Chapter 12
We have raised a curtain to carve out a shielded corner in the thrall room. The thin fabric muffles the world outside. A private fortress for us ladies. They sit on skins, chatting about work, about what some freewoman had said, about their hopes. Their voices braid together, the hum of… life.
I know just the story to tell. After the humiliation—throwing myself on my knees, Ari’s poem, the coarse comments—the relaxed atmosphere among the thralls gives me peace. I owe it to these ladies in front of me.
“When she asked me to sweep her floor, I told her I was busy with the jarl’s orders,” says one of the younger and rowdier girls. Sifrid, if I remember correctly.
“What did the jarl tell you to do?” asks an older woman.
“Nothing. I went to the kitchen to chat with Ingeborg,” says Sifrid, her dark brown eyes twinkling with mischief.
The ladies laugh. My breath eases, my muscles relax. Cheeky thralls who thrive on fooling their masters. When I left the feast hall, a few of them were standing by the door, having peeked and listened in. Never have I received such a wave of support.
All the girls had given me a warm embrace, even Eidunn.
They had shared kind words, insisting I was one of them now.
They are like sisters. Their comfort means everything.
Public humiliation—a living nightmare. A man would throw himself on his own sword for less than what I had endured. Not me. I want to live.
“Okay, okay, ladies, let Kilda speak,” says Ausveig as she pushes one of the laughing girls.
My breath deepens. Nerves flutter as eyes turn to me. I can share. They want to listen. What a great idea. We will strengthen our bonds through the stories of heroines. The tales of goddesses. More importantly, I am at the center of it. They will trust me. I plan to make this a tradition.
The smell of wool and birch smoke fills my nostrils. Closing my eyes for a second, I breathe deep.
I picture Yggdrasil—its roots in the ice, gnawed on by the mighty Wyrm, Nidhogg.
I picture Yggdrasil’s leafy crown, stretching to the heavens, with Vedrfolnir the all-seeing hawk perched between the eyes of the all-knowing eagle.
I picture Ratatosk, a mangy little squirrel running up and down between the dragon and the eagle. Spreading truth and lies to each party.
That is me, now. I share from the well. The well Groa taught me to draw from.
“Go on, Kilda,” says Sifrid. “It’s not nap time just yet.”
I snort and the ladies giggle. Opening my eyes, I feel the tension in my shoulders melting like spring thaw.
“Freya,” I begin, the name like honey on my tongue, “favors those who worship. Those who sacrifice at her altar, those who praise her in song, those who bow to her name. This we all know. But more than this…”
I pause to give my words weight, so the seeds may be planted in their minds.
“She favors those who live with love. Those who give to others. Those who give of themselves. In ages past there was a man named Ottar. Not a mighty warrior, not a rich man. An orphan. He began his life with nothing. No mother to feed him, no father to teach him a craft. Do you follow?”
All the women nod, even Eidunn. The older ladies carry a knowing smile—they have heard this tale. But to my surprise, the younger girls watch me with eager eyes. A couple of mouths hang open. I had expected everyone to have heard this.
“He worked his entire life. Honest work. No plundering, like greedy men. No stealing, like me.”
Resounding laughter. I smile myself. After my humiliation earlier, what difference does a little self-irony make?
“He earned his own land. Bought it. Paid for it with the sweat of his brow. It was his home. By right. He was known to help his neighbor. But another—Angantyr his name was—laid claim to the land. Forcing Ottar into a wager. Three days later they would meet again to lay out their lineage—their right.”
I smile at the ladies.
“Here’s where it gets exciting. Ottar laid offerings at the altar.
It was red with the blood of his gifts. This we have all done, and Freya answers.
But to Ottar, who had lived a life of giving, not taking, she appeared in the flesh.
In all her shining glory she stood before the mortal man.
He fell to his knees, praising her wisdom and beauty. ”
I pause again, giving them time to picture Freya’s timeless form. Her eternal radiance personified. For a second I envy Ottar, so honored as to witness the goddess.
“Don’t stop!” says a girl, making me laugh.
“Freya wanted to help her most loyal follower. A man who worshiped the goddesses, who saw the beauty of feminine energy. The world’s feminine nature. Freya turned him to a golden boar, and jumped on him. Riding him.”
The ladies release a raunchy laugh, giving each other sly looks. Their laughter ripples through me. Raw, authentic, shameless.
“Lucky man,” says one.
“Freya knows how to please herself,” says another, barely able to speak.
“The lucky man.” I raise my voice to recapture their attention.
“Is ridden to the cave of a Volva, Hyndla. Freya wakes Hyndla from her sleep, demanding the wise-woman recite Ottar’s lineage.
Hyndla, however, accuses Freya of bringing her lover to a ritual reserved for women.
Freya points at the boar, saying ‘Do you really think I would make a hairy pig my lover?’”
The girls burst into giggles, failing to control themselves. Eidunn is red, snickering with the other ladies. Never have I seen her so happy. I grin—it had been my intention to make them laugh. I notice lighthearted humor captures the girls, like sorcery.
“As we know, a Volva gets her power from Odin, but also equally from Freya. Hyndla has no choice. She must do as Freya demands. She recites the names of Ottar’s ancestors, generation by generation, until she arrives at Freya’s own brother, Freyr.
Ottar was truly a man of great stock, a living descendant of the Vanir.
His blood was a mix of Vanir, Jotnar, and human. ”
The bouts of giggles have died down—all eyes are on me.
They are in my hand. Heat blooms in my forehead.
This is power. Given freely, not taken. Is this some form of magic?
Do ancient tales hold powers we don’t understand?
They are with me, each holding their own image of my words. All of them, mine.
A man’s face bursts into our space. I jolt, the fragile warmth between us chilled in an instant. It’s an old thrall with a rugged mustache pushing aside the cover we had raised.
“Care for some company, ladies?” he says drunkenly.
Ausveig stands before I can react, pushing his face with an open palm.
“Out, you troll!” she shouts as she forces him to retreat. The girls cheer Ausveig’s protection of our private space. They turn back to me.
“Keep going,” says Eidunn, surprising me. Her voice, warm for once, sends tingles down my spine. Such a reserved woman, and yet she is engaged, eager to hear the end.
“Freya demands a memory-beer from the Volva, who has to comply. This is so he can remember every name the Volva has recited. Freya rides Ottar to Asgard, the famed home of the gods, seat of the Aesir, where he gets to spend a day in their presence. One of the few ever to receive such an honor. When he returns home, he drinks the beer, tells Angantyr of his lineage, and gains rightful claim to his land. The land he has earned.”
As the ending leaves my lips, a hush settles. The girls breathe as one. For a moment, I feel threaded into something greater than myself. Words roll off my tongue. They are my own, yet I did not think of them.
“Truly, Freya is loving. Freya is kind. Freya is the one we hope to imitate.”