Chapter 2 Greta #2
It was an effort to wrench herself away from the door, to swallow the cry inching up her throat.
‘All right, Mama. You know best.’ Even though it was Greta alone who had witnessed the accident that had mangled her father’s leg, sliced through his torso and nearly killed him.
It was Greta, at just seven years old, who had thrown her little body on top of his, screaming for their lives.
It was Greta who had watched her father break that day in the low mountains.
It was Greta who had broken along with him.
She brushed her hands over the silver scars on her left cheek, before shoving the memory away and heading for the front door.
‘I’ll come back after dinner to see about that fire,’ she called to her mother.
As the door shut behind her, Greta almost sagged with relief at the sight of her sister, Hela, stomping uphill towards her with an armful of chopped wood. She ducked her head around the teetering pile, frowning as she looked her over.
‘How was the hunt?’
‘Gruelling,’ said Greta, hating to disappoint her sister. ‘I caught a hare.’
‘Good.’ Hela conjured a grim smile, which for her was practically effusive. ‘I chopped down an entire cedar tree this afternoon.’
‘Of course you did.’ Greta was seized by a familiar rush of gratefulness for her eldest sister.
Hela, who watched over their family with the attentiveness of a nighthawk, who guarded them with the strength of an ice bear, even on days when her legs trembled and her stomach keened with hunger.
Of course Hela had seen the dwindling firewood at their parents’ cottage, and instead of pointing it out like Greta had done, had simply gone and cut down an entire tree.
Greta wished she had caught a deer for her family. She cursed the hare, cursed herself for not gathering her courage and climbing north into the mountains. Tomorrow, she would do better.
‘Go and get warm, Greta,’ said Hela, reading the guilt in her eyes as only a sister could. There was a softness in her voice now, a swathe of blue moving through the storm grey of her eyes. ‘You did well today. You bested a blizzard.’
‘A measly hare is hardly worth the praise,’ mumbled Greta.
‘Mama will think so when she sleeps tonight with a full belly. And Papa, too.’ Hela continued past her towards the cottage. ‘Go on home. I’ll be back before dark.’
Greta continued downhill, the weight on her heart shifting, if only a little.
These past few months had been cruel to Carrig.
Cruel to the Iversen family. They had lost many of their beasts in the lead up to the war in Eana a year ago, and had spent much of the time since trying to replenish that loss, raising and training more animals to sell.
But the going had been tough, and though their brother Tor sent coin home every month, the recent ferocious weather had killed off more than a few messenger birds, capsized several boats and chased most of the animals away.
The fish, too. There was little to eat, and everything at the market had tripled in price.
With Mama’s lingering sickness and Papa’s injury preventing them from steady work, it had fallen to Hela, Kindra and Greta to keep the family afloat.
Though Greta tried not to bow to the pressure, it was beginning to crush her.
Panic visited her most nights, snatching her from the little sleep she got and filling her lungs with ice.
Filling her head with storm clouds, until she felt as helpless as she had been that day in the clearing with Papa at seven years old.
In the mornings, her soul felt as grey as the sky.
Hunger was a constant companion, gnawing at her day and night, chipping away her nails and breaking the ends of her hair, until she felt like the ghost of the girl who used to run barefoot with the snow tigers through the low mountains and sing like a nightingale in the forest until the birds of Carrig swooped down to join her.
Greta was tired now. In her bones and in her heart. She was desperate for the weather to settle, for the snow to ease and new flowers to bloom. Desperate for a life that stretched beyond this endless, fruitless hunt that yielded too little and took too much from her.
When she returned to the cottage she shared with her sisters, Kindra was in the kitchen.
There was a fire burning in the stove, and Lupo, the grizzled old wolf Greta had known and loved for all the eighteen years of her life, was slumbering in front of it.
Aya, Hela’s owl, was perched on the back of her favourite chair, peering out at the falling evening.
The wrangler in Greta sensed the bird’s anxiety, like a strange hum in the air.
‘Good news! Mikkel just dropped off a carp as long as my arm,’ Kindra called out from the kitchen, where she was making dinner.
‘And they say romance is dead,’ Greta called back. She didn’t know much about love, but with her hunger growling like a wolf, she couldn’t think of anything more achingly romantic than a big, fat, sizzling fish.
She kicked off her boots and hung up her cloak, stowing her bow and quiver before curling her arms around Lupo and pressing her face into his shaggy scruff. He turned to lick her face and the weight on her heart lifted.
She went to help her sister in the kitchen, snatching up an onion. It was only when she grabbed the chopping knife that she realized her hand was trembling. She turned from the sink, but Kindra was too quick.
‘You’re weak, Greta. Sit down. I’ll make you a cup of sugar tea.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Greta, not wanting to waste their precious store of sugar.
‘You’re swaying.’
‘I’m fine, Kindra.’ She did a little jig to prove it, only to lose her balance and nearly topple into Aya. The owl shrieked and Greta flushed, sinking quickly into a chair.
Kindra peered down at her, worry pinching the sides of her mouth. Beside her, Aya’s golden eyes were admonishing. In Hela’s absence, her owl was just as bossy.
‘I’m sitting,’ grumbled Greta. ‘You don’t have to glare at me like that.’
She didn’t know which of them she was talking to, but she was glad when the owl returned her attention to the window and Kindra went off to make her tea.
Greta took the mug without protest, revelling in the sweetness of the sugar on her tongue. ‘When will Mikkel be back again?’
‘Not for another week, at least.’ Kindra chewed on her lip, worry alighting in her eyes. ‘The shoals are so far out now it takes days to reach them. He was lucky to catch that carp so close to shore.’
She paused, both of them eyeing the gleaming oily fish, and in the swelling silence, Greta knew her sister was thanking the stars for Mikkel. She thanked them, too. For the fish, and the hare, and that armful of firewood. For one more night, and the promise of tomorrow.
Hela returned home after sunset, as though she could smell the fragrant fish stew Kindra had prepared, even leaving some for Lupo, who was too old now to go hunting. The three of them sat around the kitchen table, devouring every mouthful until their bowls were empty.
Hela finished first, using the pad of her finger to mop up the juice. She sighed as she looked outside, where the howling wind was flinging fistfuls of fresh snow at the window. ‘If the weather doesn’t let up soon, we’ll have to pawn something.’
Greta snapped her chin up. ‘We’ve already pawned everything worth selling. Our winter stoles. My hunting daggers. Your favourite sword, Hela.’
Kindra stilled, her gaze falling on the simple silver band on her left hand and the pin-sized sapphire within. ‘Not everything.’
‘No.’ Greta shook her head fiercely. ‘Not your ring, Kindra. That’s your future.’
‘It’s just a symbol.’
‘Symbols have meaning,’ said Hela, voice firm. ‘We will not sell your ring.’
Kindra opened her mouth to argue, but then closed it, letting the matter settle.
She did not want to give up her ring any more than they wished her to.
Hela was right. It was an important symbol.
One that whispered of a brighter future, of dancing and merriment and cake, something to live for beyond the cold snap of tomorrow.
‘In the morning, I’ll go up to the rock caves,’ said Greta. ‘I’ll find a goat and—’
‘What?’ Hela swung her head around. ‘Let it tumble with you down the mountain? You’re barely bigger than a goat, Greta. You might be able to kill one, but the climb down will kill you.’
‘Then we’ll both go.’
‘And die together?’ Hela snorted. ‘Do you know how expensive coffins are these days?’
‘We should write to Tor,’ said Kindra. ‘He has no idea how bad it’s been.’
Hela was already shaking her head. ‘Tor has been travelling for weeks. And even if Aya finds him, what do you expect him to do? Give up his happiness – his life in Eana – to come back here and freeze alongside us?’
‘He can send more coin,’ said Greta. ‘He would want to—’
‘We cannot live off the purse of another kingdom, Greta.’ Hela scraped her hands through her hair, her slender brows knitting. ‘I told him I could take care of us. I promised him.’
Greta read the anguish in her sister’s eyes and saw the same pride there that burned inside their father. The same wound. She reached for her sister’s hand. ‘That was before Mama’s fever. Before the blizzards and the—’
She stopped at a loud tap on the window. The fright of it drew a growl from Lupo and sent Kindra to her feet. Her chair clattered to the floor as she went to the window, where a nighthawk was peering in at them. There was a scroll tied to its foot.
Greta and Hela rose from their seats, staring at the bird with matching looks of confusion. Kindra unfurled the scroll, her brows lifting as she read the brief missive.
‘What is it?’ said Hela, reaching to snatch it from her.
Kindra leaped backwards. ‘It’s from Grinstad Palace,’ she said, a giddy trill in her voice. ‘The king needs a new wrangler.’ She looked up, her eyes shining. ‘And he is willing to pay handsomely.’
For a moment, the three Iversen sisters stared at each other in lingering disbelief.
Then Kindra’s lips twitched, her smile dissolving into a strange, hiccupping laugh.
Hela joined in, bracing herself against the table as she howled with manic amusement.
Greta gave herself over to the same hysteria, tears of relief sliding down her cheeks as she came to the same glittering understanding.
Hope had come, at last, to Carrig.