Lightning Scarred

by Carolyn Ivy Stein

  Jörd

  Jörd heard him as he approached her prison wall through the roiling, curdled seas around Thule.

  She smelled summer wheat and riotous wine and longed to taste the world in full again.

  She sang louder, beckoning him.

  Let him but open the gate, she thought.

  Let him make the smallest portal. She would burst through and devour the world,

  so hungry was the giantess for the glowing hues of green and yellow and red.

  So hungry for plants that flowered, fruited, and fed the hungry, it maddened her.

  * * *

  Pytheus of Massalia

  Pytheus heard Jörd, and this time her song was not one of sorrow, but of deepest desire.

  Ravens tore at his heart. He had to join the voice, which spoke to him of fur-bundled nights,

  curled against a warm woman adorned with gold and tasting of honey.

  He longed for Jörd's flowered breath on his lips and her soft fingers touching his face.

  He spilled grain into the sea, followed by wine, both beloved by Artemis.

  Then he drove his crew forward into the cooling water.

  * * *

  Artemis

  This time, his summer goddess heard his plea and lazily drew a portal into the land of Thule.

  Let Pytheus see if he can take the land of Thule for me.

  Then shall summer extend to the roof of the world.

  Pytheus's ship sailed into ice-choked seas, meeting not a fair maiden, but something else entire.

  * * *

  Jörd

  Jörd saw the portal open, the wide world at the gate, and she shifted.

  No longer a beauteous woman, filled with sweet promises.

  Instead, white fur grew thick across her form, sharp claws and teeth sprouted from paws and maw.

  Hungry doom portended. She leapt, thirsting for Pytheus's heart's blood.

  * * *

  Pytheus of Massalia

  Pytheus of Massalia gazed in horror at the baleful teeth, the mouth large as a ship's boat.

  He ordered his vessel back through the portal, but it was too late.

  Jörd reached a paw through the gate.

  The crew beat at the waves while Pytheus drew his sword.

  He stabbed at the maw of the monster.

  But the waves beat them back, soaking the deck, knocking his sword aside.

  The frigid waters threatened to take the ship to the bottom of the sea.

  * * *

  He struck again but his best sword could not touch the goddess.

  It was deflected by her fur. She laughed at his puny attack.

  Only gods can fight gods, Pytheus thought.

  * * *

  Desperate, Pytheus shouted for Artemis, offering his life to his many-breasted southern goddess.

  Offering all he was to her work: blood and bone.

  He begged for her aid to save both ship and crew as he sliced open his blessed left arm.

  He caught his hot, bright blood in a cup and flung it through the portal at Jörd’s muzzle.

  * * *

  The goddess-blessed blood burned Jörd's eyes like strong wine.

  The giantess shrank from Pytheus, wailing in bitter agony.

  * * *

  Artemis of Massalia

  The goddess of Massalia, her brown hair icing in the frigid air,

  slammed shut the portal to Thule.

  Artemis looked upon her work and smiled.

  It was done. Jörd was contained. Thule safely closed.

  Her new champion saved for future adventures.

  She returned to the southern lands, satisfied. Powerful.

  * * *

  Jörd

  Almost sealed.

  A single sacred polar bear hair wedged into the portal, keeping it from closing fully.

  Today, when conditions tilt in just the right way at just the right time,

  ships sail into Thule on the solstice, navigating the bear's single hair.

  Then the giantess reaches a single claw tip through the portal to touch Midgard again.

  The Ginger Gambit

  Carolyn Ivy Stein

  Magnihild's ginger cat, Dagning, mewed from in front of the heavy wooden door, his soft vocalizations plaintive to her ears. Magnihild knew it for a trick and she wouldn't fall for it again.

  Each time she opened the door for Dagning, the cat took one look at the snow-covered hills and the heavy globs of snow falling from the grey sky and strutted, his tail high in the air, to the kitchen. Once there he would yowl at the cook until she gave him an early dinner. He loved fermented shark stew, which, judging by the awful smell, was tonight’s dinner. Yuck! The cat could have it.

  Even with that, Dagning was the best of all possible cats. He was handsome, with pale gold fur gradually coloring to deep orange stripes thickly framing his face. Named for the dawn, he woke her each morning as the sun touched the sky by embedding his claws into her braid and swinging on it until the pain in her scalp woke her.

  Arranged marriages could be difficult and, Jörd, Mother of Thor and Goddess of lightning, knew that Magnihild hadn’t wanted to marry Caedmon, who was notorious for the lightning scars that covered him from head to toe. So the goddess forced the alliance in her own way, leaving Magnihild as scarred as Caedmon. But it was Freyja's love magic wrought through Dagning that created the emotional bond between King Caedmon and herself. A bond at once powerful and sensual.

  Everywhere in Viking communities, when people sought Freyja’s blessing on a union, they presented the new bride with a kitten. Someday, as King Caedmon’s wife, Magnihild would do the same for another bride. But she doubted she could ever gift a cat as wonderful as Dagning. He’d been perfect, a friend and companion as well as a cat with Freyja’s magic coursing through his veins. Plus, he was a great mouser, protecting the house from invaders.

  Now he wound around her feet as she brought Caedmon the Hnefatafl set, a strategy game suitable for the cold winter days when they were unable to raid and trips to Thule were frustratingly out of reach until the Solstice opened the gates to Northern magic.

  Today, the men looked restless from too much time indoors. Nights came earlier and stayed later each day. Men who usually had room to spread out or the excitement of a raiding expedition found themselves crowded around long wooden tables carved with images of apples and sinuous dragons playing Liar’s Dice and betting more than they’d acquired during the spring raids. Winter amusements like singing and competitive storytelling were fine in the evening but the long dreary afternoons stretched from here to Valhalla with only the occasional hunt to break up the boring stretches of time.

  Õgmundr the Younger had inherited his father’s ruinous hunger for the dice. Magnihild hoped he hadn’t done anything foolish, but she knew he probably had.

  Véfastr was a heavy man with a long white beard, squinty brown eyes, and an ostentatious wardrobe of silks and dyed embroidered wools. He sat down heavily near the fire across from Caedmon. He looked ready to “provide wise counsel,” which meant it was time for Magnihild to spring into action to save her husband from the old blowhard.

  “Caedmon! Shall we play?”

  One of Caedmon’s father's most trusted vassals and now an advisor to Caedmon himself, Véfastr pulled the Hnefatafl board from Magnihild’s grasp and set up the board. Hnefatafl board were usually made up of simple wooden disks played on an alternating pattern of colored squares. This set, a special gift, featured tiny, elegantly painted figures depicting scenes from summer. The artisan had used a special technique that showcased the brilliant colors of the paint.

  Véfastr pulled at his beard and gazed at her speculatively. “Have you given up on more suitable pursuits, dearest Maggie?”

  Her face burned at the hated nickname, but she struggled to control herself. He treated her like a child to get her to act like a child. He wanted to control Caedmon and everything else. She bent down and picked up Dagning, burying her face
in his golden fur. He purred, then climbed up on her shoulder as if he were still a tiny kitten. Finally, Magnihild trusted herself to speak. “Not at all, Véfastr. This is a game for true Vikings, after all; those who can still participate in raids.”

  Véfastr flicked his fingers toward Dagning with a light, dismissive gesture. “Even cats conduct raids. What they don’t know is strategy. Hnefatafl is a game of strategy and ruthless efficiency. It’s not needlework.”

  Magnihild looked at her husband. His face was carefully bland underneath the feathery scars that covered his skin. He smiled at her, as sly as Dagning. So, he wanted to see how this came out, did he? She purred, her voice sweet and low. “Which side would you like Véfastr? Escort the king to safety or trap and destroy him?”

  “This is why you do so badly at this game, Maggie. You fail to understand battle and cannot see strategy when it is in front of you. Skilled Hnefatafl players make the best battle commanders. I shall play against your husband; a man who has a basic understanding of strategy, but who needs to play more games against adept players. You are not useful here.”

  “I’ve led raids. I know what is involved. Hnefatafl cannot show the truth of battle. Courage and grit carry the day. Strategy has its place, but the heart of the fighter is all that matters in the end.”

  “Then you will not mind watching men play this game.”

  Magnhild bit her lip, hard. Hard enough to halt the red miasma of rage that was building inside her.

  Caedmon stretched, a large smile playing across his face. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but carried across the great hall. “Enough, Véfastr. Stop tormenting Magnihild. No more cat and mouse.”

  Véfastr pulled at his beard and nodded with a great show of sagacity. “Ah, but who here is the cat?”

  Dagning chose that moment to leap from her shoulder to the floor and then conduct battle with a piece of wood that had popped out of the fireplace earlier.

  “Dagning, clearly,” Magnihild said.

  Caedmon reached up and slipped an arm around her waist, drawing her close for a moment. The lightning that forever linked them buzzed slightly within her veins as his arm encircled her. It was distracting, a reminder of past pain and at the same time a tickle of pleasure that she felt whenever he touched her, almost a residue of spent passion. She leaned against him, relaxing into the embrace.

  “Sweetheart, I know you have gone on raids with your father, but Véfastr is right. We cannot fight our way out of a losing strategy. Strategy comes first.” As he spoke, he selected the pieces representing the side escorting the King to safety and set them up on his squares.

  Magnihild pulled away. “Bold action beats strategy every time. Commanders too safe and measured bring more ships to defeat than anything else.”

  Véfastr snorted. “Some problems can be solved by a quick and brutal demonstration of force. Most of the time, negotiation is superior and strategic thinking beats all, as your husband knows when he listens to the wisdom of elders.”

  "Don't get any ideas, Véfastr," Magnihild said. "King Caedmon is protected by an elite force and if you somehow manage to get past it, you will deal with me."

  A smile creased the old man's face. "Never would I wish to face Magnihild the Lightning Scarred in battle, Majesty. No, this battle is purely fantastical. It is an opportunity to give Caedmon a chance to see how difficult it can be for his vassals to defend him and to persuade him to be wiser in his strategic choices."

  "Less talk, more play," Caedmon grunted, but a smile broke across his face as well.

  Dagning mewed softly, brushing against Magnihild's wool-clad ankles, little sparks of lightning tickled the air. Sparks shivered through the scars across Magnihild's body and it felt, in a small way, as if the goddess Jörd spoke through her for that barest moment. But there was nothing here the gods wanted on this frigid day. The ships couldn't be taken out into the curdled sea until it was well past the winter solstice and into spring. Thule was closed to Caedmon and Magnihild for now, which meant Jörd was as well.

  Dagning mewed again, rising up on his back legs and resting his front legs on the bench where Caedmon sat. He gave the table a speculative look and rocked for a moment, as if he were judging the distance between his paws and the board. A vision of scattered pieces clattering to the floor and a ruined game blamed on Magnihild flashed through her mind.

  She reached down and pulled the small, light cat into her arms. A giant ball of fluff, Dagning looked much larger than he was. When he puffed his fur out and stood in stiff-legged challenge to other cats, he looked formidable. It was a daring display that Magnihild thoroughly approved of. However, Dagning's bones were small and delicate and his muscles lean and stretchy, the kind designed for leaping onto tables and disrupting boardgames, not fighting other cats.

  By contrast, Uffi, Caedmon's ship's cat, was a rugged creature with dark fur, heavy muscles, and large bones. Where Dagning walked delicately, Uffi made heavy steps that were strangely audible for a cat. And was he as courageous or as loyal as Dagning? Magnihild doubted it.

  “Your piece is mine,” Véfastr said. “As you can see the job of the defender requires as much clever courage as the attacker, Caedmon. Watch closely.”

  Caedmon leaned over the board and pursed his lips. Then a slow whistle escaped. “I believe I see that you have walked into my trap. Perhaps my best advisor should advise himself.”

  Magnihild laughed at Véfastr’s consternation. He looked down and brushed ginger cat hair from his fine robe, ignoring her.

  Dagning twisted in her arms, so she loosened her grip and removed her hands. That was apparently what he wanted because he immediately climbed onto her shoulder and settled between her neck and braid. He started a rhythmic purring. It was an almost hypnotic pleasure for Magnihild, and he slowly kneaded his paws into her chest. On days when the lightning scars brought headaches and pain, she could be soothed by the small cat's rhythmic purr alone. Well, that and the potions the healer brewed, but Dagning was better than potions, and cuter.

  The room was cold everywhere except directly in front of the fire, which was blazing. Thankfully, Magnihild’s woolen dress kept her warm. But even dressed in heavy clothes she crept closer to the fire. Dagning was usually content to sit in Magnihild’s lap with the dual warmth of contact from her and the glow of the flames, but with no more warning than a sharp painful claw digging briefly into her chest, Dagning dropped from Magnihild’s shoulder, landed on her lap, and leapt onto the table. He crouched before the Hnefatafl board and yowled as if the game were a cat challenging his territory.

  Caedmon, pitching his voice even louder than the cat’s yowling war cry, said, “Magnihild, take that thrice damned cat before he—”

  Dagning sprang on the board before Caedmon could finish or Véfastr could interpose his body, scattering the pieces to the table and floor, then chasing them as they dropped clattering to the ground. The next action was a strange song and dance as the cat appeared to speak to each piece, lecturing in a yowling tone before batting it into the corner, underneath a chest.

  After the initial shock, Magnihild started to laugh. Then seeing her husband’s red, angry face, she tried to suppress it. No luck there.

  Caedmon glared at her, sighed, and picked up the pieces nearest him. Véfastr did the same. “Get that crazy cat out of here, Magnihild.”

  “Come, sweetie, come, pretty Dagning. We all admire your skill as a raider,” said Magnihild in her most beseeching voice.

  “Hah!” Caedmon said crossly.

  Magnihild gave Caedmon an exasperated look. “Come now, my brave warrior cat, bring us back the pieces.”

  She crept closer to the cat, but when she was almost close enough to touch him, Dagning ran up the length of the hall and then back down at top speed. He jumped onto the table again and knocked over Véfastr's cup of mead provoking an outcry as the precious mead spread across the floor.

  Finally, Dagning slid under the chest in the corner. Magnihild heard the click-
clack of the wooden Hnefatafl pieces banging against each other. It sounded as if there were a lot of them. Was it all of them? Couldn’t be. Caedmon had some in his hand. But the rest? She didn’t want to crawl around on the dirty floor darkening her best everyday dress. But even worse would be someone else touching her cat, so she knelt near him.

  “Sweet Dagning,” she said, cooing at the cat, who looked unimpressed by her blandishments. “Would you like a treat?”

  She pointed at the slender boy hovering near the game, shifting from foot to foot. “Kætill, bring me some of the leftover club fish. Tell Cook that it is for Dagning. And bring a girl to clean up the spilled mead for Véfastr.”

  He nodded and moved quickly to the kitchen.

  “We have less than half the pieces left,” Caedmon said. He said each word with slow emphasis, as if he were talking to a recalcitrant servant. “That set was brought as a peace gift from the king of the Polska. It is irreplaceable. We must find the pieces.”

  “I am trying, my beloved husband. We all know that you, our majesty, is known for his patience. A little patience here would help.” She made an effort to keep the irritation from her voice, hoping that her own even temper would bring him back to his normal easy manner. He was the calm one and she the firebrand normally.

  The winter must be getting to Caedmon, she thought.

  The spot by the wall underneath the carved chest was warm. Not fire warm, but sunshine warm, which was odd. The sun was shining outside, but the world was cold. Usually the walls were the coldest parts of any room unless they were near the fireplace. This spot was as far from the fireplace as could be. Could the carved chest with its intertwining dragons be the source of the heat?

  She knelt down to pet Dagning with one hand as she used the other to seek out the wooden pieces of the Hnefatafl game. Her strokes brought sparks from Dagning’s fur. She shocked the cat and sparks flew along the tracks lacing Magnihild’s body.