, under blue skies and amid the early green of spring. A mighty place, built high in the hills. Now, beneath a thick blanket of clouds and the first dusting of the season’s snow, it seemed somehow smaller.
The rain had turned to snow as Eyja made her ascent and by the time she emerged from the heavy mists and was hailed by a lookout in a watchtower, she was coated in white. After giving her name and the name of her village, she was granted a place near the hearth in the hall’s greatroom so that she might warm herself while she waited for Valbjorn, lord of Ingis, to see her.
Eyja was glad of the wait. She had walked for four days to reach Solhallow, two of them in rain, and her clothing was soaked through. She shivered as the heat of the roaring fire struggled at first to breach the barrier of wet and cold around her, but then at last she felt the warmth and she slipped into a state resembling sleep.
She was awoken by a man with green eyes, who watched her with quiet thoughtfulness as she roused herself.
“Do you have a name, girl?” His voice was warm and calm.
“I must speak with the lord of this hall. Is he here?”
The green-eyed man smiled a little. “He is here. And he would like to know your name.”
“I am Eyja Rikulfstottir. I already gave my name at the gate.”
“And now I have asked it again, so that we might be known to one another, Eyja Rikulfstottir.” The man settled onto a low wooden bench near the hearth. “My name is Valbjorn.”
Eyja should have scrambled to her feet. She should have asked his forgiveness. Instead she found herself scrutinizing the man who was watching her with mild amusement.
“I thought you would be different.”
“Taller? Older? Wiser?”
“More dangerous.”
Valbjorn drew back, genuinely surprised at Eyja’s response. “Is that what you want from me? Would you rather I were all axe and shield and raving battle rage?”
Eyja felt her cheeks grow warm. “I just did not expect a lord to have such kind eyes.”
Valbjorn grew somber. “Many do not. What is it that you want from me, Eyja Rikulfstottir? You have come a long way. There must be a reason.”
Eyja had rehearsed her words carefully during her journey, repeating them over and over until they ran together in her mind. But now, with the lord of Ingis waiting for her answer, the words seemed useless.
“I come to ask for your judgment as the law-giver of Ingis.”
Valbjorn nodded and gestured for Eyja to continue. And so Eyja recounted her history with Ljotolf and the secret deal her father had felt he had to make to safeguard her future as a priestess. She told him of the fish she had brought to Ljotolf’s house and of the words she had spoken against the priest in front of everyone they knew.
Valbjorn listened without interrupting, his eyes never straying from Eyja’s face. When she finished, he shifted on his bench so that he leaned back against the nearest wall, his long legs stretched out before him.
“What do you think I should do?”
Eyja hesitated, the question unexpected. “I want Ljotolf to return the silver he collected from my father for three years. I want him punished for extorting money he had no right to. A priest is a servant, not a lord.”
“That is what you want, Eyja.” Valbjorn crossed his arms over his chest. “What should I do?”
Eyja frowned. “What do you mean? Do you not believe me?”
The small smile returned to Valbjorn’s face. “I believe you.” The lord of Ingis sighed. “But to do as you ask would deprive my people of a priest. Those who are willing and able to take the sacred vows are few and far between. Those who have given years of their lives to the gods and who have unmatched knowledge are even rarer. Here, within the borders of Ingis, I can think of only three. Ljotolf may be everything you say he is, but if I remove him, cast him out, it is not only your village that will lose its sacred guide.”
“I can be their sacred guide.” The words burst forth before Eyja was sure of them and she held her breath as Valbjorn studied her.
“Can you? I see in you the learning of the priests, I see the training and the skill. But I think the gods are not alone in your heart and mind. I think there is something else.”
Eyja dropped her gaze to the hearth and the flames that leaped within. She wondered if the words forming on her tongue would mean her death. “I have sometimes prayed to Ymir. I have made offerings to him just as I would Odin. In return, I have felt his presence, just as I have felt the Allfather when he is watching. Or Frigg or Ran or Freyr.”
For the first time since joining Eyja at the hearth, Valbjorn looked troubled. His forehead knit together in a frown, but his eyes retained their warmth even as he searched her face. At last he spoke, and the question he chose to ask was not what Eyja expected.
“What does Ymir feel like? How do you know it is not Odin who speaks to you?”
Eyja struggled to put words to something only her bones knew.
“Ymir feels older than the Allfather. And weary.” Eyja hesitated and looked at Valbjorn. “Odin still knows joy.”
Valbjorn was quiet, then he nodded and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I cannot make you the priestess of your village, not while you have yet to take the final vows and make the last trial. Ljotolf must retain his position. For now. But,” he went on, holding up a finger as Eyja began to speak, “I will visit your village and I will speak with him. I doubt he has any silver to give back to you, Eyja. Will you accept his public apology? Will you be
satisfied if he comes to you on his knees, admits his wrongdoing, and restores your father’s honor and your standing?”
The fire crackled as Eyja pondered the lord of Ingis’s offer. “I must say yes, I think.”
Valbjorn smiled. “I see your discontent and I understand it. But sometimes it is good to be wiser than we would like to be.”
The cry for help came to Eyja through the fog that had followed her south back to her village.
Eyja came to a halt, unsure if her ears were playing tricks on her. But then it came again, faint and desperate. Eyja closed her eyes, shutting out the forest around her and listened, trying to determine the direction of the call. The village was close, but too far for anyone else to hear the voice. If Eyja did not find the woman, for it was a woman, she was sure, no one would.
At last Eyja opened her eyes and veered from the track that would take her home, heading west through tall pines and across needle-strewn ground. She was rewarded for her choice, for the cries became louder and more distinct, but the fog had one final trick to play, masking just how close Eyja was until she nearly stumbled upon the woman.
The pride and poise that had dwelled in Gunnleif’s eyes in the forge was gone, replaced with wild fear. She was on the ground, held fast around her torso by a thick, thorny vine that had already engulfed her legs, which were buried up to her knees in a quagmire of mud. She writhed in agony and cried out as the barbed thorns cut deeper into her flesh.
“Loki’s snare,” Eyja muttered to herself. She had heard of the deadly plant and the muddy trap it set for the unsuspecting, but she had never seen it in the midst of slowly devouring a victim.
For a moment, Gunnleif went still and silent as she recognized Eyja, then some new horror crept into the fear in her face. Her gaze dropped to the knife at Eyja’s side and, frantic, she began struggling with renewed vigor, afraid now of something other than the trap she was caught in.
“Gunnleif.” Eyja went to her knees, keeping well away from the mud that would suck her, too, below the surface if she strayed too close. She could see the telltale sprouts of green that signaled vines lurking beneath the muck. Gunnleif moaned and fought against the vines. “Gunnleif,” Eyja tried again. “You must not struggle.”
“Why, so you can cut my throat like a sheep?” Gunnleif snarled through gritted teeth.
“I won’t have to cut your throat if you keep fighting against the vine. It will kill you soon enough.”
Gunnleif’s shout of defiance turned to tears of pain and fear as the thorns cut deeper. Fresh blood trickled out from between the tightly wrapped cords and then Gunnleif screamed as the mud around her gave a great heave, dragging her in up to her waist. Gunnleif’s one free hand clawed uselessly at the ground, searching for something to hold on to and finding nothing.
“Be still. Stop fighting it,” Eyja said. “It is too strong for you.”
Tears streamed down Gunnleif’s cheeks. “It will take me, it will drag me under.”
“You must listen to me, Gunnleif. The more you struggler, the tighter its grip will become. You must be still.”
Gunnleif whimpered, her fear coursing through her. She jerked against the vine and Eyja, without thinking, leaned forward and seized Gunnleif’s hand.
“I won’t let it take you. But it will never let go if you continue to fight.” Heedless of the danger to her own arms, perilously close to the waiting, lurking vines, Eyja placed her other hand on Gunnleif’s cheek, forcing the other woman to look her in the eye. “You will have to trust me.”
Gunnleif trembled under Eyja’s touch, her desire to fight wrestling with her fear of Eyja. At last, with shuddering breaths, she willed her body into stillness, never once looking away from Eyja’s face. And Eyja held fast to Gunnleif’s hand, her thumb resting on the other woman’s cheekbone, her fingers tucked in Gunnleif’s hair, that dark hair she had last seen under moonlight and against Kolli’s naked skin.
The twinge of resentment and jealously that flashed through Eyja must have shown on her face, for Gunnleif stiffened, her fear returning, but Eyja closed her eyes, forced herself to breathe evenly, and began to sing.
It was a song from her childhood, a song she had not heard in many years, and she felt her anger slip away just as she felt the vine begin to loosen.
Gunnleif uttered not a sound as the vine slowly shrank away from her skin, the thorns scraping and pulling at her already torn and punctured flesh. Eyja, her knees aching from crouching over Gunnleif, sang and sang, until at last the vine melted back into the mud.
For a moment, neither moved and Eyja realized Gunnleif was waiting for Eyja’s assurance that all would be well. She gave a nod and together, with painstaking care so as not to disturb the sleeping snare, their combined strength was enough to free Gunnleif from the mud.
Neither woman spoke for a long moment after Gunnleif regained her feet. They watched each other, each unsure of the other, each longing to be somewhere else.
“You should see a healer,” Eyja said at last. “Those cuts will need to be cleaned.”
Gunnleif managed a nod, and they walked the path to the village in silence.
Furious pounding on the door woke Eyja from a deep and heavy sleep. She lurched from beneath her furs, finding her feet while becoming aware that sunrise had come and gone long before. Once, this knowledge would have sent her racing to the sacrificial grove in a desperate attempt to avoid punishment from Ljotolf, but she knew she would never enter that grove again. Twisting her hair back from her face, Eyja opened the door.
Sunlight spilled in, and with it came a pair of hands. Before she could react, Eyja was seized and dragged across the threshold and into the open air. Fighting for her balance, Eyja could see the crowd that had gathered, could see their malignant faces and hard stares. And there, Ljotolf, triumphant.
“Did you think you would get away with it? Did you think we would not come for you and the gods would not punish you?” Ljotolf spread his arms, embracing the crowd. “You will pay for this crime with your life.” Eyja’s mind raced, trying to piece together the priest’s accusations. She saw a blur that might have been Gunnleif’s face and wondered if the shieldmaiden had blamed Eyja for the wounds caused by Loki’s snare.
At the priest’s signal, Eyja was shoved and pulled to the fjord, and it was then, as the sparkling waters came into view, that Eyja smelled it. Death.
The shore was littered with dead fish and the surface of the water beyond was dark with the bodies of fish rotting under the sun. Eyja gagged against the smell.
“Poisoned!” Ljotolf’s voice rang out behind her. “Cursed by this vile woman! Not a fish lives! Children will starve this winter because she has brought death to our waters. Fishermen will be unable to feed their families because she called upon the darkness of Helheim.”
Eyja was shoved to her knees in the shallow water of the fjord. “Lies!” she shouted. “He lies.” A fist struck her jaw and her head snapped back. Another landed in her stomach, and she doubled over, her protestations of innocence cut short.
“Let us purge our home of this evil! Let us free ourselves from this malevolence. We will never be safe, unless her wicked spirit is destroyed!”
Eyja heard voices roar their assent, felt hands grip her neck and skull, and then she was underwater, screaming, the air from her lungs bubbling around her. She fought back, kicking and lashing out with her arms, but her captors pushed her deeper and Eyja’s chest constricted with pain as she gasped in more and more water and her vision grew dark.
They plucked her from the water and Eyja, choking, floundered on her knees, hands grasping desperately at the men who had held her down, men who had known her as a child, men who had known her father and mother. With water obscuring her vision, she was spun around to face the shore. Ljotolf waited there, his sacrificial knife in hand. He waved away the men holding Eyja. They retreated to the shore to watch th
e priest’s spectacle as Eyja cast water from her lungs.
“Allfather, take this oathbreaker, who has made violence against us. Njord, cleanse our waters, that we may draw life yet from them.” Ljotolf stepped forward and raised the knife. “Hel, take her into your embrace and condemn her to endless torment. This I, Ljotolf, servant of the gods, ask.”
The knife came down, but never found its mark.
Gunnleif, a shield in hand, thrust herself between Eyja and the priest. The blade thudded home in the wood and Ljotolf, suddenly off balance, staggered backward.
“Would you share her fate, whore?” Ljotolf snarled. The men who had nearly drowned Eyja advanced, ready to attack at the priest’s signal. But the faces of others in the crowd creased with confusion and Eyja heard more than one voice dissent against Ljotolf’s slur against the shieldmaiden. A boy, Gunnleif’s young brother, tried to force his way to his sister’s side and was shoved to the ground. Cries of protest at this treatment rang out, but no one else ventured forward. Eyja saw Kolli in the crowd, saw the cowardice in his eyes.
Gunnleif held her ground, the fjord lapping at her ankles. Only Eyja could see the blood that leaked through the back of her tunic from the mauling Loki’s snare had given her.
“My name, and my father’s before me, has good standing here,” Gunnleif said. “My ancestors have protected yours, bled for your mothers, died to save your fathers, your lands, and your homes. My family has given your children a future. Does this mean nothing?” Eyja watched Gunnleif scan the crowd. “Bornhald Ekhildsson, our grandfathers fought together against the raiders from Wayhold. Will you not stand with me?” The burly man dropped his gaze and did not answer. “Kollfinn Fjarvoldsson.” Eyja saw Kolli shrink beneath Gunnleif’s piercing gaze. “You have loved us both. Will you now watch us die?” Kolli, shame flushing his pale cheeks, said nothing. Gunnleif spat in his direction. “I hope your cock shrivels up and falls off.” Left to defend Eyja alone, Gunnleif stood tall, her shoulders pushed back, and looked at last to Ljotolf.
