‘Consider the sky, Bolli. Odin’s magic is unfolding. He will come here to die on the teeth of the wolf so the fates may spare him in the realm of the gods. He must not be allowed to do that. He must die in the realm of the gods. The mad reign of Odin must end. It’s as your mother saw.’
‘And it’s the girl we will find at the palace who must die?’
‘If it was that simple Elifr could have killed her. I don’t know what needs to happen to her. We need to bring her to the waters.’
She watched the dark sea and recalled the rhyme that had been born in her mind when the old vala had died. She said the rhyme. She didn’t want to burden Bollason with it but she needed to speak her fears to someone. And besides, he had a right to know what was happening.
‘In the east did the old one sit
She bred the bad brood of Fenrir
One of these, in a wolf’s fell guise,
Will soon steal the sun from the sky
Now he feeds full on dead men’s flesh
And the sky is reddened with gore
Dark grows the sun and in summer
Come weather woe, would you know more?’
‘So said my mother,’ said Bollason. ‘Is the prophecy coming true?’
‘Fimbulwinter,’ said the woman, ‘when the summer departs and great harm comes to men. This is the sign the death of the gods approaches. This is the sign Ragnarok is here. Look — snow in summer, unexplained deaths on the battlefield.’
‘So Odin is riding to meet his fate at the teeth of the wolf?’
‘Yes. In this world. So he might live in his own. We will suffer; the world will suffer, but he will live.’
‘If the god is on his way to death then what can stop him?’
Saitada glanced at Bollason and he was a little boy again, caught acting foolishly. No one could tame him when he was a child, not with beating, not with shouting, not with denying him dinner or sending him to bed. Saitada, though, could silence him with just a look, leave him creeping in shame from the scene of his naughtiness.
He had that feeling now, stupid, desperate to please her but despairing of how it might be done. He’d loved her since he was a child, first as an aunt, later with all the ardour he should have held for women of his age. He hadn’t wanted them. He had travelled the world, become a great war leader, killed many men in battle, forged his destiny with sword and spear. But when he returned home and looked into her eyes he felt unmanned and unworthy of her. Her spirit was greater than his, and in front of her he was only ever a child.
Saitada threw a pebble down towards the ocean. She remembered the raw dawn, the standing stones stark against a sky of slate. The prophetess had gone seeking an explanation for Saitada’s tormented dreams that had come upon her when her husband died.
Saitada had watched him go, wasting to nothing in his bed, he who had sailed the world and brought the gold he had won with axe and shield back to their hearth. The disease took him, her sons too.
The night the third boy died Saitada had wept by his bed until not sleep but a sensation of falling had come to her. She heard names shouted through the darkness, strange but with an echo of familiarity: Vali, Feileg, Jehan, Aelis and her own. Visions sparked in her mind — a leering smith, naked from the waist down, the hot iron with which she had spited her beauty and ruined her face so he would look on her with pleasure no more. She saw a white-haired warrior, his sword a talon of fire; she saw a demented child; and she saw the god, the one who had come to her three times now. The bright, beautiful, burning god who came to her as a wolf, or who stepped from the corpse of a princess, his skin pale in the moonlight, or who had found her adrift at sea and rescued her in a boat made of dead men’s nails and lain with her on a silver beach under the morning star.
Three times he had given her sons that she had tried to hide from the notice of the All Father. Twice she had failed. This time she would protect them — her boys, the twins, the ones she kept secret from her husband and kin, the ones she had hidden in the hills and over the sea.
She’d hoped to make a life away from the notice and schemes of the gods, had gone back to the land of the white-haired king, raised a family and tried to forget. But he wouldn’t let her rest — him, her lover, the father of the twins.
After that night when she had buried her last son by the farmer she had never slept well again. Always in her sleep strange voices spoke half-remembered names. In her dreams she went to a cave, a low and dark place where something was pinioned and tied, something that seethed and shook, something that longed to be free. An ancient torment was awaking inside her.
Bolli’s mother, the vala, the prophetess, had said she might help free her from her nightmares. They’d gone to the standing stones, where the iron clouds cast a grey veil of rain upon the hills to perform the ritual.
Saitada had helped the old woman, lit the fire and sprinkled on the herbs, kept her awake through nine days and nights on that storm-blown hill. The visions came and they had killed her.
As the sorceress died Saitada had seen too — the magic well, the font of all knowledge, a comet rising above it in the east. She told Bollason his men would win fortune in Kiev and sailed with them there, where they had sold their services to the prince. She spent ten years in the hills, while Bollason fought his wars. With her goats, her staff and her cloak she was happy in her solitude.
She sat by the streams and in the mouths of caves, her mind floating on the vast emptiness of the evening. She watched shooting stars like swift fish in the vast purple ocean of the night, watched the low sun of dusk ignite the storm clouds, turning them to lumbering dragons with bellies of fire, and saw the dawn make its diamonds from the snows. In the winter she took to a cabin and, in solitude and privation, looked for answers. The east, always the east drew her eyes. She had no fire herbs, she had no training or guide to help her. She proceeded by instinct, starving and thirsting the visions from herself, sitting in the cold, wakeful for days until the truth came to her. She needed to know how to find the well, to take her wisdom to the next stage.
The wolfman found her in the eighth year, sent, he said, by dreams. He had seen her in a high place, overlooking the land. She was important to the gods, important to him too. She’d asked him if he was a god and he said he was not, just a man who had dreamed her. She told him she had dreamed him too, every day since she had given him up to the family in the hills. She had dreamed him because she was his mother.
She held him and called him son but wept because in her visions she sensed what the gods intended for him.
In her dreams she was always in that cave, where the thing she could not see shivered and groaned in its bonds. She had a role to play. Was she waiting for something? For someone? With the wolfman at her side no revelation would come.
They shared their rituals, their starvations and thirsts. And then she had seen more than she had ever seen when alone: the city of the moon and star and, under the moon and star, the well, its silver waters glimmering beneath the star-bright sky.
The words had come to her and never left her since.
In Mimir’s well I gave my eye for lore
And on the storm-blown tree
I hung for nights full nine
Wounded by the spear, offered I was
To Odin, myself to myself
I took up the runes
Shrieking I took them
And from there did I fall back.
She knew what she saw — the well that sat beneath the world tree and whose waters impart all wisdom to those who pay the price to drink from them — the well that is every magical well in every world, where the fates sit, where Odin gave his eye for lore. The wolfman perhaps saw even more. He ran from her vowing to save her, though she begged him not to go.
‘You will only damn yourself,’ she said.
But he was gone and she was in the wilderness, weeping for his loss. In her misery she remembered — years before, lifetimes before, how her son, in the form of a wolf, had hungered for a woman and how that woman had
