by Agnes Ravatn
Was it wrong of me?
No. You look beautiful.
I placed the casserole dish on the table and passed him the ladle. He helped himself as I carefully swirled the wine around inside my glass, waiting for him to taste the food.
Wow, he declared softly, leaning back in his chair.
Tender?
He nodded and carried on chewing. I helped myself from the steaming dish. We ate in silence, sipping our wine, snow still falling outside. I felt ashamed to be sitting there in his wife’s dress, but it had looked so beautiful in the mirror and had fitted me so perfectly, the shimmering, blue-green material almost the colour of a mallard’s head.
As he ate, he looked up at me again, but differently from before. He was staring at me. My cheeks were flushed. Here I am, I thought to myself, dressed as his wife. I changed my mind and swore to myself that I wouldn’t ask about the boathouse, wouldn’t risk the prospect of his anger flaring up yet again.
The casserole dish was empty. He had polished off everything and looked up at me with an expression bordering on disbelief. He stood up before I managed to do so.
Stay where you are, I’ll take care of this.
He picked up the plates and cutlery and carried everything to the sink.
Coffee?
Yes, please.
After he had poured our coffee and taken his seat once again, silence descended on us.
Do you think you’ll stay here for the rest of your life? I heard myself ask quite suddenly.
I do, he replied, as if it were nothing. I’m certain of it.
But don’t you need to work?
Do you think I don’t work?
I don’t know. Do you?
He peered at me over the rim of his coffee cup, eyes of quartz.
I didn’t mean to… I began. But … I happened to find the trapdoor leading to your workroom. When I was hunting for mice. I wasn’t sneaking around.
Hunting for mice? Are you a cat now?
I didn’t know where the stairs led, I just wanted to…
And you found yourself in an empty room.
I thought you said a while back that you were a lawyer?
A lawyer?
Law and order, that’s what you told me when I asked about your work.
His eyes softened.
Oh, Allis. You remember everything. I can’t say anything to you.
I didn’t mean to—
I’m sorting things out down in the boathouse. But you’re not allowed to see, not until I’m finished. I promise that you can see it then.
Why won’t you let me see?
You’d only be disappointed as things are.
He stood up.
A little port would go down nicely now, don’t you think?
I do.
He stopped in the middle of the room on his way to the cellar door.
Allis.
Yes?
Do you think you’ll stay here for the rest of your life, too?
Yes. I think I will, I replied, startled by my own words. The briefest hint of a smile flickered across his lips before he disappeared down the stairs. A sudden calm washed over me. He returned with the port, found two glasses in the cupboard and poured a little for us both.
He stood behind me after he had set the bottle down, his large, warm hands on my shoulders, the smooth fabric of the dress, holding them there calmly without a word. He gathered my hair in his hands, running his fingers through it before starting to braid. His rough fingers brushed gently against the nape of my neck, then he laid the plait over my left shoulder and turned me around to face him. He looked at me. Perhaps he caught a glimpse of something in my eyes.
Don’t be afraid, he said, cupping my face in his hands. He crouched down in front of me. I don’t think that you’re her.
No, I said, a sickly sorrow languishing in the pit of my stomach.
I don’t, he repeated. He leaned forward and kissed me tenderly, then ran his fingers through the braid, so my hair hung loose down my back.
You’re Allis.
I nodded.
Come with me.
I still had my room in the attic if I wanted to read or spend some time alone, but I slept in Bagge’s room. The house was cold at night, but his bed was warm. Sometimes he lay with his back to me, sometimes with an arm wrapped around me. I was still the first to get up each day to make breakfast; he would come in afterwards and we’d eat together.
After breakfast he would step into his boots, pull a thick jumper over his head and make his way down to the boathouse. I wandered between the trees, red-cheeked and runny-nosed, shaking the branches free from the wet, heavy snow to prevent damage, the same for the bushes too. There was very little to do in the garden. I spent my days tidying the tool shed, cleaning the tools carefully and sweeping up and throwing away any debris; I’d taken February at its word, the month the Etruscans named after the god of the underworld and purification. There were occasional periods of mild weather before the springtime chill would strike back without warning. I had tied fat balls to the branches of the cherry tree by the veranda, each one teeming with tiny birds that I’d watch for hours at a time from the window.
There were signs of spring beginning to emerge. I took cuttings from the trees outside and placed them in warm water, apple and cherry blossoms flourishing on the windowsills indoors.
I finished sorting through Nor’s things for anything that I wanted to keep, and had moved all of my clothes into his room. The rest had been packed back into boxes, which he had left in a skip behind the shop. I wondered whether things could really be like this, like they were now. I believed it was possible. Our days revolved around good food, reading, gardening, making love on occasion. In the evenings we would sit in our chairs, reading and stoking the fire, quietly discussing the snowfall, the snowdrops, the spring.
She surveyed me with a particular intensity having left me to my own devices for so long. The shelves were barer than ever, the vegetable section now little more than a few sparsely populated crates of root vegetables and the odd apple. I studied every onion with great care before placing it in my basket; on several occasions I had come home only to discover that they were mouldy beneath the outer layers. She peered at me brazenly wherever I roamed. It would soon be worthwhile taking the bus all the way into town to do my shopping, just to avoid this. I could build up a supply of dry goods with each trip, sacks of beans, lentils, grains and rice, and we could be self-sufficient in the future, at least as far as the majority of our vegetables were concerned. I could make contact with local hunters, buy meat directly from them, get eggs and milk from local farmers. Go fishing every day. I’d be more than happy to return to a system of bartering, but I would need something to exchange in return for what we needed.
A new coat, I see, she remarked as I placed my items on the counter. It suits you.
I was wearing Nor’s long, grey, woollen winter coat, somehow I hadn’t realised as I had prepared to leave the house.
Thank you. You certainly have a keen eye.
I see lots of things, you know.
Her frizzy, yellow hair lay flat against her pink scalp. A prickling sensation crept over me.
Yes, apparently so.
I took my change and lifted the bags from the counter.
Tell that foul nithing I send my best.
I stopped in my tracks, then turned and looked her in the eye.
What did you say?
Send my regards when you see him next.
Her gaze was unwavering as she stared back at me, the merest trace of a sneer on her face.
I longed to rush down to him in the boathouse but I didn’t want to disturb him. I waited until I saw him at dinner. When I told him what she had said, he stopped chewing. He raised his eyebrows as he lifted his glass and took a long swig.
Did she say anything else?
No, just that.
I omitted her comment about the coat. He said nothing.
So—
&n
bsp; Don’t dwell on it, he said, picking up his knife and fork and carrying on eating.
After dinner I made my way around the house to check the mouse traps. All twenty traps throughout the house were empty. I took my torch and ventured outside. The first two traps by the wood stack were empty, too, but as I neared the tool shed, I spotted two dark shadows in the traps, and my heart leapt. I hurried over to survey my catch, but the cone of light from my torch came to rest not on a mouse, but a great tit.
No, I murmured, hurrying to check the next trap: yet another great tit, nailed in place by the hard steel spring.
I didn’t know what to do. I stood up and walked around to the other side of the house to check the traps I had laid around there. Another two great tits, with a blue tit clamped to death in a third. Around the corner were two empty traps, with another great tit caught in a third. I counted seven empty traps and thirteen birds all in all, each lying flat with their black eyes wide open.
Unnerved by my discovery, I checked the bookshelves for a book or encyclopaedia or anything that might offer some suggestions as to what I could place in the traps that wouldn’t attract small birds.
What is it? Sigurd asked.
There are birds caught in the traps.
No mice?
No, just piles of mangled great tits.
He placed his book down in his lap.
What did you put in the traps?
Fat.
Try some sweet fruit, mice will go for that.
Fruit?
Or you could hang up a large nesting box at the edge of the forest and see if you can persuade a tawny owl to nest there. There are no better mice hunters, and there are plenty of tawny owls out there in the forest.
Really?
Have you buried the birds?
I looked down.
They’re still in the traps. I…
He picked up his book.
It’s just part of the job, he said with a stern expression.
That night I dreamt about the great tits, which I had laid to rest in a mass grave behind the wood stack before going to bed. In my dream, dead great tits were scattered everywhere I went, piled up in corners of the house, filling the bathtub, their eyes wide open, their shaggy little necks limp, their small heads and tiny beaks drooping, lifeless. I was wearing the shimmering green dress, cycling along the main road without a bicycle light, and tiny birds filled the ditches lining the road, mounds of their bodies littering my path, impossible to avoid running over as I cycled. When I entered the shop, she was stationed behind the counter as usual, an eagle mask covering her face.
In the middle of the night I was woken by sounds downstairs. I was alone in the bed. I heard the door close. It was almost four o’clock in the morning. He returned to the bedroom soon after, undressing and sliding under the bed covers. I tried as best I could to breathe normally, inconspicuously. His chest rose and fell hard and fast, and as I lay with my back to him, I could see the outline of the shadow he cast against the wall. What on earth was he doing outside at this time of night? There was a demonic glow about him. He reminded me of White Bear King Valemon from the fairy-tale. He placed an arm around me. I felt his warm breath on my neck and I grew calm.
I took my bicycle and wheeled it through the forest and up to the main road. When I arrived, I was surprised to find the shop in darkness, closed to customers. I let out a triumphant sigh. There wouldn’t be any fruit for my mouse traps after all, but at least I might have met her prying, eagle-eyed gaze for the last time. I turned around and cycled home, leaning over my handlebars, straight-backed, inwardly delighted, bolstered by a sensation of justice having been served.
He was standing in the garden when I trundled back down towards the house, axe in one hand and a small pile of freshly chopped wood behind him.
The shop was closed.
Oh?
But we have everything we need, at least for another few days. Do you want some help stacking that?
Please.
I brought the wheelbarrow over and started to fill it.
It was always a horrible experience shopping there, anyway, never knowing what she was going to say next.
Yes, he said. She won’t be troubling you anymore.
He grasped the handles of the wheelbarrow and rolled it neatly between the pile and where I stood, then I stacked each log soundly in place. The occasional snowflake fluttered in the air around us, the last of the winter snow. I carried an armful of logs into the house and lit the fire.
The April mornings were still cold. After breakfast we made our way outside, hats on and garden shears in hand. He pruned the fruit trees while I took care of the berry shrubs. He circled each tree again and again, carefully trimming selected branches one by one. Afterwards we raked up the branches and twigs and I rolled everything away in the wheelbarrow. When I returned, he was strolling along by the stone wall, on his way to the vegetable patch.
In the evening, he sipped a cup of tea in the kitchen as I chopped up root vegetables for baking in the oven.
But what happened to Hermód? he asked, setting his mug down.
Hermód?
Don’t you remember telling me the story of Balder? Hermód rode to Hel to offer her a ransom for Balder. To have him released from the underworld and sent back to Asgard. Remember?
Ah, Hermód. You have a good memory.
I had to think for a moment.
He rides for nine nights straight in pitch darkness, I said, sitting down at the table. Over Gjallarbrú, the bridge crossing the river Gjöll, and all the way to the gates of Helheim. He spurs Sleipnir and they leap over the gate. He dismounts and walks inside to find Balder seated on a throne.
His brother.
Yes. Hermód explains to Hel why he has come. He recounts the grief felt by gods and mankind in the wake of Balder’s death. He tells her that he has come on behalf of Frigg to beg Hel to allow him to take Balder home to Asgard. Hel agrees on one condition: she demands that everything in the world weep for Balder, whether living or dead. If every creature weeps, he’ll be allowed to return, but if even one fails to do so, Balder will have to remain there with her. Balder follows Hermód out and gives him Draupnir to pass on to Odin as a gift. Hermód rides home to Asgard with Hel’s message, and the gods send word to all the creatures in the world, begging them to weep until Balder is freed from Helheim. Every creature promises to do so apart from one old giantess who goes by the name of Thökk. When the gods’ messenger asks her to cry for Balder, she replies: Thökk will shed dry tears over Balder’s cremation. Let Hel keep what she has.
Loki, he whispered.
Yes.
And Balder is forced to remain there with Hel.
Yes.
So what about Loki?
Loki is discovered and tortured. They bind him with his own son’s entrails, which turn to iron. They hang a serpent above him, which drips venom onto his face, causing him excruciating pain. Loki’s wife Sigyn holds a small bowl over him to catch the venom before it falls onto his face, but whenever it becomes full she is forced to empty it, and the venom drips onto Loki’s face once again. He writhes around so violently that the whole world shakes, causing earthquakes.
She should have left him to take his punishment.
Everyone wishes him ill; he has no one. I think it’s poignant.
He cast me a dark glance.
It’s easy to love Balder. Everybody did. But imagine loving Loki, I said.
She’s hindering his atonement.
I took a deep breath.
I’d do the same for you, I replied, blushing as I uttered the words.
He flashed another glance at me then growled something and turned around, hastily pulling on his boots and storming out of the house. Without a word he tramped across the veranda and left me gaping, his large, strong back disappearing further down the garden. I had never said anything finer to any man, and this was my only thanks. I gathered the vegetable peel with agitated sweeps. He was being so unfair,
what kind of response was that? I had left myself vulnerable and his only reaction was to leave.
I roughly scrubbed the chopping board, rinsed and wrung out the cloth then made my way up to my room and sank down onto the bed. There were still a good few hours before my usual bedtime, but I decided to stay there until then. He could mull things over, sleep alone and have a good think about his behaviour. I lay motionless, eyes squeezed tightly shut, all of my remaining senses heightened.
A little after eleven I heard him downstairs. Footsteps, then a pause, and a few more back the way. Faltering. Irritating. He stepped into his bathroom. A little afterwards I heard him moving around again, closing his bedroom door behind him. I flipped over where I lay, my face buried in my pillow, sobbing with indignation. Just a few choked sobs, each one brief, then a deep breath before I managed to successfully summon sleep.
He was already sitting at the table when I arrived downstairs the following morning. Throughout my childhood and adolescent years, and now, even in adulthood, my irrational pride prevented me from ever taking the initiative when it came to reconciliation, ever. I walked by without looking at him or saying a word, taking a mug from the cupboard and pouring myself a cup of coffee before sitting down. It was up to him.
Allis.
I looked at him.
I’m sorry.
The knot inside me loosened slightly, I took his hand.
So am I.
Look, he said, turning around to glance behind him. He picked up a large, pale-coloured box, just over half a metre in height. There was a large hole in the front.
It’s a tawny owl nesting box. For your mice.
Is it really?
We can hang it today. If you’d like to, that is.
I would.
It needs to be up high, so it’ll take both of us.
I lifted the box, the edges of the light wood perfectly smooth, then opened the lid and looked inside, the base covered in a layer of sawdust, ready for moving into.
Did you make it yesterday?
He nodded.
It might be too late in the spring to attract any owls straight away, but we can try.
