Giants of the Frost (34 page)

You scooped up a handful of leaves and threw them at me. "Come on, we'll be here until Michaelmas."

"My family doesn't celebrate Michaelmas," I said.

You shrugged. "I don't care what your family does. I asked you a question." I was overwhelmed with strange feelings. All I knew to do in such a situation was kill something or retreat. I turned and, without a backward glance, walked away.

"Vidar, where are you going?" you called.

I scooped up my sword and disappeared into the forest. You didn't follow, and for that I was glad. I spent the day pacing the beach, trailing my sword in the wet sand. I felt the keen discomfort that only a man who brings shame upon his family can know. My brothers would laugh at me, my father would bellow until the hall shook. I could not kill you. I recalled the light in your eyes when you laughed, and knew it was too precious a thing to extinguish. Confusion drove me up and down the water's edge. My father's hall and all the brutal laws that filled it had seemed as fixed as ancient stone, and yet the sand was moving underneath them, just as it slid and skidded under my feet. Why kill the mortals? Why spend my days winning battle glory against the Vanir? Why snarl and set my eye only on the honor of my family, when my family had so little to honor—their petty quarrels, their trivial desires, their cruel humor?

I began to shed my family that day, adding up their wrongs, finding the sum too great to measure. The tide crept in. I thrust my sword up to its hilt in the sand and sat back on the beach to watch as the sea swallowed it. The afternoon grew pink and mauve, the wind was cold, the sun disappeared. Odin would know, of course, that I had not killed you or your family. I believed I would have to convince Isleif to leave the island and take his followers with him. The next morning, I dressed for battle and rode Arvak down the edge of the fjord toward the church. Three little girls played in the grass, an elderly woman hung wet blankets over a tree's branches, and Isleif Grímsson stood at the entrance to his home—one of three unfinished ash cabins—at the side of the water.

"Ho, stranger," he called. "Have you come to find God?" I did not reply. I rode up to him, and I could see unusual strength in his face. He must have been frightened of me: I was a stranger, I wore a bloodstained coat of mail and a scarred iron helm. Isleif betrayed no fear. Rather, he emanated an odd serenity, a bemused acceptance of whatever it was that I was bringing to his family.

"You must leave this island," I said as I drew even with him.

The elderly woman had paused to watch from a distance. One of the little girls ran toward us and the woman tried to stop her.

"All is well, Gudrid," Isleif said to her. "Let the child come. This man means no harm." The little girl snuggled under Isleif's elbow. "Who are you?" she said to me.

"My name is Vidar," I said, without dropping Isleif's gaze. "I bring you a grim warning. You must leave this island. This island belongs to Odin."

"Odin isn't real," the little girl said confidently.

"I assure you he is," I said.

Isleif patted the child's head. "Odin only exists because God permits it," he said. "I am not afraid of him or of his family."

"You must be," I said, "for you have angered us greatly by building your church here. You and your settlers are all in danger." I looked around, and noticed that one of the cabin doors had opened and two young men peered out. You were with them and you were still smiling.

"God will see to it that no harm comes to us," Isleif said. "Would you like to give yourself to God, Vidar?"

Anger tightened my guts. I spat on the ground. "No, I would not," I said, "for among my family, God's name is abhorred."

"If you change your mind, I'll still be here," Isleif said, and turned his back on me, still with the little girl under his wing. I had never seen anyone turn his back on me before, leaving himself so vulnerable to the point of a sword. I had little time to wonder if Isleif were brave or foolish, because the two other little girls had run toward me and were asking me if I'd let them ride my horse. Arvak whickered anxiously—he was used to armed warriors, but little girls' probing fingers were new to him—so I turned him sharply and rode out of the mission, into the trees.

I paused when I was out of sight and rested my face on Arvak's mane. What had just happened? I had ridden in like Death himself and none of them had flinched. How was I to convince these people that they must leave?

I heard a voice then, from the edge of the forest.

"Vidar?" It was you, following me into the trees.

I dismounted and pulled off my helm, waiting for you among the shadows. "What do you want?" I asked as you drew closer.

"I'm not afraid of you," you said.

"You should be."

"I believe in the old gods," you said. "I believe in them more than I believe in Isleif's God, because he's mysterious and nobody has ever seen him, but my brother, Hakon, once saw Thor on the battlefield at Gokstad."

"Then why aren't you afraid?"

"I said I'm not afraid of
you
," you said. "There are many things I'm afraid of, but as for Odin or Thor or God"—you lifted your shoulders—"who knows what they want from us?" I took a step forward. I wanted to seize your shoulder, but I was afraid to touch you, to feel the warmth radiating from your skin. "I know that Odin wants you to leave. You must convince Isleif." You smiled mischievously. "You seem very sure, Vidar."

"This is not a joke," I said.

"I'll tell him," you said. "Will I see you again?"

"You must leave," I said. "You must never see this place or me ever again." As I said it, an unexpected melancholy descended and I had to turn my back on you. "Go, Halla. Tell Isleif to leave this very night or tomorrow. I can't guarantee your safety any longer than that."

"Vidar, don't go," you said.

But I jumped on Arvak's back and urged him away at speed.

My plan had been to wait until nightfall to return to Asgard. Now a seed of some new dissatisfaction had been sown within me and I found it impossible to imagine myself leaving just yet. I felt impatient, and vulnerable, alternately filled with energy or gripped by torpor. I wanted to range the forest all night, then I wanted to lie down on a bed of skins and think about the soft curve of your throat. Sleep was unthinkable. Returning to the mission was out of the question. I settled for a compromise. When evening descended, I sat at the outer edge of the fjord and watched the church and the three little houses, knowing that you were inside one. Perhaps you sat by the fire spinning, or perhaps you were eating, or sleeping. I sat for many hours in the cold and the dark, while the black water rippled silent and deep at my feet. A snatch of an old tune stuck in my head, a love song that one of my father's servants always sang. The night soaked me up, its gloom suffused me. I pulled my cloak tight around myself and wondered what was happening to me.

Then I saw a figure approaching. Your fair hair caught the starlight and at first you didn't see me, and then I must have moved just enough to draw your eye. You revealed no surprise, but you were more cautious than you had been in the daylight.

"I thought about you and you appeared," you said.

"Good night, Halldisa Ketil's-daughter."

You approached and sat next to me. "Good night, Vidar Odin's-son. For I know for certain that is who you are."

"It's true. There's no point in denying it. I was sent from Asgard to persuade your family to leave."

"What does it feel like to be a god?" you asked.

"I don't know if I am a god. I know what it feels like to be Aesir. It feels like shame."

"You feel shame that you come from a great and powerful family?"

I turned to you, impatient. "What are you doing here?"

"I have thought about you all day."

"Because I am Aesir?"

"Because you are Vidar. Because you have hard hands and soft eyes. I could fall in love with a man with such hard hands and such soft eyes," you said. Then you burst into laughter and I found myself laughing too.

"You speak very plainly," I said.

"I see no use in doing otherwise. Tell me, if Odin has only one eye, is he always bumping into things?" I laughed so hard I couldn't answer.

"And Thor? He must smell like a goat."

"He does. And has the manners of one." Nobody had ever made jokes about my family before.

"Heimdall's beard, from the stories, must be long enough to trip over."

"Not yet," I said, "but it prevents any of the ladies of Valaskjálf from finding his face beautiful, and so he is forced to observe them from afar."

"Your smile suggests the ladies do not know he watches them." You leaned down and picked up a stone, which you skimmed across the water.

"He keeps his hands occupied," I said, and felt a wave of fear and guilt. I banished it. Nobody in Asgard could hear me now.

You laughed and pushed your hair off your face. "It sounds just as petty and boring as families in Midgard."

"I would rather hear of your family," I said. The chill air and the distant stars were already weaving magic between us. "I grow tired of thinking of my own."

"Mine are worse," you said. "Isleif dragged us all here to be good Christians, but half of us still worship the old gods or nobody at all. He'd be appalled at some of the things I've done." You raised your eyebrows knowingly. "Would you like to hear?"

"Of course."

You reached inside your dress and pulled out a moonstone set in silver on a fine chain. "Thou shalt not steal," you said. "I stole this back in Egersund, before we came on this hellish trip. It's to remind me of everything I had to leave behind."

"Stealing is forbidden by your God?" I asked.

"He's not
my
God," you replied. "He's Isleif's." You held up a pale finger. "Thou shalt honor thy mother and father. I call my mother a fool and a coward, and if she had any mettle we'd be back home with all my friends, but Isleif is her brother and she quakes when he speaks. As for my father, well, he's been dead six years, but he was a liar anyway."

I smiled at you. Your irreverence was gentle, not savage. Your voice was infused with warmth, even as you told your tales of mischief. "Any more?" I asked.

You lowered your voice, pretended to look around for listeners. "Well… I don't know if I should tell you…"

"Go on."

"Thou shalt not commit adultery," you said, "but I once lay with my cousin Asbjörn, on my sixteenth birthday."

New desire stirred within me. "You did?"

"Just to see what it was like," you replied lightly. "Asbjorn has since taken a wife. The three little girls you saw today are his. But he hasn't forgotten." You bit your lip to still a laugh. "I'm too wicked, aren't I?"

"You are far from wicked," I said, thinking about my sins and what they amounted to.

"Asbjörn is one of the most pious of Isleif's followers," you said. "No doubt his feelings about me are what leads him to press so hard that I marry Ulf."

"Who is Ulf?" I said, ready to tear out his heart.

"One of the others. He's too old and too pious for my liking, and Isleif would never force me." You grew serious. "What of you, Vidar? Does your family try to marry you off?"

"I have lived the life of a warrior," I said carefully. "Marriage and children have not been spoken of."

"Though you must have loved?"

I thought of all the women I had desired, how easily those desires had been satisfied, and how quickly the women were discarded. "No," I said, almost surprised to hear myself say it. "I have never loved."

"Nor have I," you said softly, "though I can imagine it well enough." You leaned toward me and turned up your face. "If you kissed me…"

I placed a hand on your hair, trailed the silky strands through my fingers. "You are so mortal, Halla," I said. "I don't understand you."

You smiled. "I didn't ask you to understand me. I asked you to kiss me." Savage desire gripped me and I kissed you. You wound your arms around my neck and I pressed your body to mine, and it felt as vulnerable as a bird's with its speeding heart and its fine bones. I was intoxicated and I felt myself letting go of my family, my past, my blood. I was free, after a lifetime trapped by the Aesir name.

You pulled back and murmured against my cheek, "I think I am in love with you, though I only met you yesterday."

I thought about our first meeting, with Hjarta-bítr in my fist and Odin's orders in my heart, and fear chilled me. "Halla, you must convince Isleif to go. I cannot safeguard you from my father, and he wants you all gone."

"I'll see what I can do," you said.

"And I'll see what deal I can make with Odin," I said. "Will you meet me again, here, tomorrow?"

"I would meet you whenever and wherever you asked, Vidar." You kissed me again, then climbed to your feet and, with a wave over your shoulder, headed home.

I returned to Valaskjálf, but my father was too drunk to speak to me. I left word with one of his servants that most of the settlers were his worshippers, so I had not wanted to kill them and had chosen to warn them instead.

"They will be gone before winter," I called over my shoulder, eager to be back in Midgard with you. "Tell him he can trust me, tell him it's all at an end."

But it was actually only the beginning.

I felt hope and I felt at liberty as I returned to Midgard the next evening. You had until winter to convince Isleif and his followers to go. And then? When you went with them? These feelings were still too new to me to understand, so I ignored the questions they provoked. Winter was many weeks away, the answer would come. I had time to spend with you, to test if my wild emotions would lose their brightness. I waited for you that night by the fjord, but you didn't arrive. My disappointment overwhelmed me. I was angry and confused. The long night grew cold and still you didn't come. When the first glimmer of dawn touched the sky, I cursed you as a harlot and pulled myself to my feet. Only moments remained for me to cross Bifrost, and I was heading into the trees, whistling for Arvak, when you came running up the bank of the fjord.