The Vertiginous Thrill of Exactitude
Chapter Four: þá mun Friggjar falla angan.
I caught the elf-man stealing glances at me every now and then. His shadowed attention was focused past the tasks at hand and onto me as I pretended to watch the fire gnaw at wood-bones. He was thinking and thinking hard. He pretended to ignore me until I openly turned around to warm my back. I tracked his movements as he finished laying out tree boughs behind me. The metal sled, propped upright, was decorated with my damp clothing, underwear and all.
He found a stainless steel pan, straight out of a 21st century cooking store, in his bag and packed it full of snow, propping it in the fire. I had been hopping for a hot dinner, but it seemed that all he had to share was strips of dried mystery meat and fruit. I was too hungry to to be picky, though and chewed though the tough meal. I watched him eat his portion, hopeful for seconds.
He smiled at me and said something, pointing at himself. He said it a few times making the same motion towards his chest. He was introducing himself.
"Arfanfree." I tried. He shook his head no, and said it slower and louder, as if I was deaf.
"Ifearn Frey," I said.
His nose wrinkled and he said "Frey", the only part of his name I could pronounce to his satisfaction.
"Siri Eisen." I said, hand to heart. He got it on the first try, but out of his mouth it sounded like one word: Sirieisen.
"Where do you come from? Midigard?"
I shrugged and shook my head with a polite smile, not able to figure out what he was asking
"Alfheim" he made a wide, sweeping gesture with both arms.
"Alfheim," he said again, patting the ground and then pointing to the sky. "This is Alfheim. You know, the nine realms? Alfheim, Vanaheim, Svartleheim, Hel, Asgard—"
I gasped at the only word I could catch. I nodded. "Asgard! Yes! Asgard! Are we going to Asgard?"
His eyes narrowed, and it caught me off-guard. "Frey," he put a hand to his chest, "Alfheim." He then pointed to me. "Sirieisen, Asgard?"
"Yes! Asgard! Can you take me there? Sirieisen to Asgard." I pointed to myself and then the sky.
He was silent then, suddenly withdrawn. My excitement diminished as his face was shadowed with something like distrust. He didn't speak anymore about it, didn't ask me more questions. What was it about Asgard that had offended him? My unease grew like frost on the window pane.
As the sky darkened, so did my thoughts, until panic and ice racked me. There was no one to blame but myself for this. Leaving Steve and Earth (in order of importance) for the unknown, on the word of a Swedish mad scientist, was probably the dumbest thing I'd ever done. It made sense that I'd reap the consequences. I was lost with a strange and moody elf man, on a strange world, unable to communicate where I needed to go or where I came from. And did I mention I was cold? Best case scenario, I would find way back home. Worst case, Frey would turn out to be a psychopath and feed me to his wolves.
I told myself to sleep. Just sleep and forget for a few hours. I couldn't, not with my face buried under smelly furs, branches poking me in the back. I was having a private cry, my nose dripping and my silent sobs wrenching my chest. I had to sniff soon or I'd be sleeping with my own snot frozen to my face.
As exhausted as I was from shivering, my mind wouldn't stop spouting off. I sniffed, a gurgle of mucus nearly choking me and waking Frey up to the fact that I was over here crying like a baby. I froze, cursing my pathetic-ness, and listened for a reaction. I heard nothing but the soft snores of one of the wolves.
When I was sure he wasn't listening, I turned onto my back. Heat creeped thorough the furs and into my side. I couldn't see the stars through the slit in the hood, now turned up. I was under open sky, my clothing under the makeshift awing, drying out (or freezing into stiff boards.) Darkness above, no moon. I wished I could see Earth from here, even if it did look like just a pinprick in inky blackness.
Frey's voice came thought the empty night, gravely at first, then warming up into song.
Surtr fer sunnan
með sviga lævi,
skínn af sverði
sól valtíva.
Grjótbjörg gnata,
en gífr rata,
troða halir helveg,
en himinn klofnar.
Þá kømr Hlínar
harmr annarr fram,
er Óðinn ferr
við úlf vega,
en bani Beljabjartr at Surti,
þá munFriggjar
falla angan.
The tone was melancholic, yet comforting, like a ballad or the blues.
I listened to the melody and rhythm of the foreign words and felt a small place in my heart fill up with warmth and comfort. It chased out my despair and gave me new hope, cleared out the fog of panic in my mind so that I could think clearly, for just a minute.
There was only one think for it: I would trust Frey. I would trust that he would get me to some kind of civilization. He would keep me alive until…until I could find a phone or what ever they used here. The thought of being stuck here forever, living from campfire to campfire, was more unbearable than the thought of dying here. I had to find my way back. At all costs.
I hooked a finger under the collar of the baggy tunic-like shirt and pulled out Frigga's necklace. I hadn't taken it off or a moment, since Thor gave it to me. It was a promise of love and of home. I made a promise of my own. I made the promise to myself and to the dark sky: I would find a way back to Earth, or find a way forward to Asgard, if it was the only thing I do in the rest of my life. I would not just leave myself to this fate, to rot here in the woods with Frey. I would not die here, nor would I live here. I had family waiting for me on either side. This was just a test; it was limbo. Purgatory. And I would find my way through.
I turned this vow over and over in my mind until I fell asleep, the echo elf's song drifting with me into unsettled dreams.
Not for a second did I forget where I was. When I woke up, I was warm and, while not comfortable, at least relaxed. I heard Frey putting wood on the fire and decided to keep myself buried in bed, my eyes closed, for just a little longer. The furs no longer smelled (or maybe I was just used to the stink.) The more I thought about it, the cloak felt heavier and heavier. When I moved my legs, just slightly, the cloak didn't move freely. Curiosity got the best of me and I opened my eyes and began to sit up. The movement was retrained. There was a soft crunch and I finally understood that I was covered in a layer of crusty snow. That's what was keeping me so warm.
I sat up, making sure the cold didn't get in to my cocoon. When I undid the drawstrings covering most of my head, the hood fell away and I found that I was right. About six inches had fallen onto of me, making an igloo. The ground was blanketed with the fresh fall; tree limbs drooped. There was no brightness to the cloudy morning; it felt early.
Frey was crouching by the fire, pouring the pot of water into another out-of-place item: a stainless steel water bottle. It looked like it was cut from the same material as his pot and a cup and the sled. Maybe that was the only metal they had here.
"Good morning." he said. I guessed what he meant and felt oddly shy as I replied. He filled the pot again with fresh snow and set it back on the fire.
I was torn between staying in my warm igloo of fur and snow, and getting up to pee. The balanced tipped in favor of staying put when I realized I didn't have my shoes. I glanced over to There my underwear hung, under the awning of tree limbs, on the makeshift clothes rack made out of the sled,
I wondered if the ladies here wore shifts or corsets, not bras and underwear. He could probably guess what they were used for, but he probably thought them very strange and maybe even funny. I vacillated between embarrassment and the giggles when I thought about him unfolding and untangling them with that look of confusion. It really was a bit funny seeing them out in the open right next to my shoes, which were propped up with sticks like twin camp flags.
My jeans were missing, though and I couldn't figure out why. I swear I saw him hang them up the night before. I wanted to change back into my jeans, the t-shirt and cardigan, out of the baggy trousers and tunic. If I had to walk at all, I knew the trousers would fall right off despite my cinching them as far as they'd go.
When the water simmered, he dipped his cup to fill it, and sprinkled a pinch of dark brown powder over the steaming liquid. He handed it to me. I took the cup hesitantly. Was it some sort of tea? I got a whiff of oranges and maybe cinnamon. He was watching me, unimpressed.
"Thank you."
He nodded, responding with his version of "you're welcome", but he watched me until I put the cup to my lips. I took a cautious sip and found it had a mild spicy and sweet flavor. It wasn't like cider or tea or coffee, nor was it alcoholic. It seemed to warm me.
I was given more dried fruit for breakfast. This was going to get old, fast. Was this all he wanted to eat? He had some camping gear, why not bring instant meals or marshmallow or anything other than jerky?
I found him staring, not looking overly friendly. He was really begging to make me nervous. I couldn't figure out what was ticking him off. Ever since we tried to talk last night, he didn't like me. It was Asgard. Well, if he was going to be disgruntled all day because of that stupid word, that was his problem. He could pout just as long as he didn't turn violent.
I handed the empty cup back and hoped for more to eat. My stomach twisted with hunger. He scraped out the cup with a handful of snow, his mouth turned down in agitation. It wasn't as if I had the plague. Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
He drank a cupful of the spiky concoction before wiping out the cup once more and then packing it away, then added more snow to the half filled pot. He pulled it off the fire and dipped his hands into the warm water, washing his face, scrubbing until it was ruddy and steaming. He dumped the water, packed it with more snow and put back on the fire to reheat, maybe for my own bath water.
I felt very dirty, but I also felt like a pot of snow melt wasn't going to make me feel any better. What I needed what a very long and very hot shower followed by a cup of tea and an entire roasted chicken. That was clearly not on the agenda today.
Frey plucked the sticks my shoes were drying on out of the ground and stuck them closer to the fire to warm. He moved my clothes closer, too, my bra was almost in the fire. I was going to say something, it was my only bra now, after all, and I wasn't going to flop around for the rest of my time here, but his face was still set in a grimace, like this was all a big inconvenience.
It was, I knew, but he didn't have to act so put-out by it all. It wasn't as if it was my fault I fell through the ice into the lake and almost died. The water boiled and he added a couple of handfuls of snow before bringing it over to me to wash with. It was awkward going as I didn't want to get any hot water on the fur, or snow inside the cloak. I sort of knelt and splashed my face with the water. It was glorious to have hot water on my face and hands after the cold.
Frey knelt in front of me and said something, pointing at my legs. He said it again and when I didn't move, he manhandled me, scooping me up under the arms and plopping me on my butt. He opened the furs without ceremony. I was too shocked and confused to put up any sort of fight as he pulled one foot out to look at it. I have always been feebly embarrassed about my feet. They weren't pretty after years in pointe shoes. He examined it for a moment and then motioned for the other. I hoped to God that he didn't have some sort of foot fetish. When he was satisfied with my feet, he bought over the drying rack with all my clothing, sans jeans, dangling. What, was I supposed to get dressed right here?
"Frey," I said, and he paused putting the pan in his bag, looking up. "Thank you," I began.
He nodded, turning back to his chore.
"Uh," I said.
He eyebrows furrowed, pausing once more.
"Can I have my own pants, please?" I stood, keeping my bare feet on the extra long hem of the cloak and pinched the kneed of the trousers. "My pants? These are too big."
His lips pursed, I think he guessed what I meant. He shook his head firmly, no.
"No, Sirieisen. Those won't keep you warm enough. Too tight, and the material will take on water. Keep my extras on for now."
I gaped at him. He gave his explanation in his own language, and then turned and walked away into the woods. I fumed for a moment, deliberating over dumping the entire contents of his bag into the snow to find where he was hiding my pants. This was my opportunity to get dressed without him standing there.
I had the thought that he might just be hiding in the trees watching. Shaking that thought, I kept the cloak over my shoulders as I stripped, and then redressed in my own clothes, pulling the ye olde trousers up and re-cinching them. I looked absolutely ridiculous with my canvas and rubber shoes poking out of the bottom of the tent-like pants, topped with a black merino wool cardigan. I felt better, though, with my underwear on. Safer, somehow. Still, I wished I had my own pants. I shook out the cloak, dislodging snow and then draped it over my shoulders.
He didn't show for a few empty minutes. I eyed his bag. I still had to pee. I jiggled for a moment, wondering if I should find a tree. If I wandered off before he came back, he might follow my foot prints and find me in a compromising position. I wasn't going to do it here, right at was I going to explain this to him?
He trudged back soon after. I tried handing his shirt back, but he motioned for me to put it on, over my clothes. I shrugged; it couldn't hurt to have another layer of warmth.
"I, ah, I am going to find a tree." I said, pointing to the woods. He scanned the area I was point to, but didn't say anything. "I have to go to the bathroom."
I put an overly concerned face on and then held my hands over my stomach, bouncing up and down. He looked at me like I was an idiot. A crazy idiot. I sighed. I handed the cloak to him; he took it with a concerned look and began to say something.
I dropped my dignity in the snow, grabbed at the crotch of the pants, crossed one leg over the other, and bounced again, like a toddler. His eyebrows shot up to his hairline and his cheeks turned red as my request became clear.
"I have to pee." I pointed forcefully into the woods, untangling my legs. I know I saw a smile when he nodded and turned away, dismissing me.
I trudged through the snow, thankful for the thick stockings keeping my ankles mostly warm. My feet were cold almost instantly, the canvas and rubber no match for deep powder. I hated peeing the woods, but I was desperate at this point. I walked until I couldn't see him and then found my spot. By the time I returned, the campfire was smoldering, the awning to broken down, and the wolves strapped to the sled. I took my place, wrapped in the blanket-like furs, the pack on my lap.
We were off. This time I was ready for the jerky start as the wolves snapped forward. After a while, the snow began to dump big fat flakes. The views were stunning, and as long as I forgot that I was roughing it in sneakers, with elvish Bear Grylls, it was peaceful. Fun, almost. I had never been dogsledding, let alone wolf sledding. I have to admit, some small, adventurous part of me was loving this.
The wind burned my cheeks and lips. I tried not to lick my lips, as that would just make them worse. We rode through dense deciduous woods, two mountain wedging in until we were at the bottom of a sharp ravine with red cliffs shooting up on either side. I doubted even a mountain goat, if they lived here, could scale them. I had to crane my neck up and get a shirt full of snow to see the top of the valley. It narrowed until it just fit the sled; I had to keep my arms in. The ground sloped down and the wolves had to run faster to avoid being overtaken by the sled. My heart was pounding, at little nervous about how safe this actually was, when I spotted the end of the ravine, like a crack in the red walls. We shot out onto an wide open, flat plateau. Dark and tiny trees stood in a line all the way around. Beyond those, more mountains.
I began to feel the hugeness of this lonely world. We seemed to be the only two alive for miles and miles. We hadn't even seen any creatures no deer or birds, probably because of the wolves being around. The charm of the ride wore off as the snow fall turned into biting gusts of wind that swirled and blinded. After a while, all I could think about was how my bum was asleep, my feet were cold and I was so hungry I could eat one of the wolves. We had to stop for lunch sometime, right? And there had to be some hope of civilization tonight. A hot plate of food. A real bed. He had to have a house somewhere.
I day-dreamed about my messy bed at home, hot chocolate, and the option to just pick up the phone and order any meal I could ever wish for. If I were home now, with Steve, I'd get a big drippy hamburger. And tomato soup. And I'd dip the burger in the soup, just to try it. My stomach was rumbling and my mouth drooling. I reached a hand out to grab a fistful of snow to munch on. It was better than nothing, and melted on my tongue.
Frey called the wolves to a slow stop. He reached brushed the snow out of my hands with a stern look on his face. I gaped at him, nonplussed. His words were firm and a bit patronizing as he scooped up more snow and mimed eating it. He shook his head, no.
"Okay…" was all I could manage.
What a lunatic! He had, just that morning, melted snow to drink. Now, apparently I was not allowed to do the same. I found myself glaring, sulking even.
He didn't like my attitude and he snatched the bag out of my arms, riffling through to pull out his water bottle. He unscrewed it and thrust it out to me with a clenched jaw. I almost refused it, but thought better at the last moment, and took a few gulps, until he decided that was all I got for now. He took a sip, re-packed the water, and set us off again.
The more I knew of Frey, the more I didn't understand him. He wore medieval clothing and rode a wolf sled, yet had a number of anachronistic and convenient items that didn't include sleeping bags. He hated Asgard but liked to look at feet. He was allowed to drink water from snow, but I wasn't, until it came from his water bottle. He was ok with me wearing my own shirt, but the pants had to be his. It was becoming clear that I was with a crazy man. A wilderness wacko who found himself a victim to "help".
I felt better and worse thinking about him like that. Better because he was probably not the norm on this planet. I would find normal people as soon as we reached civilization. Worse, because, well, I was alone with him and completely dependent on his good graces to get me to the normal people. If he pushed me too much and I reacted in some way that made him lose it completely, I might really become wolf food.
Not the most exciting bit of the story, but it's better than nothing at all, right?
The 'song' comes from Voluspa, a poem from the Poetic Edda, which, I believe, is in Icelandic.
All winter survival skills come from episodes of Man Vs. Wild (thanks Bear Grylls!)
I can't promise a quick update, but I can promise that I'll do my best. I hate to leave you hanging for so long.
Love to you all,
Coy