by Agnes Ravatn
Do you know what this is? he asked as I tipped the contents of the bucket on top of the pile.
This? Just weeds, I replied quickly.
He laughed.
No. This, just there.
He pointed at the white, daisy-like blooms that peeped out through cracks in the low stone wall.
I moved closer.
This? I hesitated for a moment. I think it’s Balder’s brow.
That’s Balder’s brow?
Named after the eyelashes of the Norse god Balder. When the petals close in the evenings and open up again during the day, the flower head looks like a blinking eye.
He looked at me with surprise.
I only know that because I was so obsessed with Balder as a girl.
Why was that?
He followed me through the dry, yellow grass, back towards the bank.
He was my first love. The first to break my heart, too.
I set to pulling out the root again, growing warm at the thought of him standing behind me.
I don’t remember the story of Balder.
It’s a sad, lovely story.
Sad and lovely?
He brings about the destruction of the world, but that allows for a newer, better world to emerge.
A new world, he said.
I nodded.
How so?
Balder dreams of awful things in the beginning – blood, disturbing omens, that kind of thing.
Really?
The other gods become concerned for him, so they gather in the assembly and Odin decides to investigate. He saddles up his steed, Sleipnir, and rides to Helheim. Upon his arrival he calls forth a seeress who lies buried to the east of the gates of Helheim. He asks her why preparations are being made in the great hall and she reluctantly tells him that they are preparing to welcome Balder into their midst.
Balder is going to die, he said. He was standing perfectly silently behind me.
Yes.
So what happens?
When Odin returns home with word of Balder’s death, the gods refuse to accept it. Frigg takes oaths promising not to harm Balder from every earthly creation – fire, water, iron, stone; every animal, bird, snake; every plant, every disease; she goes to each and every one of them.
So he becomes indestructible.
Yes. And the gods begin to have some fun: they shoot arrows, throw spears and stones at him, strike him with their swords. Nothing can hurt him.
And then? he asked, sitting down on the stone wall, our eyes meeting for a fleeting moment before I returned to the weeds. He was so odd. He stared at me.
Loki stands at the edge of the group and looks at what’s going on, growing more and more envious of Balder.
Loki.
Yes. He transforms himself into a woman and goes to Frigg, who is also watching the gods at play. Loki asks her if she really received sworn oaths from all earthly creations that they wouldn’t harm Balder. She tells him yes, but then remembers that she neglected to ask the mistletoe, which she felt sure was too small to cause any harm.
I paused. I hadn’t spoken this much in weeks. I feared that I was forging ahead like a steamroller, the wine causing me to babble; but Bagge sat quietly, listening attentively to every word. He had asked me to talk. My voice wavered slightly, I cleared my throat.
Loki picks the mistletoe and goes to Höd, Balder’s brother. Loki asks Höd why he isn’t honouring Balder like the other gods. Höd is blind and explains to Loki that he can’t see, and even if he could, he has no weapon to use. I’ll help you, Loki tells him.
He craned his neck, leaning ever closer to listen in. I pulled up a final patch of ground elder and dropped it in the bucket.
Höd draws the bow Loki gives him and Loki carefully places the mistletoe, helping Höd to take aim. The mistletoe pierces Balder’s body and he falls down dead.
Bagge looked up, shocked.
You didn’t know? I said.
Sitting before me he suddenly looked like a small child.
Balder dies?
Yes.
What happens after that?
The gods are distraught. They can’t speak, their once-strong arms now limp and useless by their sides. They stand there looking at one another in silence and despair. Not one of them can explain the weight of the sorrow they feel. They can only cry. Odin realises this is the greatest misfortune to hit gods and mankind.
His throat at the neckline of his coarse wool jumper was red.
I picked up the bucket and cut across the garden, emptying it over the compost heap. Bagge stayed where he was, sitting on the stone wall. There was no more weeding to be done. If I were to attempt anything more complicated, he’d quickly realise that I didn’t know what I was doing. I made my way up to the tool shed with the bucket. The sun warmed me. I picked up the broom, crossed the garden, walked up the steps to the veranda and started sweeping, the kind of task that couldn’t go wrong. I felt the beams of sunlight radiate through me as I watched Bagge stand up and make his way up through the garden.
He sat on the veranda steps, his back to me, and I moved the broom in long, strong sweeps, trying to make it look like a graceful dance, though failing miserably as soon as the thought occurred to me.
Does the story end there?
No, there’s more.
I slowed my sweeping and carried on with the tale, trying to recall all the details.
After the gods have assembled, Frigg asks who will ride to Helheim on her behalf to offer a ransom for Balder, releasing him from the underworld and returning him to Asgard. Hermód, Odin’s son and Balder’s brother, agrees to go. He borrows Sleipnir and rides away, leaving the gods to arrange Balder’s cremation. Do you know this part?
No.
The gods carry Balder’s body down to the shore. Balder owned Ringhorn, the most impressive ship in Asgard. They decide this is where they should cremate his body.
What do you mean?
Setting fire to the body on board the ship, then setting the ship out to sail. But when the time comes to move the ship from the land out onto the water for the cremation, it won’t budge. None of the gods are able to move it, not even Thor. In the end they are forced to send for the giantess known as Hyrrokin, who rides on wolf-back with vipers for reins. She takes hold of the ship’s stern and elegantly pushes it out onto the water on her first attempt. Thor is so enraged that he attacks her, trying to crush her skull, but the gods step in and manage to stop him. Ringhorn is finally on the water. They lay Balder out on his shield and carry him onto his ship. His widow’s heart breaks as she watches from the shoreline and she dies, too, unable to face the prospect of a life without him. The gods carry her on board and lay her by his side.
What was his wife’s name?
Her name was Nanna.
He said nothing.
I stopped sweeping.
Don’t you think there’s something beautiful about the way she dies of a broken heart like that? I asked, swallowing.
I do, he replied, his eyes dark.
Balder’s horse is loaded on board in full riding gear, and Odin places his ring, named Draupnir, on board too. They set fire to the bodies and Ringhorn sails smoothly off into the distance.
He sat in perfect silence.
So … yes. I paused. I was on a high, my face almost certainly flushed. That was that.
He said nothing. He seemed lost in thought.
I carried the broom back to the tool shed. When I re-emerged, he was sitting beneath the cherry tree once again. He was gripping the stem of his empty glass with one hand and waved me over.
Can you fetch another, Allis? he asked gruffly.
Another bottle?
He nodded.
I went inside and ran my hands under scorching hot water, working up a soapy lather, rubbing away every trace of earth, splashing my face to wash the sweat from my brow. My arms and legs trembled as I selected a bottle from the fridge. When I returned to the garden, he was lying on the grass. Tentatively I stood
behind him.
Have you ever tried lying down like this? His voice was distant, almost as if he weren’t really talking to me. Warily I lay down, two metres or so from him. The grass tickled my neck.
I think I ought to put on some laundry. It’s a good day for drying washing out here.
But there’s no breeze, Allis.
He rolled up his shirt sleeves. My entire body was tensed; I was afraid he’d hear my heart pounding. After a while I carefully turned my head just enough that I could see him out of the corner of my eye. He looked as if he were sleeping. His chest rose and fell steadily. I turned my head a little further, examining his face. He had fine lines around his eyes. His hair curled slightly just by his ears. He looked no older than he was. I felt an urge to stroke his brow. He was glistening with sweat. I turned away from him once again and closed my eyes. I couldn’t relax, but still I lay there, trying my best to breathe calmly. The bottle of wine I had brought out was on the table, getting warm. I was beginning to feel tired. He always ensured I was lagging behind him, dominated by his temperament. He allowed himself to be driven by impulse. Left me feeling despondent and alone. He took deep breaths, yet hardly made a single sound.
After a short while I stood up, taking care to move quietly, then strolled over to the tool shed to see if there were any mouse traps. I couldn’t see any. I took a walk around the house to check for gaps between the frames or around the cellar window. No mouse would be capable of chewing through the high foundation wall. I recalled my father screwing metal fittings along the bottom of the doors in our cabin. I decided to buy some early that week, and to remove the shrubbery that lined the walls of the house to make sure the mice had nothing to climb up.
I glanced over at him, still lying on the grass. It was strange the way he had fallen asleep like that, so suddenly, right in the middle of the day. The wine and the sunshine had probably made him drowsy. I made my way into the kitchen and started on dinner.
When everything was ready and I walked out onto the veranda to call Bagge in, I saw that it had started to rain. He lay there in the drizzle, perfectly at peace. I had no idea what to think. I stood on the veranda and stared at him. The rain began to beat down harder and the drops grew heavier. There was a downpour on the way. I ran out to him. His hair was dripping wet, his shirt and trousers clinging to his body. He still lay with his eyes closed. I shook him by the shoulder and his eyes shot open, he looked straight at me, his expression grave. His dark hair stuck to his forehead. Droplets splashed against his high cheekbones, his lips.
My God, you can’t just lie here like this.
He continued to gaze at me, raindrops hammering against his face. He grimaced, then started laughing.
Come into the house, I said firmly, grabbing his hand. He hoisted himself up and followed me up onto the veranda and into the house.
Get yourself changed before you catch a cold.
All of a sudden I heard a rumble of thunder outside. He looked at me.
Go on, go and change into some dry clothes! I nudged him in the direction of his room.
Are you afraid of thunderstorms? He stuttered slightly.
No.
He made his way to his bedroom, re-emerging soon after. He’d changed into a lightweight, green woollen jumper and a pair of dark trousers. I had laid the table for him as I waited. He took a seat, seeming a little embarrassed. I served him his veal cutlet and asked what he’d like to drink. Red wine, he replied.
When I returned from the cellar with a bottle he was still at the table, shaking with the cold. I hurriedly found him a blanket, which I wrapped tightly around his shoulders. It felt like such an intimate act. He laughed at me.
What’s so funny? You’ll catch your death. I’m going to light the fire.
I crouched down and stacked the wood in the fireplace as he ate. I heard his teeth clattering against the cutlery.
Now I understand why you need someone here to look after you, I remarked as the wood began to burn.
He smiled. I sat down and poured some wine into his glass. He looked down and continued eating. Lightning flashed outside, and after a few seconds a new roll of thunder boomed.
Not far from here.
He said nothing.
You should have dried your hair properly.
Slowly he chewed a piece of meat, wrapped tightly in his blanket, then he placed his cutlery down and drained his glass of its contents. I walked over to the fire and blew gently, cinders whirling upwards and drifting into the room, the flames flickering brightly. I placed another log on. He was no longer eating. The clattering of thunder drifted in from outside.
I think you could do with a hot bath.
He turned to look at me.
Shall I run one for you?
He nodded.
I stood up and climbed the stairs, turning the bathroom tap on and slowly filling the tub. He hadn’t set foot on my floor of the house since I’d arrived, at least not that I had ever seen, not since showing me to my room on the first day. I tested the water with my hand to make sure it wasn’t too hot. When I turned around to call out that it was ready, I found him standing behind me in the doorway. I let out a gasp of surprise, my God, why did he insist on creeping around in silence like that?
It’s ready, I said.
His face was pale, his lips slightly blue. I stood up and stepped back from where I had been crouching at the edge of the bathtub, but Bagge remained in the doorway, blocking the exit. He pulled his jumper over his head without looking at me, he was wearing nothing underneath. I hesitated. He fumbled with the buttons at his fly and stepped in my direction. I leapt aside and turned away as he let his trousers fall to the floor. I blushed, my face hot; what was he doing? He stepped into the tub, his body sliding underwater, his head sinking back against the edge as I hurried out and pulled the door firmly closed behind me.
Agitated and heavy-handed, I cleared the table downstairs. Once again he was at pains to demonstrate just how little I meant to him; I was nobody, nothing, forced to accept the self-sacrificing role thrust upon me. After finishing the washing up, I stoked the fire and poured myself a large glass of wine. I stepped out onto the veranda and inhaled the evening air, tinged with the faint scent of summer, everything around me glistening wet and green. All of a sudden hail started to thrash down. I remained on the veranda and stared at the large pellets that hammered against the garden furniture.
Bagge was probably drowning in the bathtub without even realising it. If that were the case, then he’d hardly be missed. I closed the veranda door and made my way down into the cellar to fetch another bottle of wine. If he could take such liberties, then so would I. I placed a few birch logs on the fire, and it began to make a difference. He had been in the bath for almost an hour, the water would surely be cold by now. If he had added more hot water, I’d have heard the tap running. Everything he did had started to feel so contrived.
God! I thought suddenly, does anybody have any idea what things are like for me here? I hadn’t spoken to my parents for eight weeks. Hadn’t had any contact with anyone, for that matter. Living here was like ceasing to exist. He had drawn me into this, with him, and yet here I was all on my own. Ugh, I groaned quietly at the table top. But there was nowhere else I could be. No other job I could imagine myself doing. Nothing. I suppose I just wanted things to be a little more pleasant here, maybe just to feel more like a friend than a hat stand. Just as my own thoughts were beginning to bore me, I heard him on the stairs, and Bagge, now fully dressed, arrived downstairs.
Better now?
Warmer, thanks.
There’s a good fire going, I said.
I can feel it. He pulled a chair out from where it had been tucked under the table, then reached for the bottle and poured himself some wine. He placed the bottle down without offering me a top-up, and even though my own glass was almost full, I was disappointed. We sat in silence.
There was a hailstorm a moment ago, I eventually murmured.
I
heard it on the roof. He bowed his head. See? I’ve dried my hair properly this time.
Yes, good boy.
He laughed. It startled me.
Did you go to university? he asked out of the blue.
Yes, for a few years.
What did you study?
Home economics, I replied, nervous in the face of my own quip.
The merest flicker of a smile.
Humanities.
Of course.
I had wondered if he would be impressed to find out I’d once worked at the university, but his reaction made me suddenly unwilling to elaborate after all.
And you? I knew I’d overstepped the mark.
I’ve studied.
You have?
He nodded.
Come on, you must at least be able to tell me what?
Law and order. He uttered the words into the air around us.
I see. I decided not to ask him any more questions, it was impossible to know when I’d gone too far. Neither of us said a word for a while. My cheeks were warm from the wine and the glow of the fire. He looked at me.
Do you need to take any holiday?
I hadn’t thought about it. I don’t have any plans.
It would be good if you could be here throughout the summer.
That’s not a problem.
I wanted him to raise his glass, but he sat there, serene and motionless. He can’t always have been like this. I hoped that he might ask me to fetch another bottle when this one was finished, that he’d open up a little, perhaps be more inclined to chat with a few drinks in him.
I wondered about applying some oil to the garden furniture tomorrow, if the weather’s nice, I said.
You could do.
I spotted a few tins of linseed oil in the tool shed.
