Betsy Tobin Page 10

  Now it is Grerr who waits, mottled with anticipation, like an overripe fruit. As I approach the cave where he lives, I am suddenly apprehensive. I have washed and scented my hair with sprigs of lilac, and wear only a light chemise held together by two simple bronze clasps, each bearing the figure of a gripping beast. Charmingly, the cloth for the dress has come from Berling. He delivered it this evening, blushing. It seems it is a gift, though I wonder now where he obtained it. (Did he steal it from his mother?) Earlier, as I returned from bathing, I passed them both in the tunnel. I recognised her at once, for Berling has been carved in her image. She is quite attractive, in a maternal sort of way, with abundant honey-coloured hair and eyes that flash at you, though I can tell from the way she carries herself that her spirit is overburdened. She hesitated when she saw me, as if waiting to be introduced, and Berling blanched. Apparently, she knows nothing of our arrangement. I did not wish to embarrass him, so I smiled and carried on.

  When I arrive at Grerr’s cave, he stands in the doorway expectantly. He gives a curt nod of greeting and motions for me to enter, but his expression remains guarded, as if he doesn’t quite believe that I will stay.

  “So you’ve come,” he says, his voice laced with suspicion.

  “Of course,” I reply, spinning around to face him. “Did you think I’d change my mind?”

  He raises an eyebrow in response. I turn to survey his home, aware of his scrutiny. It is as if he is weighing up my integrity even now, measuring my worth.The room is small and neat and sparsely furnished, not far from what I had imagined it to be. The floor is covered with a rush woven mat, and two oil lamps provide a modest amount of light, together with a small fire in the corner of the room.There is little adornment, except for an array of ancient tongs that hangs along one wall. I cross over to examine them.

  “These are your tools?”

  “Not mine,” he answers gruffly. “My father’s and grandfather’s. And his father’s before him. All three were skilled goldsmiths. Masters of their trade, just as I am. The tools are my inheritance.” He runs his eyes over the tongs, then takes a step forward and gingerly lifts one off the wall. I can see at once that it is the oldest. The metal is rusted and has begun to deteriorate. He runs his hands along its length.

  “A tool like this has a life of its own,” he says fervently. “It has its own power, its own skill. Even its own destiny.” For a moment it seems as if he will place it in my hands, but then he changes his mind and returns it to its hook on the wall. “When a goldsmith dies, his tools are revered, just as he was.”

  He turns to face me and I do not ask who will revere his. Instead, I examine the room’s other contents. There is a crudely built wooden table and two chairs, and in the corner, a raised bed strewn with the shaggy skins of an animal I do not recognise. A curious musky odour lingers in the air. In spite of the fire, the room is cold. I regret not wearing more, though it occurs to me that soon I shall wear less.

  “Sit down,” he says, motioning to the chair.

  “Thank you.” We sit opposite each other at the small rough-hewn table. He hands me a drinking horn filled with mead. I take a demure sip, then return it to him. He drinks deeply, emptying it. When he is finished, he lays the horn on its side on the table. His eyes are red and have begun to water. He makes no move, only stares at the horn. I wonder fleetingly whether we are to sit at table all night.

  “It took us four years to make the necklace,” he says slowly. The mead has affected him, for his speech has suddenly thickened. He must have been drinking before I arrived.

  “It is a fine achievement,” I say cautiously.

  “It is more than fine,” he snaps. I do not reply.We have not even completed our transaction, and already he regrets it. He looks at me with eyes steeped in anger. “A night for a year, does this seem equitable?”

  “You do not have to sell it.”

  “Perhaps I won’t.” Our eyes lock. My heart beats wildly at the thought that he will change his mind, though I dare not let him know it. I want to lunge at him, grab his stubby beard and throttle his undersized life away. After what seems like an eternity, he takes a deep breath and looks into the fire. “Or perhaps I will,” he says finally.

  I feel the numbing tingle of relief.

  Grerr continues speaking slowly. “It’s as if we’ve borne a child who has spurned us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We made it,” he says. “It came from us. But it is better than we are.” Even as his voice hardens, I see a lone tear roll down his cheek and lose itself in the coarse silver hair of his beard.

  He is right, of course. The Brisingamen is sublime. And dwarves are not.There is little I can say to comfort him. “You still have me,” I offer.

  He nods. “Tonight at least,” he says, “I have you.” His tone is no longer pitiable, but that of a man who, though only four feet tall, knows exactly what he wants. His entire demeanour suddenly alters: his chest swells and the look in his eye is almost swarthy. He makes his move then, swift and purposeful, crosses to my side and takes me in his arms in a way that is surprisingly fluid. He is a man like any other, I think. I close my eyes and try to relax into his kiss. It is tense and overwrought, but not unlike others I have known. He pulls frantically at my chemise, and I hear the brooch on my left shoulder burst free, the pin springing from its delicate clasp. Before long, we are both naked, and it is only when he climbs on top of me that I am briefly, and unwisely, tempted to laugh. For there is something utterly incongruous about our bodies, as we have difficulty achieving a lover’s fit. I wonder if he too senses this, or whether desire has eclipsed his brain. But when I open my eyes, I see that he is not concerned with our respective sizes.

  It is over quickly. When he has finished, Grerr pulls his tunic and trousers hurriedly back on. He appears oddly self-conscious of his nakedness, while I do nothing to hide my own. I recline on the bed while he rises and walks to a small oak casket in the corner to replenish his horn of mead. He drinks deeply, this time offering me none. And when he looks at me again his gaze is no longer camouflaged by lust. Now it is my turn to feel self-conscious, for without lust, my purpose here has vanished. I quickly reach for Berling’s cloth and cover myself, though it is too late for modesty. Grerr senses my discomfort and turns away.

  “You can go,” he says over his shoulder.

  I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “One night was the arrangement. Would you not prefer me to stay?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “You’d best leave now,” he says curtly. He does not need to explain. Soon he will begin to ache for the Brisingamen. Before long, the ache will bloom into an agony of loss. He does not wish me to be present when it starts.

  “You are an honourable man,” I tell him.

  “No,” he says bitterly. “I am not.”

  I gather my things and depart quickly, lest he change his mind. But I needn’t worry, for when I turn to look at him one last time, his gaze is lost inside the fire’s flickering flames.

  I leave the cloying atmosphere of the caves, find my feathers and fly straight to the nearest thermal waters. It is a ritual cleansing I’m in need of, though I am uncertain whether it is my body or my soul that needs purifying. It is almost midnight when I reach the deserted spring, set deep in the mountains. A nearly full moon sits low on the horizon. It lights the black face of the water, enough to see the steam rising from its surface in treacherous wisps. I throw off my feathers, sit upon the ring of stones and lower myself into the warm, dark pool. In spite of the heat, a shiver runs right through me. For if the Brisingamen can bring a grown man to tears, what else is it capable of?

  The next morning, Berling blushes uncontrollably when we meet. “Thank you for the cloth,” I say. “It served me well,” I add mischievously.

  His entire face glows pink. “Actually, “ he stammers, “it was a present from my mother.”

  “Your mother?”

  He nods. “She wishes to meet you.”

&n
bsp; “When?”

  “Whenever you like.”

  “Before or after tomorrow night?” I smile at him and the colour drains from his face.

  “No!” he whispers hotly. “My mother knows nothing! She must never know -” he breaks off in horror.

  “Then rest assured I will not tell her, Berling.” He nods, evidently relieved. “I will meet her whenever you please.”

  “Today then,” he says. “This evening. You can dine with us before -” He breaks off once again, his eyes dropping to the ground.

  “Before I visit Alfrigg,” I continue. He nods. “Very well, then,” I say. “This evening it will be.”

  What does she want with me? I wonder, as I make my way towards Berling’s cave that evening. Perhaps there is an affair of the heart she wishes to discuss. Or perhaps she is just curious. They are waiting for me when I arrive. Gerd is flushed with anticipation, while Berling wears the haunted eyes of a sick animal. I smile at him reassuringly, but this only seems to make him more nervous. I turn my attention instead to Gerd, clasp her hand warmly in greeting.

  “How good of you to come,” she says, inviting me to sit. The table has already been laid. A large earthen pot sits squarely in the centre, surrounded by several smaller wooden serving bowls.

  “You’ve taken much trouble,” I say, indicating the food. There is stewed hare, pickled onions, roast gull’s eggs, fresh whey and a large, flat loaf of coarse-grain bread.

  “Not at all,” she says modestly, beginning to serve out the meat on wooden trenchers. “I wanted to meet you. We have few visitors here.”

  “Berling has told me.” Berling flashes me a pained look, as if to say: do not bring me into this. I smile back at him, and he looks down at his feet.

  “Besides, anyone who can make Berling’s stepbrothers part with the Brisingamen is doubly interesting. They have been obsessed with the necklace for years.”

  “It is worthy of their obsession.”

  “Is it?” she asks. She turns away towards the fire. “I wouldn’t know.” She crouches down, poking at the embers for a moment, then returns carrying another serving dish, which she places in front of me.

  “You’ve not seen it?” I ask, incredulous.

  “No one has, but you.” She freezes, the serving spoon in her hand. We stare at one another for a moment. Berling coughs a little awkwardly.

  The idea stuns me. “I didn’t realise,” I murmur.

  “Perhaps you’ll show it to me,” she says more lightly. “Now that it’s yours.”

  “It isn’t mine yet,” I add quickly.

  Gerd looks with surprise at Berling. “But I thought terms had been agreed.” Berling’s eyes widen slightly. I can almost hear the thumping in his chest.

  “Not quite,” I explain. “We are waiting for Dvalin.”

  “Oh,” she says. She stops serving food for a moment. “Yes, of course,” she says. “The necklace could not be sold without his consent.”

  “I am sure the terms will suit him,” I say lightly. Berling chokes on his beer just then, sending a small spray of liquid onto the table. Gerd looks at him askance, then turns back to me.

  “Dvalin is a sound man,” she says a little too intently. “He is not attached to worldly things. If the terms are fair, then I’m sure he will agree to them.”

  I meet her gaze for a moment. “I don’t think he will object,” I reply, reaching for my cup of beer. I empty it in one go.There is something about this woman that makes me want to behave excessively, for she tethers her own manners too tightly.

  “Would you like some more?” asks Berling, indicating the jug.

  “Go and fetch some wine from your uncle’s house,” says Gerd. Berling stares at her dumbly for a moment. “Go on, then,” she says pointedly. He nods but seems reluctant to move for a moment, then finally excuses himself and dashes out the door. Once he is gone, Gerd turns to me expectantly. “Why have you really come?”

  My heart skips a beat. “To Nidavellir?”

  “Yes.”

  “To find the necklace.” The words sound hollow.

  She considers my response. “The Aesir have long known of the existence of the Brisingamen. Why now?” Her tone has hardened. I see at once that I have underestimated her.

  “The time was right.” I have no wish to divulge my true concerns.

  “Something has happened.”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “But something will.”

  I hesitate. Truly there is more to this woman than meets the eye. “Perhaps,” I say.

  She scrutinises me for a moment, then slowly utters the words that haunt my dreams. “I see beyond the future,” she recites, “the mighty doom of the triumphant gods.”

  “You are familiar with the prophecy?”

  She smiles. “My husband was a king. And a poet. He knew the Voluspa well.”

  “And the words? Did he believe what they foretold?”

  “Perhaps I should ask you the same.”

  I stare at her uncertainly.

  “That is why you’ve come, isn’t it,” she continues. “To save your people from destruction.”

  It is not a question. So I do not answer. After a moment, she picks up a knife and begins absently to scrape the blade against the hearthstone, as if to sharpen it. Her fingers are slim and delicate, unusual for her race, and the sight of them, together with the slow ring of steel against stone, mes merises me. At length she pauses and looks up at me.

  “It is only a necklace,” she says.

  “Perhaps,” I answer. “But I will have it just the same.”

  She holds my gaze for a moment, then glances towards the cave’s entrance.

  “He is a fine young man,” I say of Berling. “You must be very proud.”

  “To me he is still a child,” she counters. “But yes, I am.”

  “His father died some years ago?”

  “Seven,” she says.

  “You did not remarry.”

  “No. My first responsibility was to Berling. And you?”

  “I was married once,” I reply. “A long time ago.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry.”

  “I prefer to be alone.”

  She considers this, but does not reply.

  “You must have loved your husband very much,” I offer.

  “It was not love I felt, but loyalty.” She glances again towards the door, and her voice drops slightly. “Now, it seems as if a vast fog has settled between me and that other time.” She pauses for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “Sometimes I feel that I am trapped inside it, that I will suffocate if I cannot be free of it.”

  “Free of what?”

  “The past,” she replies.

  Berling enters the room just then, startling us both. He carries a small earthenware jug, which he holds up to me. “Will you take a cup of wine?” he asks. I look at him, and what I see is neither man nor boy. And then I look at his mother, and what I see is a woman fettered by the fruit of her womb.

  I drink too much at Berling’s house, unsettled by his mother’s words. By the time I reach Alfrigg, the world is suffused with a pale yellow glow. Alfrigg himself seems lit from within, though whether that is the effect of the wine or due to his own excitement, I can’t be sure. He has tidied himself for the occasion. His few strands of hair are freshly oiled and combed, and his face has been scrubbed to a burnished pink. When he comes to the door, he smiles with delight. I cannot help but smile in return. This he anticipates as a kind of exuberance on my part, but I am so drunk I do not care. “Come in, my dear,” he twitters, presenting me with a small bouquet of field flowers. I raise them to my face to inhale their sweet scent, but already he has whisked them from my hands, and is steering me towards his bed. It is vast and misshapen, made of several layers of dried moss inside a wooden frame, and covered with coarse linen cloth. It reminds me of an animal’s bier. Alfrigg sinks down into it and pats the space beside him. I clamber on and am surprised by how comfort
able it feels. He turns to me and proceeds to unwrap me like a gift, chortling throughout. When he unpins my chemise, he lingers momentarily over the bronze clasps, admiring their fine craftsmanship. Then he lays them gingerly to one side, before removing Berling’s cloth with a flourish.

  At the sight of my naked breasts, he nearly swoons with delight. “Oh my!” he exclaims. “Oh my, yes!” He addresses them separately, fondling each in turn, the way one might attend to a small animal, or a pair of young children. When he judges that my breasts have had enough attention, he turns his ministrations to the rest of me. He leaves no part of me out: no digit, no curve, no lobe, not even a blemish (for I have a few) escapes his attention. He delights in all of it, in all of me. And perhaps because of the wine, I do not mind the slightest bit, am even flattered. Who would not be?

  Then it is his turn to undress. Unlike his brother, he does so with pride. How pale and round and hairless his body is! Each plump part seems to disappear into the next. When he is naked, he pauses momentarily, as if awaiting my approval. I cannot help but smile, whereupon he claps his hands once and leaps onto the bed. He is an ardent lover, eager and thorough, and when we finally finish my body feels like a well-kneaded piece of dough. He grins at me afterwards, like a well-fed dog, and we both fall into a deep sleep. I do not wake until dawn, when I am eventually roused by his gentle snores. I dress quickly in the half-light and plant a light kiss upon his shiny brow before creeping away. When I turn to look at him one last time, his entire body seems suffused with a smile.

  Alfrigg’s attentions leave me exhausted. These Brisings may be small, I think, as I make my way towards the hot pool once again, but they are no less passionate than ordinary men. It is a good thing there are but four of them, I decide. My goal is no longer spiritual cleansing but recuperation, and once there, I linger for hours in the warm sulphurous waters.