Read Online Icefall by Matthew J. Kirby - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Matthew J. Kirby
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Asa’s eyebrows are sloped in worry, and she stays that way for some time without moving.
At last she rises. “I’m tired. I think I’ll go to bed.”
“Good night, then.”
“I envy you, Solveig,” she says over her shoulder as she walks away.
I am stunned. What is there in me to envy? Asa is everything to our father, and I am nothing.
Muninn flutters and draws my attention. I give him a biteof turnip and watch him swallow it down. The more I think about it, the more I realize he does resemble Gunnlaug. Wrinkled skin, sparse black hair. I stare at him, seeing not my bird but that old chieftain in my cage.
I know I’ve told myself that I would gladly marry for Father, but I’ve never considered that such a pledge might mean marriage to an old man who resembles a scraggly raven. I feel foolish for never having thought of it. I am sad for Asa, and for the first time see her beauty as a burden instead of a blessing. And I feel the guilt-weight she has been carrying this whole time.
She is asleep when I climb into the bedcloset later that night. I nestle down next to her, trying to think of how I can help, but my thoughts are like snowflakes drifting away from me, or melting on my skin as soon as I catch them.
The next several weeks bring the fullness of winter’s cold weight. The pale sun is too weak to warm us for the few hours that we have its light, and the nights seem to swell, filling the world with stars and endlessness. The glacier has slowly settled into its season-sleep and fallen silent, and the fjord is a narrow white road to the sea.
We spend more of our time indoors, and the fires in the long hearth are never allowed to burn out. The berserkers have stopped complaining, but that frightens me even more than when they bluster and fight. If they’re pacing the hall likechained dogs, I at least know how they feel. Silence makes them even more unpredictable.
Ole sits with his bone knife in the corner, showing Harald how to repair the frayed ropes and holes in one of his fishing nets. His movements are practiced and almost loving, like an old woman braiding a granddaughter’s hair. Harald yawns and gets his fingers tangled.
Muninn hops around his cage, cawing at me, his head feathers still a little sparse. But his flight feathers have lengthened. I have never let him out since Hake gave him to me. I felt that I had to shrink his world before I could trust him to not fly off. But perhaps it has been long enough, and I can let the walls loose just a little.
“Raudi,” I say. “Will you watch the doors for me?”
Raudi gets to his feet. “Watch the doors?”
“I’m going to let Muninn out of his cage.”
Raudi looks at my bird, nods, and walks over to the doors. He stands in front of them, arms crossed. Those in the hall with us, including several berserkers, are watching me now.
I take a deep breath and look right into my raven’s eye. “I’m going to let you around the hall for a bit. But only for a short while. And I’d like it if you perched on my shoulder for at least a moment.”
Muninn shakes, ruffling his neck feathers.
I pull one of the cage sticks free, and then another, and then a whole side falls open. Muninn cocks his head andhops right out. He looks back at the outside of his cage for the first time. Then he launches himself into wobbly flight, hampered by his bent wing. But he manages to flutter up to one of the rafters, where he caws in delight and proceeds to preen.
I go and sit under him, my head bowed, a bit of food in my hand. At first I hold the food in my lap, then up at my neck. I tap my shoulder.
“Patience, miss,” one of the berserkers says. “He’s looking right at you.”
I call to him. “Come to me, bird of Odin.”
“He’s cocking his head,” Harald whispers. “He’s got one eye on you.”
I whistle. “Come, Muninn, my memory.”
His talons click
At last she rises. “I’m tired. I think I’ll go to bed.”
“Good night, then.”
“I envy you, Solveig,” she says over her shoulder as she walks away.
I am stunned. What is there in me to envy? Asa is everything to our father, and I am nothing.
Muninn flutters and draws my attention. I give him a biteof turnip and watch him swallow it down. The more I think about it, the more I realize he does resemble Gunnlaug. Wrinkled skin, sparse black hair. I stare at him, seeing not my bird but that old chieftain in my cage.
I know I’ve told myself that I would gladly marry for Father, but I’ve never considered that such a pledge might mean marriage to an old man who resembles a scraggly raven. I feel foolish for never having thought of it. I am sad for Asa, and for the first time see her beauty as a burden instead of a blessing. And I feel the guilt-weight she has been carrying this whole time.
She is asleep when I climb into the bedcloset later that night. I nestle down next to her, trying to think of how I can help, but my thoughts are like snowflakes drifting away from me, or melting on my skin as soon as I catch them.
The next several weeks bring the fullness of winter’s cold weight. The pale sun is too weak to warm us for the few hours that we have its light, and the nights seem to swell, filling the world with stars and endlessness. The glacier has slowly settled into its season-sleep and fallen silent, and the fjord is a narrow white road to the sea.
We spend more of our time indoors, and the fires in the long hearth are never allowed to burn out. The berserkers have stopped complaining, but that frightens me even more than when they bluster and fight. If they’re pacing the hall likechained dogs, I at least know how they feel. Silence makes them even more unpredictable.
Ole sits with his bone knife in the corner, showing Harald how to repair the frayed ropes and holes in one of his fishing nets. His movements are practiced and almost loving, like an old woman braiding a granddaughter’s hair. Harald yawns and gets his fingers tangled.
Muninn hops around his cage, cawing at me, his head feathers still a little sparse. But his flight feathers have lengthened. I have never let him out since Hake gave him to me. I felt that I had to shrink his world before I could trust him to not fly off. But perhaps it has been long enough, and I can let the walls loose just a little.
“Raudi,” I say. “Will you watch the doors for me?”
Raudi gets to his feet. “Watch the doors?”
“I’m going to let Muninn out of his cage.”
Raudi looks at my bird, nods, and walks over to the doors. He stands in front of them, arms crossed. Those in the hall with us, including several berserkers, are watching me now.
I take a deep breath and look right into my raven’s eye. “I’m going to let you around the hall for a bit. But only for a short while. And I’d like it if you perched on my shoulder for at least a moment.”
Muninn shakes, ruffling his neck feathers.
I pull one of the cage sticks free, and then another, and then a whole side falls open. Muninn cocks his head andhops right out. He looks back at the outside of his cage for the first time. Then he launches himself into wobbly flight, hampered by his bent wing. But he manages to flutter up to one of the rafters, where he caws in delight and proceeds to preen.
I go and sit under him, my head bowed, a bit of food in my hand. At first I hold the food in my lap, then up at my neck. I tap my shoulder.
“Patience, miss,” one of the berserkers says. “He’s looking right at you.”
I call to him. “Come to me, bird of Odin.”
“He’s cocking his head,” Harald whispers. “He’s got one eye on you.”
I whistle. “Come, Muninn, my memory.”
His talons click
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