3. THREE
THREE
HERVOR
It’s getting dark and the forest is turning cold and blue. There’s much more snow in the woods than out in the pasture. The sunlight made it damp and heavy, but now it’s starting to crunch under my feet. My sweat’s starting to freeze. I should have known it would get this cold.
I breathe into my stinging hands and rub them together, wishing I had my mitts and fox-fur hat. Pretty stupid, just tramping off without them. Now I’m miles from home out in the middle of the woods with no food or water, and no hat, mitts, or cloak—and the sun’s going down and it’s freezing cold.
I’m stupid. I’m just a stupid bastard-girl who doesn’t know anything.
I slump down into a snowbank and sob into my hands, wishing I had just gone down to the stream and washed and spun that wool this morning. Then the damp cold starts soaking through my dress.
Sniffling, I jump up and brush myself off as best I can and wipe the tears from my cheeks. I might have a swineherd for a father but that doesn't mean I'm going to freeze tonight. I take a deep breath. I need to pull it together.
I feel a bit better after having a cry, and in the bluish light I start gathering up wood for a fire.
The trees are mostly birch that haven’t got their leaves yet.
Birch bark’s good for starting a fire, even when it’s wet—birch bark and old man’s beard.
Then I find myself a fir tree and start hacking off the green boughs with my axe.
Loki, my hands are cold! I pull the wool sleeves of my dress down over my fingers.
These fir boughs are good if you need to make a shelter, but in my case, I’m going to spread them on the ground like a mat so I don’t have to sit in the snow and get wet and cold.
I start weaving them between a couple trees that are close together to make a wall, so when I get the fire going it’ll catch the heat and keep my back warm. Now for the fire.
I sniff back my runny nose and snap up a bunch of the small twigs I’ve gathered into tinder and split some of the larger sticks into kindling.
My teeth are chattering and pins are pricking my fingertips, but I rummage through my wood for the fattest branch and start scraping off the bark with the edge of the axe, working it down until I’ve got a nice flat surface.
The cold blows into my dress as I unlace the front and pull out the leather cord with my aching fingers. I try tying the cord to both ends of a stick, but my hands are trembling so bad I can’t tighten the knot. I hiss a curse and yank it with my teeth.
Now it’s like a tiny bow, and I wrap another stick up in the cord and place a green tuft of old man’s beard underneath the stick on the flat part of the wood I’ve scraped down.
Then I place the end of my belt between the top of the stick and the palm of my hand and push down nice and tight.
Now when I draw the bow back and forth, it twists the stick into the wood and makes a noisy squeak.
I do this for a while until it starts to smoke, then I take the stick off the old man’s beard to see how it’s coming.
The wood underneath is all black, but there’s no spark yet.
I twist the stick with the bow for another minute and check again.
It’s smoking good now and this time there’s a bright spark in the old man’s beard.
I drop onto my stomach, tilting my head to the side, and breath slow and steady into the spark until it crackles into a little orange flame.
I add some birch bark to it and a bit of tinder, then I stack some kindling over it.
It catches within seconds, and soon I’ve got a nice fire going.
I stack up the rest of my wood and sit on the mat of fir boughs in front of the fire and hold my hands out over its toasty heat.
I’m feeling pretty proud of myself and I can’t resist a grin.
I’ve built a fire that way countless times, but I feel like I’ve accomplished something.
I’ve got warmth and light. I could cook some game if, I had any …
Gods I wish I had some game roasting on this fire.
I think of the supper they’re having at home without me—warm bread, steaming fish fresh from the fjord, dried red dulse, boiled cabbage; and goats milk and mead to drink. What I wouldn’t give for a horn of mead right now …
I scoop up a handful of snow and suck on it. It freezes my tongue and the inside of my cheeks until it melts in my mouth. It’s a meagre drink and only serves to quench my thirst a little.
I wonder if they’re missing me right now.
Heidrik will be worried, I know that for sure, but Rugga and Young Frodmar could probably care less.
Frodmar will glance across the table at my mother, the two of them sharing a secret grin, finally glad to have me gone.
No more stupid bastard-girl around to remind them of my mother’s past. I bet they’ll even sleep together to celebrate. They’ll all be happier without me.
Above the black treetops, the stars twinkle coldly and blue flames shift and slither across the frigid sky. I lie on my back, like I have so many times, and watch the enchanting glimmer of the northern night. It’s what gives this place its name: H?logaland, land of the high fire.
A howl echoes from the mountains. The wolves are out, still hungry from the long dark of winter. I’m not afraid of wolves. They won’t come near me, not with the smell of smoke and my fire flickering beside me.
I belong here now, out here in the cold and lonely wild, with the wolves and the high fire. I’m no longer Hervor Frodmarsdottir. I never was. But I’m not a swineherd’s girl either. No. I’m no one. Just Hervor. Hervor the wild girl, who lives alone out in the woods.