by Asotir
* * *
GRAY WAS THE morning air when they awoke, thick with mist. They had somewhat to eat, then readied the ponies: there among the goods was the small box, copper-bound, wherein lay all Swanhild’s mother’s songs and spells. They set forth, but still for awhile stillness ran between them, like the fog.
Then said Skarphedin, ‘An ill night you had of it: you twitched and turned, and cried out so that you woke me.’
Swanhild shuddered. ‘A dream took me,’ she answered. Then she said: ‘There were men after us, and we went up on the jokull to flee them. Over the rocks we went, through snow, across ice. Nights the moon lighted up our path; and at length we made Grimsvotn, and went up on its rocks.
‘Green and ghastly the ice-peaks stood to the sky; from deep below the waters called and laughed, like a hundred throats howling. A week went by, and we ate snow and boiled moss for our meat. On the far side we came down off the jokull, and followed the sand-tracks, where no grass grows and no moss thrives, but all is waste. Mists came down the ice after us and hemmed us in, and I knew those men still followed after us: I called to you, but you had gone.’
Skarphedin muttered, ‘That was no happy dream.’
‘What then of you?’ she asked. ‘How ran your dreams?’
‘Nay, I had none,’ he answered.
‘Something less than truth lies in that word,’ she said.
But he answered, ‘Now it seems you are unhappy: tell me then, is this rather your wish, that you fared back homeward? But I will go on.’
‘Never would I go back there. You are my home, Skarphedin.’
