Tessa Gratton - The Strange Maid

“And proving?” I ask. “Who am I proving myself to?”

“Who is mentioned in the riddle?”

“The Valkyrie of the Tree.”

He wipes out his invisible heart, colorless eyes on mine.

“Me?” I say.

He shrugs one shoulder as if he doesn’t care in the least.

“Prove myself to myself?”

“The Alfather hung in the windswept tree for nine nights and nine days, sacrificing himself to himself.”

“You’re seeing things not there!”

“I see many things others do not.”

I grit my teeth again and spin the conversation back around. “You’re saying that the riddle doesn’t explicitly say who I’m proving myself to, or even that I’m the Valkyrie in question. And the only … concrete thing in the riddle is the stone heart, which literally could be a troll’s heart.”

Unferth sighs. “You certainly know how to strip the poetry out of a thing.”

“This isn’t a poem; this is my life!”

The words echo out through the mostly empty buffet. The hostess glances over, fingering the thin necklace at her throat. I can’t even smile at her or see what god’s charm she’s worrying at.

Unferth watches me patronizingly. It’s in the tilt of his eyebrow and the smile half-hidden behind his mouth.

I collect myself, clench my teeth. Smooth my hands down my jeans. When I look up, the expression is gone from his face.

He says, “Your god is the god of madness, war, and poetry. Don’t dismiss it. Isn’t poetry what you long for? The symmetry, the meaning, the destiny in ancient songs and stories?”

“You know too much about me, Ned Unferth.”

Twangy harp music, so delicate and minor-key, nothing like the bombastic music of our gods, invades my thoughts. A discordant element to remind me that nothing is as it seems, but I have to act anyway. I cannot see the paths of fate—only Freya the Witch can, and her fortune-tellers—but not knowing where this leads is part of the point. Acting is the point. Leaping ahead is the point. Reaching for what I want—and what I want is to be the Valkyrie of the Tree. I owe it to myself to follow this opportunity, no matter who Unferth is, no matter how or why he’s here.

“If your life were a poem, little raven”—Unferth leans across the table—“what would the hero do next?”

I take a deep breath. Raising my bottle of beer, I say, “Let’s go find me a troll.”

THAT NIGHT WE push north around Lake Mishigam a couple of hours to camp in an old trailer park he knows. He says we’ll start again when the sun rises, because as we head into troll country it’s safest to drive only during the day. It’ll take nearly two days that way, heading east on the Trans-Canadia Highway toward the ruins of Montreal, where Unferth will teach me what he knows of hunting and fighting trolls until the ice is thick enough for the greater mountain trolls to migrate down to the coast of Quebec to hunt seals. There I’ll make my kill. By Yule if I’m lucky, he says, in a tone that suggests he doubts it.

“I’ve never seen one,” I say out the dark window, remembering illustrations in kids’ books of the greater mountain trolls, with massive yellow eyes and bloody tusks and claws exactly sized to drag children away for midnight snacks. There are five distinct types of troll on our continent: the dangerous but small cat wights; curious iron wights; their larger cousins the hill trolls, with ape-like arms and thick, rough skin; vicious prairie trolls, who prefer human flesh to any other; and, worst of all, the greater mountain trolls.

It’s the mountain trolls that are the stars of the old stories, the oldest and smartest of all, who hunt and haunt ruins or swamps or the crags of mountains that dragons have abandoned. The sort that gather in massive herds and have been known to use tools and paint their stone bodies with mud or blood before attacking. Their attacks are rare, but when they charge, they destroy everything in their path. I hardly know a thing about them that I didn’t learn from bad TV movies and picture books.

Unferth says, “A troll?”

“A greater mountain troll. This last year while I was wandering, I used to see iron wights all the time—they make little houses under steel bridges and sometimes squat in the same warehouses the other street kids and I did.” I recall the odd way the wights’ huge eyes blink one at a time.

Iron wights look like human toddlers from a distance, except their skin is flaky and orange or reddish. They might wear mismatched clothes and are hardly capable of language. They hoard lost tools and random shiny items, though, and we offered them snacks of rusted nails or the chunk of an old car in return for the copper pipes and knives they didn’t use but collected anyway.

“You won’t be ready the first time you face a greater mountain troll,” Unferth says. “They’re massive, and smarter than you can imagine.”

“Fantastic.”

He slows the truck to a stop in the middle of the highway. The engine rumbles, but I hear the creaking trees beside the road. Unferth glances at me, hands on the wheel. The glow from the dash paints bluish shadows across his face. “Now is the time to give up if you’re going to.”

I wipe damp palms on my jeans.

“You’re afraid,” he says.

“I’m excited .”

“I thought we weren’t going to lie to each other.”

Leaning back into the cloth seat, I put my boots on the dash. “I never agreed to that.”

The darkness swallows his smile, but for the glint of teeth. The hairs on my forearms rise as he dives lovingly into a retelling of the murder of Luta Bearsdottir’s family by greater mountain trolls in the Rock Mountains, followed by the saga of the Nordakota Prairie Massacre, and finally The Lament of the Mere Troll . He illustrates broken limbs and blood spatter and battle frenzy, all with a surprising number of rhymes for carnage. I’ve heard the stories before, recited the elegies, but inside the small truck cab, with his odd rhythmic accent and nothing outside but acres of wilderness, it all comes horribly alive.

Trolls could be hiding in the black forest as it flashes darkly past. This Trans-Canadia Highway we’re heading for is the farthest northern evidence of New Asgard in the east. Farther north in Ontario we’d only find isolated homesteads and walled farms, but usually they’re boarded up and abandoned this time of year against the greater mountain trolls who come down from the ice as winter presses at them, searching for greater sources of food. There’s not been a settlement attack along this stretch in twenty years, but isolated travelers are much more at risk.

We reach the trailer park, a spread of abandoned electric hookups and overgrown picnic tables. The cab isn’t terribly comfortable for sleeping, even bundled under blankets Unferth drags out of the covered truck bed. He’s got thick spears back there, too, and a couple of axes, therma-wool coats and sleeping bags, and not a lot of food. But we only have to make it to his base outside the ruins of Montreal.

I fall asleep with the blanket over my head to stop myself from imagining the mountain trolls from Unferth’s poems hulking between the trees. Their huge black shadows have piercing yellow or red eyes, tusks and hammer-fists, hot breath like fog in the cold night. As I sweat, I remind myself that the best glory will come from taking the heart of a greater mountain troll. They are the devils of our stories, and a stone heart from such a creature will be magnificent, the size of my head. How glorious it will look held in my hands when I bring it to the New World Tree. Perhaps I’ll cast it in silver and have it mounted over my throne.