It’s a steep, winding climb up to the granite-and-gneiss cliff. We have to bind Freydis, still unconscious, to Dag’s back, but everyone makes it up in one piece.
The ledge is unusually flat and level, just long and wide enough to hold a camp for the seven of us. I walk to the edge. The orange-and-pink sunset stretches over a sweeping, dizzying view of the fjord winding through the hills. The sheer beauty stands in stark contrast with the anguish condensing in my chest.
I turn and survey the group. Their expressions are haggard as they set down their packs and help untie Freydis, their faces covered in dirt and sweat and blood that isn’t theirs.
“My father called it Völund’s Anvil,” Dag says after he’s caught his breath. “We camped here on hunting trips from time to time. It’s too high up for bears or wolves, and the soldiers won’t see or hear us from the ground. But if someone did get it in their head to climb up, we’d have the advantage.”
“You did well, Dag,” I say gratefully. “We’ll make camp here for the night.”
As Hetha and Wisna build a fire, using the flint and wood they wisely packed from Alvtir’s, Ingmar, Dag, and I set up the tent. Ranveig sits with her back against a boulder, silently refusing to help.
The breeze is stronger than below. Much stronger. It moans in our ears, tearing at any shred of uncovered skin as we work. It strikes me that, up here, this tent is our only protection from the wind blowing off the fjord.
“We’ll have to take turns,” I think out loud as I drop my pack on one of the stakes. “It looks like five, maybe six can fit inside.”
“The other two can keep watch,” Ingmar finishes.
There’s no dirt to drive the stakes into, so we weigh down the edges of the tent with any rocks we can find that are light enough to carry but heavy enough not to blow away. When the tent is reasonably secure, we carry Freydis inside. I wrap her in her cloak for warmth. Her chest rises and falls so slightly that it’s nearly imperceptible.
I sit by her side for a while, whispering prayers to her ancestors, to Mawu-Lisa, even to Freya, the Majūs goddess for whom she is named. It is the first time I have prayed to one of their gods, but I fear it won’t be the last.
When I can’t think of anyone else to pray to, I whisper to her in Soninke: “I’m sorry I didn’t protect you. You were my responsibility, and I failed you. But you must live, or else you’ll make me a liar. Okay? Be strong.” Tears well behind my eyes, but I swallow them back down. I have to be strong too. If not for myself, then for the others.
Night falls quickly. Everyone but Ranveig gathers around the modest fire. The wind whips our hair around our heads. Mawu is full in the sky for the second and final night, casting an eerie silver glow over the ridge. The same glow I found so beautiful last night in Tyr’s grove now makes our faces seem pale and drawn.
My stomach roars. I feel the full force of hunger return, no longer kept at bay by the shock of the day. I take a small loaf of flatbread and one of the smoked chickens from a satchel, carving them both into meager slabs. I pass them around without a word. It’s not much of a meal, but we need to ration. No one complains. No one says anything at all.
I walk over to Ranveig with her piece. She’s already curled up against the boulder under a fur. Her eyes are shut, but I can tell she’s not asleep from the way she’s shivering. “Move closer to the fire,” I say, trying to sound commanding. “You don’t have to eat with us, but you’ll freeze if you stay out here.”
Ranveig opens her eyes and scowls, but she gets up nonetheless and shuffles over to the fire. She settles next to Hetha, who is now weeping softly in Wisna’s arms.
I take my own seat again. Next to me, Ingmar eats his share in an equally weighty silence. Even Dag can’t think of anything to say to lighten the mood.
“We need to come up with a plan,” I say finally.
“A plan?” Dag snorts. “We’re outcasts. There is no plan.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“She doesn’t understand,” Ingmar says. “Yafeu, to be an outcast is to live with dishonor. Even if we could find another village through these woods, no one would take us in.”
“Some would argue that it’s better to die than live such a life,” Dag mutters.
“And you’re one of them?” I challenge.
“I’m an oath-breaker,” he growls. “Death is better than I deserve.”
“That’s not true!” I say firmly. “You were loyal to Alvtir. She was our true leader.”
“And now she’s dead,” Ranveig cuts in. I flinch at the harshness in her tone.
No one responds.
For the first time, it truly hits me:
Alvtir is dead.
Alvtir—who rescued me from the merchant in Anfa, who took me into her home, who gave me a life I never dreamed I could have—Alvtir is dead. And so is our future.
The anchor sinks further than ever before, dragging my heart into a dark, yawning chasm at the bottom of my chest. It should drown me, but I find that I’ve already drowned.
I never realized that in all the times I felt the anchor before, there was always some small part of me that refused to yield, that kept crawling forward despite its crippling weight. Maybe it was the part of me that trusted what Papa taught me: that if I just believed in myself, everything would be all right in the end.
Now I almost welcome the heaviness. At least it’s something I know I deserve.
Somewhere in the forest below, a wolf howls. I reach for the green wolf at my neck, but touching it brings no comfort this time. As I stare hopelessly into the fire, Mama’s words once again come unbidden to my mind: You have a great destiny. Great and terrible.
You were wrong too, Mama.
My shoulders begin to tremble. I don’t want the others to see the film of tears in my eyes, so I look up and watch the smoke. It curls and writhes in its death throes before disappearing into the night, taking with it Alvtir’s dream.