But we make it. Before we die of hypothermia, we head into the tower to strip and heat up the iron oven that warms the entire living space. It’s an old signal tower, three stories, with a giant bell hanging forgotten at the top. On clear days, Unferth says, there’s a view across Leif’s Channel to the Canadian coast. While digging around on the bottom floor last year he found fifty-year-old letters that claimed the bell was part of a troll warning system put in place after the Montreal Troll Wars. Leif’s Channel used to be one of the most dangerous crossing points for the greater mountain troll herds who wished to avoid the heavy patrols of the mainland.
And so it’s best not to show up unannounced in the Jellyfish Cove bay, even sixty years later, with a greater mountain troll.
Tonight we’ll take the rowboat leaning against the whitewashed side of the tower out to unchain Red Stripe and lead him through the water to shore. Tomorrow we’ll sail the ferry around to the eastern side of this long peninsula to the town of Jellyfish Cove. We’ll dock there and off-load the truck. Give them all warning about Red Stripe.
Unferth and I wrap blankets around ourselves and get the oven going. It’s a wide iron chimney up one side of the tower, with a hearth on the first and second floors. He claims the bottom-level bedroom on account of his leg and says there should be some old clothes up on the second floor. Out of fashion, no doubt, but made for the Vinland winter.
The metal stair winds around to the second story, which is divided into two rooms by a thin partition. One must’ve been an office or library, with a metal desk full of tiny drawers, a key closet, and one curved wall covered in old books and dusty magazines. I go into the next room, which has a twin bed and sink-toilet combo popular in army movies and prison. There’s a porthole window with a frosted view down the eastern coast. Against the aggressively blue sky I can just make out lines of smoke from Jellyfish Cove.
I dig through a trunk of discarded clothes, mostly heavy canvas pants and fishermen’s coats, until I find patchy thermal shirts and a long wool sweater that’ll come to my knees like a dress. Some men’s long underwear work as leggings, and I’ve practically got an acceptable outfit once my boots are back on.
In the mottled little mirror over the sink, the first I’ve seen in a month, I stare at myself. Precia of the South used to call me once a month and ask what runes I saw in my own green-gray irises. I answered for a few years, usually fate or choice or death, typical things one might expect of a Valkyrie’s heart, until it became clear none of them would tell me what they saw in me.
I lean in to focus close on my left eye. There I see torch, a rune of passion that burns destructively.
Rubbing my chest, I clomp down again, rattling the entire frame of the staircase. Unferth says, “We do have to live here, little raven.”
He’s looking fresh and devilish in a dark red sweater rolled up at his wrists, his hair loose from braids so it blankets his shoulders in a hundred tiny kinks. I don’t bother to hide my stare. When he turns away from the fire, hair sweeps away from his face and there’s something vulnerable in the loose smile he offers me. I’m too surprised to return it or say anything. He rubs the heel of his hand into his thigh and stands. I reach out to skim the feathery ends of his hair that dangle beside his elbow. It’s nearly as long as mine. Unferth slaps my hand away and swiftly twists all his hair up to the nape of his neck, tying it there in a knot.
He says, “It’ll take a few hours of work to get the water heater up and running again, so if we want real food we should go into town. It’s slightly less than two kilometers’ walk.”
I grimace; I’d rather stay here than play nice in a small town. Or face the Summerlings.
The sun is low in the west, though it’s barely past lunchtime, and we make our way along a narrow path that’s visible only because the gravel is paler in general; every once in a while a small wooden slat bridge connects it from one low hill to the next. We don’t speak, though our shoulders knock together frequently and the tattered edge of his coat flaps against my knees. My lips are chapped in seconds and my ears numb, but I imagine I can get help for such things in town. Balm and a thick scarf, mittens perhaps, since I’ve heard those keep your fingers warmer than gloves.
I think of the Summerlings as I tromp through the slush, wondering if they’ve changed at all. Rathi had, of course, growing from a sober nine-year-old into a brilliant young preacher with his father’s golden hair and mother’s ability to read my every thought. The last time I was with him six months ago, I got a bruise on my wrist from how hard he clung to me, arguing his point faster and faster as if it would make a difference.
But Rome and Jesca I’ve not seen in a decade. Since that final night together in their small hotel room next to the Federal Library, with a narrow view of the New World Tree. I had dinner with them at a fancy restaurant on the First Valkyrie’s coin, me jerky with excitement and them talking constantly as if that might make everything seem normal. Rathi spent the whole time silent, occasionally running fingers through floppy yellow hair.
Rome stopped us at a corner drugstore during the walk back to the hotel and pulled a cheap black Eye of Odin charm off the shelf. He bought it and braided it into his beard beside the Freyan horses and bright red beads. You’ll be a child of both houses, Signy. Jesca had tears in her eyes but only said my mother would be so proud of my bravery.
I said my mother wouldn’t recognize bravery if it introduced itself with song and dance. Jesca smiled a watery smile and shook her head in automatic forgiveness.
If I were returning to them triumphant now, surely I wouldn’t feel such trepidation. It would be a wonderful homecoming, a hero’s welcome for the errant Valkyrie arriving to honor her past life, her old family. I would have titles and accolades for a shield.
As it is, what will they think of me? I left them so hard and fast, without a second glance or thought. When Jesca kissed me goodbye and Rome pressed a Freyan hymnal into my hands, I thanked them, I smiled, but I never once looked over my shoulder for that final glimpse of their faces. I ran for the Death Hall like it was all I’d ever wanted.
My boot slips on loose rocks and crunches into slush at the edge of the path. Unferth takes my elbow, lifting an eyebrow as if to say, Clumsy Valkyrie don’t last long.
I jerk my arm free and stomp ahead before he guesses what I’m thinking.
Jellyfish Cove clings to the side of the island like a sprawling checkerboard. Whitewashed houses are shining barnacles on the long slope of the bay, their scarlet and blue and yellow roofs merry splashes of color. Cobbled streets curve toward the docks, which reach long, narrow fingers into the silver-capped ocean. Boats of every size sway with the tide, some with coiled sails and some complicated by rigging for nets and metal traps. Others carry sharp seal spears raised like fangs toward the sky, and there are at least two huge sea-buses painted with tourist slogans. Though it’s so near Yule, people move around in bright coats, mostly orange and blue and red, like elf-lights in clumps and pairs. A steady stream of them leaves town along an inland road, disappearing over the hump of a hill where I can just see the flicker of pennants from the valley beyond, advertising the Viker Festival.
Unferth leads me toward the center of town to a four-story hotel with three wings, dark brown thatching, and baby-blue shutters. The swinging, old-fashioned sign names it the Shipworm.
Inside is warm and wood-paneled, smelling of ale and fish chowder. Unferth asks for a table in the common room, where there are swordfish stuffed and polished on the wall, a roaring fire in a huge dark hearth, and exposed beams hanging with hats from around the world. Poorly hidden speakers play scratchy folk music. A few tables are occupied, though not nearly all, as it’s between lunch and dinnertime. We sit and I ask for whatever the cook likes best that’s hot, Unferth correcting my order by asking for two bowls of chowder and some of the fresh bread. Before I can glare, a woman in flannel and fingerless gloves bustles into the room and says, “Ned Unferth!” with a gleeful north coast accent. She plops down in an empty chair and grasps his hand. “We didn’t know if you were coming back this year!”