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Authors: Francesca Simon
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diggers to carve rock out of the bleak land. I didn’t need to hoodwink some poor giant. With one sweep of my arms the rocks and boulders piled themselves atop the other and immense walls loomed above me.
Then fearsome gates bolted with iron. No dragon, no living person, would squeeze through them. The mighty fortifications rose, black and sheer, until they encircled my kingdom.
The restless dead began to gather, waiting.
Then I stepped inside to raise my hall, Eljudnir, from the slime and entrails of the fog world. First, foundations appeared, then stone walls, interlaced with bones. Skulls stacked themselves around empty hearths. (For decoration only, mind. They will never be lit – the dead don’t need warmth.) The turf roof thatched itself. Neverhave I felt more like a goddess as I watched my creation form around me.
You were right to fear me, One-Eye. I too can create order from chaos.
And while I built, all I could think was Baldr Baldr Baldr. Did Baldr know my feverish thoughts? Would he come to rescue me? He was One-Eye’s son – maybe his evil father would listen if Baldr pleaded for me. If only. If only …
And when my mind was not filled with thoughts of Baldr, I gnawed on revenge. How I could destroy the gods for what they’d done to me. Wild plots and schemes played out in my mind. I had time. I would find a way to lead an army of the dead and ransack Asgard.
*
When my hall was finished (don’t ask how long it took. An hour? Fifty years? It’s all the same to me, remember?), I stood on the threshold and surveyed my handiwork.
I admired everything.
And so will you.
Sconces made of skulls hung on the walls. Chandeliers criss-crossed with bones dangled from the roof, festooned with unlit candles – why waste wax on the dead? Stone lamps smoking with fish oil glowed, tiny pools of light in the bitter black, like wolf eyes in moonlight.
I stumbled along the packed-earth floor, trying not to crash into the numberless benches and tables and the low platforms fast against the gold-flecked walls. I’d made two High Seats, richly carved, with side posts, on a raised dais. If anyone ever asked who the other throne was for, I would just say (if I deigned to answer), ‘An honoured guest.’
I can’t believe I have created all this.
I have a room to myself, curtained off behind the High Seats with a bed hidden behind thick hangings and furnished with grave goods. I’ve never had a separate place to sleep before.
Picture my richly embellished chamber, a candelabraburning a hole in the dark. Heavy, embroidered curtains shield my bed, which I call Sorrow. My blanket is Mildew and my bedhangings Hide Me. These fine furnishings will all rot soon enough. No matter. I’ll just replace them. As is fitting, the dead bring many offerings, and grave goods are no use to the dead.
Of course Eljudnir is freezing and forbidding. The wind still howls down the roof vent. The air is rank. It is always night, always winter. The terrible gloom never ends: a smothering blanket of fear and solitude and bricked-up misery. It’s always wet and draughty. What do you expect? It’s the hall of the dead. Death is a serious business.
Don’t think I haven’t heard my kingdom described as riches and glittering treasures surrounded by foulness, horror, decay, phantoms, mud, filth, stench and squalor. That I am nothing but the queen of a great pestilent burial mound.
That’s a bit harsh. A bit ungrateful. I could have let the dead roam the fearsome wastes ofNiflheim. Instead I created a barrow for them in my storm-wracked world.
21
HELâS HISTORY OF MIDGARD
EFORE YOU AND I meet face to face, learn the true history of the world as you know it. Remember what is inscribed here. Repeat it round your fires and in your halls.
The rest is just stuff.
Burning ice and flame. Frost and sparks. No sand. No sea. No sky. No warmth. A great void at the beginningof time.
The giants were first, the oldest inhabitants of the Nine
Then fearsome gates bolted with iron. No dragon, no living person, would squeeze through them. The mighty fortifications rose, black and sheer, until they encircled my kingdom.
The restless dead began to gather, waiting.
Then I stepped inside to raise my hall, Eljudnir, from the slime and entrails of the fog world. First, foundations appeared, then stone walls, interlaced with bones. Skulls stacked themselves around empty hearths. (For decoration only, mind. They will never be lit – the dead don’t need warmth.) The turf roof thatched itself. Neverhave I felt more like a goddess as I watched my creation form around me.
You were right to fear me, One-Eye. I too can create order from chaos.
And while I built, all I could think was Baldr Baldr Baldr. Did Baldr know my feverish thoughts? Would he come to rescue me? He was One-Eye’s son – maybe his evil father would listen if Baldr pleaded for me. If only. If only …
And when my mind was not filled with thoughts of Baldr, I gnawed on revenge. How I could destroy the gods for what they’d done to me. Wild plots and schemes played out in my mind. I had time. I would find a way to lead an army of the dead and ransack Asgard.
*
When my hall was finished (don’t ask how long it took. An hour? Fifty years? It’s all the same to me, remember?), I stood on the threshold and surveyed my handiwork.
I admired everything.
And so will you.
Sconces made of skulls hung on the walls. Chandeliers criss-crossed with bones dangled from the roof, festooned with unlit candles – why waste wax on the dead? Stone lamps smoking with fish oil glowed, tiny pools of light in the bitter black, like wolf eyes in moonlight.
I stumbled along the packed-earth floor, trying not to crash into the numberless benches and tables and the low platforms fast against the gold-flecked walls. I’d made two High Seats, richly carved, with side posts, on a raised dais. If anyone ever asked who the other throne was for, I would just say (if I deigned to answer), ‘An honoured guest.’
I can’t believe I have created all this.
I have a room to myself, curtained off behind the High Seats with a bed hidden behind thick hangings and furnished with grave goods. I’ve never had a separate place to sleep before.
Picture my richly embellished chamber, a candelabraburning a hole in the dark. Heavy, embroidered curtains shield my bed, which I call Sorrow. My blanket is Mildew and my bedhangings Hide Me. These fine furnishings will all rot soon enough. No matter. I’ll just replace them. As is fitting, the dead bring many offerings, and grave goods are no use to the dead.
Of course Eljudnir is freezing and forbidding. The wind still howls down the roof vent. The air is rank. It is always night, always winter. The terrible gloom never ends: a smothering blanket of fear and solitude and bricked-up misery. It’s always wet and draughty. What do you expect? It’s the hall of the dead. Death is a serious business.
Don’t think I haven’t heard my kingdom described as riches and glittering treasures surrounded by foulness, horror, decay, phantoms, mud, filth, stench and squalor. That I am nothing but the queen of a great pestilent burial mound.
That’s a bit harsh. A bit ungrateful. I could have let the dead roam the fearsome wastes ofNiflheim. Instead I created a barrow for them in my storm-wracked world.
21
HELâS HISTORY OF MIDGARD
EFORE YOU AND I meet face to face, learn the true history of the world as you know it. Remember what is inscribed here. Repeat it round your fires and in your halls.
The rest is just stuff.
Burning ice and flame. Frost and sparks. No sand. No sea. No sky. No warmth. A great void at the beginningof time.
The giants were first, the oldest inhabitants of the Nine
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