As the Raven Flies - A story set in the world of Water
Witch: The Deceiver's Grave Note: This story takes place in the universe created in Water Witch: The Deceiver's Grave, an epic pirate fantasy novel posted to my blog last year, and to be published Summer 2007 by PD Publishing. While knowledge of the novel would be helpful, the story will stand alone sufficiently for those who did not participate in the serialized posting that took place on my blog in 2005. As the Raven Flies is part of a new anthology, The Dread Sargasso Sea, written by me and offered for purchase next year; this collection consists of stories inspired by Water Witch which deal with the characters' past and present. Please enjoy this sample of what you'll find in the anthology; all questions and comments can be sent to me at wynna1@yahoo.com or cfkuipers@home.nl cfkuipers@home.nl Katla Braggisdóttir ducked behind the curve of her kyn’s turf built long-house, insinuating herself in the narrow space between the foundation stones and the peat squares stacked to dry along the sunniest side. Her thin dress was no protection from the mist that rose like a ghostly white tide until a salt-laced wind blew it to tatters. Shivering, she wiped her runny nose on her sleeve, but her gaze never faltered from the people standing and talking a few arm’s lengths away. Like most of the villagers, her father Braggi Bjarnarson was a fisherman in the herring season; off-season he hunted seals and puffins, put up salted blue whiting for export to Spain, and had tally-sticks for sheep and goats in the common flock. He was not wealthy; he was not a proper rune-singer; nor was he a skin-shifter, or a black sorcerer. However, Braggi kenned the working of bind-staves, a craft learned from his late father—a form of folk magic despised by their Danish overlords. At the moment, he was crafting a charm for their neighbor’s son, who was going to compete in the summer wrestling contests. Katla watched avidly. Although girls were forbidden from practicing men’s magic, she was willing to risk a beating to satisfy her fascination. She hunkered down behind the richly scented peat stacks, hands tucked in her armpits for warmth, and tried to focus on the voices that were sometimes drowned out by the boom and crash of surf against the close-by cliffs, and the rasping harsh cry of terns hovering overhead. Fjalarr Magnússon was a handsome youth, stocky and dark haired, blue eyed and snub nosed; wind and weather had not yet worked ruin on his fresh face. Katla was aware that her family hoped she would look upon Fjalarr with favor. She would be fourteen years old in winter, past time to be wedded and bedded according to her married aunts and cousins. They often talked about her refusal to accept any of the village’s eligible bachelors. Not all of them were ugly as Glúmur, who had lost his nose to frostbite; none of them was as cruel as Einar, who was suspected of beating his first wife to death, and letting the second starve during the last famine. No, Fjalarr was an excellent match—his virility unquestioned by the fathering of a bastard on the idiot girl called Unwashed Arna—and moreover his father owned eight ships in the herring fleet, and was a successful smuggler as well. This was wealth, indeed. If she married Fjalarr, Katla would have an amber necklace, a new dress, winter shoes that did not pinch her feet, a servant to wait upon her… but by the sleet-cold hell, Katla was sick of the incessant whispering that came from the women huddled round the hearth with spindles and loom! They were kyn, deserving of respect, but sometimes she wished them to the devil for their meddling, however well-meaning. She shifted a trifle to ease her cramping muscles, and tried to concentrate on her father’s stave-crafting, wanting to memorize the words, the gestures and every element of the ritual. The young man’s father, Magnús, held a live raven in his hands, keeping the bird’s deadly pointed beak away from his face. As it was, the raven had already pecked his fingers bloody. “Will you make haste, Braggi, else I’ll have nothing left but bone!” “Patience, Magnús, patience is counseled. Such matters come in their own time.” Braggi’s bushy brows were drawn together in a frown. He had a bone-handled eating knife that belonged to Fjalarr. In a swift, practiced gesture, Braggi drew the edge of the blade across the raven’s throat, crying at the same time, “Quick! The bowl!” Fjalarr fumbled a wooden bowl under the raven’s body. Its wings flapped, scattering crimson droplets. White-speckled black hens fled, squawking in alarm. While Magnús wrinkled his nose in disgust, Braggi opened the raven’s chest and removed its heart, which was still quivering. He dropped the morsel into the bowl, then pried the skull open and added the raven’s brain to the mix. The rest of the carcass he tossed towards the house; the limp feathered body squelched into the mud just in front of Katla’s feet. She scooted back a bit, unwilling to be noticed. It was believed that a woman witnessing magic would spoil the operation. Katla thought that was nonsense; she had been spying on her father for years, and his bind-staves had lost none of their power. Still, if she was caught, Braggi would likely order his sister to give her a whipping with a stout birch rod. Systir Hafdís had a strong arm, and Katla would be stiff with bruises for days. Braggi mixed the contents of the bowl with a piece of seal’s scapula, intricately carved, and added a scattering of leathery bits from an old walrus-skin pouch. The stuff was dried human stomach, Katla knew, gathered from corpses in her grandfather’s time when an elf-blown sickness had swept through the village, killing many; the survivors were left with crater-like scars on their faces, and the disease sometimes blinded, too. A child at the time, Braggi had escaped with his vision intact, but his face was badly scarred. Setting aside the seal’s scapula and using the eating knife, Braggi pricked the base of Fjalarr’s thumb and squeezed several drops of his blood into the bowl. Braggi dipped his forefinger into the mess and painted bristling rune-staves on Fjalarr’s feet—gapaldur on the right heel, and ginfaxi beneath the toes on the left, straight lines and curved interlaced in the dull scarlet of drying blood. As he worked, he chanted, “Gapaldur under the heel, ginfaxi under the
toes, Fjalarr jumped and cursed when the runes flushed vivid red, then disappeared into his skin. “It burns!” he complained. “In a moment it will pass, lad,” Braggi said, wiping his finger on the hem of his shirt. Katla started when she heard a raucous croak, loud as if made directly into her ear. Glancing at the roof, she saw a large raven perched there above her head. The sun drew iridescent violet and blue highlights from the oily black feathers. The bird fluffed up and cocked its head, a dark eye gleaming as it examined the scene below. Fjalarr reached for his sling, but the raven cawed derisively and launched off the roof, swooping down to pluck a bit of dripping flesh from the bowl still held by Braggi before it flapped away. “Good omen, that,” Braggi remarked in satisfaction, shooting a quelling look at Fjalarr from beneath his brows. “Leave it be, boy. Do you not know that a man may find his fortune by following as the raven flies?” “A child’s tale,” Fjalarr said, but he stuffed the sling straps back under his belt. “My thanks, master Braggi. There’s a fine sweet heifer as prize in the wrestling, a cow already in calf by the Great Bull of Patreksfjörður. I pledge you half the milk for a year and a day should I win; and if your daughter Katla will be my wife, the heifer and calf will be yours entire.” Katla sucked in a breath. She resisted the urge stomp over and slap Fjalarr’s smug face, and perhaps box his ears as well. Did he think she could be bought for a cow? Magnús nodded. “My son has charge of his own fishing boat, brand new.” His voice lowered, but Katla could still make out the speech of a man used to making himself heard across a storm-battered deck. “Fjalarr knows how to evade the Danish king’s boats, how to slip in and out of the best ports… our kyn has contacts, you know, and we care not for the Dane’s laws and their thrice-damned trade monopoly. Do your women want spices, sweetmeats, sugar, silks? Do you want wine from Germany?” His gaze was knowing; he was a cunning devil offering temptations beyond mortal man’s ability to refuse. “A Skånish musket, perhaps, with powder and shot supplied each month?” Braggi hesitated, seeming to be considering the offer. Katla grew light-headed from the hollow frightened rush of her pulse. Magnús was offering a magnificent bride-price. Of course, the dowry her father gave would be hers to keep—a few ounces of silver, hoarded since her birth—but the groom’s bride-price would be shared by all her kyn. Katla could already imagine the pressure her aunts and cousins would bring to bear once they knew about Magnús’ generosity. Her mother had died two years ago of a lung fever; there would be no other women to convince Braggi otherwise if he chose to give Katla to Fjalarr. Systir Hafdís would probably drag Katla to church by the hair if she resisted; the woman had two unwed daughters whose lack of a dowry would be solved at once if Katla married well. She firmed her jaw, determined not to cry, and heard her father say, “That is the finest offer I’ve been given in many a year. I thank you for the honor you’ve done my family, and my daughter as well. However, please indulge me, old friend, and grant me time to consult my women-folk on the matter.” Magnús smiled. “Yes, I quite understand. The ladies must not feel left out or the porridge will be burnt, the bread half-baked, and the goat’s milk refuse to make curds. We want no hysterical bride, either. Well, let the women chatter together for a few days, then come by my house and we’ll decide on the terms of the contract.” “Thank you.” Braggi stood and watched while Magnús and Fjalarr left, walking side-by-side down the trail that led to the fishing village. When they disappeared from view, his mouth quirked. “Come forth, little Kat,” he said, holding out a hand. A sharp ache griped her heart, but she obeyed his softly voiced command, sliding out from behind the peat stacks. The house’s rough foundation stones scraped her shoulder-blades through the thin fabric of her dress as she squeezed past, but the pain was minor compared to the fear of disappointing her father. She would rather endure one of Systir Hafdís’ beatings than see him looking at her that way, his expression filled with baffled sadness, and a resignation that turned the lump in her breast to a boulder. “You know this is men’s magic, little Kat,” Braggi said, “and also men’s business.” “I’m sorry,” she replied. Unshed tears burned her sinuses. “I meant no harm.” “This isn’t the first time I’ve caught you spying. Will it be the last?” “Yes, pabbi, I won’t do it again,” she replied, using a child’s nickname for him instead of the more formal ‘Father.’ Under his steadfast regard, she was reduced to girlhood, to the carefree time before she was permitted to wear the skotthúfa, the cap with its tasseled ‘tail’ of many colors. She did not quite toe the ground or wring her hands in an excess of chagrin, but the nervous flutter in her stomach was real enough. “Do you know what a husband can do to you?” Braggi sighed, but his frown did not falter. “Should his wife break the law he can lock her away without food, only water, from one moon to the next; he can bind her thumbs to her heels and whip her short of death; he can denounce her to the Althing, and demand compensation from her kyn because her actions have damaged the honor of his house. Would you see your kyn beggared?” “No, pabbi,” Katla said, contrite. He sighed again. “You’re as beautiful as your mother,” he said, “and by the empty eye of Óðinn, just as headstrong!” He put a work callused hand on her shoulder, and stooped to peer into her face. “I’ve indulged you shamefully since your mother’s death; your aunts say that I’ve spoiled you beyond redemption, but I believe you’re intelligent enough to understand that there comes a time to put away childish things, and assume an adult’s responsibilities.” Her throat went dry. There would be no mercy from this quarter. “Yes, pabbi.” “Don’t look as though I’m about to take a gaff to you, girl!” He sounded gruff and impatient. Katla stood straighter, her cheeks burning. Braggi went on more gently, “Your kyn requires you to do your duty and marry Fjalarr. Otherwise, I fear there are little ones and oldsters who won’t survive this winter.” For the first time, Katla recognized the deep lines that the burdens of care had worn into his beloved face. Braggi was the head of the household; to him fell the ultimate task of seeing that the kyn’s needs were met. Each member contributed to the whole—aunts, uncles, cousins, by blood and by marriage, working together to ensure mutual survival—but ultimately, the important decisions were made by Braggi alone, for good or ill. “Is it that bad?” Katla asked, her spirits sinking to a new low. Since her great-grandfather’s time, the winters had grown longer and the summers shorter; harvests were inadequate, and most could not afford the extortionate prices charged by Danish merchants for their goods. Even basic commodities were hard to get unless one had cash or connections, like Magnús and his smuggling band. An alliance with Fjalarr would mean a full pantry to sustain her family; there would be no swollen-bellied starvelings in Braggi’s long-house. “It’s worse.” Braggi glanced away, then back at her. His eyes had once been like hers—a fresh blue-grey like the foam-topped rollers that clawed the shore below the cliffs. Years of magic use had bleached a great deal of color away, leaving the irises a tarnished silver. “There’s a disease among the sheep, a wasting water-elf sickness.” “I know—it’s all Gunnar Logisson would talk about on Sunday last—but there’s a charm for that!” Katla exclaimed. “Wild strawberry leaves, wormwood and earth-gall…” Braggi shook his head. “The water-elf charm was tried and failed to answer. No, daughter, this year there will be no sheep’s head jam, no pickled ram’s testicles, no smoked lamb, nor soured lamb’s guts. We can live on dried fish and dried horsemeat during the winter if we slaughter our ponies, but I fear the youngest children and the oldest women will not survive. And there will be no lambs next spring unless we get them from Magnús.” The extent of the disaster was appalling. They had been counting on the yearly sheep-culling to form the backbone of their supplies for the long winter; and what would they do next year without ewes in lamb? Katla rapidly calculated the barrels of provisions already stored in the long-house—mostly herring and cod’s tongues, fermenting whey, sea-bird and seal. “We can gather more lichen and seaweed, crowberries and bilberries, beg turnips from the monastery in the east…” she began, and stopped when Braggi held up his free hand. “There is only one sure way to preserve your kyn,” he said. “I’ll not force you to marry him, daughter. However, if you refuse, you may not leave the long-house, not for any reason.” She stared at him. When had her indulgent father turned into this stone-faced stranger? However, it was not difficult to comprehend his reason for this condition. Braggi meant for her to face the consequences of her decision. She would be trapped all winter amid the hungry and the dying, unable to escape even for a moment. Katla shuddered. “You’re a woman grown, not a child who had no concept of duty,” Braggi said. “Once you give Fjalarr an heir or two, you can be separated from him if you choose. Magnús will make a settlement for his grandchildren’s sake.” He looked at her a moment longer. “Tell me your decision tomorrow, little Kat. Today you may still play the girl, if you wish.” He released her and trudged away, taking the same trail that led down to the village. Katla shifted from foot to foot, her head aching. A raven landed on the roof and regarded her with its glittering black eyes, first one and then the other. She did not know if it was the same bird who had stolen flesh from Braggi’s charm-bowl. “I wish I could fly away from here,” Katla whispered, knowing she had to do what was right, and wishing for the freedom to do as she pleased. Her father has spoken no lies; she was a grown woman, no longer a child. Her responsibility to the kyn could no longer be put off or denied. “I wish I didn’t have to marry Fjalarr. I wish…” Her voice trailed off. The raven cawed, hopping down the slope of the roof. Katla’s nose was running again; she wiped it on her sleeve defiantly, knowing she would be scolded if her aunts saw her behaving so indecorously. Defiance swelled, fueled brighter and brighter by anger until she was dazzled. Katla spat on the ground, furious. It isn’t fair! Why do I have to be sacrificed to save my family? Why can’t one of my cousins do it? The answer was easy—because she was Braggi’s daughter; because Fjalarr wanted her; because Magnús approved of her bloodlines, traceable back through many generations to Ingólfur Arnarson, one of the land’s first settlers. While her family might be poor, it more than made up for that poverty in the richness of its heritage. Katla’s anger drained away. Remember you are descended from heroes, she told herself, and behave accordingly. It was Katla’s duty to obey her father, and her duty as his daughter to make an advantageous alliance to benefit her house. Marriages were rarely love-matches anyway; the best she could have hoped for was a union of affection and respect. There was no reason to suppose that Fjalarr would deal with her cruelly. Katla was sure she would be treated like a brood mare, kept in sloth and luxury, pampered and petted, with no responsibility other than to bear heirs. Her soul would surely wither and die under such treatment. Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed a flurry of death-black feathers coming straight at her, and felt the raven’s surprisingly soft wings brush her as it stooped. She flinched, flinging up a hand to protect her face. There was a sharp tug and the bird glided away, something metallic glinting in its beak. Alarmed, Katla touched her cap; her skotthúfa was gone! The antique silver slide at the top of the shoulder-length tassel must have caught the raven’s interest, and the thieving bird had plucked it off. “Oh! Bring that back!” she cried indignantly. The raven flapped to a landing on the house’s roof, still holding the slide and attached tassel. That piece of silver was a cherished heirloom once worn by her mother, and she would not lose it willingly. Katla was wondering if she ought to fetch one of her male cousins who was sure to have a sling, when the raven flew off, headed inland. Without thinking, Katla followed, keeping her gaze fixed on the soaring bird. She half-ran, half-stumbled over the spongy tundra, sparing enough attention from the chase not to stub her toes on the moss-covered rocks that poked out of the earth. Ahead on the horizon were blue basalt mountain crags shouldering out of the landscape. The raven flew on, dangling the slide from its beak. Katla hiked her skirts above her knees and went around a group of three boulders that the villagers believed were trolls turned to stone, then bounded down the side of a hill, just avoiding falling into the little sparkling stream that ran down to the sea. A flock of goats scattered at her approach; there were heartbreakingly few sheep in the herd. Katla spared not a glance at the shepherd but continued on her way, never losing sight of the raven slipping through the air. So intent was she upon regaining her cherished slide that Katla failed to notice she had blundered into the graveyard until she scraped her shin against something rough and unyielding. She cursed, mopping at her bleeding leg with her petticoat. The raven croaked from a nearby tree branch. She whipped her head around at the sound; it must have dropped her silver slide. Katla took a step in the raven’s direction and halted. A flash of terrible recognition informed her where she was standing, and her breath hitched. It was a miniature forest of birch-wood stakes, each as fat as her
doubled fist at the top, then tapering towards the end that had been
pounded into the turf. The stakes marked the graves of the Old Wild
Ones—the pagans of seven hundred years ago who had spurned Christianity
as the religion of slaves, and refused to convert when Thorgeir’s
Althing had declared that the nation’s people should be baptized.
Instead, this group had clung to the ways of their heathen ancestors,
and they had been buried in unconsecrated ground when they died. Katla’s
folk may have still sworn by one-eyed Óðinn, but they revered
the Pious Christ, followed His rede, and worshipped in His church. The raven began pecking at something on the branch, vicious stabs of its beak that made her feel sorry for the bird’s prey. Whatever it was pecking fell and landed limp on top of a birch stake below the tree. She focused on the object, recognizing the faded blue, red and yellow threads of her cap’s tassel. The silver slide had to be there, too, but Katla hesitated, not wanting to go further into the graveyard. All her life she had been warned against disturbing the mold-dwellers, the spirits of the dead. Still, the lure of her precious slide was stronger than the dread that chilled her to the bone. Small hairs prickling, her scraped shin aching exquisitely, Katla sidled between the stakes, trying to touch them as little as possible as she walked towards the tree where the raven sat, still chuckling in its mocking way. A sigh blew over the graveyard. “Pray you pause, little sister,” came the whisper from below the earth, near where her bare foot had sunk into the damp turf. “You pull and I’ll push.” Katla stopped and closed her eyes as the dirt-clotted voice pleaded with her for release. She tried to still the pounding of her heart. Long ago, a birch stake had been driven through the dead body’s heart to keep its specter from rising; removing the stake would set it free. “You pull and I’ll push, little sister,” another spirit called to her eagerly; a third took up the refrain and it spread until Katla was surrounded by pleading voices rising in volume, whisper upon whisper, sigh upon sigh; a hundred incorporeal tongues that were soon rattling like the north-east wind laden with ice. She knew better than to answer. Katla glanced at the boundary stones. She was almost to her goal, and the way out would be shorter once she gained the solitary tree that spread its branches over this blighted spot. Ignoring the continuous susurration, she minced over and around the graves, holding her wool skirts well out of the way to avoid getting entangled in a stake. Finally, she was at the tree, and there were her tassel and slide, undamaged. The raven cawed and flew off, leaving bits of down floating in the air. Katla picked the tassel up and ran the threads rippling through her fingers, grateful beyond words to have the tail of her skotthúfa safely back. She was shocked when a new voice, a tender woman’s voice, said from close-by, “Little sister, little sister, what burden weighs your heart?” There was no one there. Katla felt the blood drain from her face. The voice had come from under the birch-wood stake that her tassel had been caught on. She took a step away. “Little sister,” said the woman’s ghost, a soft murmur issuing from cracks in the moist earth, “tell me why you are sad, and why do you cry where no eyes can see?” The spirit sounded just like her mother, filled with loving compassion and concern. It was two twelve-months since Móðir died, coughing out her life with blood-spume on her lips; few of Katla’s other female relatives were as close, and she missed a sympathetic woman’s ear. Before she could reconsider the wisdom of what she was doing, Katla was prompted by impulse to answer, “Because my father wishes me to marry.” “Ah, but a wedding should be a joyful thing. Do you not want a husband?” “No.” Katla gulped, clutching the tassel in her hand. “Then why do you marry, little sister? Why are you so melancholy?” That mild interrogation opened a floodgate. Katla poured out her troubles, ending with the aggrieved statement, never spoken aloud before: “It isn’t fair! I didn’t ask for this! Why should I have to give myself to Fjalarr for their sake? They don’t care about me anyway,” she added sulkily. “None of them care what I have to do so long as they can stuff their greedy faces at someone else’s expense.” She was aware of how young she sounded, how spoiled. Rather than the reprimand she expected, the ghost replied, “To sacrifice your happiness for your family’s sake is very brave, little sister.” A pause, and it continued, “There may be a way for you to help your kyn without marrying the boy.” “How is that possible?” The promise of freedom created a headier feeling than her uncle’s caraway-flavored brew. “I was a good Christian woman,” sighed the ghost, “but my husband worshipped false gods. When I succumbed to his wicked treatment of me, I was buried here on his order, so that I could not attain Purgatory though I departed in God’s grace. Before I died, I hoarded a some of my husband’s silver and gold, and hid it away in a secret place. If you free me from this prison, you may take the hoard as my gift of gratitude.” Katla was torn. If the spirit spoke truth, she would not have to marry Fjalarr. He was no villain; she simply had no desire to wed him. She did not want to be a wife, not yet. Pretty dresses, servants, jewelry… these things meant nothing to her. From her first clear memory, she had been stricken by a craving to walk beyond the mountains, to sail beyond the fjords, to escape the drear fishing village and its narrow concerns. Katla loved her father… but I don’t want to die here, an old woman whose dreams were withered in the bud. If, however, the spirit was false… The ghost went on, “I swear on the True Cross that what I tell you is no lie. But if you do not trust me, little sister, then go in peace with the blessing of God.” That decided her. She could do a good deed, help her family, and fulfill her own dreams in one fell swoop. What risk was there, really? By law, a ghost could be summoned to court for trespassing, and issued an order of banishment if it proved contentious. Katla bent and tugged at the stake. Immediately, the importuning of the other ghosts burst out in a frantic shouted cacophony, a mob’s mindless bray. Setting her jaw, she yanked harder, and felt a push from below. The wind stirred through the tree, scattering a few leaves. Mud oozed between her toes. Taking a firmer hold, she put her shoulders into the effort, and the stake shifted. Katla set her feet, took a deep breath, and pulled until her muscles protested. Slowly, she felt the reluctant earth release its hold. Encouraged, she made another effort, and nearly fell backwards when the stake slid free of the turf. She staggered, bumping into the tree. Dropping the stake, she grasped the trunk for support, and leaned her head against the smooth bark. It was moment before she caught her breath. Looking at the grave, she could only see a raw hole where the stake had stood. Katla had seen ghosts, of course; most families boasted at least one in the long-house, an inherited apparition of which the living dwellers were proud. “Hello? Elder sister?” she called, using the title of respect for an older female. “Are you there?” No answer. Katla tried again. There was still no answer. Katla cleared her throat. The mold-dwellers had gone silent; the only sound in the graveyard was the soughing of the wind. “Elder sister, are you there?” she asked. Silence. Disappointment made a bitter taste in her mouth. Angry at being cheated, and angry at herself for being so easily deceived, Katla kicked the stake, taking a smidgen of satisfaction in seeing it bounce and roll along the ground. She stomped out of the graveyard, taking a minute to refasten the tassel to her cap, then went home, sick to her stomach. She did not eat supper with the family in the hall, preferring to go hungry to the private niche just big enough to hold her bed. A thick sheepskin could be drawn across the opening for privacy and warmth. Once alone, Katla wept until her throat was sore, her eyes were scratchy, her nose stuffed, and her head a dull misery of pain. There was no escape. Hope had been held out and snatched away again. She berated herself; she was nothing but a fool! Katla cried in quiet desperation, clutching her pillow. She would never tell anyone how stupid and thoughtlessly she had behaved. Bad enough to have to marry Fjalarr now; there was no need to give anyone a reason to mock her in the bargain for believing a fickle ghost’s promise. To the devil with the Old Wild One! In the morning, one of the ponies was found dead, every bone in its body broken. The poor creature had been dragged out of the animal shed and around to the front of the house before being killed sometime in the night. Braggi and Uncle Ástvaldur walked around the pitiful corpse, talking low together, while Ástvaldur’s eldest son, Nannulf, busied himself skinning and gutting the dead pony with a knife. Systir Hafdís stood nearby with several of the other women, ready to begin butchering in earnest the moment Nannulf was done. The family having faced a number of hard winters, no source of food would be wasted even though Katla’s prospective father-in-law had promised to be generous. Hafdís believed in frugality with an almost religious fervor. Katla stood on the threshold, watching until one of her cousins, Dalla, said she was needed in the dairy. Great wooden vats had been sunk partway into the earth, keeping the contents cool. The room was dim, but even here the roof beams and support pillars had been painted dark blue. There were star-shaped patches of lighter blue that five generations ago, in more prosperous times, had been covered with gold beaten thinner than parchment. Dalla offered her a dipper of whey which Katla accepted gratefully, watching her cousin over the rim as the cool refreshing liquid slipped down her throat. Like Katla, Dalla possessed the family’s claims to beauty—blue-grey eyes, a slender build, and feathery black hair that lay close to her head before falling back in waves. She was older than Katla by three years, and married two years ago to Haraldur Haraldurson. He had drowned in a storm last herring season, and she now lived with her birth-kyn. “I wanted to talk to you,” Dalla said, “in private.” “Is something wrong?” Katla was alarmed by the serious expression on Dalla’s pretty face. “Is it one of the children?” “No, Valli and Skúli are fine,” Dalla replied, naming her infant sons. “I heard from my mother that you’ve agreed to marry Fjalarr Magnússon.” Katla snorted. “If you call ‘agreement’ being told what to do.” “Oh, Kat, I’m sorry.” Dalla’s brows were pinched with worry. “I’d hoped you could make a love-match.” “Don’t look so sour, cousin. Fjalarr is a fine man, and I’m sure he’ll make a fine husband. I don’t dislike him, which is something, I suppose.” She hung the dipper back on its nail. “Father’s mind is made up. It’s my duty, and I’ll do it.” “Perhaps he’ll change his mind.” Katla’s smile was rueful. “Might as well go to a goat-house and ask for wool.” Dalla pulled her shawl more tightly around her thin shoulders and said earnestly, “On your wedding-night, Fjalarr will want to assert his husband’s rights on your body. That means…” “By the sleet-cold Hell!” Katla cried, and began laughing. “You don’t mean to teach me the way of a man with a maid, do you?” Dalla’s cheeks flamed crimson. “Would you rather hear it from Hafdís? Or my mother?” “No!” Katla blurted, appalled. The last trace of amusement fled at the thought of listening to a lecture on sex from Systir Hafdís, or her other aunt, Sigurlína, who was equally forbidding. “I know what the ram does to the ewe, and the he-goat to the haðna.” “Matters are somewhat different between humans,” Dalla said with an absolutely straight face, although her lips twitched. She went on to tell Katla exactly what she could expect in the marriage bed. Dalla also gave her advice on how to subtly manipulate her husband to do her will and make him believe it was his own idea; how to use herbs and secret women’s charms to deal with a drunkard, a man with an ill temper, a philanderer, a gambler; how to prevent conception, and how to increase her chances of getting with child. Katla’s mind reeled under the torrent of information. She had never imagined the marriage relationship was so complex, so fraught with pitfalls. Dalla concluded with a warning: “Be careful of doing charms where you might be caught. And you may never, never tell a man about women’s magic. Never! Not under any circumstances!” She reached out and tweaked a lock of Katla’s dark hair, bringing tears to her eyes. “That’s so you won’t forget. Do you remember Oddrún, wife of Torfi?” “Yes.” Katla rubbed her sore scalp. “She died five years ago.” “Do you remember how she died?” “Not really. People talked about it, but they hushed up when they noticed me.” Dalla hunched her shoulders. “Oddrún’s husband caught her crafting a charm when their baby daughter took a fever.” Her voice lowered. “He had her haltered.” “Haltered?” “Yes,” the other woman said grimly. “He loved her, and he had her haltered. She threw herself off a cliff a few months later.” Katla shook her head, stunned. Haltering was a terrible punishment that was inflicted on women, and was only invoked if she was found guilty of sorcery—which meant using any magic, light or dark, because only men were allowed to sing the runes, heal elf-sicknesses, or like Braggi, use bind-staves and craft charms. Women were unfit to do magic lest their children be tainted with evil in the womb, turned to skin-shifters and sorcerers. She had never seen it done, however, and had no idea of the actual mechanics. “What happens when a woman is haltered?” Katla asked. “A rune-singer comes with a piece of bespelled iron chain, which the blacksmith hammers around the woman’s neck so she cannot get it off,” Dalla replied, her mouth pulling into a tense line. “From that moment until she dies, the woman can do no magic. I talked to Oddrún before the end… she told me the halter burned like a white-heated brand, burned her without surcease. She spent the first few days screaming in agony, while Torfi drank himself into a stupor. After that, the pain was not lessened, but she could bear it a little better, enough to do her chores, then her daughter took fever and died, and poor Oddrún took her own life.” Coldness crept into Katla’s stomach. “I didn’t know.” “You were young. Some matters aren’t discussed in front of children.” Katla glanced around the dairy. They were alone; the door was closed. “Did you work charms on Haraldur?” “Yes,” Dalla confessed, her voice pitched to the lightest whisper. “He was not a nice man, Kat. When he drank, he liked to use his fists.” “Why did you stay married to him?” Katla had not known about Haraldur’s violent streak. He and Dalla had lived with his kyn until his drowning. “You could have dissolved the marriage after your children were born. That’s the law.” “Because he pledged a bride-price to be paid over five years; had I left him, it would have been forfeit. Our kyn was in serious need. Your mother’s sickness was costly to treat, and Haraldur’s first installment of the bride-price just met the cost of her funeral.” Dalla looked away. “At first, it wasn’t very bad. He wasn’t so much of a brute; just a slap when I contradicted him or showed disrespect, nothing more. He was even nice sometimes. But after the boys were birthed, Haraldur hurt his leg, and his drinking got worse. He started using his fists. The bruises were getting hard to hide.” “What did you do?” Katla drew closer and put an arm around her cousin’s waist, leaning into the slightly taller woman. “Móðir told me about a charm passed down through the women in her family.” Dalla hesitated. “You’ve watched Braggi craft a bind-stave against drowning, haven’t you?” Katla nodded. “Yes, the viskubrunnurinn … I’ve seen it many times.” “There is another bind-stave that will ensure a man dies at sea—a curse writ on his body in secret, in spittle and gyrfalcon’s blood, using a mouse’s rib bone.” “Dalla! That’s black sorcery!” “Hush! Would you have me haltered, or buried alive under stone?” Katla looked into her cousin’s fright-filled eyes, and the pert remark she had been about to make went unuttered. Her father Braggi’s warnings against interfering in men’s magic took on a new urgency. When she thought about Dalla being haltered, crying in pain as the burning shackle was hammered around her neck, she felt queasy. “Braggi would never countenance that,” she said, but she was not nearly as sure as she sounded. “All it would take is one complaint to the elder’s council. A rune-singer would discover my guilt if he looked for evidence of a charm. A witch-rider can raise Haraldur’s ghost and question him.” Dalla took hold of Katla’s wrist, her nails digging into the skin. Her voice was a bare murmur, but Katka was chilled by the fierce emotion that bled through. “I wouldn’t have done it, but I was pregnant again,” Dalla said. “Oh, how I hoped for a daughter! I could feel her moving already in my body, swimming inside me… and he knocked me down. I miscarried. He murdered my child, Kat! I feared for my sons’ lives. What else was I to do?” Katla let Dalla clutch at her. “I swear I’ll never tell, Dal. I swear on the head of Christ, no one will ever hear the tale from me,” she said, kissing the dark head resting against her shoulder. “You’re rid of him. He can’t hurt you anymore.” “Ah, God… what did I do? My sons have no father,” Dalla said, her breath hot against Katla’s throat. “When I told Móðir what happened, we were both so angry, and I was weak from losing blood… I did it that night when he was sleeping.” “Shhh,” Katla soothed, stroking Dalla’s back. After a few minutes, Dalla lifted her head and released Katla, wiping her wet face with her shawl. “Móðir told me if the deed has to be done, better to get it done quickly, not let him linger overlong. A charm’s the surest way, and less likely to be detected than poison.” Sigurlína would have said something like that, Katla thought. Dalla’s mother was the most cold-bloodedly practical woman in the kyn; it was a family joke that her husband had to protect his manhood with a woolen cap when he lay with Sigurlína to avoid getting frostbite. Dalla continued, “I say to you that a woman is never truly trapped in a bad marriage to a bad husband. This is wisdom. There is a way out if she’s brave enough to take the risk, and strong enough to bear the consequences. Such matters are only spoken about between women, and then only in whispers, where no one else may hear. If men knew the truth, no woman could escape haltering, no girl child would be safe. Do you understand?” “Of course, Dal. I would never betray you.” “Or yourself, or every other female, whether stranger or kyn. Have you dabbled in the runes?” “No!” Denial was automatic. Katla could tell from Dalla’s skeptical frown that she was not believed. “I haven’t tried to sing runes or craft any charms. I’m not lying, Dal. I was afraid I might be caught. I’ve only watched Father at his work.” “Good. Remain discreet and remember one last thing…” Dalla stepped back a pace, her spine straight, her hands down at her sides. Suddenly, it seemed as if the thickest shadows gathered and swarmed around her, a billowing blackness that cloaked her from chin to toes, leaving only the white oval of her face visible. Her pretty features were sharpened by the contrast, giving her a feral appearance. Katla’s throat went tight. Dalla continued, “If you break your oath and betray our secrets, if you betray your mothers and sisters, your kyn—your mouth will be stopped by our charms, your voice broken, your tongue stilled, and you will never speak another word again. Our eyes are on you, Kat. Our ears are listening. Even a traitor’s whisper down a well can be heard.” Katka was thunderstruck. Never had gentle Dalla appeared so transformed, so threatening, so sinister. It sunk in that Dalla had confessed to murdering her husband with magic—Katla suddenly had no doubt that her cousin would deal with betrayal just as ruthlessly. Dalla would not be alone, either. Katla knew in her heart that all the kyn’s women were united in this resolution, though they had sent Dalla alone to be their mouthpiece. She took a breath, and another, and at last felt she could answer. “I will never betray my kyn,” Katla said, “not for love, not for gain, not for spite. My tongue remains behind my teeth. Let God witness my oath, and judge me if I lie.” She recalled how the duplicitous ghost had vowed it spoke truth—it was obvious to her now that a pagan spirit need not fear being foresworn before the Christian God—and she blushed. Dalla stared at her, a long cool gaze that seemed to pierce Katla to her very soul. Then the shadows melted and ran back to the dimmest corners of the dairy, and Dalla gave Katla a proud, pleased smile. “Welcome, little sister. Welcome! Today you are truly a woman.” She bent forward and kissed Katla’s brow. Her smile faltered. “I hope you never have to make a terrible decision about your husband, Kat. It is not easy to live with one’s self after… but I have my children who need me, and my kyn to comfort me. I hope Fjalarr makes you happy.” “I haven’t yet agreed to marry Fjalarr,” Katla said, “no matter what your mother says.” “Oh, Kat…” Dalla looked at her pityingly. “Do you really have a choice?” Heartsick, Katla shook her head and left the dairy. A night’s sleep had not solved her trouble. No miracle would save her. Braggi might be distracted by the dead pony today, but it was only a matter of time before he sought her out to demand her answer. If only that ghost had not lied and deceived her! Too lost in self-recrimination to pay attention to where she was going, Katla ended in the hall where the woman usually gathered during the day to prepare meals, mind the children, work on projects, and talk together. Smoke drifted in languid curls to a hole in the roof. The whole room smelled of the peat blocks used for fuel, raw sheep’s wool, the rich horse stew bubbling over the fire, the reek of baby’s urine … all the odors that meant ‘home’ to her. Two young girls were singing a song as they rocked a reindeer’s stomach back and forth on its lashed-together wooden cradle, churning cream to butter. Braggi’s youngest sister, Ellisif, was working a loom, the shuttle flying under her expert manipulation. Katla dashed a hand against her watering eyes, telling herself it was the irritating smoke, not the thought that she would not see much of her family, or her home, once she married Fjalarr. A horrid wavering shriek sent her pulse skyrocketing, until Katla felt as if her heart had leaped into her hair and sat there, palpitating in shock. A baby sucked in a gasp, paused, and began to cry in scarlet-faced distress. Ellisif looked up, the shuttle forgotten. Another shriek rent the air. Katla winced. Following the line of Ellisif’s gaze, she saw the family ghost squatting over the smoke-hole. Grettir it was called, a hazy grey insubstantial silhouette with a ragged white slash of a mouth that opened wider to emit another blood-curdling shriek. Ellisif rose and stood, hands on her wide hips. “Grettir! Grettir!” she called. “Halla it was that gave you this morning’s milk, as always in your bowl!” The ghost shrieked a fourth time, shrill and loud. Uncle Sindri ran into the hall and stopped, confused, when he found the women were not under attack. He lowered the fishing gaff in his hand. “What is the matter?” he asked. Grettir moaned, hollow and deep. Katla shivered as the sound lanced vibrating through her, leaving trails of ice in its wake. Sindri looked up at the smoke-hole. “What’s wrong with it?” he asked Ellisif, who shrugged. “I haven’t the slightest,” she replied. “He had his milk.” Katla recalled the only time in her memory that Grettir had not been given its traditional share of the morning’s goat milking. In revenge, it had thrown the milk buckets over, carried away two of the goats (which were never seen again), and burnt a chair. Family legend told of a time when Grettir had been much more malevolent; according to Grandfather Bjarki, the ghost had set fire to the little house-of-ease when Great-Aunt Gauja was inside, giving her such terrible burns that she lost the use of her left arm. These days, it seemed much more subdued, at least as far as mischief was concerned. Grettir’s next moan raised goose-flesh, making her shiver. Ellisif grimaced. “We’ll have to have the witch-rider in if Grettir doesn’t settle down.” “Another expense we don’t need,” Sindri growled. He shook his fist at the squatting ghost. “To the Devil with you!” In answer, Grettir shrieked and gibbered, then swooped down through the smoke-hole, scattering embers and ash from the fire, and disappeared through the door that led to the mud-room. Katla beat out the smoldering hem of her cousin Ýrr’s skirt; the woman had been sitting close to the hearthstones, embroidering a shirt. It was Ýrr’s baby that had been screaming. Katla picked up the squalling infant and made an inspection; the boy was unharmed, just unhappy. Ýrr took her son and put him to her breast to quiet him. “I’ve never seen Grettir behave that way,” Ýrr said, her eyes round. “What if he sets fire to the roof beams next?” “I’ll run down to the village to fetch the witch-rider,” Sindri said, rasping a hand over his stubbled chin. He stumped away, muttering. Ellisif set the two younger girls back to making butter. They paled at having to remain in the hall—who knew when Grettir might return, and what it might do next? —but the girls obeyed, shaking the sloshing reindeer stomach with such terrified speed the cradle was in danger of flying apart. “You’d better find Systir Hafdís,” Ellisif said to Katla. “Tell her what’s happened, and that your Uncle Sindri is going to bring the witch-rider.” Katla left the hall at a trot. She found Hafdís supervising the processing of the pony’s body while slicing thin strips from the flanks to be dried in the smoking shed. She explained the situation with Grettir; when she finished, Hafdís scowled. “Steinar is greedy and thinks himself better than he is, and his fee we can ill afford,” the older woman said, referring to the local witch-rider. Hafdís’ silvering brows bunched together over her blade-thin of a nose. “I’ve an errand for you, girl, and I want you to be clever about it. Go to the village and see if Magnús is home. Ask the man if he will pay the witch-rider’s fee on your behalf, since you’re soon to be his daughter-in-law. Your kyn will consider it a good faith advance on the bride-price. ” Katla would rather have eaten molten lead, but she knew the futility of arguing with Hafdís. She glanced at Braggi; her father was still talking to Uncle Ástvaldur, both men leaning against the side of the well. She dared not interrupt their conversation. Resigned, Katla went inside the house to get a shawl, and walked down the trail, a rich earth-dark ribbon cut out of the green sod. The half-mile trail ended at the Maw, a place where the land fell away, leaving a jagged lip of stone. Here some distant ancestor had carved steps into the cliff face that could be negotiated with care. A hundred feet down was the curve of the little harbor, the black sand beach, the fishing boats, the houses with bright painted roofs, and beyond that, the wide endless sea that rolled along the rim of the world.. She was used to the narrow steep stairway, and it took only a few minutes before she was standing in front of Magnús’ house, a grand affair made of wood instead of turf, the roof painted ochre. Glittering fish scales were caught in the stone threshold’s cracks. The door was a slab of oak studded with salt-rusted nails, red as blood. As a mark of Magnús’ status, a ball of yellow witch-fire roiled and splashed inside a glass fisherman’s ball hanging in a net. Katla swallowed. This would be her home when she married Fjalarr. She told herself to stop acting like a ninny, and rapped on the door harder than she intended, bruising her knuckles. Fjalarr answered, smiling. Katla stared at him. The young man was handsome, she thought, wondering how he would treat her in the marriage bed. Some of the things Dalla told her to expect did not seemed too offensive; in fact, the more she considered the matter, the more she thought it would be no hardship to share Fjalarr’s bed, even if she did not really want to wed him. He smelled wonderfully of peat smoke and the musky animal scent of a healthy young man. Tingling heat flushed through her. When she opened her mouth she found she could not summon a word. Fjalarr’s bright blue eyes crinkled into slits as he grinned. “Blessuð, Katla,” he greeted her without a trace of levity. She made herself reply, “Blessaður, Fjalarr. I am sent to speak to your father.” “Enter and be welcome.” He ushered her through the hall with a hand on her back—the kyn’s women looked at her curiously, but none of them called a question or a greeting—and through a series of other rooms to the byre, where a dozen goats milled around, waiting their turn to be milked by a stoop-backed female servant. Magnús was inspecting a goat’s hoof when she and Fjalarr came in. Though obviously surprised, he smiled at Katla and bid her welcome, offering a drink or a snack… she refused him politely, wanting to get to the point of her visit and escape Fjalarr’s disconcerting presence as soon as possible. I do not want to marry him! I don’t! She reminded herself that marriage would mean even more ties holding her to the village, and even less freedom than she enjoyed now. Another part of her—a wanton, lascivious part of her that she had never known existed until this day, this hour, this moment—purred at the prospect of bedding a virile young man. Katla calmed her fluttering insides, and spoke to Magnús, telling him about her family’s ghost, and the need for a witch-rider to appease the upset spirit. He listened to her gravely. When she finished he said, “Your father can tell Steinar to apply to me for his fee.” At her stammered thanks, Magnús waved a hand. “It’s the least I can do, daughter. Your kyn and mine will be united soon, and I’m pleased to help.” Daughter. He already considered her part of his family. Katla was filled with conflicting emotions. She managed to thank him again and took her leave, followed closely by Fjalarr, whom she had forgotten was there. At the door, she halted when a big hand wrapped around her upper arm. Fjalarr instantly released her when she turned, startled. “Sorry,” he said, but did not seem at all contrite. “I want you to know that I… it isn’t such a bad thing, you know. Getting married.” He seemed very sincere. She gazed at him, feeling the tingling warmth again. What would it be like to kiss Fjalarr? she thought, imagining his mouth on hers, and she blushed. What could she say to him? Lacking a witty reply, she said, “My aunt is waiting for me.” On impulse, she added, “Will you come to dinner? Tomorrow?” Fjalarr nodded, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth. “Yes, I’d like that. We could… we could talk, if you want.” She knew Fjalarr, of course; she knew everyone in the small village, but never before had she considered him in the light of a possible future husband. Perhaps some time alone together would help reconcile her to her fate. Katla nodded, her face flaming, and walked quickly away, conscious of Fjalarr’s eyes upon her. On the way home, Katla found herself re-considering her objections to marriage. She had suddenly become aware of Fjalarr as more than just Magnús’ son; he was a man in his prime, and her awakened body yearned towards him. Inhaling, she tasted the bracing salty air. Something had changed inside her, lightening her heart. The prospect of being a wife did not seem so dreadful. Katla hummed a snatch of song as she came in sight of the long-house. Her father and several uncles were standing outside in a semicircle, looking up at the roof where the ghost Grettir was screaming and tormenting a chicken. Speckled feathers littered the yard, and the bird seemed half-dead. On another part of the roof was a sleek raven, watching the ghost; standing with the men was the witch-rider. Steinar was a very tall, very skinny man with hollow cheeks and a weak chin A cast in his eye was no aid to his villainous appearance. Katla thought his filthy clothes likely harbored fleas, and his unwashed hair a home to lice. His most distinctive feature was his incredible silver-haired mustache; the pointed ends drooped below his waist. It was said that casting spells had made his mustache grow and turned it silver; certainly, the hair on his head was a vibrant red that not even dirt and grease could dull. “Well?” Braggi said to him, pointing at the ghost. “What’s wrong with it?” Steinar grunted. He took an awl from his belt pouch; it was a length of bone—a small animal’s thigh-bone, Katla decided, perhaps a fox—with one end ground down to a wicked point. Without changing his sour expression, he ran the tip of the awl over his forearm, which was seamed with pale scars from wrist to elbow. Blood flowed. He dabbed a palm onto the wound, then rubbed his hands together to smear the crimson fluid around. Katla hesitated; she did not know if she should go into the house where the rest of the women had been banished, and interrupt Steinar by marching through the assembled men, or stay where she was and not be a distraction. Her father had not seen her, nor any of her uncles, or they would have insisted she go inside. After a moment, she went quietly over to the animal shed; with luck no one would realize she was there. The palms of Steinar’s hands were covered in blue-tattooed rune symbols familiar to Katla; those same runes could be found on the talismans that hung from the roof beams to protect the house against spiritual invasion. Only Grettir was exempt from the banishment charms because he had died there long ago, spilling his life in a fight with his own brother. Steinar murmured an incantation, weaving his hands in patterns. Grettir’s shrieks became louder as it protested the compelling spell. The chicken’s head was wrenched off, thrown, and splattered against Steinar’s face. Grimly, the witch-rider took out a bone flute and began to blow a strange, wandering, tuneless whistle that meandered up and down the scale apparently at random. A spectral wind sprang up at once. Having no flesh, Grettir was not subject to ordinary weather, but his outline grew tattered like a sail battered by a storm as Steinar continued to play his odd tune. The wind became stronger, a veritable gale that would have peeled back the sod roof had it been able to affect the realm of the living. Letting out a final defiant shriek, the ghost flew down to stand before Steinar in the yard. Braggi and the other men took a prudent step back to give Grettir room. “Why are you troubled? Why do you disturb the peace of this household?” Steinar asked, taking the flute from his lips. “Speak, Grettir Elfarson, I command!” “The sorceress! The sorceress!” Grettir moaned, given a coherent voice by virtue of Steinar’s power. The ghost had no eyes, just shadowed holes poked through the vagueness of its face. Still, Katla could have sworn it was looking in her direction. “The sorceress is here!” “What sorceress?” But Grettir either could not or would not answer. It groaned, spun around in a circle, and set a small patch of grass smoldering. Steinar’s expression turned grimmer. “A living sorceress?” he asked. No answer. “The spirit of a sorceress?” he asked. “Yes! Yes!” Grettir replied in an empty whisper. “It’s a curse,” Steinar stated to the men. “Your house-spirit is angry on account of an evil spirit, a black destructive force. Has anything happened recently, a shedding of blood that you cannot blame on Grettir?” Braggi nodded. “A pony killed in the night. Grettir has always favored fire by our accounts.” He barked at the ghost, “Who has cursed my house? Who has brought evil across my threshold? Answer me, or I’ll have you to law!” Katla whimpered, pressing her fist against her mouth, her feet poised to run. “The daughter of your house, the daughter of your kyn, the daughter of your love—Katla Braggisdóttir!” yelled Grettir in obscene triumph. Too late to run. Too late to hide. Braggi whirled around and beheld Katla. The sun seemed to swim before her dazzled vision as Braggi walked over to her, his tarnished silver eyes alight with fury. “What have you done?” he demanded. “Little Kat, by the empty eye of Odin, what have you done?” His hands reached for her. Katla felt weak all over, as if the strength had simply run out of her at once. “She’s bespelled,” said Steinar. “A love charm. Nothing to do with this, Braggi. Young Fjalarr paid me from his own purse.” His leer was nasty. “Boy’s so cunt-struck, he gave me twice my fee and never noticed.” The man’s thumb, hard as seasoned oak, bit into her brow and traced a rune of negation on the skin. Pain exploded white in her head, and Katla knew no more. When she awoke, Katla was on her back on the ground. She blinked, momentarily confused by the view of the sky. Her temples throbbed dully. A man’s face filled her vision—Braggi, her father, gazing down at her. “Where did you free the sorceress’ ghost?” he asked. “What?” She could make no sense of his question. “Tell me, girl! Where did you free the ghost?” Katla turned her head, and cried out in shock. Steinar’s body was a short distance away, laid out on the ground. His arm had been nearly torn off, and was connected to the body only by a shred, while his head was twisted at an unnatural angle. Strands of dirty red hair partially obscured his face, relaxed in death. She convulsed, choking back a surge of nausea. “How… how did that happen?” “The sorceress killed Steinar. She’s strong, Kat; very strong, very baneful, filled with hate and sin. I’ve no charms to combat her. When she attacked, Steinar tried to bind her, and you see what’s become of him.” Braggi knelt, stroking the hair back from her forehead. “Where did she come from? What did you do? You must tell me, daughter.” Sitting up, Katla wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” she said, hating that her voice sounded so wan. “I know, I know,” Braggi said. “Just tell me.” She recited the story, from chasing the raven to the graveyard to the ghost’s false oath. “I didn’t think it would do any harm,” Katla concluded, resolutely not looking at bloodstained mustache. “You can call a spirit to court…” “Only if you know its name,” Braggi said wearily. “But no names were put down for the Old Wild Ones when they died; no church holds the records of their burial.” He sighed. “I’ve sent for the rune-singer, but it will take him most of the night to get here.” Katla wanted to cry. “I’m sorry.” “Your uncle Sindri reported the sorceress to the elders’ council.” Braggi squeezed her shoulder at her wordless sound of protest, and continued, “He had no choice, little Kat. A child died in the night; they suspect the witch. Are you certain that you worked no magic to raise the spirit? No sorcery yourself?” The description of Oddrún’s haltering, the poor woman’s subsequent agony and suicide, leaped into Katla’s mind. She reminded herself that she had been foolish but not malicious. “No, I used no magic, no sorcery,” she said, meeting Braggi’s concern steadily, willing him to see she spoke the truth. He blew out a breath. “Very well, girl. We’ll have to pay weregild to the family of the dead child, of course, whether the witch was responsible or not. And anybody who loses a hen to a fox, or drops a cloak-pin in his house-of-ease will blame the sorceress and ask compensation from our kyn.” Braggi shook his bald head. “It was badly done, little Kat. Badly done.” “I’m sorry,” Katla repeated. “What’s the point of fencing the well after the baby’s fallen in? I just hope Fjalarr’s father doesn’t change his mind about allying his kyn to ours.” He clambered to his feet and offered Katla a hand. “Come, girl, let’s go inside. Your aunt’s had supper ready this half-hour, and I can feel her fury simmering from here.” Katla used his grip to lever herself off the ground. “What happened to Grettir?” “Fled,” was Braggi’s short reply, followed by a frown. Chastened, Katla followed him inside the house. She could not work up a sufficient amount of anger at Fjalarr for putting a love-charm on her, although that explained why she had so suddenly found him attractive. Katla felt rather numb. The sorceress had killed Steinar, and perhaps also a child down in the village. Those deaths were Katla’s fault as well; her responsibility since it was her hands that had freed the evil spirit. Following a meal of horse-meat stew, and a rare treat of rye bread spread with the grey-tinged contents of a butter firkin laid down in her grandfather’s time in the peat bog, a miserable Katla went to bed. She had not missed the accusing stares thrown her way, that were more wounding than blame spoken aloud. Even Dalla appeared out of temper with her. What was worse, during the meal a woman’s evil laughter pealed down the smoke-hole—the sorceress mocking them, mocking her for believing its lies and letting it go free. During the night, Katla was awakened by the strong smell of smoke. Alarmed, she swung out of bed and pushed passed the sheepskins that shielded her private niche. The house was dark and quiet, but she spotted an orange flicker on the wall that stood opposite the door of the hall. Not bothering to light a tallow candle, she picked her way towards the light. The tarry bitter odor intensified. Now she heard a faint crackling that could mean only one thing—fire! Katla hastened her steps. Gaining the hall, she gasped, and immediately started coughing as she inhaled smoke. Eye-searing bright flames licked at the walls, charring the support poles. Long rollers of fire lashed across the ceiling. While she stood watching, appalled and sick, big black flakes of ash broke off from the roof beams, and wafted upward on a roaring column of air. Heat struck her like the blow of a fist. Katla stared at the ghost rolling through the conflagration. It was Grettir; she recognized the ragged white slash of its mouth. “What have you done?” she whispered, not really expecting an answer. She did not get one, either. Grettir ignored her and continued swimming among the flames, a spiteful grey shadow edged in charcoal. Why had he done this? Of course ghosts could be dangerous, but Grettir had been attached to their house for decades. She and everyone else had presumed his loyalty to their kyn was enough to protect them. They had obviously been wrong. A deep wracking cough struck Katla; she could stay there no longer in useless speculation. She ran back through the house, to the ladder that led to the upper story, where most of the adults and children slept. Her throat felt scalded, her tongue too big for her mouth. “Pabbi! Pabbi!” Katla tried to shout. “The house is on fire!” Her family slept on their pallets like the dead, breathing but insensible. She could not rouse them, no matter how hard she shook them, or yelled in their faces, or slapped them. From the oldest great aunt to Ýrr’s baby, every soul save Katla was caught in a deep, sleep from which they could not be awakened. An enchantment was at work. She could possibly save a few of the youngest children, carrying them away from the blaze, but she was not strong enough to haul the adults down the ladder, and in any case she would have to make too many trips. The fire was spreading; the smoke was spreading as well. It stung her eyes and made it more difficult to see in the dark. Her chest was constricted. She was finding it difficult to breathe; every breath was charred thick and searing. Katla stumbled down the ladder, almost loosing her footing. The hall was filled with swirling smoke shot through with flashes of an eerie golden light. Her hair tightened on her scalp, beginning to frizzle, and the soles of her feet were burning. A patch of flame leaped from the hall, a living thing greedy to consume the house’s dry wood frame. There had to be something she could do! Her eyes streamed tears, both from physical irritation and her own frustration. Katla balled her fists together, choking on terror far more than acrid smoke. When she heard a woman’s voice, her heart beat faster in relief. Someone was awake; the rest would soon be roused, and her family saved! A female figure moved in her direction, originating from the source of the fire. Katla squinted. The outline was not familiar. As the woman came closer, Katla’s puzzlement grew. This stranger was no part of her kyn. Who was she, and what was she doing there? The woman’s skin was an unhealthy shade of grey; her outline was a female-shaped blur that lacked details. Katla tried to focus, then blanched despite the simmering heat. It was not a woman standing there, but a ghost, backlit by flames. Christ protect me! The woman’s ghost—surely the sorceress—gave Katla a cruel slice of a smile. “For releasing me, I give you thanks.” “You set the fire, not Grettir,” Katla accused, coughing. A nod, and a proud tilt of the head; the sorceress’ face was smooth and featureless except for the shining vicious curve of its mouth, but Katla read a smugness radiating from it just the same. “For my freedom, I grant you life. You should go, little girl. Go before your ashes mingle with those of your kyn.” Katla lifted the sleeve of her night-gown to her mouth and nose, trying to breathe shallowly. She could not save her family… she would not leave them to die. The mindless instinct to survive urged her to flee before the imagined agony of being burned alive became a gruesome reality. The ghost’s laugh was a contemptuous sound, as cutting as a well-honed blade. It filled her ears even above the thunderous blast of flames, that bitter hateful mocking laughter, and it kindled a fire within Katla—a furious fire that blazed high, consuming her. Molten gold burst in her vision. Before she could think about what she was doing, Katla bit her thumb; she felt the shuddery sensation of flesh parting under her teeth. She had spent years observing Braggi and his stave-crafting; the next part was both familiar and unfamiliar, but she never hesitated. Using her bloody finger, she traced Algiz the shield on the base of her throat. As if moving in a dream, disconnected from her body, Katla saw herself also reach out and drew Thôrr’s Hammer on the nearest wall—the strongest form of magical protection available, but one which was never used without great cost. She had no fish skin, no whale’s bones, no iron nails, no horse’s head to raise on a pole, but she reached for the skeins of power that thrummed louder than her pulse, the drum-beat of magic that throbbed in her veins. Katla was the true daughter of her kyn, bred from heroes’ stock; to save her family, she would do the forbidden, and sing the runes. “Extend no further,” Katla sang to the fire, The flames shrank as commanded, lower and lower, from a leaping devouring holocaust to scattered little fires that snuffed out entirely, leaving smoke and ash behind. With the mass of the fire extinguished, the house was plunged into darkness. The sorceress’ ghost was still in front of her. Now Katla sensed self-assured amusement coming from the murky form. “Do you seek to impress me, girl? I could do those tricks when I was a suckling babe,” the sorceress sneered. A surge of dark power struck her, leaving Katla near senseless. It was akin to falling through rotten ice, plunged headlong into water so cold, her muscles seemed to shrink until she thought her bones would shatter under the tightening grip. Her legs trembled, and she had to lock her knees to remain standing. A whimper escaped her lips. Finally, the pressure eased. She nearly fell over, and had to put a hand on the wall to retain her balance. The straight intersected lines of the rune she had drawn were warm on her palm. Gathering her strength, Katla struck back. “Twice and seventy times did Thôrr’s hammer fall,” she sang. Red light bloomed on her fingertips. “Eight by nine times did Mjölnir descend.” The sorceress smirked, the long white line of her mouth curling up at the corner. “Do you invoke my own gods against me, girl?” she said when Katla’s red rune magic splashed over her ineffectively. Katla ignored the taunt and tried again, only to have her effort fail. Her mouth was full of soot, dry with defeat. The old gods were no longer worshipped—Christianity had taken the place of the ancient religion seven centuries ago—but working the runes was the only form of magic known to the folk, apart from special priests who could persuade the angels to intervene through prayer. No rune-singer, witch-rider or charm-crafter thought much about calling on Freyja or Thôrr while still piously going to Church on Sundays. Of course runes did not work against the sorceress! Katla would have better luck catching the wind in a fishing net than using magic against her. But something had to be done, and if singing the runes could not exorcise the evil spirit… what could? Somehow, she had to find a way to overcome this agent of strife and calamity, or at least delay it until the cock crowed. In daylight, the sorceress’ spirit would have no power. A priest could be summoned, and the rune-singer would arrive by then, too. An idea came to her. Katla did not dare think too carefully or allow herself time to consider the dangers of her plan, she simply acted, turning and pelting through the open doorway behind her. As she ran, she sang the words of a children’s game: “Follow, oh, follow me! Through earth and sea, The challenge game was at least as ancient as Óðinn himself; it was often played between children and their kyn’s house-ghost. There was a touch of residual magic at work, due to centuries of unclouded childish belief in the ritual. Katla refused to consider the possibility that the attack against her family would continue. She hoped Thôrr’s Hammer might protect them. In the meantime, she wanted to lure the sorceress away from here. She flew out into the yard; the contrast between the house’s fire-warmed interior and the cold night was shocking. Her lungs were grateful for the fresh air, but her flesh shrank from the chill; it was not summer yet, and she was clad only in a nightgown. Katla did not pause but continued to run, racing past the animal shed and up the hill towards the graveyard. The moon was a pallid slice taken out of a night sky made darker by the high-piled masses of clouds that smothered the stars. She glanced over her shoulder; a grey form was flitting with lazy ease in her direction, and she did not believe it was Grettir. Her supposition was proved when the spirit called the traditional response derisively: “I follow, I follow; through fire, through sea, I follow thee! The sorceress’ voice was loud and brazen, shattering the night’s quiet. The sound startled a snowy owl that glided away from the scene, a silent silver shadow quickly disappearing. Panting, Katla pressed a hand against the painful stitch in her side, and went on, but when she came down the brow of the hill, her feet slipped on the wet turf. The mocking laughter echoed after Katla as she tumbled, her view of the world lurching sickeningly, spinning end over end until she fetched up at the bottom, unmoving at last. She was soaked in mud—her back of her head was matted with it—and icy sludge oozed through the woolen material of her nightgown. Katla had bitten her tongue in the fall, and the sharp pang in her wrist might be a fracture. She pushed herself up on an elbow, then rolled over and managed to get to her knees, breathing heavily. The sodden nightgown clung heavy and freezing to her limbs, but still she sweated. Katla noticed a black bird watching her from the branch of a nearby tree; the vague shape crystallized into clarity, and she recognized a raven. The raven, perhaps, the one who had begun this dreadful coil by stealing her skotthúfa? She heaved herself upright. Braggi had always said the raven was a good omen, but she was beginning to believe the bird was a harbinger of ill-luck where she was concerned. A bray of laughter sounded nearby—the sorceress was coming. Katla tucked her injured arm against her chest and staggered off, skirting the stream. The raven streaked past her, sleek in its flight. Katla slid in another patch of mud. She felt coated in a layer of gritty ice, and the pain in her wrist flared to agony each time her arm was jarred. Panic and dogged determination warred within her. Clenching her jaw, she took several steps, then several more, and broke into a shambling run. Behind her, the sorceress’ delight in the chase was made manifest in gleeful howls. Finally, Katla came to the edge of the graveyard. Rather than go through the midst of the birch-staked dead, she hurried around the side where the ground was clear of obstacles. Several dull thuds struck her feet. Looking down, Katla saw the dark gleam of blood in a shaft of moonlight, and supposed she had struck her unfeeling toes against stones. She sobbed with the effort of moving; each breath was a sword in her chest, but ahead was the tree, and below the tree was the sorceress' grave. The only warning of attack was a hot breath of wind on her neck. Katla was struck by a levinbolt of power so violent, her whole body stiffened, her spine arching. The excruciating jolt slammed into her, driving the breath from her body. She hung suspended in velvety darkness, blinded and deafened. After an eternity, consciousness returned in a rush, a hammer-blow between the eyes that brought back vision in stuttering bursts. Katla gulped in air, just managing not to fall though her muscles were weak and trembling. The protective rune she had painted on her throat was clearly not enough to shield her from the sorceress’ wrath. “Where can you go that I cannot follow?’ the sorceress cackled. “I am Briet Finehair, daughter of Bryndís, and I live again! Today, I killed a child. Tonight, I’ll kill you and your kyn. Tomorrow, someone else will die. Every day, every night till I’ve eaten every life, for nothing is sweeter than murder, and nothing tastes better than fear!” As it spoke, the ghost swelled to enormous proportions, a monstrous malice-bloated womanly shape whose head was crowned with the moon’s lustrous pallor. Katla crawled away, holding her injured wrist tight to her chest, hobbling crab-wise on knees and a single hand scrabbling at the soft dirt. Her world had narrowed to a focused goal—find the sorceress’ grave, and stake her so that the spirit would be once more confined, unable to work its will. Drops of sweat ran over her face, slipping off her chin and nose. The corner of her mind not numbed by horror was grateful that Briet Finehair was inclined to gloat, to toy with her prey like a cat with a wing-damaged fly. That gave Katla an advantage she could exploit… or die trying. Again, the sorceress’ magic lashed at her, hot and insistent. Katla bore the pain stubbornly, once crying out at a particularly wretched spasm that shook her, but she did not falter. The birch tree was directly in front of her; beneath it was the sorceress’ grave, a slight oblong depression in the ground. Where was the stake? Katla patted around, and remembered she had kicked it in a fit of temper. She had to bite her lip to stifle a moan. There was no way she could find the stake in the dark. At that moment, the clouds began to weep a thin frigid rain, and lightning forked brilliant across the sky. Katla could not see the horizon, but she prayed for the creeping flush of purple and pink that signaled dawn. “What’s the matter, girl? Your pitiful plan not working as you wished? Have you given up yet?” Briet asked, chuckling. An insolent raven’s caw sounded strident above the muttering thunder. Katla rolled over on her back, lying full-length on top of the grave. Needle-like rain slanted into her face. She was exhausted, her entire being one vast throbbing ache. Katla had not the energy to answer the sorceress’ derision. There was one last effort she could make, one final throw against Briet. If she failed in this rash endeavor, she would die. Katla gathered the remnants of her strength together. Her mouth was bleeding. She swiped fingers over her lips, and traced a rune upon the earth—Tiwaz, the arrow of victory. A raven’s feather, black as a piece of night, drifted down and settled on her cheek. Closing her eyes, she reached for the singing threads of power, a crimson incandescence woven into a single purposeful plait. Unaccustomed to the feel of magic, she nearly faltered when it pulsed and intensified in strength, turning orange, then yellow, and green edging into blue. She hung on, struggling to control the wild magic that resisted, unwilling to yield. When the power had swollen to the color of the sea that battered the black sand beaches beneath the Maw, Katla released it slowly—not at the sorceress, but through the rune she had drawn in her own blood. The last strands slipped away, and a searing sensation whipped through her, bringing with it the feeling of being simultaneously burned and torn apart. She was on fire with magic, scorched to the depths of her soul; she screamed her agony aloud to the night, and was answered by a bright white flare as summoned lightning blasted the tree with explosive force, sending smoldering splinters and leaves flying. Briet screamed in rage; her ear-splitting wail merged with Katla’s, and was joined by a raven’s harsh croak. Even though Katla was paralyzed by the sheer amount of power that had been filtered through her untrained body, she managed to crack her eyes open in time to witness a sheared-off tree limb come crashing point-downwards, and pierce the sorceress’ grave just inches from her own shoulder. Briet’s shout was cut off. The ghost went from grey to the color of the lignite used to heat the blacksmith’s forge. Its vaporous form crackled around the edges, becoming black and brittle; the crazing spread rapidly until it covered the head, the huge breasts, the pendulous belly, the massive thighs. Finally, a muffled bang signaled the end. All the jagged glittering pieces fell apart, and were sucked into the slight depression in the turf that marked the sorceress’ grave. The tree limb quivered violently, and fell still. Katla’s eyelids drifted closed as the rain hissed around her, no longer freezing but warm as blood. The last thing she saw was the raven hovering above her, its ragged wings outspread as if in benediction. Her dreams were peaceful and meaningless. She slept. It was the rune-singer who found her in the morning. The man’s expression was guarded, but he sang heat into her shivering body, and lent enough strength to stumble back to Braggi’s long-house with his arm around her waist. “The sorceress has been laid,” the rune-singer said, thrusting Katla towards the waiting kyn’s women. Katla was half-swooning from weariness, stupefied by the ordeal she had undergone; she thought she had never been so drained in her life. She was also confused by the forbidding glance Braggi cast her from beneath his brows. “Pabbi?” she called, concerned by the coldness of his manner. He shook his head and pulled the rune-singer aside. Systir Hafdís wrapped a shawl around Katla’s shoulders, urging her into the house. Grateful to be home, Katla put out a hand to Dalla, and was mystified when her cousin turned away. “What’s wrong?” she demanded, trying to pull out of Hafdís’ grip. No one answered her. No one would even look at her except Hafdís. The older woman’s habitual grimace was more severe than usual. Galvanized by growing panic, Katla dug in her heels. “Let me go,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. To her surprise, Hafdís did just that, and stood there, bony arms folded across her bosom. “You know what you’ve done,” Hafdís sniffed, her disdain clear. “Do you mean the sorceress? I know I made a mistake when I released her,” Katla said, feeling ridiculously exposed standing on the threshold in her filthy night-gown, covered in mud from head to toes. “I know that, systir, and I’m sorry.” “Sorry? You’re sorry? God strike my life, girl, you’ve no idea, do you?” Without another word, a grim Hafdís took Katla by the arm, jarring her injured wrist. Ignoring Katla’s cry of pain, she dragged her inside. Mounted on the wall was a small piece of mirror in a wooden frame, part of a larger mirror that had been salvaged from a shipwreck when Katla was a baby. Hafdís thrust Katla in front of the mirror and stepped back. The reflection that confronted her made her gasp out loud. Katla’s once-dark hair was nearly colorless, a shining fall of silver scattered with strands of black. No longer sun-kissed, her skin had gone so light a shade, she could see the delicate tracery of blue veins under the surface even through the coating of mud. Katla touched the mirror, stunned. Even her eyes had been faded by the magical energies that had torn through her. She abruptly remembered that every use of power had its price; this was obviously hers. There was no hiding the fact that she had sung the runes. “Foolish, thoughtless child!” Hafdís’ hand, callused by years of labor, struck the side of Katla’s head hard enough to make her see stars. “You’ve disgraced your family!” “I saved you! From the sorceress, I saved you!” She fought not to break into weeping; that would not help her now. “I saved you all!” “And condemned yourself.” Hafdís’ furious scorn poured over Katla. “You know the law, Kat—spoken and unspoken. Women may not do magic.” “But I…” “There are no exceptions.” That flat pronouncement had the ring of finality. “The rune-singer is a witness. He will make a report to the elders.” Katla had not overmuch considered the repercussions; she had simply acted to save her kyn. Did that count for nothing? She was about to make an impassioned argument but Hafdís stopped her. “Take a bath,” the woman ordered in her no-nonsense way, “and put on something clean and decent. The fire destroyed most of the hall but the kitchen and dairy are intact. I’ll make you something to eat.” “And then?” Katla had to ask. Hafdís shrugged. “Then we wait. This is men’s business now.” Braggi came inside.. Katla cried out, “Pabbi? Pabbi! Please…” but he did not acknowledge her distress. His remote gaze slipped straight through her. Overwhelmed and scared of losing her father’s love, Katla would have fallen to her knees and clutched at him if Hafdís had not stepped forward, catching her by the arm. “Go,” Hafdís ordered, “and make no scenes, girl.” It was her aunt’s utter lack of sympathy that drove Katla stumbling away, her cheeks scalded with humiliation, anger, and heartsickness. Never patient at the best of times, the next three days nearly drove Katla to the brink of madness. She was not permitted to leave the long-house. She did not eat with the rest of the family, but took her meals in the kitchen. No one would talk to her, no one acknowledged her, and the children took their cue from the adults. When the village’s healer came to tend to her wrist—badly sprained but not broken—it was Hafdís who interacted with the man. Katla did as he directed, but his comments and questions were relayed through her aunt. She was never abused, simply ignored as if she did not exist. Nothing more than her basic needs were supplied, except the need for meaningful human contact. She tried pleading, crying, even temper tantrums to no avail. Her most frantic rages were met with complete indifference. She had become a living ghost, and she wanted to die. It was during the evening of the fourth day, in the hours after midnight, that Katla was jerked out of a troubled sleep by the presence of another person looming over her bed. She struck out, drawing breath to scream. Instantly, a moist palm clapped over her mouth; her fist was seized in a firm grasp and a weight settled next to her. Eyes wide as possible, she could not make out her attacker in the dark. A familiar man’s voice whispered, “Kat, it’s me, Fjalarr. Don’t make a sound.” She nodded; he released her. “Fjalarr?” Katla whispered back, finally recognizing the outline of his silhouette. “What are you doing here?” He shifted. “The elders met yesterday to discuss you.” “What happened?” She sat up, sitting cross-legged in a nest of blankets. Fjalarr did not answer at once. Katla carefully touched his hand. “Please, tell me what happened.” Her father had gone out in the afternoon, but she had not known his purpose. The women stopped speaking when she entered a room; the cold silence was more than she could bear, and she usually did not linger. “You’re to be haltered,” Fjalarr said, sounding miserable. “The rune-singer will do it tomorrow, as soon as the smith’s finished making the chain.” “Oh, God…” Katla moaned, terrified anew. Haltered! She would rather be dead. “Listen to me, Kat. Be still and listen.” Katla made an effort to calm herself, but her heart still raced, impelled by fear. After a few moments, she said, her voice thick with apprehension, “Go on. I’m listening.” “I have a boat, the Þekki-liga,” he said, putting his head close to hers. The bristles of his unshaven chin rasped against her cheek. “It will take you anywhere you want to go, any port in the world. And there’s money, good silver money to set you up in a new life.” “Fjalarr… why?” She asked the question in a sincere desire to know. He sighed, his breath gusting warm, scented with honey and apples. “I do love you, Kat. I paid for the witch-rider’s charm because I wanted… believe me, I didn’t want to hurt you, or force you. I just wanted you to love me back, just a little.” Katla felt a rush of pity so strong, she almost did love him a little. Not enough, though… never enough to be his wife. “I’m sorry,” was the only thing she thought she could say that would not shred his dignity further. “I won’t speak of that again,” Fjalarr said, his voice iron hard despite the low volume. “You must take the money and go, live somewhere else, be free.” Being cut off from her kyn was a thought that made her sick to her stomach. “Is there no other way?” she asked. He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry.” Fjalarr’s eyes searched out hers in the dark. “If you stay, you’ll be haltered. I heard what it did to Torfi’s wife, who jumped off the Maw. I don’t want to see you… sweet Christ, Kat!” “Hush, hush,” Katla said, lacing her fingers through his. She sat for a while, his palm growing sweaty where it touched her own. Fjalarr was indeed a good man; she had known that, and was ashamed he had discovered her reluctance to marry him. It was no reflection on Fjalarr, but she must have wounded his pride. How he had to have suffered, stooping to the indignity of buying a love-charm! Yet here he was, wanting only to save her life at considerable cost to himself. Magnús would never disinherit his only son, but Fjalarr would surely endure punishment for helping her. Eventually he broke the quiet, saying, “Please, Kat…” “When I was a girl,” Katla said, trying to pull her thoughts into order, “I often dreamed about escaping the village. I wanted to fly away over the sea.” “You have to go,” Fjalarr insisted. “I don’t think I could bear…” He fell silent. “What?” she prompted. “What can’t you bear?” His reply was hoarse, each word reluctantly shaped and spoken, “Seeing you broken.” That simple, stark phrase brought with it an unpleasant epiphany. All along, Katla had harbored a faint hope that there would be a reprieve, her trespass understood and forgiven. She had not broken the law frivolously, after all. Katla had been prepared to make restitution for her mistakes, to take responsibility for her actions, but now she understood there would be no forgiveness. She had been condemned. Katla did not weep. The time for tears was over. She was too young to let go of life so easily; too stubborn to wear a halter, and endure a season in hell without good cause. The judgment against her was not fair, but it was final. The futility of protest weighted her tongue and closed her throat. She accepted flight, abandoning her kyn, as the only alternative to continued shunning, followed by suicide when the pain grew too great to endure. The girl she had been was dead, slain by circumstance; a woman took her place, a woman facing a bleak future alone. She was alone. Fjalarr enveloped her in an awkward hug. “I’m sorry, Kat. So sorry.” After a brief hesitation, Katla returned the embrace, glad to be held against his solid warmth. She let him hold her; his touch was delicate, as though she was fragile as a soap bubble, apt to break. “Stop apologizing,” she said. “I’ll get my things together.” “I wish you could stay.” “So do I.” Katla released him. “God chose otherwise. Thank you, Fjalarr.” He ducked his head, making no reply. It took Katla only a few minutes to dress and gather her things—some clothing, stout shoes, a sealskin jacket, her cap with the treasured skotthúfa that she would not leave behind. Fjalarr waited for her patiently. As before, the house was dark and silent; the smell of smoke lingered, making her uneasy. She trailed her fingertips on the wall, wanting to store up every possible memory against the lonely times to come. Never again would she know the closeness and support of her family. The ache behind her breastbone intensified until she thought she must be bleeding, split open by desolation and despair. Summoning courage, she followed Fjalarr out into the yard. A shuffling noise made her turn. To her surprise, Braggi came out of the long-house. Katla was poised to run in case he wanted to detain her, but he stopped short. “Daughter,” he said, acknowledging her for the first time in days. His eyes had a suspicious shine. “Father,” she replied. The bundle holding her belongings dragged at her arm. Katla halted, the empty void in the pit of her stomach yawning wider. Fjalarr had stopped at the head of the trail, and stood waiting for her. Braggi made an aborted gesture. “I wanted to… by the empty eye of Óðinn, girl, you don’t do things by halves, do you?” “I don’t regret it.” As soon as the sentence left her mouth, Katla knew she meant it. She had been willing to die to keep her kyn safe; exile was a small price to pay. His expression softened with a rueful smile. “Just like your mother, you are.” Braggi rushed forward and threw his arms around her. Katla melted into the comfort of her father’s embrace, and now tears ran down her face, released by relief. He still cared for her! She basked in the strength of Braggi’s love, grateful she had not lost everything. “Little Kat,” he rumbled, “I want you to take this with you.” He eased away, and pushed a clinking pouch into her hand. At her puzzled frown, Braggi explained, “Your dowry that I’ve been saving since you were barely weaned. No, take it, daughter. Use the silver to make a life for yourself.” Katla stared at him, speechless. She wanted to tell her father so many things, but the words were caught behind an emotional barricade that would not be breached. Finally, she managed to get out, “You should keep it for the family.” “We’ll be fine.” Braggi glanced at Fjalarr. “Young Magnússon has made an offer for your cousin, Dalla, under similar terms. Magnús has agreed. Your kyn is safe.” “I don’t want to go,” Katla could not help saying. His hand cupped her cheek. “I know, little Kat. But if you don’t go…” She swallowed, stiffening her spine, doing her best not to disgrace him by blubbering like a child. “Good-bye, pabbi. Be well. In answer, he bit his thumb and drew a spiky rune-stave in blood at the base of her throat, just above her collarbone—she could tell it was Vegvisir, the Traveler’s Compass. He sang beneath his breath; she did not catch the exact phrases, but the rune glared a lurid scarlet, scorching her skin. The pain continued long past the time when it should have ended; whatever he was doing, Braggi intended the mark to be permanent. Katla inhaled, but did not allow herself to flinch, accepting his final gift to her. When Braggi was finished, he guided her hand to touch the new tattoo that his magic had burned into her flesh. Without being able to see it, she somehow knew it was the same as the dark blue rune-stave he bore on his chest. “So you can find your way home someday, daughter,” Braggi said. Katla wiped her wet cheeks, kissed him, then resolutely turned and walked towards Fjalarr. There was nothing more to be said. The pang of separation would only grow keener the longer she lingered. A raven’s croak caught her attention. The bird was silhouetted against the moon. It stooped, rushing past her, and flew down the trail that led to the Maw. Katla shouldered her bundle, and continued walking. At the end of the trail was the Maw; below the shorn-off cliff was the village, and beyond that, a ship was waiting. Her future was waiting. A man may find his fortune by following as the raven flies. THE END |