Frost (28 page)

In a fog, I felt a soft wind on my face. My eyes flickered briefly onto a huge nostril, a white furry snout, and big black eyes, but my brain had difficulty processing the information, until . . . something licked me.

Eeew.
I rolled over, ignoring the dream and pulling the covers over me. Covers? Shiny covers?

With a start, I jumped up. Jumped with
two legs.
Excellent news. No more sumo-suit. My blanket was the sealskin, now reverting to a capelike function. Weirdly, my feet were covered in booties of the same shiny material.

In a state of confusion, I scrambled backward through powdery snow, bumping into something hard and scaring the something-licking into a buck and retreat of several paces. I jumped to my feet, senses alert, but my mind still wasn’t accepting the information as reliable. The something-hard turned out to be a giant tree of Sequoia proportions. Though it wasn’t a redwood, it had a height that was dizzying and a base that one couldn’t lap easily. Its furrowed bark was mahogany-brown; it had limblike buttresses from which the medieval architects might have been inspired; and its base had a hollow or cavity that you could drive a truck into. A few scattered leaves on the ground were the size of serving platters.

I pulled the cape tight across my chest and looked around. The tongued thing — a reindeer? — had meandered over to a patch of field where grassy tufts had broken through the snow. I wondered, hoping I was wrong, but there was only one way to find out. I walked toward the antlered beast.

“You wouldn’t happen to be Poro, would you?”

It lifted its head and looked at me with doe-eyes. Some small flicker of understanding passed between us.

Great.
As guidance, I got Bambi’s arctic cousin. I took a better look at my sidekick. It was, at least, massive. Judging by the many-pointed rack, a male, I presumed. As confirmation, I stole my head around its backside; yep, a boy. I also took note of a kind of padded seat harnessed across his upper back with attached stirrups and reins.
I’m supposed to ride this thing?
I wasn’t much of a cowgirl. An incident involving me and a horse very fittingly named Bolt was probably still legend at the Shady Acres Ranch in Calabasas.

Raising my gaze to a vast seascape behind the tree, I was overwhelmed by an endless stretch of rolling waves. Bobbing in the pale silver waters were a few icebergs; waves nipped at their pitching forms. I shivered and turned away from the imposing vista. On the front side of the tree, as if the tree were its wellspring and the hollow its mouth, a path meandered over a snow-cloaked tundra and then disappeared into a stand of snow-flocked evergreens, behind which a jagged-peaked mountain loomed.

A serrated wind scratched across my cheek.
Dang,
it was cold. I pulled the hood over my ears and receded into the down of its lining. Whatever it was made of was crazy amazing, and could put GORE-TEX and Tyvek both out of business. And the booties, not the most styling of looks, but warm, wickedly warm. What had been gentle rolls around my ankles had unfurled to now extend coverage to mid-calf. My toes were warm and dry, despite standing in a foot of snow.

Now what?

Judging by the sun’s proximity to the horizon, there were only a few hours left in the day. Though the tree’s recessed cavity made a natural shelter, my instincts told me to press forward.

“So, Poro, are we going to do this thing?”

Without a sound, he lifted his head and looked at me. Well, I had to admit, strong and silent was definitely my type. I thought of Jack and felt something twist in my belly. Digging my left toe into the stirrup, I swung my right leg over Poro’s immense flank. He straightened his horned head, and I pulled on the reins, though his velvety antlers sure made tempting handlebars. So now that I had both a companion and a mode of transportation, all I needed was a destination. I didn’t suppose that Poro came with either GPS or OnStar. The path, interestingly enough, appeared to have but one direction: through the stand of trees and continuing up the mountain. Pressing in from every other direction was nothing but ice-clogged waves.

All righty, then, forest and mountain it is.

I gave Poro a gentle nudge, and he set out along the path. I knew then why Hulda had called Niflheim the land of mist and ice. A gauzy fog hung like curtains in the air, and it was so cold that icicles clung to my lashes. If it weren’t for the cape, I’m sure I would never have survived. Within an hour or so, we came out of the woods. To both sides of the path there was nothing but icy tundra. Not far ahead, I could see the road begin its spiral up the mountain. Suddenly, voices sounded from behind us. I went rigid with fear. Poro and I had no protection. Had we still been in the forest, we might have taken cover, but out here on this open stretch, we were completely exposed. I jumped off Poro’s back, as if escape planning required two feet on the ground. Too late, anyway, as a cluster of dark heads was already in sight.

Holding Poro’s reins, I watched their approach, wondering how I was going to defend myself. I stiffened as the first two passed. Then another grouping of three overtook us without as much as a glance in my direction.
Huh? Was I wearing some kind of invisibility cloak?
Even if I was rendered transparent, surely my massive reindeer companion wasn’t. I raised my arm to examine the cape, and one man turned in my direction.
Uh-oh.
But he gave me the emptiest, most disinterested regard I’d ever encountered, and then looked away. It was as if I were nothing. I looked more closely at the men, and a few women, filing past; they were all vacant-eyed and impassive. It was weird. And unsettling. Made even more so by the fact that something in their coloring — dark hair and sky-blue eyes — reminded me of Jack. They wore simple, unadorned clothing: heavy boots, crude fur-lined blue tunics, thick blue leggings, and close-fitting hats with long, furry earflaps. Many carried tools strung across their backs: long, toothy saws or long-handled axes. Loggers? Miners?

Toward the back of the group, a man ambled along, gnawing on a thick loaf of bread. My stomach lurched. I honestly didn’t know the last time I’d eaten. Without even thinking, I stepped forward.

“Excuse me, sir, would you have a bite of bread to spare?” I couldn’t believe it even as the words were exiting my mouth. My empty belly had obviously hijacked my brain. And I’d clearly seen
Oliver
one too many times.

He looked at me expressionless.

Of course,
I thought.
Stupid me.
Why would they speak English in Niflheim? It’s part of Norse legend, so maybe Norwegian or Icelandic, or possibly their own language. Niflish? Niflandic?

“Brauð,”
I said, using the Icelandic, even trying to give that stupid Icelandic
d
its
th
inflection at the end.

Nothing.

“Pain,”
I tried in French.

He dipped his head forward in confusion.

“Bread,” I said, having run out of foreign words, but this time I spoke louder — because that always helps — and charaded my hands to my mouth and fake chewed.

The man looked between me and the crusty bread without any show of emotion. He then broke the loaf in two and thrust one half in my hand. Without a word, he plodded on down the trail. I devoured it in a matter of moments. Food had never tasted so sweet, despite the fact that there were definitely crunchy bits of unknown origin sticking to my teeth.

After the group had passed, I stood in the road, confused. For one, how had I gone so unnoticed? Not that I considered myself a traffic stopper, but completely unremarked upon? How many silver-cloaked, reindeer-riding girls did they pass on a daily basis? I was sure the answer was not many, so the question became: why hadn’t they reacted? And where were they going?

Standing there, watching the path, I gazed up to the mountain beyond. I was struck by something I hadn’t noticed before. The clouds atop the mountain swirled and swarmed around its lofty spire with an intensity you wouldn’t see back on old Midgard. The clouds appeared to be alive, dive-bombing like a squadron of nighthawks.

I swung up onto Poro’s back, and we headed for the mountain trail. I figured following the workers was as good a plan as any. As we rounded a switchback and with an unobstructed view of the trail ahead, a flash of blue tripped my already skittish internal alarms. I swore I saw one of the workers, but the next moment he was gone.
Huh?
Within moments, I spied another — the one who gave me the bread — in the same area. I halted Poro, not wanting to alert the stranger to our presence. I held my breath and watched from a safe distance as the worker hopped up onto an outcropping of rock. At first, it looked as if he might climb the face. He lifted one hand up onto a small protruding edge. His other hand pressed against the rock wall at waist level with a soft, almost embracing gesture. He then leaned his torso into the wall. And all at once he was gone. Vanished. Turned to rock.

I gasped, and Poro brayed. Pitching myself off Poro, I ran to the spot where the guy had just been. Running my hands all along the crevices of brown craggy stone, I looked for some sort of fissure or crease. There was none.

“Stay here,” I said to Poro. I might not have bothered. My trusty sidekick was already backing away.

Figuring it was worth a try, I stepped up and did as the worker had done. I raised my right hand to the small ledge of rock and extended my left at waist level, slowly shifting my weight into the cold, rigid stone. I felt the cold seeping in through my hands and cheek. And then, all at once, I was sliding.

I found myself with my back to a wall, literally. It was cold and dank. Behind me a gray stone wall towered. Before me a village meandered, as if straight out of a Dickens novel. Drab buildings of two or three stories spread out in a warren of streets and alleys. The lanes were narrow and cobbled, and one thing was certain: this was not a joyous place, nor a prosperous one. A pale light leaked from under old-fashioned street lamps. I heard footsteps, saw figures approaching from my left, and instinctively darted into the first alley to my right. The second and third stories of the buildings protruded over the alley, creating a kind of balcony under which I crouched, hood down, shoulders hunched. I needn’t have bothered; the two people shambled past with an eyes-down disinterest. I cautiously returned to the street; it was eerily dark and vacant of voices. Having no immediate goal except to get my bearings, avoid notice, and find Jack, I pressed forward.

Within a few minutes, the entrance to a small courtyard appeared on my left. It was poorly lit and reeked of garbage, which, in the gloom, I could see overflowing from a large bin. I could also make out a clothesline of laundry strung from one window to another. I took a few hesitant steps into the area. Dark blue garments, similar to those worn by the loggers, hung from crude pegs. Though so far no one had acknowledged me, I didn’t know what to expect ahead. The clothes were, at least, an opportunity to conform. In a corner, I removed my cape, slipped on the blue pants, tucked my long nightie into the waistband, and shrugged the loose blue tunic top over my shoulders. It was baggy, shapeless, and so void of style that no belt or boots could save it.
Whatever.
The goal was to blend. I twisted my cape into a knot, noting compactible as among its many attributes, and shoved it into the roomy front pocket of the dark blue pullover.

I became aware of an upward tilt to the road. And then, over the rooftops, I saw turrets and towers rising above the cramped streets. My throat clamped with a knot of determination. A castle meant a queen; Brigid, I assumed. Where there was Brigid, I hoped to find Jack. My feet pounded the rising pavers urgently.

Figuring the working end of the castle would be the easiest to sneak into, I found a back door. Luckily, security was lax. Made me wonder how often visitors found a wedge through to Niflheim and then managed to melt into the mountain. Not many had to be the answer, because I sure didn’t go through customs.

I found myself in the kitchen, which was full of workers busy at various tasks. I kept my head down and fell in line with a crew of potato peelers. No one seemed to notice me or question my presence. On the sly, I cracked my teeth into a raw spud and stashed what remained into my pocket. I was that hungry. Growing bolder and going positively Pavlovian with the smells, I soon abandoned the peelers and followed another worker carrying a sack of nuts. She moved to a long worktable, where I watched her pull a small hammerlike instrument and a small, but sharp, knife from a shelf under the work-
station. She first used the knife to score along the nut’s seam and then cracked it open with a single strike of the hammer. It was labor intensive, but not a bit of the nuts’ meat was crushed. I concentrated on her blank face, wondering how anyone could be so unaware of someone shadowing them.
Helloo? Anybody home?
I found twins to her knife-and-mallet set and began mirroring her movements. For every three nuts I shelled, I shoved one into my mouth and one into my pocket, especially the broken ones. Something told me there’d be hell to pay for a sloppy job.