Gods' Deaths Saga

'The Girdle of the Realm is straining beneath our feet; I think Jörð must be pregnant again!'

Our captain, Jacob, sees a storm blooming ahead. He does one of the only things Jacob can do in times of danger; He jokes about someone fucking a goddess.

'Maybe Petersen has beaten it into the sea one too many times?’ He turns to look out over the bow, to hide the saltwater around his eyes.

‘If he could pull his oars as furiously as he pulls his serpent, Grandmother Jörð would be calm, and we would have reached Turtle Island by now!' Most of the men are in hysterics at his words, some of the women are, too, but the rest of us just make non-committal grunts and keep our rhythms. We all keep rowing.

The soot clouds over Ísaland have followed us across the seas. It is a portent of doom, so we are all rowing with worry in our hearts. Jacob, pretending to be indifferent, continues his character assassinations. The comments grow more venomous and far less coherent. He doesn't take his eyes off the canopy of darkness above as it looms over the ocean and throws walls of wind to shake our craft.

I swear the western shore was visible mere moments ago. It must still be ahead of us, somewhere, but I might as well be blindfolded by the darkness, and by this dense mist. I am not guiding the crew, so all I can do is continue rowing. Jacob was right, though, Jörmungandr must be thrashing beneath us, because horses-sized waves are galloping against our ship without end.

'Tie up, pull the oars in, sink the counterweights deeper! Eilea, clear the gangway, now!' Jacob's feet tuck down into an open deck slat, then he binds his weak arm with the loose rigging running along the ship's rim.

'Speak your galdur, sisters, and hold on for your fucking lives.'

I clutch the wheat husk and bone Mjolnir hanging around my neck, then try to pull at my oar with my other hand. Halldis, my younger sister, gives me fresh gifts of protection like these whenever I sail. Despite my shortcomings, she's always been there for me. A dear sister. My free hand isn't strong enough, though. Apparently, Móði and Magni aren't happy about me wearing their parents' icons as Halldis is. The thunder screams at me, the waves beat me, and the winds push me to the floor. The horizon is all wrath and fury.

A pale leviathan slowly creeps its tendrils towards us, reaching across the ocean's back while we scrabble in fear. Clapped echoes boom across the world. The boat's rocking grows. Everyone aboard knows what to do. We lash ourselves against the benches, using the oar tethers and straw storage for cord.

The boat is thrashed and harrowed. My breathing stops as the sky splits. Mighty Thor clashes with the jöttun Thrym to retrieve his hammer. A bolt of lightning-blue burrows into a nearby iceberg's side, splintering it and showering us in giant's gore. We cheer.

Our vessel is wind-pushed hard against the steaming ice, and Jacob falls against the deck with the jolt, Henrik too, then Gretta who's seated beside me. Our captain lands within arm's reach of me and paints a small patch of the deck red with his blood. He claws out, searching for a reassuring grip among the drifting brine.

I rush over to him, instinctively freeing myself of my tethers. My hand flies out, a raven to its nest after a lifetime adrift at sea. The wind crashes all around, deafening me. Our hands meet. He holds me.

The storm overhead is grey fire; smoke with an anger of its own. For a moment, Jacob and I lock eyes, just as we had done as children, each time he wrestled me to the ground and stuck bilberry nests in my hair. His grey-steel eyes as inviting as the gale is terrific. We look at each other for just a moment before my lifelong battle-cry comes from his lips.

'Let go of me, you fucking ergi man!'

Two punches misalign my jaw and send me hurtling to the floor. His spittle burrows into my beard. Tears sprout fast and strong across my face. A well-known feeling, sickly and comfortable. I take up my oar and beat against the pain without saying a word. Jacob shouts at nothing, then turns to face the storm. Behind me, Olga's hand carefully lands on my shoulder to offer support, but I batter it away; to be more manly? or at least, to avoid seeming less so?

Jacob's shouting resumes, but it's almost completely killed by the gust. He calls Valkyrie Þrúðr a whore and we sail onwards. There's so much anger in the wind.

His screams sound like they share my pain, 'Oars back out you whoresons. Now row. Row, for gods' sake, row.' With knuckles white-tight against the handle, and with a wail in my mouth – sobs, hidden behind a sailor's exhaustion - I do exactly what he tells me to do.