“The statues.” I repress a shiver at the realization that I could have ended up as an ice sculpture. Questions peck away at me like greedy ravens. Do the frozen ones retain any awareness? That would truly be hell, locked in your own mind for eternity, able to perceive the world but not scream your pain and loneliness. Whatever foul magic afflicts this place, it’s truly diabolic.
“Indeed. It seems that this place recognized you as another lost soul, not one who came to plunder or conquer. Your family truly does not expect you to return?”
“I have said twice that I have nowhere else to go. Why must you force me to admit such a sad thing a third time?”
He surprises me by saying, “I’m sorry. It’s hard to believe that you prefer to be here. Please consider Bitterburn your home, so long as you respect the boundaries I’ve drawn.”
A peculiar warmth fills me. Not even my own father used the word “home” after my mother died. It was either drunken demands for me to sing or angry shouts that I wasn’t working fast enough.
“Thank you.”
“It’s nothing to thank me for, more of an exile. But I’ve come to be grateful for the sound of your voice. It’s been a lifetime since I spoke to anyone else.”
Some part of me suspects that he means it more literally than I can imagine. I don’t inquire, however, because I intuit that asking personal questions is the quickest way to drive him off, and like Njål, I have come to treasure the sound of his voice. We are not meant to live alone, in total silence. In the middle of the night, I huddle into my blankets and wish it didn’t feel as if I have pitched my camp in someone’s tomb.
“I enjoy your visits,” I say then. “I wish you came to the kitchen more often.”
“Do you?” He sounds astonished, as if it has never occurred to him that I would want his company.
I nod, then realize I’m not sure if he can see me. “Yes, it’s nice to chat while I work. Is there anything you wish I would cook? Bearing in mind our limited supplies.”
“Fry bread, if you have the ingredients. It’s been ages since I had any sort of bread.” His voice carries a wistful tone. “I wish I hadn’t been so stubborn that first day. You’ve no idea how much I regretted not tasting the bread you made then. It smelled so good.”
I’m glad he said it, so I’m not tempted to be pert; there’s no gain in provoking him. “I can whip some up, if you’ll wait a bit.” Silently I hope he’ll stay and eat with me, but I have no idea where he is currently. “It will go nicely with the kettle of beans I have on the hob.”
He doesn’t verbally agree, but I hear him settling nearby, just beyond my range of sight. “Did you find everything you needed to make the ale, by the way?”
“Yes, the first batch is fermenting.”
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
“For what?”
“It’s incredible that you need to ask. You’re the beating heart of this dreadful place, so warm and alive that I come every day to make sure I didn’t dream you.”
I’m startled into silence by the admission, as I had no idea that he thought of me as more than a nuisance. Then I try to imagine what it’s been like, living in such isolation for years untold, and I come up blank. But the ice around my heart that formed when Owen died, it shivers and cracks a bit, because it seems as if Njål needs me somewhat, and nobody else does. I’m . . . necessary here. I work hard, but my efforts are appreciated. He hasn’t berated me or asked for the impossible, and he’s grateful for what I can achieve. Conversely, it makes me want to do more for him; I wish that I could.
If he can see my face, he knows I’m smiling as I mix the simple dough and drop a spoon of lard in the cast iron pan, making the fry bread sizzle as it cooks. He draws in an appreciative breath, audible enough to tell me that he’s close, maybe closer than he’s ever been.
Perhaps I should be frightened, but the outside world has hurt me far more. Njål has never injured me, never made me feel unsafe despite his allegedly monstrous nature. I’m not sure I believe those old tales any longer. He’s been cursed, but he’s no evil fiend, and he certainly can’t sweep down on the town to unleash his wrath. He’s a damn prisoner. And the fact that we gave away so much food is our own fault, not his.
Quickly, I put together a meal of beans, salt fish, fry bread, and weak herbal tea, then I set everything at the far end of the worktable. I have smaller portions of everything, and I turn around, settling on a stool near the stove.
“You didn’t dream me,” I respond at last. “You stay because you can’t leave. I stay because I choose to. As I hope you’ll choose to eat supper with me. I won’t move. I won’t turn around. But we can talk and I . . .” Should I say this? “. . . would enjoy that.”
“As would I.”
There’s a scrape, as if he’s entered the kitchen, trusting me to keep my word. Trusting me. I exhale, because I didn’t realize how tight my chest got waiting for his reply.
“What did you want to discuss?” he asks.
“Nothing in particular. It’s nice to have company.”
“It is,” he agrees.
I don’t hear the scrape of cutlery, and I wonder how he’s eating. Maybe he scrapes the beans up with the flat bread? I do the same and find it works wonderfully, efficient and delicious.
“This is so good.”
I’m not expecting praise, so the soft words fall like gentle rain on parched earth. The
