The Monstrous Child (8 page)
Read The Monstrous Child Online
Authors: Francesca Simon
IRST THINGS FIRST
. Before I measured out the boundaries of Hel within the blackness of Niflheim, I needed to turn my mind to hall-building. (That’s right. I’m going to call my realm Hel. What better name than my own?)
I am a queen; I wanted a hall to rival any in Asgard. There are great riches here to be plundered, if the wealth
I’ve seen the dead hauling after them is any indication.
Unfortunately (I am so uniquely cursed and unlucky that everything to do with me could begin with that word), I have to design and build my citadel myself. My palace is the first here.
Of course, it needs to be enormous. Greater than any palace in Asgard. There are an awful lot of dead. Why did Odin make his driftwood so weak that they only live for a blink of a raven’s eye before cluttering up my kingdom?
How I would love to keep all those wailing shades far, far away from me. If only I could hang a ‘Beware of the Monster’ sign on my gates, build my hall and lock the doors for eternity.
But I am subject to One-Eye’s decree, and I must offer a welcome.
I draw up my list of must-haves.
1. Location. Location. Location. That is key. No building beside a spewing volcano, or sulphurous
swamp, or raging rivers flowing with chewed carcasses. Believe me, places that don’t contain at least one of the above are hard to find in Niflheim.
Don’t misunderstand me. Even if some sun-dappled meadow with gurgling stream and gambolling sheep
existed
down here, I wouldn’t build my hall there. Are you crazy? All beauty does is highlight my ugliness. I prefer to hide in the shadows. There and not there. This hall would be
mine
and I could please myself. A ripple of pleasure pricked me at the thought.
2. My hall must be far from Modgud’s bridge. Let my guests get past the Shore of Corpses and the dragon first before they find my gates and slip inside my door, never to leave again.
3. My hall must be far from Nidhogg. The dragon can keep the bloody pit in which he lives. I want nothing to do with the valley where he gnaws on corpses and the great Yggdrasil’s roots. I do not
want a dragon for a neighbour. Ditto the howling chained dog that Modgud described. Not in
my
courtyard.
4. My death realm must have high walls; Hel will be a fortress within Niflheim. The ramparts round my kingdom must reach higher than the walls of Asgard. Won’t that make the gods rage with jealousy when they hear of the palace I have created?
5. Within those towering walls I will build a hall. Not just any hall, but the largest hall in all the worlds. One-Eye’s golden palace will look like a privy beside it. (Mine will smell worse than one, but let’s pretend we don’t notice.)
6. I like naming things, and I will call my grave mound
Eljudnir
. My Rain-Damp, Sleet-Cold Hall. No
Rose Palace
or
Mount Pleasant
for me. And I’ll build icy pitch-black portals named
Corpse Gate
and
Carrion Gate
. I think I’ve excelled myself with those names. What? You
think I should have called my lovely entrances
Welcome Home
and
Rest Your Feet?
Built a gleaming palace of light and happiness? Ha! I don’t want to entice anyone in under false pretences. ‘If only we’d known the hideous welcome awaiting us in this dismal hall, we’d have gone elsewhere …’
7. Corpse Gate and Carrion Gate, which will lock in the dead forever, must be made of iron, tightly wrought and impassable. I want them oozing, like molton metal, dreadful and oily to the touch. If I can’t stop the dead from swarming in, at least my barred gates will keep out any living creatures who might slip past Modgud. I will host no one beyond those I must. If the living want to sneak down here to learn wisdom, they’ll get no joy from me. And any wisdom they glean will be too late, as they won’t return to Midgard to enjoy it.
8. Inside Eljudnir will be one vast, cavernous space, a banquet hall of halls (just without the banquets, of course). I see chandeliers, hearths, tables laden with jugs and rich hangings on the stone walls. On second thoughts, no hangings – they would only rot and the dead won’t appreciate them anyway. That’s where the dead will congregate, on benches stretching into infinity. Those mouldy walls will contain an infinite number of bodies. I will also build a lavish bedchamber just for me, curtained off, where no one may enter. That way, I will host the dead but never have to see them. Oh, and treasure rooms. Lots and lots of treasure rooms. And two High Seats, carved and imposing, befitting a great queen. One for me, should I ever decide to receive guests. And one for my love. Because one night Baldr will come to find me – I know he will. And I must be ready for that night.
No kitchen required, obviously. The mead goat that will provide drink can wander about; the dead aren’t fussy. And, frankly, I don’t care if they are – it’s
my
hall and I make the rules. I need no food as I don’t have to eat. I just want storerooms for my treasure, and a private bedroom for me. And beyond the hall, stables, ready to receive the horses that have been sacrificed with their masters.
There. My dream home. Not exactly fussy, am I? A gigantic one-bedroom hall with no mod cons.
Perfect.
For a long while I planned and honed my designs, adding a turret here, a palisade there, as I groped my way northwards and downward from Modgud’s bridge, pushing through stinging fog and shrieking winds. Building a palace filled my mind. It is astonishing how much plotting and planning dampens sorrow, like ash poured on fire.
At last, after much wandering, I found a wind-swept plain stretching far off into the gloom in all directions.
The air was fetid, and blasting winds blew, and darkness reigned. I had found the spot for my kingdom.
I claimed it for my own.
And then I built my hall, and my kingdom, myself.
I felt power surge through me. I didn’t need masons or carters or diggers to carve rock out of the bleak land. I didn’t need to hoodwink some poor giant. With one sweep of my arms the rocks and boulders piled themselves atop the other and immense walls loomed above me.
Then fearsome gates bolted with iron. No dragon, no living person, would squeeze through them. The mighty fortifications rose, black and sheer, until they encircled my kingdom.
The restless dead began to gather, waiting.
Then I stepped inside to raise my hall, Eljudnir, from the slime and entrails of the fog world. First, foundations appeared, then stone walls, interlaced with bones. Skulls stacked themselves around empty hearths. (For decoration only, mind. They will never be lit – the dead don’t need warmth.) The turf roof thatched itself. Never
have I felt more like a goddess as I watched my creation form around me.
You were right to fear me, One-Eye. I too can create order from chaos.
And while I built, all I could think was Baldr Baldr Baldr. Did Baldr know my feverish thoughts? Would he come to rescue me? He was One-Eye’s son – maybe his evil father would listen if Baldr pleaded for me. If only. If only …
And when my mind was not filled with thoughts of Baldr, I gnawed on revenge. How I could destroy the gods for what they’d done to me. Wild plots and schemes played out in my mind. I had time. I would find a way to lead an army of the dead and ransack Asgard.
*
When my hall was finished (don’t ask how long it took. An hour? Fifty years? It’s all the same to me, remember?), I stood on the threshold and surveyed my handiwork.
I admired everything.
And so will you.
Sconces made of skulls hung on the walls. Chandeliers criss-crossed with bones dangled from the roof, festooned with unlit candles – why waste wax on the dead? Stone lamps smoking with fish oil glowed, tiny pools of light in the bitter black, like wolf eyes in moonlight.
I stumbled along the packed-earth floor, trying not to crash into the numberless benches and tables and the low platforms fast against the gold-flecked walls. I’d made two High Seats, richly carved, with side posts, on a raised dais. If anyone ever asked who the other throne was for, I would just say (if I deigned to answer), ‘An honoured guest.’
I can’t believe I have created all this.
I have a room to myself, curtained off behind the High Seats with a bed hidden behind thick hangings and furnished with grave goods. I’ve never had a separate place to sleep before.
Picture my richly embellished chamber, a candelabra
burning a hole in the dark. Heavy, embroidered curtains shield my bed, which I call Sorrow. My blanket is Mildew and my bedhangings Hide Me. These fine furnishings will all rot soon enough. No matter. I’ll just replace them. As is fitting, the dead bring many offerings, and grave goods are no use to the dead.
Of course Eljudnir is freezing and forbidding. The wind still howls down the roof vent. The air is rank. It is always night, always winter. The terrible gloom never ends: a smothering blanket of fear and solitude and bricked-up misery. It’s always wet and draughty. What do you expect? It’s the hall of the dead. Death is a serious business.
Don’t think I haven’t heard my kingdom described as riches and glittering treasures surrounded by foulness, horror, decay, phantoms, mud, filth, stench and squalor. That I am nothing but the queen of a great pestilent burial mound.
That’s a bit harsh. A bit ungrateful. I could have let the dead roam the fearsome wastes of
Niflheim. Instead I created a barrow for them in my storm-wracked world.
EFORE YOU AND I
meet face to face, learn the true history of the world as you know it. Remember what is inscribed here. Repeat it round your fires and in your halls.
The rest is just stuff.
Burning ice and flame. Frost and sparks. No sand. No sea. No sky. No warmth. A great void at the beginning
of time.
The giants were first, the oldest inhabitants of the Nine Worlds. The gods, the great tormentors, came afterwards.
Odin and his brothers create Midgard out of the void from the body of the unlucky giant Ymir.
Giants fight gods.
The treacherous gods imprison the frost giants in the ice.
The treacherous gods kidnap my brothers and me and take us to Asgard.
I meet Baldr.
The source of all evil, Odin, hurls me into Niflheim.
Bronze.
Fighting.
Iron.
Fighting.
Steel.
Fighting.
Fighting.
Fighting.
Gunpowder.
Lots of fighting.
The stirrup is invented.
Next the canon.
Snorri Sturluson writes horribly about me in his book called
The Prose Edda
. (Do not read his lies!)
Snorri Sturluson is murdered by his son-in-law â serves him right. He did
not
get a warm welcome from me when his sorry shade shambled down here.
Guns invented â yes!
Plague â yes.
Black death â yes yes yes.
Flying chariots.
Bombs.
Antibiotics â boo.
Vaccination â boo.
Space chariots.
War.
Midgard heats up.
The Frost Giants break free of the ice. Unfortunately, the gods defeat them.
Axe Age, Sword Age.
The Gods die.
End of World.
Have I missed out anything important? I don't think so. When you live forever, you get a perspective on how little most things matter.
You imagine you're special? You're not.