Betsy Tobin Read online

  Table of Contents

  A PLUME BOOK ICE LAND

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  FREYA

  FULLA

  FREYA

  FULLA

  FREYA

  FULLA

  FREYA

  DVALIN

  FREYA

  DVALIN

  FREYA

  BERLING

  FULLA

  FREYA

  FULLA

  FREYA

  DVALIN

  FREYA

  FULLA

  DVALIN

  FREYA

  DVALIN

  FREYA

  FULLA

  DVALIN

  FREYA

  FULLA

  FREYA

  DVALIN

  VILI

  DVALIN

  FREYA

  DVALIN

  VILI

  FREYA

  FULLA

  DVALIN

  FREYA

  DVALIN

  FULLA

  FREYA

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  A PLUME BOOK ICE LAND

  BETSY TOBIN was born in the American Midwest and moved to England in 1989, where she now lives with her husband and four children. Ice Land will be her second novel published in America. Her first novel, Bone House, was short-listed for the Commonwealth Prize, and won the Herodotus Prize in the United States. Visit her website at www.icelandthebook.com.

  a cognizant original v5 release october 10 2010

  Praise for Ice Land

  “A rich, complex, and compelling tale of myth, magic, and very human passion. Tobin weaves together legend and history into an epic saga, layering the grandeur of a semi-mythic Iceland with the familiar landscape of the human heart.”

  —Lauren Willig, author of The Secret History of the

  Pink Carnation

  “Ice Land had me with its first sentence. I loved the book’s journey into long-ago time and the myths of epic, ancient gods. Tobin is a skillful and talented writer.”

  —Karleen Koen, author of Dark Angels

  “A very engrossing read. Told in Betsy Tobin’s lyrical voice and set against a backdrop of mythical and natural grandeur, Ice Land is a tale both sensual and violent.”

  —Kristen Britain, author of the Green Rider series

  “Tobin combines the sensuality of Angela Carter with a profound feeling for a violent, unstable and fascinating landscape. . . . An elegy not merely to a different age, but also crucially to a tradition of storytelling; the gathering around a bright fire to hear tales of hardship, magic, and love. It is surprising just how resonant they still are.”

  —Saturday Telegraph (London)

  “Ice Land grafts a modern sensibility onto ancient myth and is as much a contemplation of love and relationships as an epic adventure. . . . Tobin finds female complexity at the heart of Norse mythology.”

  —Sunday Telegraph (London)

  “Tobin’s descriptions of the natural relief of Iceland are triumphant.”

  —Time Out London

  Praise for Betsy Tobin’s previous books

  “Betsy Tobin mesmerizes. . . . A fine gothic novel, which burrows under the skin.”

  —The Times (London)

  “Provocative and gripping. A tale shimmering with psychological depth.”

  —The New York Times

  “Filled with superstition and desire, murder and medicine, this is a fable with a darkly modern edge.”

  —Daily Mail

  “From the opening pages of Bone House, I found myself utterly engrossed. How deftly Tobin transports us to the sixteenth century, and how lucidly she spins her complex tale of obsession and superstition. This is a beautiful and suspenseful novel.”

  —Margot Livesey

  “Wonderfully real . . . a surprisingly delicate murder mystery, tempered by great detail and remarkable control.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “A compelling mystery . . . poignant and gripping.”

  —Tracy Chevalier

  PLUME

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA •

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3,

  Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand,

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  Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in Great

  Britain by Short Books.

  First American Printing, September 2009

  Copyright © Betsy Tobin, 2008

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK-MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Tobin, Betsy, 1961-

  Ice land / Betsy Tobin.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-13354-5

  1. Iceland—History—To 1262—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS33570.O287124 2009

  813’.54—dc22 2009019136

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN GROUP (USA) INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

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  For Bruce, with love

  For this is an island and therefore Unreal.

  W. H. Auden & Louis MacNeice

  Letters from Iceland

  And there where the glacier touches the sky,

  the land ceases to be earthly.

  Halldór Laxness

  Under the Glacier

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Huge gratitude to my son Theo Sands, who first steered me in the direction of the Norse pantheon (and who remains my best reader); to Margaret Glover, who blew life back into this manuscript when it lay dangerously close to death; and to Ragnar Hjalmarsson for translating Icelandic geologic terminology. Many thanks as well to Kim Witherspoon and David Forrer at Inkwell for their continued su
pport, and an enormous gold star to Signe Pike and the wonderful marketing, sales, and publicity team at Plume for their fantastic show of enthusiasm.

  FREYA

  When I was sixteen, I was given a cloak made entirely of feathers. It was made from pale grey falcon wings, unthinkably soft, with no more weight than a handful of ash. I remember the sensation as Odin first laid the cloak across my shoulders. His hands brushed too long against my skin, but even as I noticed this, something else was happening deep inside me: a sudden narrowing, as if I was being squeezed from within. In an instant, I too felt weightless, and in another second I was airborne. I looked down to see them all staring up at me: my father, his expression vexed with disapproval; my twin brother Freyr, his dark eyes pools of envy; Odin’s wife, her smile frozen with complacency (surely she must have seen his lingering caress?). And Odin himself, staring too intently with his one good eye, as if he could divine all the secrets of my adolescence. With relief, I turned my gaze from them and flew towards the horizon, the wind rushing at my face. And for the first time in my life, I felt free. At sixteen, I’d not yet learned that it takes more than wings to release one from the bonds of kinship.

  They say this island sprang from the armpit of a giant. That his sweat turned to rivers which in turn begot the land. It is a jagged place, scarred by ice and fire, and perpetually torn by pale green rivers that refuse to stay their course. Long ago, the forests were thick here. Wild beasts stood quietly, as if waiting to be shot. That was before men came and culled them, using broad axes and fine-tipped arrows. Now trees are scarce and the animals hide, but the land remains generous. Each spring, the farmers toil in the fields to clear lumps thrown up by frost. In summer, they drive their herds deep into the highlands, where the grass is sweet and the sun never dies. In winter, darkness descends upon us like a shroud. Men wrap themselves in furs, huddle around fires, and tell stories from the past.

  Water surrounds us.To the north, the frozen sea is but one day’s sail. To the south, the long fingers of Norway and Denmark are eight days’ journey. The sea offers us food and protection, but takes many lives in return. Despite its peril, the men here are of a wandering nature. They look to the horizon and refuse to let it lie. But they always return, if the sea or the sword does not claim them, for this island pulls on its people. Once settled they are bound, both by its beauty and its harshness.

  I was not born here. I left the land of my birth as a young girl, and came to dwell in Asgard with my father and brother. We were a peace offering, my family and I, a gesture of conciliation between the Aesir and the Vanir, my father’s people. My father was already a widower, saddled with the burden of two young children, so he had nothing to lose by throwing his lot in with the Aesir. In return, they made us certain promises. Njord, my father, was given control of the seas. Freyr, my brother, was given control of the harvests. And I was left with the tainted realm of love.

  Over time, I’ve come to represent love’s failings. Men and women turn to me in equal numbers. They bring their broken engagements, their shabby infidelities, their star-crossed romances, their spent marriages, their unrequited passions, in hopes that I will have a cure. Sometimes I do. More often I do not. For what they don’t know is that our world is an elaborate conceit. The gods have no real influence over the lives of men.We are nothing but totems: we occupy the space that men create for something larger than themselves. Few who dwell in Asgard understand this. Fewer still would admit to it. But false belief underpins us all.

  And, as for the sharp spear of love, it too is a deceit. Long ago, in another life, I was wounded by its impact. Now I know that solitude and self-reliance make far more loyal bed-fellows. Though I’ve been married once before, now my bond is to the earth and the sky and the mountains that surround me. My home, Sessruminger, lies in the south of Asgard, snugly in the lee of Mount Hekla. Her vast glacial peak rises up behind me like the imposing neck of a triumphant queen. Hekla’s moods can be capricious: one moment she is stark, calm, majestic; the next wild, dark and menacing. But I am thankful for her presence, for it is she who orients me when I take to the skies, and she who brings me back to earth. My tale starts and ends with Hekla, and I will tell it as it happens, in the manner of the bards.

  FULLA

  She craves the unexpected. Each day, she rides her horse across pock-marked fields of blackened lava to the hot pool, her servant Helga two strides behind. And each day, she prays her life will somehow burst its narrow banks.

  But the gods do not listen.

  Her future was set out long ago, like runes carved in stone. She will reach the age of consent, marry a man of her grandfather’s choosing, and bear him as many sons as she can endure. She will watch her boys grow into stout young men, learn to wield the sword and axe, and die violent deaths. Just as her father did.

  Already there is talk of such a marriage. Fulla hears them murmuring by the fire, her grandfather and the other godi of the region. They huddle together, their eyes wet with drink, and speak in hushed tones that she must strain to hear. Again and again, she hears the same word issue from their lips: Norway. A place she has heard of but never seen, eight days’ journey across the sea. A lifetime away. She hardly dares consider what they are planning: marriage to a foreigner, a man of unknown age and temperament, whose name she cannot pronounce. She loves her grandfather, but she does not know whether she can live the life he has ordained for her.

  In a sudden fury, she leans forward and urges her horse into a run. He leaps ahead, happy for the opportunity to sprint. She gallops as hard and as fast as she is able, her teeth clenched tight, the ground beneath her a blur of motion. But, after a minute, she hears the strangled wail of Helga far behind her.

  Perhaps just once, she’ll ignore Helga’s calls. No, not today, she thinks resolutely. For the pull of duty is like a weight about her neck. She slows to a walk and waits for Helga to catch her up. The older woman shoots her a look of consternation.

  “What race is this?” Helga demands.

  “We saw a snake,” she says. “My horse frighted.” Helga eyes her for a moment, weighing her words. Fulla does not remember when she learned to lie. Only that she is surprisingly adept at it.

  After a few minutes, they reach the end of the lava field and begin the ascent over the last hill. The ground is studded with a thick carpet of dwarf birch, no taller than her knee. From a distance, the trees form a shaggy layer of fur. Up close, they appear stunted and gnarled, as if the effort of growth is too much for them. A well-worn dirt path snakes its way through the scrub land over the hillside, and when she reaches the top she can see the hot springs a short distance below, a distended ring of dark water surrounded by tall marshy reeds. The water bubbles up from some hidden source, giving the impression that beneath the valley is a vast simmering cauldron. She sees at once that the pool is deserted, and cannot help but feel a twist of disappointment. Her daily ride here is one of the few sources of contact she has with those outside her grandfather’s farm.

  She reaches the stand of birch trees and dismounts. Helga arrives a moment later and climbs down from her mount with a grunt. Her figure is too stout for horses. “Looks like we’ll have the baths to ourselves,” says Fulla, tethering the ponies to a tree.

  “Just as well,” Helga says. The older woman scratches at her midriff, then frowns at the darkening sky. “Weather’s coming. We’d best hurry.”

  Fulla is already disrobing as she winds her way down the path. To one side of the pool lies a long stone wall with a bench running along its length. Her grandfather built it partly as a place to rest, and partly as a windbreak. Fulla drops her clothes in a pile on the stone bench, then advances through the marshy reeds towards the water. The cold wind bites at her flesh. Helga is right, she thinks. They should have come earlier, before the storm. No wonder the pool is deserted. But then she is sinking into the hot warmth of the waters, her feet sliding across the smooth stone floor of the pool. She moves out into the centre, where the pool is deep
est, and immediately sinks down beneath the water.

  Even before her head breaks the surface, she hears Helga’s words of disapproval. “You’ll catch your death, missy.” Helga is standing a few feet from the pool’s edge in waist-high water, her hands upon her hips. Her large breasts hang free like two ripe marrow. Fulla watches as Helga lowers herself carefully into the thermal waters. Her fleshy arms caress the water’s surface. She opens her mouth to speak just as Fulla submerges herself once more.

  Beneath the water, all is dark green and luminous. She can just make out Helga’s shape, a bulbous mass of light in the distance. She turns away, moving her hands in front of her face, her fingers splayed and glowing eerily. The water is clouded with thousands of tiny particles. Small fronds of weed drift past her eyes. She can hear nothing but the sound of her own heart. Perhaps this is what death feels like, she thinks. Perhaps this is where her parents are right now, floating together in some vast, warm pool of darkness.

  A moment later she bursts to the surface, gasping for air. She circles in the water, expecting to see Helga’s disapproving frown, but instead the older woman is staring into the distance, her face creased with concern. Fulla swims towards her, her feet scrambling for a footing on the stone, then pulls herself up out of the water and follows her gaze. Over the stone wall, at the top of the hillside, two strangers on horseback look down on them. A split-second later, they are joined by three others. Even from here she can see the men are heavily armed. She lowers herself into the water up to her shoulders, just as the riders begin to pick their way on horseback down the hillside. Helga too drops into the water, glancing at her uneasily.

  As the two lead men draw near, Fulla recognises them as the eldest sons of Skallagrim. She is surprised to see them, and not a little wary. Their farm lies just over the hills to the east. Her grandfather has forbidden Skallagrim and his clan from setting foot upon his land, ever since a dispute over boundaries led to her own father’s death.