My name is Marja. If I ever had a family name, I have long forgotten it now. It was the first thing the bear ate.
I still remember where I sat when they took me. The dock was bathed with ocean water, the air choking with briney mist. I was gutting my father’s fish. Little knife clenched in my puffy fingers, I watched the blade press into the fish’s resistant flesh, before slipping inside and spilling its bowels. Mother hated the job, and hated that I loved it. But it needed doing. She let me go.
Father and Uncle would go out with their nets and harpoons on the boat that waves could swallow. They left me alone on the dock, sitting on a rotting crate, my bottom fitting perfectly into the space where the wood splintered and melted away.
The fish wife in the tavern liked to sing as she worked, drowning out her baby’s cries.
Oman kemur lundi av bakka,
titandi fóti, reisir upp nakka.
I sang along sometimes, when my nose went numb with cold, my lungs aching from the wet wind. I needed distraction.
Hvør ræður her fyri londum?
Valdimenn og norðmenn.
Did I call them to me? Did I summon the Norsemen, with the murmured words of that lullaby? Perhaps they would have come anyway. Come and dragged me off the dock, silent as the siren dragging her victim into the depths, shoved a stinking rag into my mouth and knocked my head under the bow of their oiled boat. As they hauled me away, I cried for father, for uncle, for mother.
I don’t remember their names anymore either. The bear ate those too.
I retched, rocking about as they beat the water with their oars. All I could see was the leather straps of their boots, the empty bottles that once held mead, the scent of sweat, and whale fat, and salt. I closed my eyes, but still was assaulted by the terrible smell, the violent sounds. Anger began to boil in my stomach, bubbling like hot broth.
When we made it to shore, one of the Norsemen tossed me over his shoulder, climbing down the gangplank with terrifying force. Once on land, he tossed me down, and I slammed my palms into the hard planks of the dock, whimpering, though perhaps the rag devoured the sound before the men could hear it.
They spoke their language, one I barely understood, only from the mocking jokes and curses uttered by my family. They swarmed around me, the wolf pack around its prey. I kept my eyes closed.
“Let us speak so the wretch may understand us,” said one of the men, his Faroese stilted, spoken like he chewed wasting meat.
“Welcome to Garðarshólmur,” said another, “you are here to mother our children.”
“And coddle our cock.”
The laughs were like whips, lashing out and striking skin.
“Take her to captain’s room. He will have his way with her.”
Some hulking arms took my elbows and dragged me upright, shoving me toward a small doorway that seemed to me then the passage straight to death. It was a tavern inn, just across the road at the end of the dock. Fishwives looked on, eyes flashing, and sailors cheered us on. How could they watch, and do nothing? I was not much younger than they, only just out of youth. Fury grew like a flame inside me. I resisted at first, daring my witnesses to say just a single word, but the man dragging me was so much larger than I, my struggles meant nothing. He knocked me forward into the inn, past tables and chairs, my eyes hardly able to take in the sight of it all, only catching glances of sword belts, melting candles, tankards, an apron. We stumbled up the stairs and I was pushed into a small room.
“Captain will suck your braids till all the colour is gone,” he said, laughing. “He prefers his women blonde.”
I stumbled back, turning about, relieved to see the room empty. The cot was made up messily, a trunk in the corner half open, the tin mirror on the wall hanging cockeyed. I did not want to sit on the bed, did not want to submit. He will have his way with her. I knew what that meant. I felt the violation already, the hands all over me, the fear rising up my throat with intent to stifle my tongue. I would not have it. I would not. Mother needed me home. So did Father. I could not stay here with these barbarians. These evil, violent men, with women who watched and did nothing.
On the table by the window was a knife, its hilt a carving of a bear. I snatched it up, tucked it into my boot. Then, my breaths coming quick, I began to rifle through the chest, ripping past old boots and wooden bowls. My hands finally felt on something coarse and heavy.
Fingers grasping for purchase, I pulled it out: a heavy bearskin cloak. Still cold from sitting in the freezing pool of water in the footwell of the ship, I wrapped it around myself.
It hardly smelled like a man. The aroma rising toward my nose was unmistakably that of a wild animal.
I rose to my feet, a strange heat pulsating in my toes. I walked toward the mirror on the wall. Now the heat was rising toward my knees, up to my hips. I reached out to straighten the mirror, seeing my reflection on the plate. What was this rampant warmth, now flooding with increased fervor toward my torso, like a flame fed with fuel?
I stared at my own brown eyes, hooded, watching as the cloak grew around me. My red braids disappearing under the overwhelming brown fur. My frown stretching, distorting.
By the time I was transformed, I had not the ability to recognize myself anymore. I was a creature made of rage.
All I knew was that all-consuming anger. Sending spittle from my mouth. I crushed the bed, shattered the windows. I was unyielding. In my hulking form, I blundered down the stairs, smashing them with my feet, clawing the walls down to the stone foundations. Relentless. Lurching my arms about, wielding that knife without reservation. I slaughtered them all, every man and woman in that forsaken tavern. I splintered the tables with my immense strength, set fire to the room with a candle and my wrath. Was I bear, was I woman?
I was both.
I lumbered out into the road and released an almighty roar, one that rattled the very stones of Garðarshólmur, one that filled me up with even more strength. The Norsemen scattered around me. I was unstoppable. I stamped them out like flies. I destroyed the dock with my fists, crushed the deck of their ship into debris, the sail floating in the water like the corpse of the whale.
When all in my wake was in ruin, I allowed myself to breathe, to slow. I removed the bearskin cloak and sucked in cold air, gazing up at the grey skies. My anger satisfied, I felt clean again. I didn’t realize then what the bear had taken from me. That the fury came at a price.
I bent toward the soldier huddling in fear by the shattered dock.
“Bring me home,” I said.
He peered up at me, fear in his eyes. “Girl,” he said, “you’ve destroyed our ship. If you wish to go home, you must go to our council and beg permission for another.”
“I will scour the countryside, take another.”
“You will bring war down upon your island,” he said, “you think the Faroe can face the battle-cry of the Norse?”
I backed away from him. This I did not want. I wanted safety. I wanted peace for my family.
“What is your name, girl?”
I glanced back at him. He sat a little straighter now. From his regal composure, it seemed he was the captain, who would do with me what he will.
“Marja.”
“Your family name. The Althing looks kindly on some of you islanders.”
I blinked. My family name. I knew my family. My mother, my father. I could still see their faces in my mind. But I could not remember the name. My name.
Gritting my teeth, I spat out, “it will not matter. We are nobody. You will take me to the Althing.”
“I will?” He stood slowly, as if realizing he was still the man.
“I will allow you to dream on what may happen if you do not.” I turned from him. “And this cloak? It is mine now.”
He agreed. We took a sealskin sack of aged cheese and dried meat, he with a broadsword on his belt and I with the bearskin around my shoulders. It only overtook me when the hood was raised atop my head. We walked the cold lonely roads toward what the man called Lögberg, the place of meeting for the council.
He told me his name was Einar.
“This cannot be your name. I know what it means,” I said. We sat by a glacier stream to refill our water skins. “You do not fight alone. You use smaller men to fight for you and you tell your women to look away.”
Einar scoffed. “I captain a ship, Marja. You award me too much credit.” He looked at me for a long time. I imagined him sucking on the ends of my braids until all the colour was gone. “Perhaps your name should be Einar. If you were not a woman.”
“I can still fight alone,” I said.
He seemed to ignore my words, but stood, his figure a dark and bulky form against the milky light streaming through the clouds. “If I did not know it to be impossible, I would think you a berserkr.”
I traced my fingers along the edge of the cape. “I think you know that it is not impossible.”
He glanced at me again, and I detected fear in his light eyes. It made that heat tingle in my core again. I thought it anger before. Perhaps it was power.
We walked many long days and nights, through the struggling farmlands brushing the grey landscape with dull greens and yellows. Mountains carved a line along the horizon, and the ocean sent salty winds from the south. I did not despise this place. It had a strange beauty, a womanly essence, one I felt tangibly when Einar called it:
“Fjallkonan.”
“Who is she?” I asked.
“She is the lady of the mountain. The mountain that made this whole land.”
I smiled, gazing at the great peaks rising in the north. “She is magnificent.”
“That she is.”
I turned on him then. “And yet you believe that a woman cannot be a berserkr. You are weak.”
Einar laughed. “You have shown me that. But that is not why you are not a berserkr.”
“And why not then?”
“You did not drink the wine of the bear. That is what gives the warriors their power.”
“How do you care to explain my power?”
“You are a child,” he said, “your soul is vulnerable. Perhaps the Gods saw fit to toy with you.”
That made me angry, so much so that I refused to speak to him for the rest of the day. We travelled in silence, accompanied only by the low rumble of thunder in the distance, the gentle growl of wind buffeting through the cliffs. It was almost like music, to my ears.
I began to sing:
“Títlingur, lítil
læna mær skip títt.
lítið er skip mitt,
lág eru bein míni,
stíga borð á bátinum.
Árar leikar í tolli.”
Einar tried to hum along, which furthered my annoyance.
“You cannot carry a tune,” I snapped.
“Why are you singing?” He asked.
“Because the earth is singing to me. It would be rude not to respond.”
Einar elbowed me lightly. “You islanders hear music everywhere.”
“And you hear it nowhere.”
He went quiet then. “No. Not quite. I hear it now.” He lowered his chin. “You sing beautifully.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I have made you sentimental.”
He sighed. “My brother used to sing like you.”
“Used to?”
He ignored my question, but spit in the rush grass beside the road. “I do not know much Faroese. Tell me, what do the words mean?”
I gazed ahead, at the winding path toward Þingvellir. “It means: Little bird, lend me your ship. My ship is small, my legs hang low, step on the boat. Oars play in the tholepin.”
He breathed out, almost like a sigh. No, there was too much pity there for it to be a sigh.
“You must miss your home,” he said. When he placed his hand on my shoulder, I flinched. “Had you not destroyed her, I would have lent you my ship. Little bird.” He was smiling fondly. It made my heart soften, to see this rough man be so gentle.
“I am not a little bird,” I said, smiling. I let his hand stay a moment longer before shaking it off. “I am a bear.”
We arrived at Þingvellir the day before the next meeting, as the council gathered every full moon. We camped beside the expanse of the river. From my blanket, I could see the wide reaches of the mountains around us, our bodies nestled into the valley like a babe in its mother’s arms. I missed my mother. The thought made me weep. Einar didn’t know how to comfort me, so he simply made a stew that night over a small fire, and let me eat alone, my weary feet in the river.
The next morning was the gathering of Althing. Men from all the reaches of Garðarshólmur arrived, setting up camp around the smooth flowing water. I watched from our place, as they pitched their tents and split open their barrels of ale. There were women too, which brought me comfort, though my anger still simmered inside me. They worked around the men, setting fires, sweeping clean the tents. Einar left to go meet his friends, to garner me allies. Instead, whispers spread, rampant as a grassfire, till it reached my ears.
“A woman berserkr.”
I held the bearskin cloak tight around me. It was armour until the Althing decided to grant me freedom to return home. Just a ship. I would man it myself. If I had to.
The day passed quickly with my anticipation. A few hours before dusk, the men gathered at the Lögberg, an outcropping of rock where the men sat in a circle, their wives at their sides. All men were welcome, and so Einar took his rightful place, with I behind him. Across the circle, I met the eyes of one of the wives, who had dark skin and gold beads sewed into her braids. She was a Celt, I realized, from her tartan skirt and plaited locks. Had they stolen her too? Snatched her off the shore of Éire? There was little way to know.
When she smiled at me, I had to look away.
The men deliberated for hours on many subjects, local conflicts, small, meaningless quarrels. I felt my anger growing, my fingers twitching to lift my hood. These men knew nothing of my suffering, of the pain they caused. My vision shifted as if smoke passed in front of my eyes, from the flames of my rage. I longed to speak, but feared to lose their respect. Feared to lose my only way home.
Then, the men were laughing. I focused back in, to hear the cause of this merriment.
“A woman? Preposterous.”
Now Einar was talking, standing and filling the space around him. “Marja is a berserkr, my friends. This I swear. She demolished my ship.”
“Einar, you speak lies!”
“I would not be here if she had not made me come. She requires a vessel to carry her home. If we do not comply, she will not hesitate to unleash her wrath upon us.”
“Now that is the word of truth!” I cried out, standing beside Einar. He flashed me a glare and elbowed me back.
“Quiet, woman!” One of the men bellowed. The Celtic wife met my eye, her brow creased. She shook her head.
“You say she destroyed your ship! Where did she find the wine of the bear? You cannot have given it to her.”
“I did not,” Einar admitted. “She did not need it. All she needs is the skin of the bear over her brow and she is turned feral.”
Whispers rushed over the counselors. “Did not need it?”
I crossed my arms, angry for their disbelief, for their dismissal. I knew what I could do to them now, the real, raw power inside me. Before I realized, a low growl had escaped my mouth.
“If she really is as powerful as you say, Einar,” a man said, “she could be an asset to us. For us all.”
It happened fast. Before I could do anything at all. I was distracted, watching the Celtic wife’s eyes widen in horror, as her husband and another man leapt forward. As Einar drew his broadsword. As the weapons clashed, as a blade was thrust into Einar’s throat. Cut down, in a matter of moments. Did I cry out? I could not notice. I grappled at the cloak, trying to draw it up, but then the men were upon me. I howled with anger, but they pinned me with their weight and ripped the cloak from my shoulders.
“This is my fury!” I screamed. “You cannot have it!”
“You are ours.”
They tied up my hands and dragged me from the Lögberg. I fought all the way, thrashing and biting, grief filling my lungs like the dead man’s blood. Einar was dead. They killed my only friend in this foul place. And now I was theirs. Tied like a hog sent for slaughter. They fastened me to a post in the center of their camp, kept there as a spectacle to laugh at, to ridicule. And that they did, all night, drunk on amusement and ale, using me in every way they could imagine.
I am the bear. But they are the animals.
By morning, they had all gone for sleep, and I thought I must be the only one awake. I sagged against my bindings, my body brutalized, my mind on fire with hate. If only I didn’t need the skin to turn berserkr, I would tear the eyes from their heads, snap the sinews of their bodies like bits of thread. How dare they? I was not theirs. I could not be contained.
In the hazy purple light of dawn, the Celt came to me. She tipped my chin up and poured cool water over my tortured lips, down my dry throat.
“My name is Keira,” she whispered into my ear. I could feel her breath parting my hair. “I will loosen your bindings.”
And so she did, lowering me till I could sit on the ground, holding the cup of water in my hands.
“Why won’t you free me?” I asked, gazing into her dark eyes.
“Because they will chase you across the land and sea. It will become a hunt and they will not rest.” She knelt beside me, using a rag to wipe the blood from my cheek. “And you will not survive.”
“I will,” I growled, jerking away from her.
“They took your skin, berserkr.”
I glared at her. “You think I am nothing without it?”
“No.” She dropped her hands. “But they do.”
“You are his wife,” I spat. “You support him.”
She stood then, brushing the grass from her skirt. “Yes, I am married to Lord Kvalheim. But there is something you must learn.” She met my eye soundly. “There is a vast ocean between supporting, and surviving.”
Lord Kvalheim took me back with him to his stead, where his clan feasted every night on whale and mead. He lived along the Eastern coast, and made me walk behind his horse by a tether, Keira glancing back at me with concern as I stumbled and tripped, trying to stay upright. The lords of Althing decided they would pass me around, a hard earned reward for their exploits, a warrior to be reckoned with.
“We will don you your bearskin, you will win our battles,” Lord Kvalheim said, roaring with a laugh, “and then we will take it away. You may stay as my guest as long as you are tame.”
I kicked and I screamed. I would not go quiet. “I will not be tamed! This is my fury!”
At nights on our trips, Keira came to me, rebraiding my hair, whispering in low tones. “You must submit, Marja. Or you will be smothered.”
“I will not,” I spat. “I cannot.”
Keira glanced over at where her lumbering husband snored away by the fire.
“If you submit today, you will be strong enough to fight tomorrow.”
Though I loathed it, I saw wisdom in her words. And so I grew quiet. I walked in silence. At night, I cried for my loss when no one would hear. For my family, who were growing ever distant in my mind, and for Einar, who had died to protect me. There was good in this world, and these men were keeping it from me.
Except for Keira. She was a being of goodness that slipped closer without them ever knowing.
At the Kvalheim homestead, I was welcomed like a warrior. It was strange to me, to see the people cheer, and watch in awe as I walked by. I was untied, allowed to stride tall beside my captor. But as we approached the banquet hall, Keira took my hand.
“Do not trust their adoration,” she whispered, “it will turn to poison the moment you part your lips.”
Her hand was warm. I trusted her. I did not speak. I let the ladies dress me in gowns with foreign patterns and let the men tell tales of my ferociousness. I tried to live as Keira told me to, but it grew harder and harder. I did not belong in this place, with these people. A growing part of me desired to demolish them all. But they had my bearskin. They had rendered me powerless.
I spent the days walking the farms and grass-roofed cottages, wondering if I could run. But Keira’s words lingered. They would hunt me to the ends of the earth. For sport. I wanted my freedom. But I did not want to die.
Then, the time came for me to serve my purpose. Kvalheim was going to war with a neighboring clan, over some dispute. They would attack at dawn. Or rather, I would.
“You do not have to do this,” Keira said, as she sat with me that evening. “You can let the anger go.”
“No,” I said. “It’s there, it is growing. It will be unleashed, and I will do terrible things.”
It was far worse than terrible. It was a living nightmare. And I relished in it.
They kept me bound, and then threw the cloak over my head, rushing back to their defenses. They knew I could not tell my enemy from my friend when the bear took me over. Or perhaps they knew that they were all my enemy.
The familiar lick of anger through my body was a welcome warmth, a comforting surge of emotion. I was free. I roared, I raged, I tore through the bodies before me. I soaked my skin with the blood of men until red was all that could be seen. I bellowed to the skies. Until a hooked arrow drew the cloak from my head and I was recaptured, a prisoner once more, helpless. I still felt the tingling warmth inside me, but resistance was futile.
They stole my anger and used it, which only fed the flames inside me. It was never ending, the crime, and I saw no way to stop it. The more they hurt me, the more they had to steal. I grew hopeless, letting my fury be taken, be used against others. I let myself be dressed as a doll, flirted with like a lady, beaten like a dog when the bear begged my freedom. And each time I became berserkr, the bear ate something else. My mother’s name. My father’s. My childhood dog. My will to ever go back. My will to go on.
The only one I woke for was Keira. The woman who touched my hair like it was precious, who spoke in soft tones. Who stayed by me, even when I returned the colour of death. I was glad,when Kvalheim decided he did not want to share me. When he kept me there. He did not know that as he hoarded me close, he was losing something else. Though I doubted he ever truly had her.
“Where are you taking me?”
Keira was guiding me down a small path, following a stream that cut a soft divot into the grass.
“Hush and follow.” She guided me up a small cliff, which overlooked a lush valley and a lake. The air was sweet with honeysuckle. “You see that meadow, yonder? That is where I long to be. My heart has called for it ever since they brought me here.”
I looked out, taking in the grass, the silver water. “Why?”
“Because it is untouched. It is the sacred land of a goddess. But why should I care? I know no Norse gods. I am from Éire.” She took my hand. “We could make a new life there.”
“But it would not be safe. We would have to fight for it, with all of our beings.”
“I could do that.” The skin of her hand was soft. I traced my thumb over her knuckles. “I have been waiting for something to fight for all my life. I lost sight of it. But you’ve shown me that survival is not freedom.” She looked at me, her eyes full of tears and hope. “We could be free.”
But an escape was quickly out of question, for Keira was with a child. The knowledge made me red with frustration, a new kind of anger. After many weeks of watching Kvalheim stroke her growing belly and kiss her in front of all his men in the feast hall, I realized what it was. It was jealousy. Envy. Rage that he should have her and I should not. This rage made the bear inside me grow fierce. At my next battle, I was even more brutal than before. I cut heads from bodies without even looking.
I knew my anger would not help me. I had to earn her love with gentleness, because Keira was a creature of gentleness. She was soft and hopeful, everything I felt I could never be. But when she smiled my way, it felt possible, somehow. It felt within my grasp. So I began to leave small bouquets of wildflowers around her chambers, in small cups by the window sill, beside her seat where she stitched with her maids. I watched as she picked them up and smelled them, her lips curling into a knowing smile, her warm eyes flashing toward me. That eased the jealousy.
At night, I would sometimes leave a spoon of honey at her bedside, in hopes it would bring her sweet dreams. Every morning, the spoon was clean, so I knew she was tasting it. And I hoped, adoring it. I learned the truth when she called me in one night.
“Marja,” she called from her door. I slept with the other warriors on cots in the banquet hall. “Come to me.”
I rose, picking my way around the sleeping bodies. Was she angry with me? Was I too forward? She was a married woman, carrying her husband’s child. She would have every right to banish me on the spot.
She stood waiting by her bed, holding the wooden spoon of honey, her eyes just as golden in the candle light.
“Come closer,” she said. I obeyed, bowing my head. “You bring me this honey every night.” It was not a question.
“Yes,” I said.
“And you never taste it yourself.”
My heart began to race at her words. I looked up to see her stepping right before me. She raised the spoon to her mouth, drinking till her lips were glistening. Then, she pulled my face down to hers and kissed me. It was the nectar of the Gods. For the first time in years, my heart opened, and I forgot what the bitter cut of anger felt like.
After our coupling, I began to know happiness more than I ever knew rage. We would spend all our days together. I cared for her when she grew so heavy with the child she found simple tasks difficult. When the time came for the birth, I held her hand as she screamed and convulsed. It made me angry, at first, that Khalheim’s seed should cause her such anguish, but that changed after I saw that wee babe in Keira’s arms. She held it like the most gentle, wonderful thing in the world, and as I looked on, I realized I could not help but love this creation of Keira. The babe, Sigurður, was her essence.
She passed him into my arms, after the midwives left to clean their linens at the well.
“Will you be his father, Marja?”
I nearly wept. “Yes.”
The child changed me. It was ours, our little boy, and there was a new weakness in my heart. One I welcomed openly. One that would break me. He was a joyous thing, eyes dark as river water, a smile so innocent, even men softened at the sight of it. A perfect child. Kvalheim’s heir perhaps, but Keira’s child, and mine.
This weakness first felt like strength. Kvalheim went to war with his northern neighbors once more, this time because they had slaughtered their own little boy, because he had been born strange, with too few fingers, and no eyes at all. Keira called him a poor changeling child, but to kill him was barbaric. The faeries would have their revenge, she insisted. But it was not the faeries who made it first. It was Kvalheim, after the enemy chieftain accused him of cursing their child, of killing their child.
Kvalheim would not have this. It was a slight, a cruel injustice to claim his clan were child-killers. And so we went to war. I was enraged that these people should be heartless. It was a righteous cause, to defeat these men. It was justice.
The dawn of the battle, Kvalheim brought more berserkrs. They donned their fur capes and eyed me suspiciously, under the pewter skies. It was spitting rain, like the Gods were shaming our coming rage. But I stopped believing in Gods a long time ago.
One of the berserkrs tried to pass me a cup of the wine of the bear, but I refused.
“I do not need it.”
He scoffed and went to sit with his brethren. When they threw back their potions, they grew concerningly ill. I watched in horror and no small amount of disgust as they began to writhe about, yellow foam spilling from their mouths, their eyes swivelling back into their heads. But when they fought, they were ruthless. I followed after them, donning my hood, my anger filling me up with unbearable heat.
And so we fought.
Knives like claws, ripping through flesh, ending lives in a bloody instant. Howls of vengeance, pain, death, rife in the air, a single cacophonous din in the silence of those barren fields. It filled me up, like a breath of cold, sharp wind, spinning out my wrath into a squall – I terrorized the heath, those enemy warriors nothing to me, nothing, nothing…
After we killed their men, the other berserkrs grew strangely subdued, some even falling to the ground asleep. It seemed their anger had dissipated and left them weary. Mine never did that. It endured until I had no need for it. I took down my hood, realizing that for the first time, Kvalheim’s men were not there to take it from me. In fact, as I gazed about me with clarity in my eyes, I saw that the number of men we had just fought was oddly small, less than thirty. I stared around, then toward the tent of the far end of the field, where a woman was standing, her hands on her hips. I approached, until I could see her smile.
“Why do you smile? You have lost.” I spat the words, my confusion making me angry once more.
“We haven’t,” she said simply.
A strange sensation grew in me. Fear?
“Where are the rest of your men?”
“By now? I should think storming your keep, and taking Kvalheim’s heir. It is only right. You curse our child, then we must take yours.”
I began to shake. Sigurður. My baby. My poor child. He was in danger.
I raged back toward Kvalheim’s keep, my mind absorbed by terror and fury. The enemy had ravaged the land, burned our houses to the ground. They had invaded the great hall. I ran with God-like speed. But before I could go any farther in the door, I was slammed against the ground, dragon’s breath snuffed from my throat. I struggled, roaring like a bear, but there were too many of them, too much weight. They tore the cape from my shoulders, reducing me back to my womanly form.
They were fools. They thought me no threat this way. They backed away, letting me rise, small, insignificant, shrinking in that green gown. I looked up, red hair blowing back as a gust of air billowed in the ajar doors of the mess hall
The bear is not the fury.
I am the fury.
I could see it from there, a man holding Sigurður, too tight, he was wailing. Keira on the floor, blood in her eyes, screaming. There was no time to think, only fire to breathe. I flew at him, larger than a bear, larger than any creature of this world. I was untamed. He lurched back, but my hands sought his throat. I killed him there where he stood, snapping his life in two, catching Sigurður before he fell to the flagstones. Placing him down into Keira’s arms, where I knew he would be safe though she could not see him, I turned to the oncoming wave.
These men were nothing against my rage. They were after my child. I did not even have to cut their throats. I simply bellowed, as deep and loud as thunder shaking the skies, until they cowered in fear, falling to their knees.
“Leave now!” I roared. “And I will spare you.”
The men fled, the rumble of a hundred feet, and then silence. I turned to my beloved and our child, lifting them both in my arms, now I was as strong as a God.
“I will protect you,” I said. “Where is Kvalheim?”
“He is dead,” Keira said, whimpering, still in pain.
I carried her safely to her bed. I wiped the blood from her eyes. “You’re safe now.”
“Are you?”
I lay down next to her and sang:
Little bird, lend me your ship
My ship is small,
my legs hang low,
step on the boat.
Oars play in the tholepin.
Moments passed. Minutes. Days? Keira turned to face me.
“The oars play in the tholepin,” she said. She placed her hand on my cheek. “I will take you home.”
“You are my home,” I said.
“Why, you think I shall not come with you? It is my boat, after all.” She kissed Sigurður’s head, and then my parted lips. “Little bird.”
ALICE HATHAWAY (she/her) is a lesbian author from Massachusetts earning her BA in English and Creative Writing from Royal Holloway, University of London. She has work previously appearing in The Year After Magazine and has a passion for novels and short stories featuring queer and body diverse women. Find her on Twitter @tthegardengirl.
