Chapter 24
It’s too much to take in at once. Water cascades down the cliff, a long white fall carving its way through the rock. The spray hangs thick in the air, forming a layer of refreshing droplets on my skin.
Such beauty. Such shine. A magical corner of the world. The brightest rainbow I have seen arcs through the mist—a scene worthy of myth.
“By Freya,” I whisper.
Minutes pass as I enjoy the serenity of sun and water. Even the roar settles into me, soothing as a mother’s lullaby. I lose track of time.
Groa once asked me if I could control the waterfall. I said no, but I understand better now. Of course I can’t. The gods decide. I am but a simple woman, one of many. I can control my body, but I cannot control the world. I cannot control what comes, and what goes. Only the gods can.
It’s hard to look away from the rainbow as I fill the buckets. They are heavy, but I don’t even mind. I walk back to camp with thoughts enchanted by the monstrous waterfall.
I can bathe in water. Drink it. Fill a bucket to move it.
But it’s water. It behaves according to its nature. I am not in control. I can pour it, splash it, play with it, cook with it. But in the end, it is clear—water is water. I can’t change it. It’s nature, by Freya. Nature. Dearest Groa, I understand now, maybe. I am not a god. I am Kilda.
“So?” asks Ylvin.
“Uh… so what?” I respond, laying down the buckets of sloshing water.
“Did you like it?”
I realize what she’s asking me. Her lips bear a crooked smile, like she knew what the waterfall would do to me. I guess they don’t call her a wise-woman for nothing.
“It was beautiful,” I respond, awe in my voice. Why would I hold back? It was what it was—a wonderful moment.
“I thought you would like it,” she says with a smug wink. “Now… Ari!”
Shuffling in the foliage. The skald approaches, bearing a basket of parted leg-meat.
“Ylvin,” he says.
“As stated earlier, the two of you have the honor of cooking us dinner. I’m going in to relax with Elof. Just shout when it’s done.”
She glides into the dark lavvu, probably to hump her husband. Ylvin brims with energy—she is powerful, but her style is different from Groa’s. That is putting it mildly.
“She has ingredients,” says Ari.
“If only we knew what to do with them,” I laugh.
He looks at me with a raised eyebrow.
“You can’t cook?”
“Uh, no?”
“Aren’t you a woman?”
“Stop joking, Ari. You fucking idiot.”
“The woman can’t cook a simple stew, but by the gods can she sling around insults.” He shakes his head.
“I always bought food from others for my father and me. What are you saying? You can cook a stew?”
“Of course,” he says. “I’m not stupid or anything.”
I slap his arm.
“Watch it!” I say sternly.
Ylvin’s voice rings out into the forest.
“Can you whisper out there? They can hear you arguing up in Valhalla. We’re trying to rest.”
“Sorry,” I shout.
I exchange a quick glance with Ari, unable to hide a smile.
“Fine,” whispers Ari. “Crush some garlic. I’ll cut onions.”
He slaps a white piece of deer fat into the heated pot on the fire.
“Why? Aren’t we making a meat stew?”
“Any good stew begins with onions and garlic, Kilda.”
He rolls his eyes as if pestered by some insolent child.
“But… the taste is so strong,” I say as I crush garlic with a rock. The smell sets my nostrils aflame.
“The tastes will blend in the pot. What are you? Five years old?”
“Okay, Ari. Listen. I’ve already told you I can’t cook. Keep insulting me and I’ll go for the knife.”
He laughs wholeheartedly, grinning through his beard.
“Fair enough,” he says. “You know what? I’m almost starting to enjoy your shitty attitude, believe it or not.”
“Right,” I snort. “Says the king of petty insults.”
“Shut the fuck up out there!” shouts Ylvin, even louder than before.
“Sorry,” shouts Ari.
I stifle a giggle.
“We better whisper so she doesn’t curse us,” I whisper, leaning into his ear. Ari is dicing the onions perfectly, little cubes that make my eyes water.
“She will probably curse my sword to be soft and your sheath to be dry.”
“You dirty pig!” I whisper, struggling to keep in a laugh.
“Okay,” he says, giving me a playful look. “Listen, maybe you will learn something.”
“Probably not,” I tease.
I’m enjoying myself, flirting even. Gone is my rage at him fooling me to eat strawberries that weren’t mine. He begins.
“We toss in onions first. Make sure the fat is nice and melted,” Ari whispers as he pours in onions from the cutting board. “Then salt.”
He tosses in a pinch of salt from a pouch lying in the Volva’s cooking basket.
I’m intrigued. Ari seems invested, like he actually enjoys cooking. I watch the onions fry in the bubbling fat at the bottom of the pot. Ari is already chopping white carrots, swiftly cutting precise slices with a firm elegance.
“Smells good,” I whisper.
“So good. Now, when the onions are softened, throw in the garlic. Garlic burns quick, which is good sometimes, but we don’t want that now.”
I push the garlic into the pot. It sizzles seductively, instantly releasing a pleasant odor that I have enjoyed many times before.
“Well done,” he says with a grin. “Look, Kilda, you’re cooking.”
“Keep your voice down,” I whisper harshly. “Silly bastard.”
“Next we slap in some of the carrots.”
“Not all of them?”
“We will boil some, but I like to add some slices before the meat, so they get nice and brown. It adds a sweet flavor to the stew at the end.”
I’m amazed. This man has really thought this through.
Everywhere I’ve been, anywhere I’ve eaten, women have cooked.
But seeing this mangy crow prepare a meal—it’s something special.
His eyes are focused on the pot as he pours in a portion of the carrots.
They plop into the fat, which crackles angrily in response.
“How do you know how to cook?” I ask.
He laughs, keeping his voice low.
“Well, I’m a skald. On the road you learn to feed yourself or you go hungry.”
“You’re not from the valley?”
I guess it’s quite obvious, now that I think on it. He does stand apart from the others. Maybe that’s why Vidar eyes him as he does—a foreign rival. Ari frowns at me.
“The ladies haven’t told you? Of course I’m not from Opdal. What skald stays where he is born?”
“I didn’t know. I just assumed you were born here,” I whisper. “Also, we thrall girls have other things to talk about than where the skald is from.”
“I’m sure. Now listen, the carrots are brown, see?”
I nod. Like Ari had said, a sweet scent escapes the pot, blending with the odors from the onion and garlic.
“Smells so good,” I swoon.
“We don’t want it to burn. As long as we keep adding wetness, we keep that from happening. So now we—”
“I’m sure you know all about wetness,” I blurt out.
My own jaw drops. A second of deafening silence. I’m such a fucking fool. The man’s cooking has affected me for the worse. What a stupid, impulsive thing to say.
He shakes his head in disbelief.
“Who’s the dirty pig now?” he says.
“Sorry,” I say, casually trying to laugh it off. “We put in the cabbage now?”
“Not yet. The cabbage, we boil. Now we put in the meat.”
I frown, cocking my head at him.
“We don’t boil the meat?”
“If we fry it first, it browns like the carrots—brings out a beautiful hearty flavor. My favorite. Here.”
He passes me the cutting board, covered in uniform cubes of meat. They seem large to me, too big for my mouth.
“Aren’t these a little big?” I whisper.
“When they get hot, liquid escapes them. They shrink. Put them in.”
“Can I?”
He smiles at me. I smile back.
“Go for it, Lady Kilda.”
I snort at his comment. Yesterday I was Vidar’s new favorite slave girl, now I am Lady Kilda. This man is as stable as coastal weather.
“You’re a funny man,” I say, sliding the meat into the pot with a knife.
The fat instantly sputters as chunks of deer land into it.
I throw him a glance. Did my comment test his patience? Funny man. The insult had made Vidar defensive. Ari doesn’t even react.
“Now spread them around evenly, quickly,” he says.
He whispers urgently, like it’s an important task.
Like it matters. Like it’s not something people all over the world do daily—for survival, for pleasure.
Maybe that’s what makes it so important.
Everyone eats, every day. He’s right, it matters.
I should learn to cook. I’ll have to anyway, being a thrall.
“Like this?” I ask, biting my tongue as I spread them around the bottom of the pot, trying to avoid the furiously bubbling fat.
“Just like that,” he whispers as he looks at me. His eyes are soft—he is enjoying himself. Like I am, if I am being honest.
A minute passes in silence as we both stare into the pot, or the fire beneath it, or both. I don’t know. All I know is that I am relaxing. We are at peace.
“Now flip them,” he orders me.
“Flip them,” I repeat, moving the meat so it fries on another side. The chunks have indeed become brown, and the scent of frying flesh fills my nostrils. A wave of pleasure washes from the nape of my neck and down my back.
“I’m hungry,” I whisper.
“Me too.”
“What now, then?”
“Let’s add just a little spice. We’re lucky. Ylvin has pepper. She must know some traders. Not every kitchen has access to pepper.”
He dips his hand into a leather satchel, pulling up a cluster of little orbs. Black as night.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever tasted it,” I whisper.
“They have it in Opdal, but they only use it on rare occasions. Crush these.”
He drops them in my hand. They have a rough texture. A faint smell. I lay them on my cutting board and crush them with the same rock. A tingle enters my nose, surprising me. I throw my head back, to fight the tickle, but I fail miserably. A resounding sneeze echoes across the valley.
We both stifle laughter, to keep Ylvin from reacting.
“Remember,” whispers Ari. “Remember to shut the fuck up out there.”
I snicker.
“Don’t want to interrupt their passionate lovemaking,” I say playfully.
“Or the rest they need after it,” adds Ari.
“Definitely the best sleep,” I whisper before my stomach sinks. What have I just said? Openly admitting I’ve slept with a man as an unmarried woman. I give Ari a horrified look. Will he think less of me?
“Don’t worry, Kilda,” he whispers. “You’re not the first girl to try a horse before buying it. I don’t judge.”
I’m relieved, but pretend it never happened. The pepper goes into the pot.
“And now?” I whisper sheepishly.
“Now we add water to the pot. Then the cabbage and carrots. Toward the end, we taste and see how much salt we need. I see we have cinnamon here, so a tiny bit of that then maybe some more pepper.”
“You truly enjoy cooking,” I say.
“It’s an art, like poetry or war. Many elements combine to create a unified whole. It’s like words forming a poem, or men becoming an army. It’s unison. Different ingredients blend to become something more, or at least, something different.”
His passion shines through. I’d thought he was just a conceited bastard. A slimy skald. But he sees the world through his own lens—a sunstone refracting light through its unique crystalline body.
“I don’t just enjoy cooking,” says Ari, keeping his eyes on mine. “I love it.”
The mangy crow becomes the loving cook. The skald of vanity shows a softer, humbler side.
“I can tell,” I whisper, peering into the pot as he fetches a bucket of water. The smells are delightful. We could serve this to the gods in Valhalla.
“Watch out,” he says as he pours the clear liquid into the mix.
Ari the Skald. Ari the cook. In the end, he’s not that bad.