From Friðrós:
OK, first of all, I don’t know what happened for the first, like, ten days of the Faire. It was like The Author forgot we existed or something. Not that I’m unused to that: I am generally unhappy with where my storyline is going, and I would like to have a word with her. Unfortunately, the only one of us who could get in touch with her was the Queen, of course. And all Gwyneth would say is that The Author just kept mumbling things about frogs and singing bits of old disco songs, then going back to sleep. Well, great. That’s just great.
I was so ticked off about all this that when we finally did manage to get into the Fairelands, I thought I was overdue to lead a tour of Öndheim, and even though I looked great (let’s face it: The Author does know how to make us all look good, at least), the Realm thought I needed just one more thing, so….
I’d just gotten into the main square in Öndheim, and I was trying to get my bearings, and all of a sudden, there was this massive Raven. Now, I’ll tell you: it is not easy to surprise a Huldufólk. We are nature. We are all three Realms of the cosmos. I should have heard that bird coming from a kilometre away. I mean, look at that photo! His wingspan is as wide as mine.
And what’s worse than a bird sneaking up on you?
“It’s because I’m magic, little Huldufólk girl,” said the Raven.
Yep. That’s what’s worse than a bird sneaking up on you.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Friðrós; it feels like I’ve been waiting for you for so long.” His voice was really deep. Like, so deep it was almost just a rumble in my ear. He had landed on my left shoulder by this time, and he squeezed just a bit with his talons, not enough to hurt. “I’m Myrkandraum, which you will understand, of course.”
“Dark Dream?” I shuddered. “Are you some harbinger of trouble to come?”
“No; at least, not right now,” he replied. “Not all good things are light, and not all bad things are dark, as you well know. But let’s talk about your little darkness for a moment, shall we?”
I checked the angle of the sun. It looked like I had given myself more time to explore Öndheim ahead of my tour than I’d previously thought. “My little darkness?” Sure, I have time for you, bird. Like Gwyneth suddenly had time for Kvit, at last year’s Faire, I thought suddenly. Myrkandraum might be a minor character—or he might not be going away, at all. Gwyneth is rarely without Kvit these days, that’s for sure.
“You noticed your eyes changed colour, right, little Peace Rose?”
“Yeah, but I mean, Gwyneth’s—I mean, Her Fae Majesty’s—glow sometimes, so I thought maybe….”
“You thought maybe you weren’t cursed by a little old lady on the way into the Faire? Did you not think that?”
“Um, why would anyone want to curse me?” I was flummoxed. Isn’t that a great word, ‘flummoxed’?
“Flummoxed is an excellent word, now that you mention it.”
“I didn’t mention it.”
“You hominids, always so literal. But your memories are selective, aren’t they? You know what ‘flummoxed’ means, and that makes you feel good about yourself. But woe to the sweet old lady fumbling for change at the Faire gates, hmm?”
I sputtered. “She was slow! And wait a minute— I paid for her ticket! It was easier than waiting, and I needed to get to Öndheim. Why would she curse me for that?”
The Raven stared at me. At least I think he was staring.
“She didn’t curse you for that, you whinnock.” Ok, gonna have to look that one up later. “She cursed you because you removed her sovereignty. And a whinnock is a baby pig, the smallest of the litter.”
“I think you’re…whoa.”
We’d been so busy squabbling, I hadn’t been paying attention to our surroundings. “That is a … wow. Stór bjalla.”
“Oh, noticed that, did you?” A Raven with such a deep voice laughs like a toad with a megaphone. “And don’t you go speaking Icelandic at me, missy; I’m trying to improve my English, so none of that native language nonsense.”
I wasn’t interested: he’d just startled me with the laughter. “It’s got a…a clapper? I think that’s what they’re called. And it’s moving; I can even see it vibrating when the clapper hits the bell. But it’s not making any noise.”
“Well, thank whatever gods guide the hidden folk for that,” he retorted (none too kindly). “That bell is not meant for you.”
“Is it for those glowing beings, then?”
“The whole Realm is for them,” he replied. “Are you so long away you’ve forgotten the Realm of Spirits?”
I looked down. “Awenia is my first posting,” I admitted. “It’s been three years now, and Her Fae Majesty shows no sign that she has any plans to replace me. I’m the longest-serving intern she’s ever had.”
“Hm. So you are a Huldufólk who does not really know how to Huldufólk, so to speak.”
Well. That didn’t feel good to hear. Rather than attempting to swat the bird off my shoulder, I tried to be more adult about it. “My family always— I was their youngest child. When I went away, they held a Bless, of course—even though I hate that name, they call it that because it’s easier.” I wrinkled my nose. “Easier. Easier to call it what the children of the Kristnitaka call it. Easier to use the words of missionaries.”
“Easier,” he repeated. “There are two lessons here. Would you like a lesson for today, or a lesson for the ages?”
I scowled. “If you must give me a lesson, let it be a lesson for today; I don’t think I have the strength for a lesson for the ages.” And who was this bird, anyway? Or rather, who did he think he was?”
“I’ll answer that question before the lesson,” said the Raven. “I am not Hugin, nor am I Munin, for where would Odin be without them? But we are all of us forged in their moulds, we true Ravens. We each carry a bit of thought and memory inside us, and sometimes…” he touched his beak to my nose, “we are called to help one of the Asatruer. That is why you have met me. I knew you were due in Öndheim, and in a Realm already full of our images, it seemed you might find it easier—there’s our lesson-word again—to adapt to my presence here.”
I nodded. Now that I’d realised I was early and not late, my senses were more in tune, and I could feel his kraft. “So you’re here to help me with my storyline.”
“No further discussion before the lesson,” he intoned. “Easier. Your family, a good and well regarded Huldufólk family, use the Christianised word for a farewell celebration, rather than finding one more suited to our shared beliefs, because it is easier.”
I nodded.
“And that makes you feel overlooked, yes?”
I nodded again.
“Putting aside for the moment that Iceland has been legally Christian for over a thousand years, that the accepted term ‘bless’ could have come from the earlier tradition (it’s not just Christian priests who hand out blessings, is it?), and that while you are of course important, you probably aren’t important enough to warrant the creation of a new word which must then be popularised, written down, added to dictionaries, etcetera— do you think your family meant to harm you with their use of this term?”
“Of course not,” I replied. “But families don’t always know when they hurt you.”
“Granted.” He touched his beak to my nose again. “Now, we are going to engage your memory.” He clacked his beak; it was like a punctuation mark. “Recall for me why you leapt ahead and paid for an extra admission to the Faire rather than waiting for one little old woman to sort out her coins?”
Oh. “It was easier.” I replied. “It was easier for me.”
“Hmm,” he said. “Don’t go round expecting to see the same eyes in the mirror each day. She could have done you far worse, you know. She could have been Odin himself—do you remember whether she had an eyepatch?”
“What’s up those stairs?” I asked. Nothing like a good subject change.
It was a depiction of the forging of life, illustrated by two enormous Smiths—and their hammers did make noise. Were they mechanical, or magical?
“Could be either, or both,” Mirkandraum said. “And masters of fire, the great initiator, might be adept at either. Or both.” Then, he surprised me again. Wryly: “Silly mediæval alchemists.”
I laughed and gave the traditional response. “Silly directionists.”
He laughed, too. It wasn’t quite as loud as all that hammering, though.
We went through a glowing passage and found ourselves in a beautiful memory garden. I won’t share photos of the memories: I think you should see them for yourself. But the space was so calm and welcoming. We stayed there until almost time for my tour to start.
“So,” I asked, “can you help me with my storyline?”
He clacked his beak. “In a way, perhaps. Yes.”
“In that case, I like you,” I said, “pedantry forgiven.”
He chuckled. “We’re all pedantic, you know. Ravens. Best get to your tour group. I’ll join you if you don’t mind.”
I have a feeling Mirkandraum isn’t here for just one story.
Notes & Credits:
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