The Strange Maid

EIGHT

THE SUN WAKES me, groggy and chilled. The ocean sighs and I get up, walk to the threshold. During the night a chunk of ice broke free from one of the larger bergs and drifted near enough I could swim out to it if the water were any warmer. The blue ice winks in the sunlight. I splash my face with the freezing salt water to clear my head and wander down the coast to relieve myself.

The death ships are peaceful and whisper to me, and I’m reluctant to return to town and find Unferth. Though today is the day we’re supposed to leave.

Can I still face this destiny with him at my side?

Just the thought of going without him, of hunting alone, grips my stomach like a vise.

To calm down, I crouch along the shore to draw rune poems into the sand, wishing it were spray paint on the sidewalk. Siri of the Ice used to make me write poems with her on snow or the sand of a beach, teaching me the point was to relax, to give the words to our god, not to seek fame or accolades. Poetry is for Odin, and from him, in a cycle like breathing, she would say as the snow melted or the tide wiped our songs away. Once I was on my own, this was one of the only ways I could relax. But I always found ways to leave a stain, to draw the rune poems with permanent marker or paint. Signy Valborn was here.

Beginning with chaos I link words and ideas together into one massive, scrawling poem, runes atop runes, in lines and spirals. The runes flow from the nothing-space in my memory, from the gossip of the ocean waves. I let my hand wander—chaos chaos chaos changes the fate-strings of any life, we the death-born in years gone by walk out gold-adorned, walk in tinged with blood. We rest in stone under the sun. Hear the bear star be born, the seether fall into darkness. Lost sun answer me when the sky is cold, and fate unravels—on and on, one rune after another.

As the tide slowly moves in, pushing dark streaks of seaweed up the beach, I back farther into the field of stone ships.

Fate unravels.

Hear the bear star be born, the seether fall into darkness.

I could never admit it to Siri, but she was right. Poetry is like the very breath in my lungs: alive for one moment and gone in the next, never the same because poets change, our voices change, our rhythm and accents, our purpose and meaning all change.

This poem will never exist again. There is no pressure in it, no future. I whisper the words of my rune poem and the ocean drags them away one line at a time.

Signy Valborn was never here.

Refreshed, I head for the tower to see if Unferth is still coming with me. I take the longer circuit past town, a gravel road that meanders around sinkholes of water and high tufts of grass, with a dozen small bridges spanning the creeks. The sky is cold blue, painfully so, and I tuck my chin against a wind that chaps my ears.

Usually the Cove is a scatter of white block buildings with flat red roofs tucked against the slate-gray beaches and choppy water. But for the holiday the town, too, has exploded with streamers and rainbow elf-lights, dazzling layers of color. Purple and blue paper flowers decorate the windows. A yellow sunburst has been painted against the cobbled courtyard in front of the militia station. Coins are strung between roofs, drawing the eye to the sun. Even the boats in the harbor shine with elf-lights.

Except there are only half the boats I expect on such a tourist-heavy day. At least two of the sea-buses from New Scotland are gone already. And despite the festive colors, the town is as quiet as a rock cathedral. I falter in the crunchy mud.

We must’ve had five hundred guests yesterday, not to mention the Coveys, who should be bustling around, and instead the streets are empty but for one or two tiny figures hurrying toward the Shipworm.

A sudden foreboding and the whisper of chaos urge me to change direction and head quickly into town. My boots hit the cobblestones hard, the noise jarring loudly against the deadened peace of waves and wind and distant-calling gulls.

At the Shipworm all the ground-level windows and doors have been thrown open, unheard-of on a cold morning like this. I step across the threshold into the lobby to find it crushed full with strangers grouped together, hands held, praying hard. They stand in concentric circles across the wooden floor, some seated on the wide staircase, some pressed to the walls, some perched on tables and armchairs. Those not tucked into prayer all look to the front desk where Rome Summerling stands, his arms open but his eyes closed. Praying, too. The kitchen TV’s been wheeled in on a portable bookshelf, and though the sound is muted, I see a blaring red ticker exclaiming: … FURTHER ADDRESS THE NATION IN THIS TIME OF CRISIS, FIRST VALKYRIE GUNDRUN GRAYCLOAK …

“Signy!”

It’s Jesca, grabbing my elbow. She throws herself around me, enveloping me in the smell of toutons—hot grease and dough and jam. I return the hug as talking explodes around me and the crowd shifts away from us. There’s Rome, too, his height and presence creating space. He puts both hands on my face and kisses my temple. The charms tied into his beard knock my chin. “You’re here,” he says, and then louder, “Our Valkyrie is here.”

I shake my head.

Jesca smiles but touches the corner of her mouth with one finger: there’s something very wrong. She did that when I insisted on hanging a live cat instead of an effigy at the island’s Yule sacrifice. She did it when lecturing me on impropriety and the student-teacher relationship when she couldn’t talk me into moving out of the tower. Here she is again pointing out that her smile is armor, not gladness.

Her worry is mirrored in her husband’s eyes as Rome says quietly, “Are you all right?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

Rome’s frown is like the prow of a ship: heavy, keen. It drags the mood of the crowd behind him in his wake, and they press nearer. “You don’t know what’s happened, daughter,” he says in a wistful tone, as if he wishes he did not know, either. Rome and Jesca shift to block me from the crowd, forming a curtain, and my stomach sinks further. Jesca takes my hand, and Rome puts his atop my shoulder. Rome murmurs, “Baldur the Beautiful did not rise this morning, and even the gods can’t say what’s become of him.”

I feel my mouth open, my breath rush out.

All I can think is that the first sign of the end of the world is the Fenris Wolf devouring the god of light. “Fenris?” I whisper. Is it the end of the world?

“They don’t know,” Rome says. “At the ritual this morning, when they poured his ashes into the roots of the New World Tree, nothing happened. There will be a formal announcement from the White Hall soon, and we’ll hear from the First Valkyrie what Odin will do.”

I should be there. That’s my Tree. My responsibility. Odd-eye, what am I doing so far north and away from my duties? I swallow. Try not to panic, not to tear away and find the first ferry to New Scotland. “What do we do?” I ask as low and calmly as possible.

Rome says, “Pray,” and Jesca says, “Bake.”

I draw away, feeling in my guts there’s better action to take. I should be there; I should have already been there! But the Summerlings need their wish-daughter today. I know it by the tightness in Rome’s hand on my shoulder and the twitch in the edge of Jesca’s shield-smile. I can give them that. I owe them that.

I throw myself into the kitchen, folding dough and chopping apples, listening to orders from Jesca and Sandra Gothing, the Shipworm housekeeper. TVs are on in every room, the commentators circling around and around the same lack of information: nobody knows where Baldur is; it was the Valkyrie of the Rock who took her turn pouring his ashes but of course she must be blameless; there has been no other sign of Ragnarok like the blowing of the Gjallarhorn or flowers blooming among the leaves of the Tree.

My sisters must be beside themselves. Aerin of the Rock will blame herself, will have bruises in her palms from her own fingernails. Elisa’s eyes will be bright with righteous tears, and Myra will be threatening to murder someone. Siri of the Ice must be investigating already, combing through suspects with the ruthless certainty of faith in herself and Odin. The sisters Isabeau and Alanna of the West and East must be organizing the council’s response or a national sacrifice. Gundrun is with the president. Maybe Precia of the South is wondering where I am.

The only thing I can do for them is keep this island calm, then find Unferth and go tonight or first thing in the morning. Find a troll with the right stone heart, take my place to make the council whole.

I rush around, carrying stacks of cups and dragging around pitchers of water and tea, while Rome holds the anxiety as low as he can through prayer and simple conversation. They press me into being a runner, back and forth to the store for bread and escorting the elderly here. I coordinate some children to fetch.

With the emotions in town so frenzied and strange, I’m not sorry there are others in charge. I do as I’m told, barely stopping to eat or drink, until Jesca suddenly catches my shoulders and studies my hair with growing horror. She orders me to shower and change, that everything will be better when I’m clean and my hair is less of a wight’s nest. I promise to take care of it soon.

Around lunchtime we receive the televised message from the president and Council of Valkyrie. First to speak are the president and his lawspeaker, announcing the activation of the federal militia to organize searches and set up crisis centers as well as a conference of kings. They give us comforting words about the strength of the Poet’s Cup and bless us all.

Next there is Gundrun Graycloak, the First Valkyrie, with her soft braids and business suit, the feather cloak of her office clinging like armor to her shoulders. She speaks calmly, explains what she knows: Baldur’s ashes were replaced with those of a boar; Loki Changer has an alibi; the Fenris Wolf, too, is accounted for and innocent; and Freya the Witch herself is searching along the web of fate to find our missing god. The Alfather, Gundrun says, her voice ringing straight to my bones, will offer a boon to any who aid in the Sun’s return.

The president and his lawspeaker address us next, announcing the activation of the federal militia to organize searches and set up crisis centers and a conference of kings. He gives us comforting words about the strength of our character as a nation, and the lawspeaker lifts her replica of the Poet’s Cup and blesses us all.

It’s clear to us and the commentators that nobody knows much of anything. They speculate about Baldur’s ashes being elsewhere, wonder if he’s alive but lost or hurt. They wonder what we might have done wrong, or what our gods did, to cause this. They ask what fate could possibly have in store. They regurgitate rumors of anxious pilgrims at the gates of Bright Home and discuss the last time the federal militia was activated.

Lady Serena, the festival seethkona, tells anyone who will listen of the dream she had last night full of burning apple trees.

Anxiety is pervasive. It pokes at my heart, and my breath comes faster and faster. I see trembling in the hands that take drink from me; I see tears reddening Peachtree’s eyes even when I squeeze her arm and whisper that the Sun will return to us. I see mothers crushing their children’s fingers with worry and fathers not letting their family members out of sight. Even Jesca and Lady Serena speak in tight whispers.

All I can think is that I’m doing not enough good here. I have to go.