Tag: nordic

The Tree of Life: Chapter 3

April 21st, 2023

Photo by Mateusz Majewski

Sif moved casually through the streets of the town, chewing on her thoughts. The main road with the shops had been cleared by Helga earlier. She felt the lingering presence of her sister Bairn along the avenue. The smell of woodsmoke was strong on the wind. She caught the scent of roasting meat. Hrist must have been brewing tinctures. The sickly smell of medicine wafted over her for a moment. She made a left turn, taking a side street past a row of cottages, each one pumping out a billow of black smoke. This street had not been cleared, and it took her longer to move through the snow. She passed five before she came to the house she was looking for. Stepping up to the door, she gave three quick knocks.

               Bodil opened the door a crack. “Sif?” she asked, surprise in her voice. “Well come in, it’s too cold to stand with the door open.”

               Sif ducked inside the door, relishing the warmth of the house. She had been out in the cold all morning and it had began to set into her bones. She moved towards the fire, Bodil on her heels. Sif stretched out her hands to the hearth, soaking in the heat of the fire, aware of the way the flames danced. Bodil’s sister, Inga, the midwife, was knitting. She looked up, smiling, and set down her needles. Without a word, she disappeared into one of the two bedrooms.

               Bodil did not wait for the door of the bedroom to close before her hands were on Sif’s cheeks, and her mouth was pressed to hers. Sif wrapped her arms around Bodil, squeezing her tightly. Bodil’s kiss was rough, her lips were dry. Sif pulled away for the embrace and took Bodil’s hands. “I missed you,” she said, whispering into her hair.

               “I have not seen you much since you took on these white robes,” Bodil said sadly.

               “I know. I have not been…available,” she said, knowing the apology sounded weak.

“You are sure this is safe for you?” Bodil asked, her hands still on Sif’s face. Her eyes were searching. “I thought the Bairns did not take lovers.”

               “They don’t take men,” Sif corrected. “It’s only dangerous if it’s a man. And only then for the man.”

               Bodil smiled, shaking her head as if she didn’t understand. “If you say so,” she said. She kissed Sif again. Sif let it linger, feeling every bit of energy and power the kiss sent through her. More tame magic, she thought. A magic unlike what the spirits could give her.

               Sif disentangled herself from Bodil’s kisses. “You have not heard anything?” she asked, fearful. “No chattering?”

               Bodil shook her head. “No. They don’t want me,” she said. Then her expression changed. “Is this why you’ve come? To ask me this?”

               Sif could not hide her thoughts from Bodil. She always knew how to see straight through her walls, could always identify the anxieties she didn’t speak. “I was with the Skuld this morning and she said…”

               Bodil pressed a finger to her lips. “No, this knowledge is not for me to have,” Bodil said. She brushed her fingertip along Sif’s mouth. “I have not heard the spirits.”

               Sif sighed in relief. “Oh good,” she said. “I get to keep you for myself then.” She cupped Bodil’s cheek and the other woman smiled.

But as Sif watched, the tender smile slowly fell from Bodil’s face, replaced with a look of gravity. “But what if I do start hearing them? Because of how you share the wild magic when we are together?

Sif sucked in her breath, inwardly hissing through her teeth. The wild magic moved through her as the spirits gathered. Cast. Cast. Cast. “I don’t know what would happen. I don’t think I could have you if the spirits wanted you too.”

Bodil’s eyes dropped, and she reached her hands forward, finding Sif’s own hands. Bodil clutched hard, squeezing a prayer into Sif’s palms. “I’m scared for you, Sif,” she whispered.

“Scared for me?” Sif asked. “Why?”

Bodil’s eyes came up again, searching her, hesitating. “What if you become like Ulfrun?”

“Like Ulfrun?” Sif echoed, feeling defenses inside her body draw her an inch away from Bodil. “Or like Mjoll?” Bodil continued. Sif said nothing, the anticipation of her next words filling her with tingling fear. “What if you become the Skuld?”

Sif let the call of the wild magic carry her, the electric rush of it coursing through her like a river. Bodil dropped her hands, stepping back with fear in her eyes. Sif brushed a hand over her suddenly too-white hair, reveling. “Oh, Bodil, I would love to be the Skuld,” she breathed.

Bodil wrapped her arms around herself, running her hands over her body as if she were cold. She turned her face away. “This is what I feared,” she said to the wall.

Sif let the silence stretch, but it was not silent inside her head. She is afraid of you…She doesn’t love you…You can’t have her…You should not be here.

               “If this is what you want,” Bodil finally said, “then I must give you up, Sif.” She turned her eyes, now glittering with tears, to Sif. “You should be the Skuld if you want to be. But I can’t be the Skuld’s woman.”

               Sif said nothing. She understood the fear. She felt it herself whenever she looked at Mjoll, at Ulfrun. Perhaps deep down, that was the reason she wanted to be the Skuld one day. Then everyone would look at her with fear. She let more of the wild magic course through her, feeling the pull to slip away. NO! The scream shook her. If she was carried away, then she would never be the Skuld, and she would never see Bodil again.

               Sif let go of the wild magic, the power flooding from her. It always made she feel like a puddle. She gasped. “I understand,” she said. With nothing more that that, she rushed to the door, pulled it open and fled into the icy wind.

               Bodil did not come after her, did not call her name as she ran from the house. Sif ran through the snow, stumbling and crying, until she caught her foot on something buried beneath the drifts—a rock, or a stick, or perhaps just a hole in the dirt. She fell face down into the snow, letting it melt against her face as she cried.

               “Get up,” someone said from above her.

               Sif lifted her head and wiped her nose along her wet sleeve, but it only smeared the snot across her face. She twisted around, squinting into the afternoon to see who had witnessed her embarrassing display. Ulfrun smiled at her like a wolf, then squatted next to her in the snow drift. “You should have cleared the road instead of going to visit your woman, eh?” Ulfrun said.

               Ulfrun had no desires other than the wild magic. She didn’t understand. “And what were you doing, that you couldn’t clear the road?” she snapped.

               Ulfrun tugged her up from the snow, still wearing the wolf-grin. “I was finding a girl in the fire,” she said.

               “What girl?” Sif asked, curious. It was usually the Skuld who found the girls, and the Skuld had said the new women were not ready yet. Why was Ulfrun looking for them in the fire?

               “Her name is Edda,” Ulfrun said.

               “Edda? Hrist’s granddaughter? She is no more than twelve years.” Sif brushed the snow from her cloak. The air was biting. She began to walk towards the main road, towards home.

               Ulfrun fell in beside her. “The fire showed her to me because she is important, Sif.” Ulfrun’s voice was low, level, serious.

               Sif glanced sideways at her sister as they walked. “Why are you afraid of her?” she asked, knowing Ulfrun’s mood. The wild magic connected them as much as their blood.

               Ulfrun sputtered, not willing to give a direct answer. “I don’t know,” she finally said.

               Sif paused, stilling the desire to cast the rune stones. She listened deep to the wind, to the birds on the air, to the crunch of the ice around her. There were children’s voices in the wind, the cry of an infant. She listened, letting the joy of play move through her. She singled in on one little girl, the sound of her laughter like a clear bell in the still air. “I hear her,” she whispered.

               Ulfrun nodded. Sif imagined that Ulfrun could hear her too. The wild magic danced around them. She itched with power. She pulled the rune stones from her belt pouch, clutched them in her fist for a moment before she kissed her hand, then cast. The stones sizzled as the runes burned onto their faces. She read the runes, her eyes moving slowly from each picture to the next. The woman. The womb. The flower. The tree.

               “Something new will come from her,” she said.

               Ulfrun made a strange noise, like a croak. Sif regarded her with a frown. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

               Ulfrun’s eyes were hard, but white as the rune stones. White as the snow drifts. Sif heard the spirits chattering. Edda will change everything.

               “I thought you didn’t fear the unknown,” Sif teased, nudging Ulfrun in the ribs.

               “I don’t,” Ulfrun said with finality.

               The wind stirred Sif’s hair. She wanted to sit next to the fire until she thawed. She felt frozen to her core. “I’m going home,” she said, stooping to pick up the stones.

               Ulfrun drifted along silently next to her, her eyes wide, her pupils white, her hair dancing with the power she held.
The Tree of Life: Chapter 2

April 14th, 2023

Photo by Chilli Charlie

Sif walked through the piled drifts, moving towards the woods without haste. The storm had stopped blowing after Ulfrun had commanded it, but the sun had not come out until the next day, and Sif had not felt like leaving the fireside while the clouds still hung overhead. She trudged through the snow, knowing she could easily call the wild magic to clear it away for her, but there was something powerful in a different way to make her body do it without magic. She smiled to herself, thinking she possessed a sort of tame magic too, the kind of tame magic that resided in the power of her physical body. She thought of Leif and the other men whose bodies were powerful beyond what she could hope to achieve for herself. Ulfrun thought men were weak. The spirits did not want men, but that did not mean men were weak.

               Up ahead, she felt the stirring of the wild magic, and the presence of someone else at the edge of the woods. She connected with the other’s spirit, the feel of her. Fear gripped her guts momentarily, but she pressed onward. She needed to speak with the Skuld. She would not turn back because of a Bairn.

               When she reached the edge of the trees, where the path that led to the Skuld’s grove began its winding descent, she saw her. Mjoll had her back turned to Sif, her long hair white with power, her white robes billowing with the flow of the wild magic. Sif listened. The spirits were chattering. There was one who was louder than all the rest. She deepened her dive into the words.

               It is a gift…a gift that was given to us as well.

               Another spirit cried out. No!

               Sif was familiar with the confused bickering among the spirits. She had learned how to decipher it in her short time as a Bairn. Sif touched the pouch at her belt, itching to cast her rune stones. She restrained her impulses. Mjoll would know of her presence if she used the wild magic. She shifted quietly around her, trying to sneak by, and also trying to make it seem that she was not sneaking by. She stepped past Mjoll’s stiff body, narrowly avoiding being whipped by her billowing cloak. She moved forward, stilling her nerves, wishing to run down the winding path away from Mjoll’s terrifying presence.

               “I see you Sif,” Mjoll whispered, a hiss among the hushed air of the forest.

               Sif stood stone still, her body rigid, as if dead. She did not turn around.

               Mjoll laughed, a husky chuckle deep in her throat. “You go to seek answers about the fire.”

               Sif did not reply. Mjoll was not her superior or her teacher. She did not have to engage with her if she did not wish.

               “Ulfrun will be burned by the fire,” Mjoll whispered. Sif felt the wild magic circling, condensing. Now, she did turn, to watch as Mjoll cast her rune stones along the snowy path. They sank into the knee-deep drifts, hissing with steam as the wild magic burned the runes on them. Mjoll stepped forward, her eyes wild, white, filled with electric magic. Sif waited, holding her breath, curious and afraid of the reading.

               Mjoll only laughed, a wild, unhinged laugh that brought the chill creeping up Sif’s back. Her flesh prickled as she watched. Mjoll’s laughter went on and on, sending the chattering of the spirits to the background. Sif tenderly took a step forward to peer at the rune stones.

               The eagle. The flame. The river. The tree.

               “I will climb the great tree,” Mjoll said, laughter finally spent. Her too white eyes fell on Sif’s, and Sif felt the fear melt from her. Mjoll was not afraid of this fate, whatever it was.

               “The great tree?” Sif asked.

               Yggdrasil…the spirits called. These were old spirits, spirits who were old before the Freezing. These were the women who had first believed, who had died the first death before there was a name for it. Sif had learned how to know the age of a spirit from the sound of their whispers. The young ones sounded like rain. The old ones sounded like bones. These ones sounded older than that. The voices that chanted the strange name sounded like the earth itself.

               Sif frowned at Mjoll, feeling the wild magic slither and glide between them. “You will be carried off, Mjoll,” she said flatly.

               Mjoll’s teeth looked like fangs as she smiled. She picked up her rune stones from where they had sunk into the snow. “No, Sif,” she drawled. “I will ascend. My hair is already entwined in the roots.”

               Sif swallowed the bile in her throat. She had no response that seemed appropriate. She took a step backward, then another, not taking her eyes from Mjoll.

“You retreat from me?” Mjoll asked, amused. She tilted her head like a bird, regarding Sif with curiosity. “You are a chick, Sif. Let me show you the things I have learned in my long life.”

“The things you teach my sister?” she asked, finding her nerve. “You’ve taught her to be reckless, Mjoll.”

She hummed, her expression pleased. “Perhaps she is also destined to climb the great tree.”

The great tree…the branches stretch out forever…I climbed the tree…we are waiting for you, Sif…NO! They will try to trick you…Dangerous…It’s dangerous.

“I must see the Skuld,” Sif said, though she did not know why she felt the need.

               Mjoll let go of some of the wild magic that danced around her, her hair returning to a dark golden blonde streaked with gray. Her face did not betray her age, but her hair always did. Mjoll was the oldest of the Bairns. Helga believed she was even older than the Skuld. Her eyes held a strange look—the same look Sif had seen in Ulfrun’s eyes after she had dismissed the storm. Fire from another realm.

               “The Skuld will tell you that the answers you seek are dangerous. This is also what she told your sister,” Mjoll said.

               “What do you know of it?” Sif asked. She felt her ire rising. Her face was burning with the anger that always accompanied her confusion.

               Mjoll snickered. She was beautiful, in a terrifying kind of way. Sif did not wish to hear the answer, but her feet refused to move.

               “I know because Ulfrun told me when she came to me to learn more about the fire,” Mjoll said. “The Skuld does not want you to know these things, little chick. She does not want you getting too powerful.”

               Sif was not surprised that Mjoll would think this way, but it angered her nonetheless. “And why should the Skuld want to keep us from becoming powerful? By your own words, you will ascend into this…great tree…then you won’t even be here with us, will you?”

Mjoll smiled. “The Skuld does not want to lose us all to the branches. Then who would remain to heal the sick? To clear the snow? To tend the farms?” As Sif thought through what Mjoll was saying, she realized that Mjoll didn’t care about living in the world. The Skuld, on the other hand, was helping the Bairns learn how to harvest the power of the wild magic so that Soledge would survive. Without the Bairns, without the wild magic, they would starve, wither and die.

“You can ascend if you want,” Sif said plainly. “We can carry on without you.”

Mjoll laughed in her face. She was not undone by Sif’s anger or dismissal. “I’ll remain long enough to show your sister how it is done,” she said.

“Why would Ulfrun ask it of you? You’re reckless. You’re teaching her to be reckless too.” She felt the tingling of the wild magic. Her hand went to the pouch for her rune stones.

               Mjoll noticed the movement. “Cast,” she instructed. “Read the runes for yourself.”

               Sif did not take the bait, pushing aside the taunt for what it was. “I will do as the Skuld instructs. As should you.”

               At her words, Mjoll began to call the wild magic to her again. Her hair lost its color, fading to white. Her eyes went wide, then grew heavy, her lids lowering as her mouth opened in an expression of pleasure. Sif held in a scoff, moving down towards the grove at a quickened pace.

               The Skuld’s grove was free of snow. She squatted in the center, her long white hair and spotless white garments both draping over her to the grass. On the ground before her were the scattered bones of a hen. She studied them in silence.

               Sif approached reverently, feeling the holy power of the wild magic at this, its temple. She let the wild magic touch her, shivering with delight when it did. Sif took three steps towards the Skuld, who had not moved. Sif waited just at the edge of her vision to be called.

               The Skuld continued to study the bones. Then wordless, she lifted a hand, beckoned her. Sif moved forward, stepping carefully on the dry grass. It crunched under her boots as she walked. When she reached the Skuld’s side, she squatted next to her, studying the hen bones too.

               “What do you see, Sif?” she asked softly.

               Sif’s eyes moved over each smooth, sun-bleached bone, taking in the angle, the pattern, the distance, the number. A rib touched a part of the beak, and the vertebrae were scattered in what looked very nearly a circle around the long bone of the wing. The foot, with a claw still attached lay next to the femur, and the pelvis was speared through with another rib. The rest of the bones did not touch one another. Sif noticed a third rib further away than she thought it would have been possible for it to bounce.

               “New knowledge mixes with old. New voices to add to the circle. New women to teach,” Sif answered.

               The Skuld smiled. “I know their names,” she said, “but I will not call them until they are ready.”

               “How do you know when a woman is ready?” Sif asked, a question that had always drifted within her.

               “The spirits tell me. Once the spirits can reach a woman, then she is ready.”

               Sif remembered the first time she had heard the spirits chattering. She had not been afraid. They were familiar, like long-loved friends. “How many new ones will there be?” she asked.

               The Skuld pulled the rune stones from her pouch. She stood, took two steps to her right and cast the stones to the ground. Sif stood to see the markings, watching the stones smoke with wild magic. The leaf. The woman. The river. The star. Sif knew what it meant, but it was the Skuld’s casting, and so she would wait for the Skuld to give the reading before she said anything.

               “The new women will not appear until after we lose another,” the Skuld said.

               This was not an answer to Sif’s question, but the wild magic did not always give the information they wanted. “Someone will be carried off,” she said. She thought of Mjoll, laughing at her own destruction, and Ulfrun, white and smiling at doom.

               “There are two who skirt dangerously close,” the Skuld said, turning her eyes to Sif.

               Sif wanted to shrink under the Skuld’s gaze but managed to hold her head higher in defiance of her own anxiety. “Mjoll and Ulfrun,” she said.

               The Skuld agreed, nodding her head slowly in affirmation.

               “Does it have to do with the fires?” she asked.

               Skuld picked up her rune stones, moving with determined slowness. The soft crack as she dropped one atop another into her pouch sent an echo their the near silent grove. A raven cawed. Sif heard the flap of its wings as it lifted into the air. The sun came out from behind a cloud, sending a single ray streaming into the grove between the two women. The Skuld reached for her hands and Sif took them.

               “There are spirits who have learned how to use the fire to reach us,” she said, as she squeezed Sif’s hands. “But we can also learn how to use the fire to reach each other.”

               Sif wondered at that. “Why don’t we do this?”

               “The fire is wild, Sif. It is akin to the essence of the wild magic. It is not like the rune stones, hard and solid. It varies. It changes. The messages we can send and receive through the fire are the same.”

               Sif heard the wisdom in her words. “Ulfrun said that learning to read the fires can help you carry more of the wild magic.”

               Skuld dropped her hands, turned away and began to gather up the hen bones. “Ulfrun and Mjoll have learned how to carry more of the wild magic than is safe,” she admitted, “but this is not because they have learned how to read the fires.”

               Sif’s skin prickled, remembering Mjoll’s words. “Is it because their hair is already entangled in the roots of the great tree?”

               The Skuld smiled just for a moment, long enough for Sif to see that she was pleased with her reasoning, but not so long as to let her think that she encouraged Ulfrun and Mjoll’s recklessness. She picked up the last of the bones from the grass, then she raised the femur to her lips, kissed it, and tossed the whole bunch into the air. They rained down around her, and she let them fall still before she moved from their midst. Sif scanned her eyes across the grove, reading the patterns.

               “What do you see?” the Skuld asked.

               “I see a hole in the future,” Sif said, looking at the way the wing bones were stacked. The vertebrae were clustered together, nearly piled one on top another.

               The Skuld nodded her head. “Let the bones speak,” she whispered reverently.

               Sif’s fingers itched, crackling with wild magic. The bones do not lie…your sister…danger…
The Tree of Life: Chapter 1

April 7th, 2023

Photo by Andreas Koulatsog

Sif pulled back the curtain and looked out across the blinding snow. The gales were so strong they were blowing the flakes sideways. Ulfrun was at the fire, gazing deep into the flames. Sif dropped the heavy fabric, shutting out the cold. She joined her sister at the hearth.

“Can you see anything today?” she asked. Ulfrun had been learning how to speak to the spirits. They came from the fire sometimes, giving her signs.

Ulfrun smiled slyly. “I always see things in the flames, Sif,” she said.

“Why do they use the fire with you, and not with anyone else?” Sif asked, jealousy curling along her spine.

Ulfrun laughed, feeling her sister’s desires. “I could teach you,” she said.

Sif crawled with the power of the wild magic. The spirits chattered within her. “It is like reading the runes?”

Ulfrun shook her head. “It is like becoming the fire,” she whispered.

Sif squatted next to her sister, peering into the flames. She saw nothing there except the red glow of fire, the soft blue and white where it licked the logs. She concentrated, letting the power carry her. See…see…see…Sif inhaled the smell of the smoke, feeling it twirl through her.

   Ulfrun sighed with pleasure, as if the fire were a lover. The sound drew Sif back to the room where she crouched next to her sister at the hearth. Ulfrun’s delight unnerved her. “You’ll be carried off,” she scolded.

               Ulfrun laughed. “Would it be so bad?” she asked, her voice thick with power. Her hair had gone white and her eyes were like the snow that was piling outside their house. The wild magic moved between them, carrying the call of the spirits. Dangerous…

               “It would be bad to be without you,” Sif said. Sif had only been given the white garments of the Bairns last winter. There was still much she could learn. She wanted Ulfrun to mentor her. She had been one of the Bairns for five years. Her ease with the wild magic was akin to Freya’s, or Helga’s. But she was not as careful with it, something that Sif had noticed in the last few months. Ulfrun had been learning new ways from Mjoll, and Sif did not think it wise.

               “What are you two doing?” their mother asked. She was sitting in a chair, wrapped from head to toe in a thick blanket. She had been asleep most of the evening.

               Ulfrun’s eyes returned to their normal darkness as the power flowed out of her. Sif felt the rush of it moving, like an upturned jug spilling across the floor. “Ulfrun…” she whispered in awe, in terror.

               “It’s not too much, Sif. Not if you know how to hold it.” Her smile was wicked. She looked like the Skuld, half human, half spirit.

               Their mother rose from the chair. “Not answering your Madir?” she grumped.

               “Sif is learning how to read the fires,” Ulfrun said over her shoulder.

               Their mother snorted. “Read the runes. Read the fires,” she mumbled. “Next you’ll be reading the stars. Reading bones.”

               Sif shut out the angry hissing of the spirits. She didn’t admit that she already knew how to read bones. Madir would not like it.

               “You should use the fire to do something about this cold,” their mother said, wrapping her arms around her thin frame. She moved towards the fireplace where here daughters crouched, then paused, hanging back with wariness. She changed her mind—Sif felt the shift in her emotions, carried to her across the wild magic—and sank back into the chair instead.

               Ulfrun called the wild magic, letting the power flow through her. She opened like a rose bud, drinking in the rush of it. Sif breathed heavily, resisting the pull. She cowered in her sister’s presence—her control of the wild magic was too complete. Sif shut her ears to the chatter of the spirits. A lump rose in her throat, fear that Ulfrun has called enough to carry both of them off. Ulfrun closed her eyes, drawing more, until her whole body was white, like the snow outside.

               “Ulfrun!” Sif gasped.

               But Ulfrun didn’t reply. She rose from the hearth, walking straight towards the door. She threw it open, marched determinedly into the howling wind, the driving snow. She did not close the door behind her.

               “Ulfrun!” Sif called again, racing to the doorway, eyes stinging with wet flakes. She watched her sister use the power of the wild magic to quiet the gusts. The wild magic blew against the force of the wind, driving it back, until the air grew still. The snow that had been driving hard as iron a moment before swirled gently down to the earth. All was quiet for a moment. Ulfrun let the magic flow from her, her hair returning to its normal reddish blond. She collapsed into the snow.

               Sif ran from the house without bothering for her cloak. She called to the wild magic. The spirits heard her cries, some wailing, some laughing. She dropped to her knees in the snow where Ulfrun lay. Her hands and face stung from the biting cold.

               “Ulfrun,” she said, stroking her sister’s face. She was pale. Sif pressed two fingers to her neck. Her heart had a steady beat. The wild magic lent her the strength to lift Ulfrun’s body from the snow. She carried her over her shoulder, back to the house, pushing past their shocked madir and into the back of the house. The door opened before her, moved by the power of the wild magic. She laid Ulfrun on their shared bed.

               “Here,” her madir said, coming behind her with her own blanket. She laid it over Ulfrun’s still body. She stirred, groaning. Then she smiled. She smiled. Sif frowned.

               “You are reckless,” she scolded, feeling the frown in her entire body.

               Ulfrun’s smile relaxed. “Not so cold now, though, is it?” she replied, glancing at their madir.

               She scoffed. “Why you girls chose this, I will never understand.”

               “You don’t know the power, Madir,” Ulfrun said, eyes closing from fatigue. “If you did, you wouldn’t have to wonder.”

               Sif kept her mouth shut. Ulfrun was right, of course, but she was still angry with her. She would be carried off if she was not careful—and Ulfrun was rarely careful about anything.

               “The fire is harder to read than the runes, Sif,” Ulfrun said, opening her eyes. “But if you can read the fire, then you can carry more of the wild magic. Then you can command nature the way I just did.”

               Behind her, their madir scoffed. Sif didn’t turn to regard her as she moved away. Their madir shut the door of their tiny bedroom, leaving the sisters alone to talk of the wild magic and the other things she didn’t understand. Sif knew she was not pleased that neither of her daughters would marry, would not bear children, would spend their days communicating with the spirits. He called them the dead. Sif wasn’t sure the spirits were dead women. Some of them were, surely, but some of them seemed wilder than human. Not all of them could be the ghosts of their ancestors.

               “You learned these things about the fire from the Skuld?” Sif asked, curious. The Skuld had never mentioned this advantage to reading the fire.

               “I did not,” Ulfrun said. “The spirits told me.”

               “Ulfrun,” Sif scolded, “you know some of the spirits will try to trick you.”

               “But this wasn’t a lie, Sif,” Ulfrun sat up, threw off the blankets. “They showed me how to do it, and now I can.”

               Sif frowned again, worry crawling through her. “What if they are trying to carry you off?” she asked.

               “Why are you so scared of it?” her sister asked. “Plenty of Bairns are carried off.”

               “And where do they go?” Sif argued. “Nobody knows.”

               “Same as death,” Ulfrun said. Her eyes held a strange expression, a dancing light that Sif did not think came from the reflection of the fire in the bedroom’s hearth.
Unfinished Projects 2

January 20th, 2023

Photo by Laurent Perren

Last year, I wrote a story, The White Stone, which was inspired by a verse from Revelation chapter 2. I revisited Revelation chapters 2 and 3 recently, which catalog seven letters to seven churches in Asia minor. I plan to write six other stories using pieces from the six other letters of this section to accompany the story The White Stone. Below is part of one of them.

To read The White Stone, click here.

Sif pulled back the curtain and looked out across the blinding snow. The gales were so strong they were blowing the flakes sideways. Ulfrun was at the fire, gazing deep into the flames. Sif dropped the heavy fabric, shutting out the cold. She joined her sister at the hearth.

“Can you see anything today?” she asked. Ulfrun had been learning how to speak to the spirits. They came from the fire sometimes, giving her signs.

Ulfrun smiled slyly. “I always see things in the flames, Sif,” she said.

“Why do they use the fire with you, and not with anyone else?” Sif asked, jealousy curling along her spine.

Ulfrun laughed, feeling her sister’s desires. “I could teach you,” she said.

Sif crawled with power. The spirits chattered within her. “It is like reading the runes?”

Ulfrun shook her head. “It is like becoming the fire,” she whispered.

Sif squatted next to her sister, peering into the flames. She saw nothing there except the red glow of fire, the soft blue and white where it licked the logs. She concentrated, letting the power carry her. See…see…see…Sif inhaled the smoke, feeling it twirl through her.

Ulfrun sighed with pleasure, as if the fire were a lover. The sound drew Sif back to the room where she crouched next to her sister at the hearth. Ulfrun’s delight unnerved her. “You’ll be carried off,” she scolded.

Ulfrun laughed. “Would it be so bad?” she asked, her voice thick with power. Her hair had gone white and her eyes were like the snow that was piling outside their house.

“What are you two doing?” their mother asked. She was sitting in a chair, wrapped from head to toe in a thick blanket. She had been asleep most of the evening.

Ulfrun’s eyes returned to their normal darkness as the power flowed out of her. Sif felt the rush of it moving, like an upturned jug spilling across the floor. “Ulfrun…” she whispered in awe, in terror.

“It’s not too much, Sif. Not if you know how to hold it.” Her smile was wicked. She looked like the Skuld.

Their mother rose from the chair. “Not answering your Madir?” she grumped.

“Sif is learning how to read the fires,” Ulfrun said.

Their mother snorted. “Read the runes. Read the fires. Next you’ll be reading the stars. Reading bones.”

Sif shut out the angry hissing of the spirits. She didn’t admit that she already knew how to read bones.

“You should use the fire to do something about this cold,” the mother said.

Ulfrun let the power flow through her. She opened like a rose bud, drinking in the rush of it. Sif breathed heavily. She cowered in her sister’s presence. Ulfrun closed her eyes, drawing more, until her whole body was white, like the snow outside.

“Ulfrun!” Sif gasped.

But Ulfrun didn’t reply. She rose from the hearth, walking straight towards the door. She threw it open, marched determinedly into the howling wind, the driving snow.

“Ulfrun!” Sif called again, watching as her sister used the power to quiet the gusts. The wind grew still. The snow that had been driving hard as iron a moment before swirled gently down to the earth. All was quiet for a moment. Ulfrun let the power flow from her, her hair returning to it’s normal reddish blond. She collapsed into the snow.

Sif ran from the house without bothering for a coat. She called to the wild magic. The spirits heard her cries, some wailing, some laughing. She dropped to her knees in the snow where Ulfrun lay, hands stinging from the biting cold.

“Ulfrun,” she said, stroking her sister’s face. She was pale. Sif pressed two fingers to her neck. Her heart had a steady beat. The wild magic lent her the strength to lift Ulfrun’s body from the snow. She carried her back to the house, laying her on their shared bed.

“Here,” her mother said, coming behind her with her own blanket. She laid it over Ulfrun’s still body. She stirred, groaning. Then she smiled. She smiled. Sif frowned.

“You are reckless,” she scolded, feeling the frown in her entire body.

Ulfrun’s smile relaxed. “Not so cold now, though, is it?” she replied.

Sif’s mother scoffed. “Why you girls chose this, I will never understand.”

“You don’t know the power, Madir,” Ulfrun said, eyes still closed. “If you did, you wouldn’t have to wonder.”

Sif kept her mouth shut. Ulfrun was right, of course, but she was still angry with her. She would be carried off if she was not careful—and Ulfrun was rarely careful about anything.
The White Stone: Chapter 7

May 24th, 2022

Photo by Jill Sauve

(Find previous chapters and a description of the project here.)

               When Hrothgar was gone, Edda donned her cloak and followed the pull of Freya’s anger, unable to resist how it called her. She met Helga on the way, and the two walked in solemn silence. On the outskirts of the woods, they found Ama. She fell in line with them easily, not speaking. They moved in a single file through the woods, down the earthen steps to the gully. Freya and Sif were in the Grove, talking with the Skuld. Edda felt Astrid’s presence behind her but didn’t turn to watch her sister’s approach.

               Freya was holding the wild magic, her whole body glowing, light seeming to stream from the ends of her hair. The Skuld looked skeletal, her face gaunt, her fingers as delicate as bones. She was hunched like a crone. Sif held Freya by her hair, which was still black, though it rippled white, like a flashing light inside a glass. Sif’s grip was so strong it turned her knuckles white.

“You cannot go!” Freya screamed. She writhed in her anguish and anger. “You cannot leave us when Edda is so reckless!”

The Skuld sank to her knees before the two Bairns. Edda had never seen her as weary. She caught a glance from her. The Skuld nodded to her surreptitiously.

               “You would let the spirits take you!” Freya accused, her voice ringing through the Grove. She tried to take a step forward, but Sif yanked her backward. Freya shook her head, trying to dislodge Sif from her locks, but Sif held firmly. She too glowed with power. Edda saw Astrid moving forward, sneaking around the party in a wide circle. Astrid’s face was full of light. It made her golden hair shine. Freya wailed. “You speak of breaking them, though it would take the wild magic from us!”

               “Not I,” the Skuld said, and she sounded like the earth, like the dust she would become. “Edda is the one who will break them.”

               All the eyes in the Grove turned to her. She recalled her steely resolve the previous night, when she had overcome the pull into the spirits’ realm. She locked eyes with the Skuld, and the crone smiled at her. “You are the Skuld,” she whispered, staring into Edda’s eyes. Edda could taste Freya’s anger, Sif’s shock, the surprise of Astrid, Ama and Helga.

               “She is not!” Freya shrieked. “She is too uncontrolled! She will be carried away!” The color fell from Freya’s hair and eyes. She looked like ice personified. “It should be Sif!” she wailed.

               Sif pulled Freya’s hair so hard that she jerked her to the ground. “Quiet,” she hissed. “You will be carried off if you don’t stop.”

               Freya went into a rage, clawing at Sif’s legs. Sif fell to the earth, and she and Freya rolled, wrestling across the grass. Freya pinned Sif to the ground, sitting on her belly, and beating her with one fist while the other held her in place. The Skuld made no move to intervene. Astrid approached slowly, watching in horror. Sif glowed with the wild magic, then shot a hand upward in between Freya’s blows. Her fingers clasped Freya’s throat, and Freya stopped swinging her fist. She pulled at Sif’s arm, but her grip was too strong. Astrid dove towards them, dragging Freya from Sif’s body. Ama rushed forward, helping Sif from the ground. She was red from Freya’s pounding fist.

               “Freya!” Sif yelled, her voice raw with emotion. “Freya stop! You will be like Ulfrun!” Sif’s tears streamed. She shrugged out of Ama’s grip and reached her arms towards Freya. Edda watched the fight and power flow out of Freya. She reached for Sif, and crushed her sister against her, sobbing into her shoulder. Sif stroked her hair, and her hand seemed to rub the darkness back into it. She took Freya’s face in her hands and kissed her. They whispered to one another, and Sif dropped her hands from Freya’s face. Ama put her hand on Sif’s shoulder to steady her. Astrid moved beside Freya, petting her head like she was a child. One of them was whispering “hush.”

The tension was gone from the Grove. Freya was no longer in danger, no longer angry. Sif turned on Edda, pointing an accusatory finger at her. “You!” she sneered. “This is your doing! You could have killed her! You shared the wild magic with a man!” she screamed, her face red with fury. “You should not be here! The spirits should carry you off the way they almost did to Freya!”

               Edda filled herself with the wild magic, almost to bursting. The call of the spirits barely registered. Their words floated through her without recognition. “You don’t have to listen to them, Sif,” she explained, feeling smug.

               Her sisters all grew quiet, staring at her wild-eyed. “What did you say?” Helga whispered from her side.

               She looked at Helga first, then at the rest of them in turn. Astrid had dropped her hold of Freya, and Ama stood just a pace behind Sif. If Edda didn’t know better, she would assume Ama was hiding from her. Sif’s fury had cooled, but Freya’s dark expression matched her dark eyes. “Don’t listen to them,” she instructed. “They don’t want to help us.”

               The Skuld laughed, and then all the focus was on her. Her laughter grew crazed. She seemed to shrink in on herself, hugging her body with her skinny, skeletal arms. “She is right,” the Skuld croaked. “All of you believed,” she said. It wasn’t a complement. “But not Edda,” she added softly, with a measure of awe and respect in her tone. “Edda doubted. And she will be the Skuld.” Her skin was shriveled now, she looked barely more than a husk. “Edda is the Skuld,” she whispered one last time.

               Edda watched in fascination and disbelief as the Skuld crumbled into dust. The earth seemed to swallow up the remains. All evidence of her disappeared into the brown grass. A rushing wind came towards her, and she felt the Skuld’s spirit pass through her, her laughter ringing in her mind. Edda reveled in pure delight. The wild magic danced inside her, ready to use. Her tingling limbs felt alive outside of her body. She wondered if she looked inhuman now, if Hrothgar would still want her now that she walked between the worlds.

               Then she smiled to herself. Hrothgar would always want her, even if he was afraid of her. She turned and began to walk out of the Grove.

               “You aren’t staying here, in the Grove?” Astrid asked at her departing back.

               Edda stopped, then spun to face the other Bairns. “No,” she answered definitively. “I am going to stay with Hrothgar.”

               Their confusion was delicious. She left them standing among the trees, wondering.

               Edda sat in the chair next to the window in her house, running her index finger over the runes of her true name. The edges of the runes were rough, but the stone itself was satisfyingly smooth. She thought she could express the name now, if anyone were to ask, though she didn’t think she would. The name held power. It held truth. Hrothgar did not believe in it, but she had to, after what had happened.

               She put the white stone away, not wanting to risk Hrothgar seeing it. He stirred in his sleep, stretched, then rolled over. She rose from the chair and tucked herself in next to him on the pallet.

She curled into him, like a leaf folding in the wind. She felt like a bud of power, waiting to burst open.

               “Yrsa had a boy,” she said smoothly, feeling satisfied.

               Hrothgar grunted in agreement. “Of course, she did. Sigrid made him.”

               She smiled to herself. “And Jorekr made a boy,” she continued evenly.

               Hrothgar opened his eyes, looking at her hard. There were several women who had given birth in the last few days. He, like everyone else, waited anxiously for one piece of information about each baby. “And Borr?” he asked. “Did he make a boy too?”

               She nodded. “There was only one girl among the five babes.”

               Hrothgar breathed a laugh, then smiled at her as he stroked her cheek. His eyes were still sleepy. “And this one?” he asked, touching her swelling belly.

               “I told you before,” she teased, pressing her hand against the child inside her. “You will make boys.”

               He hesitated before the question came forth. “You’re sure?”

               Her hand slid to the white stone in the pocket of her kirtle. If she were to tell him of it, she might say it said Man Mother, or Man Bringer, or Man Birther. Any translation would have been accurate. She nodded. “It was in the runes,” she answered, feeling the wild magic swirl through her.
The White Stone: Chapter 6

May 20th, 2022

Photo by Alejandra Quiroz

(Find previous chapters and a description of the project here.)

               Edda sat at her table, looking at the stone with her true name. It held power, but it was a power she no longer wanted. Yet, power was a tricky thing. The thought of giving it up gave her pause. She plotted how to unlink the wild magic from the spirits. She wondered why the wild magic had given her this name. What had the Skuld meant that she would do what the Skuld could not?

Someone knocked at the door. She tucked the stone into her pocket and moved the three steps from the table to the door. She pulled it open, revealing Hrothgar. He stared at her blankly, waiting. Edda took a step back, opening the door wider. Hrothgar entered her house and she silently shut the door. She wanted to embrace him, but he looked almost wild with anger. She considered him, delving into his emotions with the wild magic. “You confronted Astrid,” she said evenly.

               Hrothgar looked cornered, uncomfortable, on the brink of flight. “Yes,” he answered shortly.

               She nodded without judgment. She knew Hrothgar, like most men, dismissed the Bairns, thinking their work and their power unimportant. “Why are you here?” she asked tenderly. She reached for him, pressing her hand against his cheek.

               He wet his lips, hesitating. “What did you read in the runes last night?”

Edda stroked his black beard, twirling her finger through it as she considered her answer. “The spirits are not our friends,” she said slowly. She ran her hand over his shoulder, down his arm.

“They keep us from having boys,” Hrothgar stated, eyes filled with fury.

               Edda nodded. “They want to keep their sisterhood,” Edda explained.

He was silent for a moment. She smelled his nervous sweat. “I want you to read the runes for me,” he said slowly, voice shaking.

               She smiled. “Why?” she inquired, feeling smug. “I thought you didn’t believe in their power.”

“I don’t,” he answered. “But you do.”

“I will read the runes for you,” she said. The wild magic surged through her limbs. She felt the warmth of its glow.

               Hrothgar took one of the chairs, sitting at her table with his elbows propped on the tabletop. He clasped his fists together, pressing his mouth into them. His eyes hadn’t left hers. His nervous energy was infectious.

               Edda untied the pouch from her belt, then called the wild magic. She held the stones in her hand, letting it glow with the inner fire, before scattering them across the floor. The wild magic burned the runes onto their faces, the smell of burning stone stinging her nostrils, clinging to the back of her throat. She considered the runes one by one. The river. The mist. The man. The branch. She stared for too long, too excited tell him what she read. She stared for so long that he had to prompt her to speak.

               “Edda?” Hrothgar asked tenderly. “What do the runes say of me?”

               She lifted her eyes from the ground, warmth spreading through her. “You can make boys, Hrothgar.” Her voice was low and tender. She allowed a smile to creep across her features.

               She watched his eyes widen with hope and fear. “I can make boys?” he whispered, his question filling the silent places inside her. The spirits chattered but she didn’t listen to their words. “Who is the mother?” he asked.

               She already knew, but the power inside her was itching to flow again. Cast!…No!…Edda, cast!… Read the runes…Edda, stop! The conflicting wails began to make sense, considering what the Skuld had revealed in the Grove the previous night. She picked up the rune stones one by one, caressing them softly before calling the wild magic again. She scattered them onto the floor. The heavy sound of them clacking across the wooden beams broke the spirits’ wailings. The circle. The dove. The well. The womb.

               She closed her eyes. She had known before the casting. She understood what the Skuld had meant. This reading was more exciting than the one she had just given. This reading sealed her fate, gave her a future.

               “Edda?” Hrothgar asked, tentative and soft. “Who is the mother?” His breath was like summer’s breeze, sending heat through her chest. It spread downward to her belly, to her womb. She tingled with excitement.

               She opened her eyes, regarding him for a moment that felt too long, too slow. “I am the mother,” she whispered.

               Hrothgar frowned. “You?” he asked, barely understanding. “You’re the mother?”

               She nodded as the spirits wailed in dismay and laughed darkly in delight.

               “Edda,” Hrothgar said, standing up and coming forward. “You…” he cupped her face. “Are you sure?”

               She nodded, feeling giddy, feeling drunk with power and love. She tried to release the wild magic but couldn’t let it go. It felt intwined into her in a way it hadn’t been before. “Tell me when my eyes aren’t white anymore,” she said.

She held his gaze, staring until her eyes hurt. Edda counted the seconds in her head. She lost count around 300.

               “They aren’t going back, Edda,” he finally said. “They’re still white.”

               Raw power slithered through her. She stooped to pick up the stones again. The spirits were all talking at once. She couldn’t pick out any coherent thoughts from them. She cast the rune stones again, smelling the fire of the wild magic as they burned new runes into the surface of the rocks. The fire. The circle. The star. The tree.

               She smiled widely, gleefully. Then she laughed heartily, but it didn’t sound joyous. Even to her it sounded wrong. “I will be the Skuld,” Edda said. Hrothgar backed away from her. She watched him, drawn to his terror. She moved forward, but he continued to move backwards, until he was standing against the wall, and she was pinning him in place, her hands pressed against his chest. She tipped her face upwards. “I will be the Skuld,” she repeated, whispering hoarsely, “and the mother of your boys. And I will have everything I ever wanted.” She pressed her lips to his and she felt Hrothgar trying to squirm away from her. She held him in place with the strength of the wild magic until he succumbed to her, running his hands over her back as she kissed him. Inside her mind the spirits argued. No! Edda, no!…Yes…Yes…

               Hrothgar stroked Edda’s white hair as they lay on the pallet, snuggling together under the thin blanket. Edda’s head rested against his chest. She traced a finger down his sternum, his belly. The wild magic danced between them. “How do you stand it?” he asked, feeling it slide through him.

               “I like it,” Edda replied, and he could hear the smile in her words. “You don’t like it?” she asked.

               “I don’t know,” he answered slowly. “It feels…uncontrollable.”

               “That’s because no one has taught you how to control it,” Edda said.

               Hrothgar didn’t want to learn how to control it. He frowned. “Could you give it up?”

               Edda lay still. He could barely feel her breath. “No,” she finally decided.

               “Astrid said that too,” he replied, remembering the confrontation from earlier that morning.

               Edda lifted her head, her white eyes boring into him, her white hair hanging in a curtain over his chest. “You think we should give up the wild magic,” she assessed, and when he didn’t confirm her guess, she continued. “I think we should use the wild magic.”

               “For what?” Hrothgar asked.

               Edda smiled but it seemed forced. She didn’t look entirely human. “For whatever we need to use it for.”

               “What about the spirits?” he asked, fear returning to his belly. “What we’re doing…Edda, I don’t want them to take you.”

               She laughed at him and glowed with an internal light. “They cannot take me,” she said. “They are weak.”

               His body felt alive with energy. “Edda,” he said hoarsely. “Are you saying, you can defy the spirits?”

               “I thought you didn’t believe in the spirits?” she asked. She threw off the blanket and Hrothgar’s eyes trailed over her body as he watched her dress.

               “I don’t believe in the runes,” he clarified.

               She turned her white eyes on him, and he felt the icy stab of fear. “The runes are what told me to carry a boy for you. If it’s in the runes, it’s true.”

               “You also said the runes told you that I taint you,” he argued. “And you said you didn’t believe it.”

               Edda narrowed her eyes at him as she tugged her white kirtle over her head. “You said I didn’t believe it.”

               Hrothgar didn’t want to fight with her. They had had enough fights about the spirits and the wild magic. “What do you think they meant?” he asked, though he was unsure he wanted to hear her answer.

               She closed her eyes for a moment, tilting her head as if in inquiry. “That you would help me break their power over us,” she said.

For a moment, he couldn’t understand what she meant, but then it all came together for him. “Will we still need the wild magic to make boys?” he asked.

               She sunk to the pallet, and leaned forward, kissing him slowly. He pulled her down to him, and she lay halfway on him as they kissed. When he pulled away from her, she had a mischievous grin. “We don’t need the wild magic to make boys, Hrothgar. The spirits use the wild magic to dictate who can make boys. We need to break the spirits’ control.”

               Hrothgar sucked in his breath. “Can that be done?”

               She rose from the pallet. She reached for the white bag of rune stones she had laid on the table. She drew them out carefully, giving them a loving gaze before she cast them to the floor. The hiss of their burning was loud in the silence of the room. Hrothgar looked to Edda as she read them, waiting for her to speak.

               She lifted her eyes to meet his. “It can,” she whispered.
The White Stone: Chapter 5

May 17th, 2022

Photo by Norbert Toth

(Find previous chapters and a description of the project here.)

               The forest was dark, but it didn’t hinder her. Edda knew the way. She was impervious to the cold. The warmth of the wild magic swirled in her limbs, propelled her onward through the darkness. She crashed through the woods, snapping twigs and rustling foliage, kicking up last year’s debris. She rushed down into the gully, to the Grove, to the circle of white trees standing as sentinels. She entered the Grove with her breath ragged, her heart bare. The Grove was empty. She did not know where she could find the Skuld if not here. She sank to her knees, gasping, her heart pumping too hard in her chest. The spirits were laughing, wailing, whispering, gossiping. “Where are you?” she cried aloud, her face towards the sky. “I need you!”

               The Skuld appeared, kneeling next to her on the ground. Edda had not seen how she had emerged. One moment she had not been there, and the next she was. Edda leaned forward, wanting comfort, wanting someone to anchor her to the world. She felt herself being called away and she did not want to go. She fought with the spirits, ignoring them, pushing away their calls.

               The Skuld lifted Edda’s chin, forcing her to meet her eyes. “You have been with Hrothgar again,” the Skuld said. She smiled eerily, her white eyes like crystal. She was more a spirit than a woman and she didn’t seem to belong to the world where they sat.

               Edda nodded. “I love him,” she explained, though she knew the Skuld would not care.

               The Skuld stroked her hair, and Edda watched from the corner of her eyes how the color poured back into it. She felt at peace. The Skuld pressed her palm to Edda’s cheek. “I loved a man once, too,” she admitted softly. “I still love him.”

               This is not what Edda had expected her to say. She pulled back from the Skuld, an inch, but enough to cause the Skuld to drop her hand. “What?” she whispered in confusion.

“The blacksmith,” the Skuld said, smiling widely. Her eyes were soft, remembering. She looked like she was laughing to herself. “Leif.” She whispered his name as if it was holy. Her eyes came back to Edda’s. “They will tell you that you can’t have both,” the Skuld said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “But they are liars.” The last word was nearly a hiss.

               “What are you saying?” Edda asked, her heart swelling. The hope inside her made her chest hurt. “How?”

               The Skuld was looking at Edda, but she was seeing past her, her eyes unfocused. “They want you for their own.”

               “Why?” Edda asked. “Why would they lie to us?”

               “Fickle, fickle women,” the Skuld hissed. Edda waited for more explanation, her eyes widening. “They make more of us, so they can carry us off.”

Edda thought back to the runes she had read on Hrothgar’s pallet. The darkness. The cloud. The ring. The woman. “I read it in the runes,” she confided. “The women—the spirit women—they keep us from having boys. This is their doing.”

The Skuld nodded. “I read this in the runes too,” she said, “before I chose the spirits. Leif asked me…” she stopped abruptly, and it seemed to Edda that she was choking on her words. The Skuld swallowed loudly. “Leif asked me if it was true,” she continued, her voice low and husky.

“He knows?” Edda asked. She wondered what Leif had told Hrothgar as they worked over the forge.

The Skuld shook her head in denial, then paused, and reconsidered. She then proceeded to nod her head up and down, affirming what Edda suspected. “He knows,” she said. “And so does Hrothgar.”

“Can we put an end to this?” Edda asked, thinking of her true name. “Can we undo what has been done?”

“It’s their doing,” the Skuld said, and it seemed to Edda that she turned an accusatory glare upon her. “But we help them,” she whispered, “because the wild magic is irresistible.”

               “But why? What do they have against men?” Edda asked, still confused. “Why can’t they let us have the men we want?”

               The Skuld raised her eyebrow, looking almost human for a moment. “Isn’t it nice, sometimes, to be with you sisters?” the Skuld asked.

               Edda nodded. “Of course,” she agreed enthusiastically. “I love being with my sisters. But not all the time. Sometimes, I want to be with Hrothgar.”

               The Skuld nodded. “The spirits—the most powerful ones—only want to be with their sisters,” she explained.

               “But why?” Edda pressed. “There has to be a reason!” Her frustration was building. She felt the wild magic swirling, trying to call her away from her body again. The spirits chattered so loudly she could not distinguish their words.

               The Skuld shrugged. “They don’t like men.”

               “So, they keep us from men? They keep us from having boys?” Edda grew more horrified the longer she considered it. “They keep us seeking after them, giving us the wild magic so we can…use it to determine who can make boys?!” Edda’s anger was rising. She felt the pull of the spirits. She knows!… Edda…Take her! Take her! She resisted. She filled herself with resolve, focusing on the Skuld’s face, ignoring the pull of the spirits. It felt like swimming upriver, but she managed to hold steady. The spirits quieted.

               “You are strong,” the Skuld assessed, smiling.

               The spirits were warning her, but she pushed all their complaints away. “What would happen if I remained Hrothgar’s woman?” she asked. The spirits hissed at her. She ignored them. It was easy now. She used her anger to armor herself against them.

               The Skuld stood, pulling Edda up from the ground with her. The Skuld reached for her rune stones, and Edda couldn’t resist the pull her own stones had on her. She took the rocks in her palm, watching as the Skuld cast her stones across the grass. The wild magic burned them, and Edda cast her own stones on the ground among them. A double casting was rare. It was only done in the Grove. It was only done with the Skuld. Edda looked at the runes. The rock. The eagle. The circle. The river. The womb. The sky. The fire. The tree. The Skuld met her eyes. The words of the casting were on her lips, and she was amazed when they came from the Skuld’s mouth as well as her own. “There will be a change. The birth of something new. It will grow until it cannot be contained. It will last forever.”

               Edda grinned. “I will stay Hrothgar’s woman,” she vowed. “I will defy the spirits.”

               The Skuld smiled. “Then you will do what I could not,” she said. “And then, you will do what I cannot.” Edda felt a rush of anxiety over her words, but the Skuld seemed satisfied, proud even. “Brave Bairn,” she added, an echo of what the spirits had said on the day she was given her true name.

               Hrothgar went to the bakery early in the morning. He had not filled his belly full since the day before Edda became a Bairn. His body craved something other than stale cheese and a bit of salted ham. The smell of fresh bread wafted down the street, mixed with the smell of wood smoke. There was a line outside the bakery. He hadn’t mean to come so early, but he also hadn’t been able to sleep. Thoughts of Edda’s white eyes had filled his head. He was anxious for an explanation.

               He took his place in the line, which was only three people deep, and waited impatiently. The cold was biting. The melting snow seeped into his boots. He rubbed his arms, glancing into the window of the bakery. He saw Gisla at the counter, taking loaves from a tray and placing them on the racks. She came around the counter when she was finished, moving towards the door.

               An unnatural quiet spread over the area and he knew it was the approach of a Bairn. He turned his head and watched passively as Astrid made her way to the front of the line just as Gisla opened the door. No one stopped her. She was a Bairn. Bairns always took precedence. They could have whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted it. Hrothgar frowned and ground his teeth. Before he could think to stop himself, he called out, “Get in line, Astrid!”

               The line of people between him and Astrid melted away as she turned towards him. She was swirling with wild magic. The flow of it around her caused her hair and cloak to dance, as if there was a steady breeze. Her eyes were empty of emotion as she came towards him. Hrothgar felt the nervous tension around them, the others stiff with concern. Astrid held his gaze and Hrothgar wanted to sneer, but he managed to keep his expression bare.

               Astrid considered him, cocking her head to one side for a moment. Her golden hair was alive. She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you insist on pursuing Edda?” she asked.

               Hrothgar couldn’t help from prickling at her question. The Bairns could read people like they were runes. Some said people had runes inside them. This made him think of Leif, and the suggestion that the runes men carried determined if they could make boys. He wondered. “Do you not pursue the things you want, Astrid?” he asked casually, as if he was not unnerved.

               She smiled sweetly at him. “You cannot have her,” Astrid explained. Her attention was suddenly drawn elsewhere, and Hrothgar’s gaze went to where hers had gone. Over his shoulder, he saw Helga walking with Sigrid. There was nothing tying them together, but Hrothgar got the impression that Sigrid was still on leash. The man moved stiffly. He was being taken somewhere he didn’t want to go.

               Astrid smiled. “She has found another mother,” Astrid said to herself.

               “She wouldn’t need to find mothers if she didn’t want the wild magic,” Hrothgar growled.

               Astrid’s gaze slid back to him, and the smile she now wore was devilish. She leaned closer to him, her eyes gleaming. Hrothgar could smell the herbs she used to clean her teeth. “We will always want the wild magic, Hrothgar.”

               Anger rising, he bared his teeth at Astrid. “It’s true, then?” he asked. “The spirits are the reason we don’t have enough boys?”

               Astrid didn’t reply. Her smug grin made his blood hot with rage. She turned from him and walked towards the bakery, where Gisla was still standing in the threshold, holding the door open. She quickly ducked out of the way, letting Astrid past her. The others who had witnessed the confrontation began to move forward as well, falling back into a line, shuffling inside the shop.

               Hrothgar stewed in his fury, his eyes cast downwards. He drew breath slowly, but his heart did not slow. Someone tapped Hrothgar on the shoulder. He turned, and Leif was giving him a measured glare. “You’re being reckless,” he growled.

               “Why should they get everything for free, while we work?” he asked, his anger at Astrid still painfully fresh.

               “They keep us alive, Hrothgar,” Leif explained.

               But Hrothgar didn’t believe that. He thought of Skogul and Ofbradh, growing up with first-hand stories from the Freezing, existing among the trash of the old world, surviving on the ancient ways. “The ancient ways will keep us alive, Leif. We do not need Bairns. We need boys.”

Leif grumbled something unintelligible, moving away from Hrothgar slowly. Hrothgar watched his retreating back, still fuming. Once he had eaten, he would find Edda. He would demand she tell him what was in the runes. He would make a plan with her. He would keep her as his woman, no matter what Leif said. No matter what Astrid said.

               He waited until Astrid came out of the bakery before he made a move to go inside himself. She slid past him as if he didn’t exist.
The White Stone: Chapter 4

May 13th, 2022

Photo by Marcus Ganahl

(Find previous chapters and a description of the project here.)

               Freya drove the ram for most of the day, moving slowly through the accumulating snow along the decrepit roadway. Out the window of the ram, Edda watched the river gliding, and the trees swaying. The spirits talked over one another. She tuned them out.

“You will need to stay calm, Edda,” Sif instructed. “It takes a great amount of wild magic to turn the Waters.”

Edda nodded. “I can hold a great amount,” she replied, feeling nervous. The warnings from the spirits grew loud for a moment before they quieted each other.

“Maybe so,” Sif answered, as if that didn’t matter. “So could Mjoll. But holding the wild magic isn’t the same as using it.”

“I have used the wild magic before, Sif,” Edda countered. “And I will have you, and Freya, with me,” she said sweetly. She smiled almost shyly at her sister, knowing she would like the gesture. She felt the pull of Sif’s attraction to her. It made her want to lean her face against Sif’s neck.

Sif’s eyes sparkled for a moment. “I could be better to you than Hrothgar was,” Sif whispered, taking her hand.

Edda gently pulled her hand away. “But I don’t want you, Sif,” she said tenderly. “I want Hrothgar.”

Sif frowned, and Freya cleared her throat. “You can’t have Hrothgar,” Freya explained evenly. “We’ve told you that. You must give him up.”

               “I know,” Edda said, although inside her own mind she disagreed. She wondered if her sisters knew she was lying.

When the sun started to sink low, Edda saw in the distance an enormous wall, gray and unnaturally huge against the landscape. Freya slowed the ram as they approached. The snow was not thick on the ground here. Edda could see only a dusting of white flakes across the grass.

               Freya pulled off the road into an open field. A large building sat between the lot and the large wall. The sound of the river seemed almost too quiet. The Bairns exited the ram, Ama clamoring out of the back of the wagon without waiting for one of her sisters to open the wagon’s end. Edda pulsed with energy, anticipation, anxiety. She felt the currents of wild magic here. Wild magic had kept the Waters running smoothly since the Freezing. There were traces of it everywhere.

               “What does it do?” she asked, wondering if any of them knew how the Waters worked. “How does it make the power?”

               Ama shrugged and Freya shook her head. Sif licked her lips before answering. “Tame magic,” was all she said.

               Sif took the lead, moving with purpose towards the structure before them. Freya and Ama followed her. Edda brought up the rear. Her sisters called the wild magic. Edda watched as the color melted from their hair, leaving their locks eerily white. She called the wild magic too and imagined what Hrothgar would say about her white hair and white eyes. The spirits chided her. Forget him!…Edda, leave him…You will never be his now…Hrothgar will not have you! She ignored them, and her hand drifted to the white stone with her true name. She grasped it as she moved, feeling the weight of it in her hand, running her thumb over the runes burned into it. Hrothgar would never know this name. The thought bothered her, though she didn’t have words to explain why.

               Inside the structure it was dark, and a high-pitched whining filled the air, along with the sound of rushing water. Ama sent the wild magic upwards, to light fires inside the glasses above them. The light drew Edda’s eyes. She scanned the ceiling, broken and crumbling, and yet alive with the tame magic. The tame magic always inspired such awe in her. She often wondered how the people before the Freezing had discovered it. How did they make these huge metal buildings? What was plastic? How did they capture light inside a glass? Edda pulled her gaze away from the lights.

On the floor before them, lined up in a long row, were cylinders, each topped with a glass. They hummed. Edda looked to Sif and Freya. They were holding the wild magic, glowing. Sif looked like she would burst from the light within her. Edda called the wild magic to her, letting it fill her to bursting. It moved along her limbs. She felt its power and its warmth. She wanted to fall into its stream, but she remembered Sif’s tears when they had mentioned Ulfrun. She let go of her longing.

               Sif moved forward, towards a metal box several paces apart from the line of cylinders. Freya moved behind her. Edda watched as the two of them placed their hands on the box, releasing the wild magic. A grinding, clanking noise emanated from the box. Ama looked over her shoulder at Edda, then nodded her head in the direction of the box. Edda moved forward slowly. The wild magic danced through her. She placed her hands on the box too. She felt it humming with life, filled with the power of the wild magic. She emptied herself, drained by the flow of power leaving her body. Freya’s hair darkened as she slumped against the box. Sif was still a conduit. Something inside the box started to move. It sounded almost like the ram. Edda could feel the last of the wild magic leaving her. She pushed it forward, downward, inward. The sounds from inside the box heightened. She lost her thoughts for a moment, her eyes swimming with dark dots. She laid her head against Freya’s back.

               Finally, Sif dropped her hands from the box. Edda peered at her. Freya stirred underneath her head, and she lifted it slowly. Sif was panting as she stepped back from the box. She wore a satisfied smile, though her brow was beaded with sweat. Her eyes went across the room, and she raised a hand, pointing in the direction of the cylinders.

               Edda turned, feeling sluggish. All the glasses atop the cylinders were blinking steadily. She turned back to Sif holding onto Freya’s arm as she finally rose from where she had laid against the box. “How long will it last?” Edda asked, itching to cast her stones again.

               Freya shrugged, gasping. “Pray it is long enough to learn to live without it.”

               Ama came forward, drawing Freya into her arms. Freya moved tenderly, the way a woman did after giving birth. Edda followed them, reaching out for Sif’s hand to steady her. Sif snaked an arm around her waist, and hoisted Edda’s arm over her shoulders. Edda’s feet felt leaden. She could barely lift them from the floor. The sound of her dragging her boots filled her ears.

               “You did well,” Sif whispered, her lips brushing against her ear. “You are powerful,” she continued. “You frighten me.”

               Edda smiled. This was high praise from a Bairn. “And you frighten me, sister,” she croaked, feeling the swell of pride in her chest.

               When they reached the ram, Freya looked like she had recovered her strength, though she was beaded with sweat. “I’ll ride in the wagon,” she offered. “Ama will drive.” Sif lowered the gate of the wagon, and Ama helped Freya climb inside. She closed her eyes almost immediately. Ama scooted along the bench in the front compartment. Sif took the middle and Edda slid in beside her. The ram rolled down the broken roadway. Edda rested her head against Sif’s shoulder and closed her eyes.

               Hrothgar blinked when the tame magic came alive. His piece of tame magic, a glass for light, held high on a pole, flickered once, twice, then stayed lit. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. He had left it on the night before, thinking ahead for if Edda had not let him stay with her. It was not lit when he returned from the smithy, and he had neglected to turn it off. He rose from his pallet and rotated the plastic stick to extinguish the light in the glass. He stretched and went to the window, pulling back the curtain. There was a pristine blanket of snow on the ground. He dropped the curtain, yawning again as he laid down on the pallet once more.

               Tired as he was, his mind wandered. He thought of Edda and the other Bairns, stuffed onto the bench of the ram, driving through the dark and the snow from the Waters to Soledge. He wondered if they slept at all. He wondered what they would eat. He wondered what it would be like to use the wild magic as they did.

               The thought made him go cold and fear slithered through him. He wondered if the spirits heard his thoughts. It seemed silly, though, after he took a moment to think it through. The spirits were not interested in men. He couldn’t see any reason the spirits would be listening to him.

               There was a soft scraping noise coming from outside his window. Frowning in confusion, he rose from the pallet, and pulled back the curtain again. He watched the ram slide up the road, crunching the snow as it moved. Its lights were visible long after it passed, two red eyes in the night. He watched until he couldn’t see them anymore.

               He dropped the curtain, leaning against the window, his mind full of nothing.

               The sound of footfalls in the snow drew his attention. He listened as whoever it was approached the house. They were at his threshold. Slowly, the doorknob turned. He held his breath, too unnerved to move. The door opened and he saw the white cloak of a Bairn. A blast of cold air hit him as he sucked in his breath, backing away from the figure. She pulled the hood back from her face. Edda shook her hair, and her eyes drifted towards him, finding him in the darkness.

               “Edda,” he whispered, fear climbing his throat, heart beating wildly. He stared at her, wanting her, wanting her to go away, wondering what she was doing here. “I should send you away,” he said thickly.

               She untied the laces at her neck, letting the white cloak melt from her shoulders. She came towards him, the sound of her unsteady breathing raising his hair on end. Hrothgar held his ground, refusing to retreat from her, though she rippled and glowed with the wild magic. When she was upon him, her nose nearly touching his own, she closed her eyes and turned her mouth upwards. Hrothgar couldn’t resist her. He bent his head, kissing her mouth. She was soft, but he tingled as he kissed her. He wondered if that’s how the wild magic felt inside her. His limbs were pulsing with something foreign, and he didn’t know if it was simply his adrenaline or the power Edda was holding.

               He released her, and she opened her eyes slowly, sighing in contentment. “They tell me I can’t have you. They tell me I belong to the spirits now.”

               Hrothgar wasn’t sure how he should reply. Edda had doubts, even on the morning before she became a Bairn. The fact that she was here now was proof that she was still uncertain. “Is that what you think?” he asked slowly. Leif’s and Ofbradh’s warnings were fresh in his mind, but he couldn’t deny his desire to find a way to hold onto Edda. If there was any way at all, he would try. He couldn’t stomach seeing her become like Sif. He knew she would be as powerful as Sif one day, and maybe just as wild as Ulfrun had been. She might one day even be the Skuld.

               Edda didn’t answer his question with words. She kissed him again and this time, she reached her arms around his shoulders. Hrothgar put his hands on her, knowing he shouldn’t, knowing this was dangerous for her. The magic inside her slowly crept into him, until he felt that he would burst. Suddenly, he understood. No Bairn could belong to a man and the spirits without letting the man get a taste of the wild magic. And if the spirits were keeping men from using it, to the point where they were somehow keeping men from being born, then allowing them to access it through their woman made their exclusion complicated.

               He pulled away from her. Her hair and her eyes had gone white. She smiled at him and reached for her rune stones. She seemed to hesitate, before she cast them. He glanced down at the stones, strewn across his pallet, watching as the wild magic burned them one by one. He didn’t know the runes. He couldn’t see them in the dark after the glow of red cooled to a soft black. He looked at Edda. In the darkness he could see her white eyes, wide with wonder. Her mouth hung open, and she seemed to shudder as she exhaled.

               “I must see the Skuld,” she whispered hoarsely. She stooped to his pallet, hastily gathering up the rune stones, stuffing them hurriedly into the pouch at her belt.

               “Edda,” he called to her as she returned to the place she had discarded her cloak. She didn’t reply. She hefted the cloak across her shoulders and tied the laces at her neck. Without looking at him, she rushed from his house. The sound of the door slamming pierced the stillness of the night. He went to the door, yanked it open and called after her. “Edda!” His voice carried across the emptiness. He could barely make out her form running down the road. The snow, her clothes, her white hair masked her. He shivered, returning to the darkness of the house.

               He laid down on the pallet, but he couldn’t sleep. All he could think about was the fear he had seen in her eyes, wondering what she had read in the runes.
The White Stone: Chapter 3

May 10th, 2022

Photo by Artem Maltsev

(Find previous chapters and description of the project here.)

               Back in her house, Edda knew the tame magic wasn’t working as soon as she picked up the brick. Fix it…Fix the power…To the Waters…Go! Fix it. The spirits’ instructions churned inside her mind. She laid the brick on the small table, tuning out the sound of the spirits. She rose from the chair and her hand went instinctively to the pouch of rune stones hanging at her side before she remembered Astrid’s warning. She nearly snatched her hand back from the pouch. Instead, she reached into her pocket and drew out the white stone with her true name. The runes were dark against the smooth surface. They still smelled acrid from the burning. She tucked the stone back into her pocket, thinking about the name. The sound of it swirled on her tongue, wanting to be voiced. She pressed the stone to her body, quieting the urge.

               She exited the house. She glanced up and down the street, watching as the first white flakes started to fall. They swirled around her, dancing away from the power she held. Her gaze was drawn to the east, to Freya, who was moving up the street. She rippled with the wild magic. Edda stepped down from her porch and began moving towards her sister. The wind tossed Freya’s dark hair but she never made a move to push it from her eyes or her face. Edda felt that same pull towards her that she had felt towards Olga when she was birthing the boy.

               Freya stopped before her. Her eyes were dark and deep, and glazed, as if she was staring into the past, looking into the future. Edda tingled as she fell into Freya’s eyes. She reached for the rune stones at her belt, but Freya stopped her with a question. “The Waters?” Her gaze sharpened, seemed almost accusing.

               Edda dropped her hand to her side. “The Waters,” she agreed.

               Freya began to move again, and Edda fell into step beside her. “We will need another,” Freya explained.

               “Sif,” Edda answered, thinking of her devil smile. Sif was beautiful in an utterly terrifying way. She had used the wild magic for longer than anyone but the Skuld. It made her seem less human. Sometimes she looked at Edda like a wolf, ready to chew her to bits. She imagined Sif’s mouth stained with blood. It seemed fitting.

               Freya was quiet, letting the wild magic roll through her. The current of it hummed in Edda’s chest. “Sif is with Hrothgar,” Freya said, her lip curling into a smile on one side.

               “Hrothgar,” Edda breathed, thinking of how he moved, how his body felt, how his kiss tasted. “What is he doing with her?” She burned.

               Her jealousy drew Freya’s gaze. “You chose the spirits, Edda. Hrothgar cannot belong to you.”

               Edda called the wild magic, listening to the whispers of the spirits. He will ruin her…Forget him, Edda. She strained her neck to one side, and her bones cracked. “Hrothgar does not want Sif,” she said to herself.

               Freya laughed at her, her mirth stinging Edda’s pride. “Sif does not want Hrothgar either,” she replied.

               Edda frowned at her sister. “Why do you mock me?” The wild magic pulsed inside her.

               Freya’s grin faded and her expression grew dark. The snow was falling in thick, wet flakes now. Freya’s black hair was dotted with them. “You are a Bairn, Edda. You will never be a mother. You will never carry boys. There is no reason to think about Hrothgar. You belong to the spirits.”

               “I belong to myself,” Edda contradicted, even as Freya’s eyes narrowed. “I chose the spirits, but they do not own me.”

               Freya leaned closer, her lips nearly brushing Edda’s cheek as she spoke. “The spirits will take you if you are not careful, Edda,” she said. Freya pulled back from her, smiling warmly. “It would be a shame. You are powerful. You could be the Skuld.”

               Edda shook her head, denying Freya’s assessment. “Sif will be the next Skuld.”

               Freya raised her eyebrow. “Was that in the runes?” Edda shook her head again and Freya smiled knowingly. “When you are filled with the wild magic, sometimes, you don’t need the runes.”

               Edda was used to Freya’s lessons. She had instructed Edda many times on her journey to receive her true name. “Will the urge lessen?” she asked, thinking of the stones in the pouch at her side.

               Freya shrugged. “You learn to be in control, or…” She let the end of the sentence hang.

               Edda knew the dangers. She had been warned. She had known women and girls who had disappeared. “Where do you go when they carry you off?”

               “With the spirits,” Freya breathed reverently.

               The two Bairns had come to the end of the row of houses, before the road turned a corner and wound past the woods. On the corner, in an empty lot filled with stubby brown grass sat a vehicle. It was a wagon with four wheels and attached on the front was a compartment where three people could ride. It had a huge wheel inside and foot pedals. On the back of the wagon were three letters—R-A-M—so everyone called it the ram. Skogul had once called it a truck, but no one knew which was its true name.

               Ama was standing at the back of the wagon, humming with wild magic. She nearly glowed. Freya and Edda waited patiently for her to finish. They watched as the wheels became rounded, filling with air and the ram slowly hiccupped and roared before the machinery inside streamed a steady humming of its own. The glow emanating from Ama dissipated slowly and she turned her gaze to her sisters. “Do you have a third?”

               Edda could feel Sif moving towards them, drawn to the wild magic Ama had called. “Sif is coming,” she stated, though she knew her sisters would feel her too.

               “I could go too, ride in the wagon,” Ama offered. “In case the ram needs repair again.”

               Freya was calculating. “It would save our strength for the Waters.”

               Ama nodded slowly. “Even then, it might not be enough.”

               Edda did not feel the anguish that tried to well up from her soul. She was numb to any hope. Every day was more dire than the last. “If it’s not, then so be it. We go back to the ancient ways.”

               Freya shrugged. “Don’t we mostly practice the ancient ways anyway? One piece of tame magic per household is hardly a restoration of the time before the Freezing.”

               “Do we try to repair the Waters, then?” Ama asked plainly. “What is the point? The last time, we thought it would be the last time we could do it.”

               Edda looked from Freya’s dark expression to Ama’s grief-filled eyes. “Sif can do it,” she said. “Sif is stronger than any of us.”

               The other Bairns considered her silently. They waited for Sif without speaking, listening to the ram’s engine. Edda turned when she recognized how close she was, and watched Sif sliding towards them. Sif’s eyes were white; she was ecstatic. Her hair had gone white as well, and Edda sucked in a breath at the display of power. Sif looked like a wolf and Edda had the urge to offer herself as a meal.

               Freya’s expression was hard. “You call too much,” she warned.

               The color came back into Sif’s eyes and hair. She seemed less alive as the wild magic left her. “It is…tempting,” Sif breathed heavily.

               Ama and Freya nodded, as if they knew the feeling, but Edda did not betray that she felt the same way. Sif’s eyes slid to hers and she smiled, though it seemed more like she was baring her teeth. “You will come to the Waters with us?” she asked. Edda nodded. “It still might not be enough,” Sif added, looking at Freya.

               Freya let out a long sigh. “We try, or else embrace the ancient ways.”

               Sif laughed. “Haven’t we already embraced the ancient ways?”

               Edda listened to the spirits. The ancient ways are wiser…The tame magic has no place..The power is in the wild magic…Why risk going to the Waters? “Is it dangerous?” she asked, growing self-conscious as her sisters turned their eyes to her. “The Waters?”

               Ama came towards her, eyeing her coolly. “The Waters is not dangerous. It is calling so much of the wild magic that is dangerous.”

               Sif seemed to ripple with light at Ama’s words. “Mjoll was carried off at the Waters,” she stated flatly.

               Edda hardly remembered Mjoll. She was a Bairn when Edda was a still a child, though she didn’t remember how long ago. “Is that how everyone is carried off?” she asked, unsure she wanted to know the answer.

               “No,” Freya explained. “Some are carried off because they choose to be.”

               Sif’s face fell, and it was so odd that Edda found herself staring in disbelief. Sif was never sad. “Ulfrun,” she whispered, as a tear ran down her cheek. “My blood sister.”

               Edda remembered Ulfrun. She had been wildly powerful, and just as wildly terrifying. She had been carried off four, maybe five summers ago. Edda heard the spirits chattering, calling to her. They tell you to test…Be afraid!…You will do well, Edda…You are strong…Don’t go to the Waters!

               Edda reached for her rune stones. She had resisted several times already today, but she couldn’t any longer. The other Bairns watched her passively as she untied the bag and spilled the stones into her palm. She cast them across the dry grass at her feet. The wild magic burned the marks, first searing red, then cooling to a deep black. The eagle. The wind. The river. The darkness. It was her casting, and thus her sisters all waited for her reading. “The Waters can be repaired,” she said with authority. “But just one more time.”

               She looked up into the eyes of her sisters. Each was nodding approvingly. Edda stooped to pick up her stones, then tucked them into her bag. When she rose, Ama climbed into the back of the ram, and Freya and Sif moved towards the compartment at the front. Freya tugged open the door and slid inside, but Sif waited for Edda to enter before she too slid onto the bench inside. Freya placed her hands on the wheel, and working the pedals with her feet, began to move the ram onto what was left of the road.

               Hrothgar heard the distinct sound of the ram moving up the road behind him. He stopped, looked over his shoulder, then slunk to the side of the street, where the crumbling curb rose to what was left of a stone path. There was hardly any stone left. The path was mostly choked with weeds. Hrothgar watched the ram’s approach. There were three women sitting in the compartment at the front of the wagon. Edda looked right at him as they drove by. From the wagon, Ama stared at him as the ram rolled down the street. Hrothgar gritted his teeth, watching until the ram disappeared.

               He pushed open the door of the smithy. Leif was sharpening the newly forged knife by hand. Hrothgar slowly made his way across the room. The heat of the forge already had him sweating. When he reached Leif’s side, the older man stopped working, and waited for what Hrothgar would say. The words rolled from him at a crawl. “The Bairns went to the Waters.”

               Leif nodded, though he wasn’t looking at Hrothgar. “How many?”

               “Four,” Hrothgar answered.

               “They’ve had a reading, then,” Leif reasoned. He went back to sharpening the knife. “I haven’t known them to ever take more than three.”

               Hrothgar frowned, thinking of Edda’s eyes on him as the ram went by. “Sif said it was an opportunity for Edda to…” He stopped, as Leif turned his gaze towards him. His mentor’s eyes were hard, full of warning and pain. “To…rid herself…of me.”

               Leif laid the knife on the table and turned fully around. He crossed his arms over his chest. Hrothgar prepared himself for a lecture, but Leif took a long time, thinking over his words before he began to speak. “Before Yri became a Bairn, I tried to convince her not to.” He shifted, leaning back against the edge of the table. “She was close to abandoning the wild magic,” Leif continued softly. His eyes were unfocused, seeing deep into his past. “But in the end, she could not resist the spirits’ calling. She wanted the power of the wild magic more than she wanted me. More than she wanted to carry a boy.”

               “Yri was…your woman? Before she became the Skuld?” Leif nodded. “She knew she would carry a boy?” He was confused. Bairns did not carry any children.

               “No,” Leif answered shortly. “But don’t all women dream of carrying a boy? Just like men dream of making them?”

               Hrothgar bit his lip. He had nothing to add. “I didn’t try to convince Edda not to be a Bairn,” he replied. He paused, wondering if he should confide in Leif. “Not exactly.” Leif raised his brow at him, and Hrothgar crumpled under his questioning gaze. “I went to her last night,” he admitted. “I knew it would be the last time I could be with her, but I was hoping that she would change her mind. I was trying to change her mind.”

               Leif nodded, and shut his eyes for a moment, as if remembering something painful. “We’ve all done that. All of us who loved a Bairn.”

               “Did it ever work?” Hrothgar asked.

               Leif shook his head mournfully.

               “Why?” Hrothgar wondered aloud. “Why do they choose the wild magic over us?”

               Leif eyed him, looking as if the answer was obvious. “Wouldn’t you?”

               He had never considered this before. “The wild magic doesn’t choose men. It doesn’t matter.”

Leif was looking at him like there was a secret trying to escape his lips. He swallowed down whatever words he was going to say, but Hrothgar’s curiosity wouldn’t allow him to keep his thoughts to himself. “What?” he asked his mentor.

               “Do you ever wonder why the wild magic doesn’t choose men?” Leif asked slowly.

               He did wonder. Every day. Especially as Edda had grown more powerful, more distant. “Of course, I do,” he admitted. “It seems…”

               “Unfair?” Leif asked, guessing at his next word.

               Hrothgar negated the guess with a shake of his head. “Convenient,” Hrothgar explained. “All the extra girls, just waiting to be called by the spirits. Are the spirits only calling girls because there’s too many of them?”

               A drop of sweat rolled down the side of Leif’s head. He wiped it away with his forearm. “Are there too many girls because the spirits only want girls?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

               Hrothgar’s flesh prickled. He felt the rippling chill move through him as he considered the implications of Leif’s question. Freya had hinted at this only that morning. “What are you saying?” Hrothgar choked.

               Leif shook his head fiercely. “Nothing.”

               But now that the idea had been introduced, Hrothgar felt it taking root, invasive and unwelcome. “Leif,” he breathed. “Have you ever asked anyone else about this?”

               Leif would not meet his eyes. “I asked Yri, on the night before she became a Bairn. She laughed and told me I was clever.”

               Hrothgar was trembling with terror and adrenaline, his fight or flight reflexes activated by the nagging thoughts spreading through him. “Could it be…true?”

               Leif’s eyes slid back to find his. The look in them was all the answer Hrothgar needed.
The White Stone: Chapter 2

May 6th, 2022

Photo by Jonny Gios

(Find the previous chapter and a description of the project here.)

               Edda returned to her house, pulsing with power. Hrothgar was not waiting for her, and disappointment settled in her chest as she shrugged off her cloak, hanging it on the peg near the door. Her eyes were drawn to the table, on which lay a white bag. Her rune stones. One of the other Bairns must have placed it there. She stilled her heart, and moved towards the table, before picking up the bag and opening it reverently. Four white rocks spilled from the linen mouth onto the tabletop. They were blank. The wild magic had not yet marked them. She tucked them gently into the bag again and tied the drawstrings over her belt.

               Edda moved to the corner of the house, where a rough-hewn chair sat next to the window. On the floor lay the brick. It was glass and metal and she had never known what was inside—a piece of tame magic left over from the world before the Freezing. They were each allowed to have one piece of tame magic. Anymore and the power within the cords would not work; the Waters could not produce enough. She picked it up, slid her finger over the smooth edges. It fit nicely in her hand. She pressed the button on the side. She watched it flicker to life, a bright light shining forth from it. She touched a rune on its surface. The wild magic had not revealed these runes to her. They were unknown. But this rune, when touched, showed her a list written in a dead dialect of her own tongue, and when she touched one of the rows in the list, music played. She picked her favorite one, pressing her finger to the name like her own. Etta James- Wallflower (Roll with me Henry). The song played and she smiled even though she did not understand the words.

Through the earth, she felt Olga’s pain.

               She pressed the rune that would stop the song. She couldn’t resist the call of the pain. It pulled her towards it, like she was hooked on a line. She clutched the bag of rune stones tied at her belt as she moved through the door of her house and into the street. Olga’s pain was fiery, splitting, a cracking kind of pain. Edda held her breath as it drew her.

               Outside Olga and Hjalmar’s house, a small crowd had gathered. The wailing inside was strong. Edda moved to the front of the group, to stand next to Helga and Astrid. Astrid untied her rune pouch from her belt, and, stooping slightly, cast the rocks to the ground. The wild magic marked them one by one. The smell of their burning hung over the crowd. The mountain. The womb. The man. The fire.

               Edda and Helga waited patiently for Astrid’s reading, though Edda knew what Astrid would say. “He has made a boy,” Astrid said evenly.

               A boy! A boy! The spirits chanted. She was connected to them now through the wild magic. Their chatter was invasive even as it comforted her.

               Helga moved into the house, not bothering to knock. Astrid followed her and Edda came behind. The house was dark. The curtains were drawn. The hearth was burning low. Olga’s groans came from a room to the right. The three Bairns moved through the house softly. Edda tingled with excitement. Helga pushed open a door that had been halfway closed, and there they saw Olga on her hands and knees on a pallet. She cried out in pain. Around her stood five girls—her girls—the oldest only eight or nine years. She was holding the littlest one, who had been born two summers past. Inga, the midwife, was sitting on the pallet with Olga, her soft-spoken words steadying and affirming. Hjalmar stood in the corner with his arms crossed. The room was cramped. Edda melted into the hallway, peering over Astrid’s shoulder.

Olga strained, grunting and gritting her teeth, before the wet sound of the baby sliding from her ended her moaning. Panting, she fell facedown onto the pallet. Inga held up the infant, parting the legs as everyone in the room strained to see what they all hoped for. The infant cried, and a sigh of relief went through the room. The oldest girl bent to whisper in Olga’s ear. “A boy, Madir. He’s a boy.”

Olga sobbed into the pillow, shaking, and the girls around her were all smiling, and the baby was squalling, but Hjalmar was stone. Edda watched Helga and Astrid look at each other meaningfully, then all three of them turned their gaze to Hjalmar. “You made a boy,” Astrid stated, though it was question.

               Hjalmar dropped his eyes, shook his head.

               As one, the Bairns turned their gaze to Olga. “Who made the boy, Olga?” Helga asked.

               Inga had rolled the woman onto her side and placed the infant beside her on the pallet. “Sigrid,” she breathed.

               “Who read the runes?” Astrid asked.

               Hjalmar cleared his throat and Edda and her sisters turned their attention back to him. “The Skuld.”

               Edda nodded, thinking Olga must have been desperate for a boy if she went to see the Skuld. The Skuld never left the woods. Normally, if someone needed the Skuld, they would ask a Bairn to go in their place. If she had needed the runes read, she could have asked any Bairn. There was only one reason to ask the Skuld directly—to ensure the man would comply. No one said no to the Skuld.

               “She told me Sigrid could make boys,” Olga said softly. She was hiding her face from Hjalmar. “I had to try.” She nuzzled the infant as Inga looked him over.

               Edda wondered how fast Sigrid had agreed. Then again, if the Skuld had read it in the runes, he couldn’t have argued.

Edda backed further into the hall, turned, and with her sisters left the house. The three went abreast through the streets. They ignored the onlookers. No one would question a Bairn when she was filled with the wild magic, as they were now, especially not if three of them walked together to the same destination. Edda felt the wild magic swirling inside her. The spirits laughed delightedly.

               When they came to Sigrid’s house, Helga knocked. The Bairns waited in silence for Sigrid or Anarr, his husband, to open to the door. It creaked open after a moment and Sigrid regarded them cautiously. He looked pale as death. Edda could smell his fear.

               “You made a boy,” Astrid explained without preamble.

               Edda watched Sigrid’s face fall, his eyes closing in deep disappointment.

               “She had a boy?” Anarr asked from behind him. Anarr put his hand on Sigrid’s back as a show of support.

               Astrid ignored the question. It was not necessary to repeat herself. “You will make more boys,” she instructed Sigrid.

               “I don’t want to make more boys,” he growled back.

               Anarr dipped his head towards Sigrid’s ear. “It must be done, Sigrid. I don’t mind.”

               “I mind,” Sigrid grumped. He turned to his husband. “Did you like doing it?” he asked sarcastically.

               “I made girls,” Anarr answered softly, almost ashamed. “I only could ever make girls.” Anarr had made two girls before they stopped asking him to try.

               “You will make more boys,” Astrid said again, and this time, Sigrid didn’t argue. “We will find the mothers for you.” He lowered his eyes.

The Bairns left Sigrid and Anarr standing in the doorway of their house. Edda’s fingers itched to touch the stones in her pouch. Astrid took her hand as they moved. “The runes want to be cast,” Astrid said. “They will always call for you to cast them, Edda. But you are in control, not the wild magic.” Astrid met her gaze, and her eyes held a warning. “The wild magic will take you if you are not in control.”

Edda nodded in understanding, but the wild magic still swirled through her, tempting her.

Hrothgar held the knife up, examining the blade. He passed it to Leif, who ran his finger over the edge. “Sharpen it,” Leif instructed after his inspection. He handed the knife to Hrothgar, who moved towards the grinder. He switched it on, but it didn’t come to life. He flipped the switch again—off, on, off, on—but nothing happened.

He turned towards Leif. “There’s no power,” he said.

Leif sighed heavily, his frustration plain. “Make sure,” he said.

Hrothgar laid the newly forged knife on the table, then donned his cloak and left the smithy. He went to the baker next door. The smell of fresh bread made his mouth water. His stomach growled. Hrothgar opened the door and made straight for the counter, where Gisla was busy stacking rolls into a basket. “Does your tame magic work?”

“Don’t know. Haven’t tried today,” Gisla answered, unconcerned.

“Try,” Hrothgar grumped at her.

Gisla frowned at him and shook her blonde hair away from her face without a reply. She finished stacking the rolls and wiped the excess flour from her hands on her apron. “Madir!” she called into the kitchen. “Have you tried the tame magic today?”

Gertrude, her mother, came into the front room. She had a smudge of flour on her cheek. She carried another tray of rolls. “Haven’t needed it today. Been mixing by hand.”

Hrothgar ground his teeth impatiently. “Can you switch it on?”

“What, you think it won’t work?” Gertrude asked. She set the tray on the counter and Gisla began shuffling the rolls from the tray to another basket. Gertrude returned to the kitchen. After a moment they heard her call, “No! It’s not working!”

Hrothgar muttered a thank you and left the bakery. He went to the next building in the row, the herbalist. Her door was locked. He peered inside the window, but didn’t see any evidence that Hrist was inside. He stepped back, looking for smoke from the chimney. There was no smoke. Cursing under his breath, he moved on. The next shop was the clothier. Skogul spun yard and thread and Ofbradh was a tanner.

Skogul was busy spinning when he entered. She looked up from the wheel. “Hrothgar!” she said, surprised. “Don’t see you in here much.”

“Skogul, does your tame magic work?” he asked, avoiding small talk.

“No. I sent Ofbradh to fetch one of the Bairns.”

“We can’t use ours at the smithy. And Gisla and Gertrude can’t use theirs either.”

“Yggdrasil’s bark,” she cursed. She rose from the wheel, leaving the wool and yarn where it was. “Are you sure?”

“Freya used the wild magic on the grinder this morning, but now it’s not working. Gertrude couldn’t turn her mixer on either.”

Skogul was frowning. She rubbed her hands together, blowing through them to warm them. “One day, the tame magic will die forever. We should learn to go without.”

“And fall even further into the ancient ways?” Hrothgar asked. He felt a sneer forming on his lips but didn’t try to hide it.

Skogul laughed at him. “The ancient ways kept us alive for thousands of years before the tame magic,” she explained. “What’s wrong with them?”

Hrothgar looked at her wrinkled face, her graying hair, and her gnarled hands. Her parents had lived through the Freezing. The only reason she was standing here in this shop was because of the ancient ways. “When did you send Ofbradh?”

She shrugged. “It’s been a little while now,” she said. “I wouldn’t be surprised to see a Bairn or two coming this way soon. Once they’re done with that birth, that is.”

“Olga?” he guessed.

Skogul nodded. “Ofbradh said she had a boy.”

“A boy,” Hrothgar breathed. It was what every man hoped for. The ability to make boys. They needed boys. There were only twenty-three boys in the town, compared with thirty-eight girls.

“My mother used to say that there were more boys than girls, before the Freezing,” she commented absently. “About a hundred and five for every hundred girls.”

That seemed impossible. He didn’t reply.

“I never saw one hundred and five boys for every hundred girls, though. Not in my lifetime.”

His thoughts escaped him before he could hold them in. “So, it wasn’t a problem until after the Freezing.”

Skogul eyed him. “Of course,” she answered, looking at him as if everyone knew this.

The door opened and Ofbradh came into the shop. Sif was on his heels. Her white kirtle and cloak seemed nearly alive as she moved. She tingled with energy. Hrothgar frowned despite his better judgment.

Sif’s gaze met his. “Have you seen Edda since this morning?”

Hrothgar ground his teeth. This was the second Bairn to bait him. “No,” he growled.

Sif smiled devilishly, as if she knew he was lying. “She is strong now, Hrothgar. Much better that she was given to the spirits than to you.”

He took a step forward, as if to challenge her, before he stopped himself. Sif could burn him to a dry husk in a blink if she chose to. “The Skuld stole her from me,” he sneered.

Sif’s grin only widened. “The spirits don’t accept anyone who doesn’t want to be given.”

Skogul cleared her throat, gesturing to the small white plate on the wall where the cords that powered the tame magic were inserted. “Can you fix the tame magic, Sif?”

“No,” Sif said quickly, her eyes still on Hrothgar. “We need to go to the Waters.”

Ofbradh sighed. “So, we’ll be without for more than a day.”

Sif nodded. “I should think so,” she answered. Her eyes narrowed on Hrothgar as she continued to stare. “This will be a good opportunity for Edda, I think.”

Hrothgar, despite all the fury within him, lowered his eyes under Sif’s stare. “To prove herself?” he asked quietly, remembering how she had been the previous night—untamed, unabashed, enamored with him. The wild magic would burn all of that out of her, until she was just a host for its terrifying power.

               Sif stepped one step nearer to him. “To see if she can rid herself,” she replied slowly, “of you.”

               Hrothgar bristled at her words, frowning deeply. Sif’s eyes held his for a moment more before she turned her back on him and walked from the shop. Skogul muttered under her breath and Ofbradh placed his hand on Hrothgar’s shoulder. He squeezed him lightly. “Don’t let her rile you up, Hrothgar,” the older man instructed. “They all like watching a new Bairn’s lover squirm.”

               Hrothgar shrugged from under Ofbradh’s touch. “I don’t care,” he lied. Edda was still his, even if she did belong to the spirits. He had seen the doubt in her eyes that morning. Hrothgar knew he could win her back from them if he pursued her. But he also knew he shouldn’t try. It was dangerous. “The spirits can have her. She wanted them more than she wanted me.”

               “There are plenty of others, Hrothgar,” Skogul said tenderly.

               Ofbradh hummed, full of dark humor. “He doesn’t want one of the others, Skogul,” he explained. Her husband turned his head to look over his shoulder at her. “Did I?” Skogul said nothing and went back to spinning yarn. “Give yourself time, Hrothgar,” he said, placing his hand on his shoulder again and giving him a light squeeze before taking it away.

               Hrothgar eyed Ofbradh, but didn’t want the pity the older man was offering him. “You had one too?”

               Ofbradh nodded. “Not many men my age who didn’t love a woman who chose the spirits.”

               This admission made Hrothgar think of Leif, loving whoever the Skuld had been before she chose to walk between the worlds. “What happened to your woman?” he asked, though he already had an idea.

               He shrugged. “She was carried off. She might be one of the spirits. Who can know?”

               Hrothgar gritted his teeth again. “The Skuld would know,” he answered with disdain.

“The Skuld won’t give you any answers, Hrothgar,” Skogul warned. The men turned towards her at her words. Her eyes were full of fear. “Don’t go looking for answers from her.”

               Hrothgar’s guts felt like ice. “I don’t want to,” he whispered, feeling Skogul’s fear move through him.

               Ofbradh patted him on the back. “Best forget her, Hrothgar,” he instructed. “Better for you and her if you do.”

               Hrothgar nodded, but it wasn’t as easy as that.