Read Online The Tricking of Freya by Christina Sunley - Free Book Online
Authors: Christina Sunley
Tags: Family & Friendship, Iceland
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cartwheel."
Other times, Birdie insisted it wasn't my fault. "It was that pesky fylgja,
to be sure."
"What's a fylgja?"
"A fylgja," Birdie explained, "is a follower. An attendant fetch. A spirit
that's followed our family all the way from Iceland. Our fylgja's responsible
for a lot of mischief. If dishes break, you can be sure our fylgja is at hand.
And an entire china cabinet?" Birdie shook her head in disbelief. "That is
surely the fylgja's work!"
I didn't believe her. I didn't doubt the fylgja's existence, but I took all the
blame for Mama's accident upon myself. I stopped asking Birdie for flying
lessons; my wings no longer itched. I was the girl who put her mother in a coma: I no longer deserved to fly. If my mother died because of my cartwheel, would that make me a murderer? Would I get sent to jail?
"Don't be so hard on yourself, elskan." Birdie found me one afternoon
crying on the landing.
I tried to speak between gasping sobs. "Is ... Gryla ... going to ... eat
7
me."
Birdie let out one of her raucous laughs. "Child," she said, sitting down
next to me on the stair, pulling my head onto her lap and stroking my hair.
"It was an accident. It wasn't your fault. You're not a bad kid. There are
much worse kids for Gryla to munch on. You want to hear about a bad kid?
A really really bad kid?"
I felt a glimmer of hope. Children worse than me? I wiped my nose on
the back of my hand and caught my breath.
"A long time ago," Birdie began, "there was a little boy named Egil
Skallagrimsson."
"It's a fairy tale?" I felt disappointed.
"Not a fairy tale. Egil was real. His story is written in a book called Egil's
Saga, which someday you will read for yourself. Egil is one of our ancestors,
and he grew up to be a very famous poet in Iceland. But he lived a long long
time ago. A thousand years ago! And he was the ugliest little boy you ever
set eyes on. When he was only six years old, he murdered another boy. Split
the child's head open with an ax. Then he bragged about it in a poem."
"Did he go to jail?"
"They didn't have jails in those days. If you committed a crime, you paid
your victim or his family money for it. And if it was a really bad crime, you
got exiled to the interior of the island, to wander the lava fields and glaciers,
and battle trolls and ghosts. But Egil was too young to be exiled."
"So what happened to him?"
"Absolutely nothing. His mother was proud of him, in fact. She said he
had the makings of a real Viking."
I thought about Egil a lot in the days that followed. Especially at night
while I was trying to stay awake so I wouldn't fall into a coma. Why did Egil
brag about killing someone? Why was his mother proud? My own mother, I
was certain, would not be proud of me. If she lived. And if she died? Maybe I wouldn't get sent to jail after all. Maybe instead I would be banished to
the lava fields of Iceland, left to the mercy of gruesome trolls and raging
ghosts.
On the third night Uncle Stefan came over with a whole whitefish, harborfresh, mashed potatoes, and green beans. It was the first real food I'd eaten
since Mama's accident.
Birdie looked awful. She wasn't wearing any makeup. Her skin was pale,
her eyes were red. "Haggard," she said, as she sat down at the dinner table.
"I look haggard. An old hag."
"Nonsense," Uncle Stefan protested.
But Birdie ignored him. "I had one of my dreams," she said. "The night
before it happened."
"Before what happened?"
Birdie looked at Stefan as if he were an idiot. "Before Anna fell. I dreamt
that I was back on our old farm, and I was standing outside in the sheep
pen-
"But you didn't have sheep on the farm, Ingibjorg. Only cows."
"I know that! It's a dream, Stefan. So then who drives up but Anna. She
opens the door to the car and steps out, and at the same moment, I open
the door to the sheep pen. Then all the sheep come rushing out and trample her."
"Why?" I asked.
"There's no why in dreams, Freya." She turned
Other times, Birdie insisted it wasn't my fault. "It was that pesky fylgja,
to be sure."
"What's a fylgja?"
"A fylgja," Birdie explained, "is a follower. An attendant fetch. A spirit
that's followed our family all the way from Iceland. Our fylgja's responsible
for a lot of mischief. If dishes break, you can be sure our fylgja is at hand.
And an entire china cabinet?" Birdie shook her head in disbelief. "That is
surely the fylgja's work!"
I didn't believe her. I didn't doubt the fylgja's existence, but I took all the
blame for Mama's accident upon myself. I stopped asking Birdie for flying
lessons; my wings no longer itched. I was the girl who put her mother in a coma: I no longer deserved to fly. If my mother died because of my cartwheel, would that make me a murderer? Would I get sent to jail?
"Don't be so hard on yourself, elskan." Birdie found me one afternoon
crying on the landing.
I tried to speak between gasping sobs. "Is ... Gryla ... going to ... eat
7
me."
Birdie let out one of her raucous laughs. "Child," she said, sitting down
next to me on the stair, pulling my head onto her lap and stroking my hair.
"It was an accident. It wasn't your fault. You're not a bad kid. There are
much worse kids for Gryla to munch on. You want to hear about a bad kid?
A really really bad kid?"
I felt a glimmer of hope. Children worse than me? I wiped my nose on
the back of my hand and caught my breath.
"A long time ago," Birdie began, "there was a little boy named Egil
Skallagrimsson."
"It's a fairy tale?" I felt disappointed.
"Not a fairy tale. Egil was real. His story is written in a book called Egil's
Saga, which someday you will read for yourself. Egil is one of our ancestors,
and he grew up to be a very famous poet in Iceland. But he lived a long long
time ago. A thousand years ago! And he was the ugliest little boy you ever
set eyes on. When he was only six years old, he murdered another boy. Split
the child's head open with an ax. Then he bragged about it in a poem."
"Did he go to jail?"
"They didn't have jails in those days. If you committed a crime, you paid
your victim or his family money for it. And if it was a really bad crime, you
got exiled to the interior of the island, to wander the lava fields and glaciers,
and battle trolls and ghosts. But Egil was too young to be exiled."
"So what happened to him?"
"Absolutely nothing. His mother was proud of him, in fact. She said he
had the makings of a real Viking."
I thought about Egil a lot in the days that followed. Especially at night
while I was trying to stay awake so I wouldn't fall into a coma. Why did Egil
brag about killing someone? Why was his mother proud? My own mother, I
was certain, would not be proud of me. If she lived. And if she died? Maybe I wouldn't get sent to jail after all. Maybe instead I would be banished to
the lava fields of Iceland, left to the mercy of gruesome trolls and raging
ghosts.
On the third night Uncle Stefan came over with a whole whitefish, harborfresh, mashed potatoes, and green beans. It was the first real food I'd eaten
since Mama's accident.
Birdie looked awful. She wasn't wearing any makeup. Her skin was pale,
her eyes were red. "Haggard," she said, as she sat down at the dinner table.
"I look haggard. An old hag."
"Nonsense," Uncle Stefan protested.
But Birdie ignored him. "I had one of my dreams," she said. "The night
before it happened."
"Before what happened?"
Birdie looked at Stefan as if he were an idiot. "Before Anna fell. I dreamt
that I was back on our old farm, and I was standing outside in the sheep
pen-
"But you didn't have sheep on the farm, Ingibjorg. Only cows."
"I know that! It's a dream, Stefan. So then who drives up but Anna. She
opens the door to the car and steps out, and at the same moment, I open
the door to the sheep pen. Then all the sheep come rushing out and trample her."
"Why?" I asked.
"There's no why in dreams, Freya." She turned
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