Betsy Tobin Read online

  “Fulla, Hogni spoke to me of a betrothal.”

  She makes a face. “I fear he will present me with a crooked husband. A man thrice my age who speaks a harsh tongue and worships a strange idol.”

  “He merely wishes to secure your future, Fulla.”

  “I am not opposed to marriage, Dvalin. But I would prefer to have a hand in the selection.”

  “I do not blame you.”

  “Besides, I value happiness over security.”

  “One would hope for both.”

  She smiles. “Yes, of course.”

  “Your father set great stock by your happiness,” he says gently.

  She replaces the brush on a shelf and stares down at it thoughtfully, her back to him. “Do you miss him, Dvalin?”

  “Very much.”

  “So do I. Grandfather rarely speaks his name.”

  “It is a terrible thing to lose a son.”

  “It is a worse thing to lose a father. Particularly when you’ve never known your mother.” Her voice hardens slightly at this last.

  “Fulla,” he says softly. He takes a step forward, unsure what to say. She remains with her back to him, fingering the reins. It was easier when she was young, he thinks. A broken toy, a bruised knee—these things he could handle. But the uncertainties of adolescence. He is suddenly out of his depth.

  “Anyway,” she continues, “you are more a son to him than Papa was.”

  “No, Fulla.You are wrong.There is no substitute for blood in kinship.”

  She turns around to face him. “I am not so certain,” she says slowly. Dvalin thinks fleetingly of his own father. Perhaps she is right.

  “Fulla, your grandfather loves you very much.”

  She turns to the horse and places her hands upon its flank. “I know,” she says pensively. He crosses over to her and lays a hand upon her shoulder.They stand quietly for a moment, and then Fulla recollects herself. She gives him a faint smile. “So we will journey to the Althing. And find ourselves a husband.”

  “Not just any husband,” he admonishes. “A man of conse quence.”

  “And good looks,” she adds, grinning.

  He raises an eyebrow. “Of wealth?”

  She nods vigorously. “Naturally. And good humour.”

  “Not bent.”

  “Nor blind.”

  “Nor violent.”

  She looks at him in mock horror.

  “Whose feet do not smell,” he adds with a smile.

  She laughs. “Precisely.”

  “Don’t worry,” he says reassuringly. “They will fall to their knees at the sight of you.”

  “I would rather they stood.”

  That night, on a made-up pallet by the fire, Dvalin cannot banish thoughts of Fulla’s father from his mind. It is true that Jarl’s relationship with Hogni was a turbulent one. They disagreed on nearly everything: the day-to-day running of the farm, the raising of Fulla, the precious jewel they shared between them, and the constant territorial disputes with neighbours that plague the settlers of this region. One day, Jarl rode off in anger to settle a problem over grazing rights at the eastern edge of the property. According to a farmhand, the boundary markers had been moved surreptitiously in the night. Against Hogni’s counsel, Jarl vowed to resolve the matter once and for all. He rode straight into an ambush. Four riders lay in wait for him. He was a strong fighter but no match against four. Hours later he was found by a shepherd, unconscious but with the shadow of a pulse. The shepherd loaded Jarl onto the back of his horse and brought him home, where he died three days later, never regaining consciousness.

  Dvalin stayed by his side until the end. The wounds he’d sustained were horrific, but Dvalin silently hoped Jarl would wake and speak his mind before he died. Years before, he’d promised Jarl that in the event of his death, he would see to Fulla’s happiness. But Hogni was Fulla’s only blood relation. When the time came, her upbringing was entirely in her grandfather’s hands. Dvalin was powerless to intervene without risking offence to the one man who had been more of a father to him than his own. And yet he’d sworn an oath to Jarl to watch over her.

  Dvalin turns on his side and stares into the fire. Hogni’s decision to marry Fulla off quickly strikes him as impulsive, the whim of an old man in the twilight of his life. Dvalin closes his eyes, concentrates upon the heat of the fire on his face. Sometime during the evening his right temple has begun to ache again. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, feeling his heart beat in rhythm to the throbbing in his head. Fulla must be allowed to choose her own husband, he decides. He resolves to speak to Hogni in the morning. But the prospect only sharpens the pain.

  Hogni’s eyes darken with suspicion. The two men sit hunched over on the narrow wooden shelf that runs around the edge of the tiny bathhouse. Both are naked, their bodies flushed pink from the heat and covered in rivers of sweat. Beneath their feet is an open hearth and a pile of smooth, red-hot stones heated by a peat fire. Hogni reaches down and picks a large wooden ladle out of a bucket of water by his side. He tips the water onto the stones in a smooth cascading motion. At once, the rocks hiss and the steam rises up and envelops them anew.

  He drops the ladle back into the bucket with a clatter. Both men stare down at the billowing clouds of steam still rising from the stones. The heat is intense and the air stifling. After a moment, Dvalin turns to him. “Hogni, you must listen. I am only suggesting that Fulla should have a hand in the decision.After all, it is she who must live with the consequences, not you.”

  Hogni shifts uneasily on the bench, moving a minute distance away. He swats at the steam with one hand, but does not meet Dvalin’s gaze. “The man I choose for Fulla will be deserving. I promise you that much.”

  Dvalin nods. “Of course I know this. But she should be given a say. Her happiness is at stake.”

  The old man stands and reaches for a linen cloth hanging on a peg, signalling an end to the discussion. He wraps it tightly around his waist and steps down onto the warm flag-stone floor. He shuffles the few steps to the bathhouse door, pulling back the heavy fur covering the entrance, and disappears, allowing the flap to shut behind him. Dvalin sighs with exasperation. He rises and grabs the other linen cloth and rubs himself dry, then hurriedly pulls on his clothes.

  Dvalin returns to the house and begins to pack his saddlebag in preparation for his return journey. After a minute, Hogni emerges fully dressed from his bedchamber. He seats himself on the tanning bench in the corner and begins silently working on the deerskin. When Dvalin is ready to go, he crosses over to where Hogni sits. “Think on my words, Hogni. I will come again, after the Althing.” The old man lays the deerskin to one side and slowly rises. He clasps Dvalin to him briefly.

  “Go in peace, my son. May Thor watch over you,” he adds.

  Outside, a fine mist is falling. The early morning sky is a deep mossy green. Dvalin saddles his horse and rides off. When he is some distance from the house, he turns to see a lone rider galloping after him. He pulls his own mount to a standstill. It is Fulla. She wears a long dark blue cloak that flies out behind her, and her hair is clipped back in a mass of golden tangles. As she draws near, he can see the pale coldness in her face, and can just make out the mist upon her cheeks.

  “You didn’t say goodbye,” she says a little breathlessly.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “The two of you have quarrelled, haven’t you? Over me.”

  He smiles. “I’ve achieved nothing, I’m afraid. Except to incur his wrath.”

  “You’ve won my gratitude.”

  He smiles at her weakly. “Then it was worth it.”

  She urges her horse forward until it is almost abreast with his own, then leans towards him, pressing something into his hand. “Goodbye, Dvalin.” Fulla turns the horse back towards the house and spurs it into a gallop. Dvalin looks down at the object in his hand: a small bronze medallion with Jarl’s mark stamped upon it. He closes his fingers tightly round the medallion, as if it can somehow
bring him closer to its owner. In the distance, he can just make out the figure of Fulla as she reaches the house. Someone else waits for her in the yard, the lumbering form of her grandfather. Hogni holds the reins of the horse while Fulla dismounts, and Dvalin watches as the two embrace. The sight pains him, for in that instant they appear to recede, slipping even further away.

  THE NORNS

  The earth is inconceivably old. But Iceland is barely a child. We saw it burst and bubble from beneath the sea, a lump of smoking rock that grew and grew until it could no longer be ignored. This island is unlike all others, for it grows still, straddling two great slabs of crust that are slowly spreading, as if prized apart by giants. As the plates move, the earth’s hot sap wells up from deep inside to fill the gap, forming a mountainous ridge along the sea floor that stretches for eternity. Iceland is the only point along this ridge that has risen above the waves. We have watched it build up over millions of years: ten thousand layers of overlapping lava flows.

  FREYA

  Crerr plants his feet and crosses his arms defiantly. Next to him, Alfrigg twitches with apprehension, his head quivering from side to side.

  “It’s not for sale,” says Grerr.

  “Never. Out of the question,” echoes Alfrigg.

  “There’s nothing to match it. Here or anywhere.”

  “It represents a lifetime’s work. Many lifetimes. We . . . all of us . . . all of ours, I mean,” stammers Alfrigg. He blushes.

  “Four, in fact,” adds Grerr pointedly.

  I do not answer. Instead, I scrutinise them. All my life, I have found it easy to see into the minds of men. These two may be dwarves, but they are no different from the others I have known. Smaller. Hairier. The one on the left is obviously the leader. He is hairy even by the standards of his own people, with bushy eyebrows all askew, like the bristles of a boar, and a beard so coarse it leaps out from his chin and distracts me with its movement when he speaks.

  By contrast, the other one is almost baby-faced. A thin, whiskery beard, and a wide, shiny forehead that occasionally creases with surprise. His eyes are large and round.They lack their brother’s meanness, and dart about nervously while he speaks. Every now and then, they alight on the necklace, and he smiles with joy, as if he’s seeing it for the first time.

  The brothers shift uncomfortably under my gaze. I tilt my head to one side and speak thoughtfully. “Your lives are not yet over. Indeed, you are still young.”

  Alfrigg colours anew, and even Grerr is forced to give a little cough. But then he shakes his head in protest. “You do not understand. It required all our skill as craftsman. And our cunning. I doubt that we will ever produce anything so worthy.”

  I realise then that he has little else. But my mind is latched firmly on the necklace, and I will not be deterred. “For whom did you labour so long and hard?”

  Alfrigg blinks uncomprehendingly. Grerr narrows his eyes with distrust. “For ourselves,” he says.

  “But it is an adornment.”

  Alfrigg nods slowly. Grerr only glowers.

  “You do not wear it,” I continue.

  “No one wears it.” Grerr’s tone is adamant. Alfrigg reaches out and fingers the necklace gently, as if to reassure both himself and it that nothing has changed. Suddenly, his face brightens.

  “We intend to display it,” he says proudly. “Just so.”

  “For yourselves?”

  Alfrigg opens his mouth to speak, but Grerr cuts him off. “For whomever we choose.”

  At that moment, I walk the few steps to where the necklace rests atop the pillar and reach my hand out to touch it. Carefully, I lift it from the cloth, cradling the pendant in my palm. Both men lean forward anxiously. I can almost smell their apprehension. I do not blame them. The pendant is warm to the touch and seems to pulse gently in my hand, like the beating heart of a small animal. I long to close my fingers tightly around it and run. Instead, I force myself to replace the necklace on its cloth, then take a step backwards, turning to them.

  “But you do not display it.You keep it locked away.” Alfrigg raises his hands in a conciliatory shrug. “It is too precious.”

  “It would be stolen,” adds Grerr.

  “Then it is no use to anyone.”

  I look from one to the next. They frown. Alfrigg shoots a worried glance at Grerr.

  “Surely it was meant for more?”

  “Such as?”

  I flash him a smile. “The neck of a beautiful woman.”

  “Like yours.” His tone is icy.

  I shrug. “Or some other. Perhaps mine is not sufficiently beautiful.”

  Now both men stare at me.

  “That would not be the case,” murmurs Alfrigg finally.

  I almost laugh. I cannot help but like him. There is something of the innocent about this man that is completely lacking in his brother. But it is Grerr who must decide, so I turn my attention to him. “I can pay well. In gold or gems. Or the currency of your choice.”

  “We’ve no need of your money,” says Grerr. He has uncrossed his arms and has shifted his stance. I do not know whether it is this, or something in his tone, that tells me he has changed his mind.

  “Perhaps there is something else,” I say.The words spill softly from my lips, as if they have come from somewhere else. They tumble forth and come to rest in the empty space between us.

  Grerr nods. Just once. “Perhaps there is,” he says, inevitably.

  And then I feel my stomach pitch. For I know only too well what they lack.

  And that is the touch of a woman.

  BERLING

  A few hours later, Berling sits opposite his mother on a wooden bench beside the fire. They play nine men’s morris, a game he usually wins, though he has begun to wonder whether his mother really tries. For Berling, the approach of adulthood has been heralded by self-doubt. He can tell he’s growing older, because with each passing day he loses another slice of youthful certainty.

  His mother rolls a playing piece back and forth between her palms, concentrating on the three concentric squares in front of them. With his father’s help, Berling carved the board directly onto the wooden bench when he was six. He still remembers how his hand slipped at one point and the knife leapt across the grain into his father’s forearm. The six-year-old Berling watched with wide eyes as a small bead of crimson bubbled up from his father’s skin. His father put a finger to his lips, raised his eyebrows conspiratorially, and nodded in the direction of his mother, who was working in a corner of the room. With a wipe of his sleeve, he swept all trace of the accident away, then reached forward to steady Berling’s grasp with his own. Together, they finished carving the board. Berling still remembers the warm, meaty clench of his father’s hand, and the sight of his swollen, mottled knuckles, for his father was already an old man by this time.

  Not like a father at all, in fact. More like a grand-father, or an aging uncle, who stayed at home with them for interludes but was more often absent, and eventually disappeared for good. He remembers once tearing through the tunnels with some friends, when he barrelled around a corner and ran straight into his father’s belly. The old man had been deep in conversation with his advisers, en route to an assembly. Somewhat winded, he stopped short and lifted Berling’s chin in the palm of his hand. For a brief instant, Berling saw that his father did not recognise him. The two stared at each other for a moment, then Berling turned and fled, leaving his father speechless in his wake. Later that night, he had feigned illness and gone to bed early, rather than face his father’s embarrassment.

  Now he wishes he had more such memories, for they are all that remains. He sneaks a glance at his mother. She is still attractive, though her looks are somehow girded by her practical nature. Does she miss his father? He wouldn’t know. Even when his father was alive, his mother had seemed self-sufficient. She worked hard, laughed if there was time for it, and saw to both their needs with utmost efficiency. Lately, he has begun to wonder who saw to hers. But such t
houghts only make him feel inadequate.

  His mother clucks with satisfaction and places the small piece of bone she is holding on a square. “Mill!” she says triumphantly, removing one of his opposing pieces from the board.

  He studies the configuration for a moment, then plants a new piece in a threesome of his own, removing one of her pieces in turn. His mother frowns at the board, and after a few moments, makes a move of little consequence. He steals a glance at her, for she has missed something obvious. Should he tell her? But he sees at once that her mind has flown elsewhere. She does this constantly, steps in and out of his world with ease, and it confounds him. He looks back down at the board. The game has lost its edge now. It is little more than a scattering of bones on wood.

  “So tell me about her, then,” his mother says abruptly.

  “Who?”

  “You know who. Where does she come from?”

  He shrugs. “South, I think. Somewhere in the mountains.”

  “Name?”

  He hesitates. She is bound to discover sooner or later. But not from him. “She didn’t say.”

  “And is she very beautiful?”

  “Why?” He looks up at her, uncomprehending. His mother flashes him a smile, then deliberately looks back down at the board.

  “You blush to speak of her, Berling,” she says quietly.

  He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. The room does feel hot. His mother makes another pointless move, then sits back.

  “So is she young? Old?”

  “I didn’t notice.” He sees the corners of her mouth turn up slightly.

  “And did your brothers settle on a price?”

  Berling accidently drops the piece he is holding. He bends down to retrieve it, even as he feels his face go red. “I think so,” he murmurs.

  “And?” She looks at him expectantly.

  He does not know what to say.They have sworn him to secrecy. He is not to tell a soul of the agreement. He is particularly not to breathe a word to his mother. “I don’t know,” he says lamely.