Seven Endless Forests - April Genevieve Tucholke Page 0,1
her past the central hearth, past the long feast table, out of the building, into the fresh air.
The Hall smelled of thick smoke—sour, acrid sickness and sweet, rotting death. The air outside smelled of sun and wet earth. It smelled of life.
I glanced toward the five rowan trees in the northeast corner of our estate.
Mother was Elsh. She would go in the ground, not the fire.
The bright sun had melted most of the snow, and my boots were soaked through. Sweat blurred my vision, and my bones ached with my mother’s weight.
I set her in the first grave and picked up the shovel. The hole filled slowly.
Now …
Viggo.
I’d found the shepherd collapsed outside the Hall at dawn, his tunic covered in blood.
His body should have been in the east field, burning alongside Aslaug and Elna and Ivar the field hand and old Haftor the woodcutter.
The shepherd wasn’t Elsh, but I would bury him by my mother all the same.
I tossed the first shovel of half-frozen dirt onto Viggo’s body. It fell on his hair, a black clump that would never be washed clean.
I dropped to my knees and howled like wolves on the hunt, crying to the moon.
I yelled my voice into dust … and then I rose to my feet and finished burying him.
I knew it was selfish to keep Viggo here with me on the steading, to not burn him in the way of the Vorse. But then, the living are selfish.
When it was done, I threw the shovel into the snow between two of the rowan trees. Let it rust. I would never use it again.
I wasn’t full Vorse, and I didn’t believe that life was simply a long journey toward a good death. All the same, Viggo had been more than a shepherd, more than my lover, more than a wise, quiet Vorselander who ran across the Ranger Hills with the strength and grace of a young god.
He’d had the heart of a hero, noble, wise, and brave. He deserved a hero’s life and a hero’s death. Instead, he died alone, in the night, a victim of a passing plague.
I would not let the same fate claim me. If I had a speck of heroism in my heart, then I would find it. I would honor it. I would sacrifice for it.
A memory surfaced. I was a child, ten or eleven, out in the hills with my mother, collecting green winterberries by moonlight for Elsh frost-brew. We stumbled upon a white arctic bear—it came roaring out of a nearby cave, jaws wide, teeth the size of my fist, white fur stained with old blood.
I hid behind my mother and shook with fear. She leaned over slowly, eyes on the bear, and pulled a knife from its sheath on her right calf.
“Fortune favors brave women,” she said. “We rise up, while the meek women cower.” She ran forward and sank her dagger into the bear’s throat.
She slept under that bear’s snow-white hide for years. It still lay on her empty bed. Each time she caught me looking at it, she reminded me that I had cowered while she killed the bear, that I had flinched when she took its life. It didn’t matter to her that I’d only been a child.
“You have a soft heart,” she’d say whenever I hesitated to wring a hen’s neck or slit a lamb’s throat. It wasn’t a compliment. “You take too much after your father, Torvi. Your sister is the true Vorse.”
I wiped my bleeding palms on the front of my tunic, and then I walked to the cold, fast-moving stream that wove through our farm, down from the Ranger Hills. I tore off my tunic and boots and underclothes—there was no one to see, no one to care. I slid my naked body into the water, feet slipping over stones, limbs pressing into the silky current. I let it wash away all the blood, all the dirt, all the death. I let it cleanse me of my old life.
When I climbed out of the water, I was numb with cold. I ran to the line of laundry strung behind the Hall, near the vegetable garden. Elna never had a chance to gather the clothing before the storm hit. I beat the blood back into my thighs with my palms, and then I grabbed a large wool cloth, wrapped it around myself, and went inside.
I crossed the Hall, leaving a trail of wet footprints. I walked down the east corridor, stopped