Sif stood outside the apothecary, watching through the window as Hrist and her granddaughter, Edda, worked. The girl was smiling as something the older woman was saying. Sif wondered if she was telling a joke, recanting a story, or offering praise for Edda’s work. Sif had watched the pair for well over an hour. The sun was nearly at its peak. Her stomach grumbled for food, but she ignored it. She wanted to understand why Edda was so important, and why she had scared Ulfrun so much that she had chosen to be carried off.

There was a crunch of boots behind her in the road. She turned, feeling the approach of another Bairn. She glowered at Mjoll seemed to float to her side.

“You,” she sneered.

Mjoll was not unraveled by her disgust. “So, you’ve found her too?” she asked, pointing to the girl inside the apothecary.

Sif didn’t answer. She did not like or trust Mjoll. She blamed her for Ulfrun’s recklessness.

“It was not my doing,” Mjoll said. “Ulfrun chose to be taken.”

“But it was you who made her believe there was something more to be had than this life.”

Mjoll smiled to herself. “I wanted to see if she really could climb the great tree.”

“You should have tried it yourself, instead of encouraging her.”

“And why would I have done that?” Mjoll asked, her tone harsh. Her eyes were hard, unforgiving. “I couldn’t go first. What if it had been a lie?”

Sif felt blinded by a wall of rage. “So you baited her, threw her away for your own gain, so that you wouldn’t lose everything if you were wrong?”

Mjoll sneered, leaning closer to her. “I have lived a longer life than any of you,” she said. “I did not get to be so old by being recklessness.”

Sif looked turned away from Mjoll, watching Edda and Hrist again. Hrist was pouring a yellow liquid into glass vials and handing them to Edda. She stoppered them and placed them in a tray. “When you climb the great tree, I hope you find it a pleasant death,” Sif said to Mjoll without looking at her.

“It is a tree of life, Sif,” Mjoll said.

Despite her anger, Sif frowned, feeling embarrassed by her confusion. She resisted the urge to look at Mjoll again, wishing she would go away.

Mjoll leaning closer and whispered in her ear. “If you don’t believe me, look for your sister in the fires.”

Sif held her mouth tightly shut, refusing to engage with her sister Bairn. She watched Edda and Hrist until Mjoll moved so far down the road that she could no longer feel her presence through the pull of the wild magic.

The bed felt huge without Ulfrun in it. The last two nights had been terrible without her. She was cold. She had cried. She wished she still had Bodil. But she was alone now. She would always be alone.

She rose from the bed, unable to sleep. The fire had burned down to coals. She pulled another log from the stack net to the hearth and laid it over the coals. She waited for it to catch before she sat down in front of it, watching the flames. They danced wildly, without pattern, without meaning. The spirits chattered. They urged her to rest. They urged her to cast the stones. She itched with the pull of the wild magic. She closed her eyes and released her breath, letting go of all the tension in her body.

When she had calmed, she opened her eyes, to find that the log had nearly burned out. She placed another one into the hearth, and watched as it caught the flame. Her eyes moved along its length, looking for patterns, looking for meanings, looking for anything that might be Ulfrun. She sighed, knowing it was fruitless.

But then there was a voice amongst the chattering spirits, a voice she recognized. She stared harder at the flames, watching in awe and hope as they swirled into a face. Ulfrun’s face. She dipped her face closer to the flames as the fiery image of Ulfrun lifted her hand to her face, as if kissing her palm, the gently tipped it away, as if blowing something out of her palm.

A shower of sparks flew out of the fire and singed Sif’s cheek. She turned her face away, surprised but the pain. When she glanced back to the fire, the Ulfrun’s fiery face was gone.

She touched the spot where the fire had burned her, a kiss from beyond. A kiss from the roots of the great tree. She drew her cloak tighter around her and watched the fire burn.

Sif liked to use the tame magic when no one else was looking. Her family had a gray, L shaped device that was light enough to hold in one hand. The handle was about the length of her hand, and the barrel was a little longer and had more girth. When switched on, it blew hot air. She used it on her hair sometimes. Other times she used it simply to get warm. She had no idea what it’s intended purpose was. Not even Skogul knew for sure. She shut herself into the room she shared with Ulfrun, latched the door so she would not be disturbed. Sif put the end with the prongs into the white power source on the wall. She held the device in one hand and used her thumb to press the switch. The machine whirred to life, the inner workings of it glowing a dull orange. She put the end where the air come out up to her face. The wind it generated was gloriously hot.

               She moved the machine all along her limbs, until she felt less frozen. Then she flipped the switch and pulled the pronged end from the wall, carefully coiled the black cord and placed the device on the bedside table. Then she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and hovered over the fire. Ulfrun had built it high and hot for her, before leaving her to her private use of the tame magic. Sif crouched near the flames, savoring the heat. Her face began to cook, but she reveled in it. She closed her eyes, listening to the spirits.

               The fire speaks…She’s a liar!…Danger! Back away!…Watch for me in the fires…I see you…You’ll burn! Among the confusing litany of encouragement, babble and warnings was a chorus of laughter—merry, eerie, menacing. She had counted at least four spirits who laughed at her, another three who wailed, and a dozen who warned her not to look into the fires. There was only one who encouraged her to seek her in the flames.

               Sif opened her eyes and peered into the hearth, where the soft flicker of orange light licked the stones and cinders. She watched for something, anything, in the fire. She saw only the flames.

               I see you, Sif…

               She rose from the fireplace, shutting out the sound of the spirit’s voice. It was familiar. Sif sighed uneasily, wondering if Ulfrun also had the same suspicion.

               A soft knock at the door drew her attention. “Come,” she said weakly, feeling drained.

               Ulfrun slowly pressed the door open, stepping into the room silently. Her hair was no longer floating around her face, and her eyes were deep green again. “Did you see her?” she asked, smiling slyly. She looked like a fox.

               There was no use pretending she didn’t understand. “No,” she answered. “I only heard her voice.”

               Ulfrun’s eyes went blank for a moment, and Sif felt the wild magic dance around her. She itched to cast the stones. Her fingers went to her belt pouch, where her rune stones rested. They felt hot, as if the wild magic has already burned the runes onto their surfaces. Sif drew the stones from the pouch one by one, cradling them in her hand. They were blank, but they were as hot as if they had sat in the hearth. She looked at her sister, who was still entranced, then cast the stones to the floor.

               The runes appeared in a flash of red, like a pen of flame writing them against the stone. The circle. The spear. The raven. The tree.

               Sif shuddered as the wild magic flowed through her. The electric energy of it coursed through her limbs, lighting her like an oiled rag. The wild magic blazed across her vision. She laughed at her diminutive stature in the grandness of the universe. She felt reduced to dust by the flow of magic and she welcomed it.

               “I will climb the great tree,” Ulfrun said.

               The words grounded her. It was her casting. She should have been the one to read them first.

Her anger flared, replaced by dread as she realized these were the same words that Mjoll had used. Sif looked to her rune stones, frowning. “The tree will be your death, Ulfrun,” she said.

               “I am not afraid of death, Sif,” her sister said, smiling like a cat.

               “Just afraid of little girls,” Sif taunted.

               The wild magic swirled, a cloud of power surrounding the two of them. Sif felt her breath steal away from her lungs, as if the wild magic was pulling it from her body. She gasped, feeling heavy, weary, as the wild magic pressed on her. She called to it, gathering it into herself. She felt her body run with it, fluid and light, like water. Ulfrun’s eyes were white as ice, her hair a mass of palest spider silk, free floating around her shoulders. Her skin was like milk.

               “You hold too much,” Sif scolded.

               Ulfrun laughed, drawing more of the wild magic to her. She sparked, and Sif stepped backwards in horror. “Ulfrun!” she screamed.

               Her sister released the wild magic, letting it rush from her like a river. Sif calmed her heartbeat, steadied her breath. Ulfrun looked spent. She collapsed at Sif’s feet. Sif only stared at her, amazed, saddened, disgusted, afraid. After a long moment, Sif bent to pick up her rune stones, placing each white stone tenderly back into her belt pouch. Ulfrun did not stir as she worked. When she had finished, Sif pressed her palm to Ulfrun’s forehead. She was clammy, chilled, but sweating. Sif lifted her from the floor, and gently walked her to the bed. Ulfrun lay still, stiff as a bone, her breathing slow and deep.

               Her eyes shifted towards Sif’s. “I am not afraid of little girls,” Ulfrun said, as if the accusation was more important than her nearly being carried off by the wild magic.

               “Do you hear yourself, Ulfun?” Sif asked. She leaned closer. “You are like a drunkard when it comes to the wild magic. You will be carried off if you do not temper yourself.”

               “I won’t,” Ulfrun said. “I know how to control it. She showed me.”

               “The spirit in the fire?” Sif asked, crossing her arms.

               “Yes. She showed me how to become empty, so I can be filled with the wild magic.”

               Sif shook her head. “This is not safe Ulfrun…”

               Her sister interrupted her. “Because of how much power I can control?”

               “No,” Sif said firmly. “It’s not safe because it’s not a spirit that’s speaking to you from the fire.” Ulfrun raised an eyebrow, curious, confused, perhaps concerned. Sif sighed at the expression. “It’s not a spirit, Ulfrun,” she repeated. “It’s Mjoll.”

               Ulfrun’s glare said more than her words could. “It’s not Mjoll!” Ulfrun snapped.

               “Look for yourself,” Sif said, pointing at the hearth, remembering the voice. The fire popped, sending a shower up sparks up the chimney—an ominous warning.

               Ulfrun slid heavily from the bed, slunk past her, eyes locked on her own until she was in front of the hearth. She bent down, peering into the flames. She called the wild magic. Sif drifted to her side, drawn to the power.

               Sif looked too, though she was sure what she would see. Mjoll was standing in the flames, reaching her arms upwards. She was calling. Ulfrun! Can you see it?

               Ulfrun smiled at the fire, though it looked like she didn’t fully understand what was happening. “See? It’s not Mjoll,” she said.

               Sif frowned at her sister then looked back at the figure she saw, the fiery face a perfect image of their most terrifying sister. Mjoll as a skull. Mjoll as a snake. Mjoll as a blossoming flower, as a rushing wind, as a falcon. Mjoll with her hair spread out like roots. Mjoll bursting to flame as she climbed higher into the branches of the great tree. “Who do you see?” she asked Ulfrun, unwilling to push the issue anymore.

               “It’s the first spirit, the one who learned how to speak to us from the next life,” Ulfrun said softly. Her voice was hushed with reverence. “The great tree herself.”

               The first spirit. What could this mean?

               Ulfrun felt her confusion through the threads of power that tied them together. Running back towards her along the strands of it, she felt Ulfrun’s pleasure. Sif sniffed in annoyance. “The Skuld told me that one of us was close to being carried off. You dance too close to the fire, Ulfrun.”

               Ulfrun closed her eyes, calling more wild magic. It filled her, whitening her hair to the tips. Sif pulled back from her, resisting the urge to do the same. The spirits chattered. She is deceived…Ulfrun belongs with us…She is too…She seeks what cannot be…She will destroy herself…Sif brushed her hand over Uflrun’s hair. She crackled with wild magic.

               Ulfrun opened her eyes, but looked straight into the fire instead of at her sister. “Read the fires, Sif,” she whispered.

               Sif looked, but now she saw nothing. She did not know the patterns of the fire. She recalled the Skuld’s words. The fire was constant movement that could not be made into meaning. Not like the stones. Not like the bones or stars. “The fire can’t be read, Ulfrun. It is untamable.”

               Ulfrun laughed. “Yes, and that is why you must become untamable too.”

               Sif took her sister’s chin between her fingers and slowly turned her head so they were looking at one another. “Do not do this, Ulfrun.” She filled her voice with pleading, hoping that it would keep her sister near her. “I do not want to lose you to the spirits.”

               “Do you see, Sif?” Ulfrun asked. “The spirits have more power than we do. We should want to be carried away. They will help us climb the tree.”

               Sif shook her head. The spirits wailed. She fought her tears. “No,” she said. “Ulfrun, no.”

               “It’s in the runes, sister,” she said, taking Sif’s hand in her own. “You read the runes.” She stroked her lovingly. “If it’s in the runes, then it must be true.”

               Sif bit her lip, forcing aside the desire to cast her rune stones again. “I must see the Skuld,” she said breathlessly. She rose from the floor, dropped Ulfrun’s hand, and ran from the house. Waiting for her in the street outside were Helga and Ama. Ama seemed grave, and Helga was cross.

               Sif gulped guiltily. “I drew you to us with my terror,” she said, guessing at why they were outside her home.

               Helga shook her head. “Ulfrun is not safe, Sif,” she said.

               She nodded. “Ulfrun has lost her mind,” agreeing fiercely. “She will be carried off if we do not stop her.”

               Ama’s eyes sparkled with tears. “Even if we intervene, we may still lose her later, Sif,” she said.

               Helga nodded, her frown heavy. “The wild magic is corrupting. This is why we tell you not to cast every time you have the urge. Too much and you become wild like the magic itself.”

               “Like Mjoll,” Sif said.

               “Like Ulfrun,” Helga said. She stepped forward, pushing open the door of the house, not waiting to be invited or explaining what she intended to do. Ama followed on her heels, leaving Sif standing in the road for just a moment before she too entered the house.

               “What is going on here?” Sif’s madir asked, getting up from the chair where she was sewing and putting her hands on her hips.

               Helga and Ama ignored her, and moved towards the bedroom where Sif had left Ulfrun staring at the fire. Sif caught her madir’s eye, hastily looking away, before running after the other Bairns.

               “Sif!” her madir called, but Sif shut the door of the bedroom without an answer.

               In the room, Helga and Ama had taken up position on either side of Ulfrun, who was white, flowing with the wild magic, looking as if she stood outside in a gale. Her white hair streamed around her, the hem of her dress and cloak swirling and billowing about her legs. She had her head tilted back, eyes closed, mouth open. She was alternately smiling and grimacing.

               Helga took hold of her hair and jerked hard. Ulfrun exclaimed, dropping some of the wild magic that she held. Ama took hold of her arms, and Sif watched in amazement as Ama drew more of the wild magic from her—like poison from a wound. Ulfrun jerked against the slippery feel of the power flowing out of her. The wild magic danced around the three Bairns, dissipating after a few seconds of swirling.

               Helga squeezed Ulfrun’s face between her thumb and her fingers. “You are damaging yourself, Ulfrun. You must stop this.”

               Ulfrun laughed, a deep, terrible laugh that started as a rumble in her belly and grew until it drowned out the chattering of the spirits. “You don’t see as I do, Helga. This body makes you weak. To be strong, you must abandon it.”

Sif clenched her teeth, feeling utterly helpless to save her sister from a fate she seemed determined to choose. “Ulfrun, please,” she begged.

Ulfrun went still, letting go of the wild magic slowly, until her red blonde hair was calm and her garments hung limp. Helga and Ama released her, waiting anxiously for what she would do. Ulfrun pace the room towards her and Sif opened her arms. Ulfrun drew her to herself, squeezing her tight. “Ulfrun, you are untamable,” Sif whispered. “Like the fire. Let that be enough.”

She knew as soon as she felt the wild magic stirring that these had been the wrong words to persuade Ulfrun. “I am the like the fire,” she said, releasing Sif as she called the wild magic. Her eyes went white, and then her hair, and her skin, until she looked as white at the fallen snow. She closed her eyes crackling, the wild magic too much for her. The spirits chattered. She will ascend…she has chosen death…Ulfrun!…climb the tree..

Sif backed away, until her back was against the door of the bedroom. Her eyes widened in horror as she watched Ulfrun flash like lightning, sputter like a candle, and in a breath was blown away like ash.

“Ulfrun!” she screamed, dropping to the floor. Sobbing overpowered her as she stared at the spot where her sister had been.

Helga lowered her head. The spirits chattered, laughing and wailing. Ama began keening a lament for the dead. Her voice was clear and calm. It held all of Sif’s grieve.

There was a banging on the door. “Sif!” her madir called. “Sif! Let me in! What has happened?”

Sif did not move. Her body would not respond. The pounding on the door went on, but the words from her madir did not reach her. She was numb, as if asleep. A set of arms hoisted her from the floor and she heard the door open. Ama was still singing, and Helga held her aloft. Her madir had her face in her hands, was saying her name. Sif stared at her madir, feeling ashamed, feeling powerless, feeling like death was waiting for her too.

“Sif,” her madir whispered. “What happened to Ulfrun?” There were tears in her eyes. She did not need to ask, for she already knew.

Sif drew her breath raggedly, nearly gasping from how dry her throat and mouth had become. “She’s been carried off.”

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.

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…

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.