For all the good it’s done me, she thought sullenly at present. She’d never had a single sign that her offerings had been accepted.
In the end she tucked the statue under Heid’s arm and picked up her spade. No goddess was going to appear out of the woods to help her; she was on her own.
It took her the rest of the night to fill the grave. Afterward, she lay on her straw mat—she couldn’t bring herself to use Heid’s bed pallet—and tried to memorize each gap in the thatched roof and every stone of the hearth, and tried to come to terms with the fact that this was her last night in the cottage where she’d spent half her life.
In the morning, she bathed and used the now broken-toothed comb she’d had since childhood to tame her hair before plaiting it. Then she packed her things: the henbane that she and Heid had cultivated, both dried flowers and seeds; a small box of potions, salves, and poisons; her earthenware cup; her sewing supplies; and finally, the iron staff. She’d long since outgrown the clothing she’d arrived in, and she’d repurposed some of it into a tight-fitting patchwork kaftan, which she pulled on over her dress and pinned closed at her breast with a rusty brooch before securing her belt overtop it.
Once she was ready, she uncovered Heid’s rickety old pull cart from the lean-to where they’d kept it safe from the elements. Besides the knife and pouch at her belt, all her possessions fit into her haversack, which she loaded onto the cart along with Heid’s last small chest of silver. The furs from the bed pallet she’d also shaken out and packed, intending to give them to the Sámi to add to their tribute for King Harald.
She looked at the empty cottage, the barren garden, and the stone-covered plot beside it where Heid’s body lay.
“Goodbye,” she whispered to the grave.
It was around midday when she reached her destination. The woods slowly began to thin, giving way to rolling plains beyond. There were no reindeer in sight; they might be grazing over the next hill. In the direction she was headed, she could see smoke drifting lazily into the sky from a cluster of tents near the edge of another wooded area, the trees acting as a windbreak.
A few heads turned as she entered the Sámi encampment, and she nodded and stopped to greet the people who approached her. After distributing the furs, she made a beeline through the cluster of hide-covered open-topped tents and came to the largest one, where her two friends lived: a testament to their importance within their community as well as a shared space for rituals. Juoksa and his apprentice, Mielat, were noaidi, Sámi practitioners of magic, and old friends of Heid who often came to visit her—and by extension Gunnhild—at the cottage. Over time Gunnhild had learned their language, customs, and a bit about their magic, which had many similarities to her own but also key differences.
Before she could make herself known, the door flap opened and Mielat appeared. He was dressed in a loose tunic of reindeer hide, tanned and finely stitched with colorful thread. His woven belt was bright blue, his hair dark, his eyes soft and kind.
But when he saw her, his face fell.
“So it’s true,” he whispered, letting the door fall closed behind him as he stepped out.
Gunnhild had intended to keep her composure, but as soon as he hugged her, she crumpled, dropping the cart’s handle and returning the embrace.
“We sensed the moment when Heid’s spirit moved on from the living world,” he said when they broke apart. “How did it happen?”
“She was killed,” Gunnhild said quietly.
“Killed? By whom?”
“I have more questions than answers. But—”
“I’ll fetch Juoksa and our drums. We’ll ask the spirits at once.”
“There will be no need for that.” Juoksa stepped out from the tent, dressed similarly to his apprentice but with a red belt. He was taller, paler, with lighter hair and sharp, dark eyes. When his gaze fell on Gunnhild, she nodded once. He nodded back in understanding: She did not want them involved.
“Why not?” Mielat asked, looking from Juoksa to Gunnhild.
“Because it isn’t safe,” she said. She explained to them everything that had happened, and finished with, “I fear that these witches are tracking me, and that if you’re caught doing a ritual with me, or on my behalf, they’ll attack you, too. I must return to my father’s as soon as possible. I was hoping to come west with you to meet the king’s tax collectors.”
Juoksa made a face, and Gunnhild wanted to say that King Harald was as much her king as theirs—which was to say, not much of a king at all—but instead she said, “When are you leaving?”
“A moon from now,” he replied.
Gunnhild cursed internally. That was too long. If she wished to find Signy before winter—
“But why would your own kind attack you? And what do your friends from childhood have to do with anything?” Mielat asked.
“That’s what I need to find out.” Gunnhild sighed. “If I must wait, I’ll wait. But I’m eager to see that my friend is safe.”
The noaidi exchanged a meaningful look.
Gunnhild narrowed her eyes. “What is it?”
“There may be a quicker way for you to get back to your father’s,” said Mielat, looking at Juoksa as if waiting for permission to continue.
“A group of Norsemen have made camp on the beach.” Juoksa gestured north, in the direction of the water, which was far enough away from their own camp that it could not be seen.
“What?” Gunnhild hardly dared to believe her luck. “Norsemen? You’re certain?”
Juoksa nodded. “Some of our trappers met them at dawn. They say they’re on their way home from the summer raids.”
“There are thirty or so men. They got caught in a storm,” Mielat added. “They’ll be here at midday to trade some of their plunder for supplies.”
Gunnhild peered up at the sky. “But it’s midday now.”
As if on cue, she heard a commotion from the other end of the camp—men speaking another language, her language, and the sound brought with it a swell of memories.
She was really going back, after half a lifetime away.
Five Norsemen had come. The largest of them seemed to be the leader, for he said something to the other four, who hauled sacks of goods to trade. She heard him give instructions for them to meet up later at the camp. After a last look at Mielat and Juoksa for reassurance, Gunnhild swallowed heavily and walked up to him.
“Hello,” she said in Norse, and he turned.
When she met his eyes, they were warm and brown and curious, a stark contrast to his menacingly large frame. She realized then that he was younger than she’d first thought—maybe ten or so winters older than her own twenty-four. He wore a tunic and pants, and leg wraps over powerful calves; a seax hung at his belt, and a gold arm ring glimmered just above his elbow. His dark beard was thick, and his tunic was rolled up to expose muscled forearms and strong, broad hands.
“Hello,” he said slowly, as though concerned that she was a figment of his imagination.
She set her shoulders. “My name is Gunnhild Ozurardottir. I need passage south. I can pay.”
He seemed uncertain as his eyes roved over her patchwork garments and pointed reindeer-hide shoes. “Your accent—where do you come from?”