This story began a long time ago in the land of Odin. Long before scalds sang of Ragnar Lodbrok and his sons, a tribe of Kirr lived next to the cliffs surrounding a narrow fjord in the south of what later would become Denmark. That day a prophecy was born that a girl would return from the sea and will bring happiness to the tribe of Kirr,
That day in the evening twilight a girl was to make a trip to the land of Asgard. Her entire village gathered at the edge of the water to witness the family sorrows.
{Give me the child," said Thuronn Harardson to his wife. Black hair fell on her face like a veil, and her bare feet touched the cold stone floor. She straightened up, standing up with difficulty.
Thuronn reached for the girl his wife rocked in her arms. The young woman raised her head, her swollen eyes sparkled.
"They are waiting, Swanhild."
She stroked her daughter's face, running a fingertip over the bend of her eyebrow.
"I will carry her myself," she whispered hoarsely.
Thuronn stepped toward her, but the woman staggered back. Her husband's attempt to console her only turned the river of pain in her soul into a raging ocean. And he let her go, watching her slowly step towards the waiting crowd. He removed the bow from the wall and followed her, staring into the hem of her white linen shirt.
The wind swept rain soaked her as she descended the winding path of a steep slope to the waves raging below. The gods seemed to be angry. The woman walked, looking straight ahead, clutching the little girl's body tightly.
She raised her head, glancing at the gathering clouds, and barely audible uttered a curse. Six years ago, before the birth of her daughter, she turned to the Spinners of Fate, and they discovered what awaited her in the future. But she still could not forgive them this truth. Three Spinners, sitting at the foot of the Urdra tree, wove the fate of mere mortals and were ruthless, like the sea of ice, dragging Swanhild's daughter into its waves. Her desperate pleas for saving the child remained unanswered, they were swallowed by the raging sea surrounding the rocky coast of the capes.
The boat was already waiting for them in shallow water. Its ]carved nose was elongated and shaped like a snake head. Garlands of willow branches, decorated with intricate runes and images of the wings of a raven, scorched on her hull, covered her sides. The bottom of the boat was littered with armfuls of gravilat and lupins, as a sign of offering to the goddess Nadr.
The fellow tribesmen silently gazed at Swanhild, who, standing on the shore, peered into her daughter's face. Her skin was white like milk, her hair was pitch black. Dark tattoos in the form of patterns covered her skin on her arms and legs. Swanhild made them just a year ago. These were the same patterns as the rest of the members of the Kirr tribe, who were now standing on the shore, a bizarre interweaving of ancient prayers, passed down from generation to generation and giving her the right to be called the daughter of Nadr. But even the gods could not save the mortals from the Spinners of Fate.
Thuronn laid a hand on Swanhild's shoulder, and hot tears rolled down her cheeks, dripping onto linen cloth. She slowly entered the ice water, the wet fabric of her shirt wrapped around her hips and legs, the rain intensified when the woman leaned to the edge of the boat and carefully lowered the girl to the bottom, laying on delicate purple and red flowers.
Thuronn grabbed the bow of the boat, pushing it sharply off the coast, and Swanhild suppressed a sob. After all, what right did she have to cry now? Spinners warned that this day would come. She already knew this when the midwife put a tiny baby on her chest. And now she must send her daughter to the afterlife, retaining her courage. And when they meet again in another world, the daughter will be proud of her mother.
The edge of the boat slipped out of her trembling fingers as the current caught her, and Swanhild froze in place, and the cold gradually chained her from the inside. Now the woman felt only gushing blows of wind across her face.
Behind her, a flint of a flutter was heard, and, glancing over her shoulder, she saw Turonn loading a bow with a flaming arrow, deep shadows covering his face, and a storm raging in the sky reflected in the darkened eyes. He looked at Swanhild, like a ghost standing in gray water.
She nodded abruptly, and he lifted his bow, squeezing the bow with his fingers. Gathering a full chest of air, he slowly exhaled, his throat was sore. Then he pulled the bowstring so tightly that it creaked and fired an arrow. It soared above Swanhild's head, and all eyes were fixed on the flaming shell, which instantly disappeared into the clouds, and then again came down down from the sky, like a shooting star.
The arrow hit the side of the boat with a bang, and Swanhild put her arms around herself, watching the greedy flame devour everything in its path. The boat was moving away, gradually dissolving in dense fog, and light wisps of smoke brought to them the aroma of burning wood. Finally, it was completely out of sight.
Swanhild closed her eyes only for a moment, and when she opened them, the boat disappeared