Ice Land: A Novel - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Betsy Tobin was born in the United States and movedto England in 1989. She lives in London with herhusband and four children.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

When I was sixteen, I was given a cloak made entirely offeathers. It was made from pale grey falcon wings,unthinkably soft, with no more weight than a handfulof ash. I remember the sensation as Odin first laid the cloakacross my shoulders. His hands brushed too long against myskin, but even as I noticed this, something else was happeningdeep inside me: a sudden narrowing, as if I was beingsqueezed from within. In an instant, I too felt weightless, andin another second I was airborne. I looked down to see themall staring up at me: my father, his expression vexed with disapproval;my twin brother Freyr, his dark eyes pools of envy;Odin’s wife, her smile frozen with complacency (surely shemust have seen his lingering caress?). And Odin himself, staringtoo intently with his one good eye, as if he could divineall the secrets of my adolescence. With relief, I turned mygaze from them and flew towards the horizon, the wind rushingat my face. And for the first time in my life, I felt free. Atsixteen, I’d not yet learned that it takes more than wings torelease one from the bonds of kinship.

They say this island sprang from the armpit of a giant. Thathis sweat turned to rivers which in turn begot the land. It is a jagged place, scarred by ice and fire, and perpetually tornby pale green rivers that refuse to stay their course. Longago, the forests were thick here. Wild beasts stood quietly, asif waiting to be shot. That was before men came and culledthem, using broad axes and fine-tipped arrows. Now treesare scarce and the animals hide, but the land remains generous.Each spring, the farmers toil in the fields to clear lumpsthrown up by frost. In summer, they drive their herds deepinto the highlands, where the grass is sweet and the sun neverdies. In winter, darkness descends upon us like a shroud. Menwrap themselves in furs, huddle around fires, and tell storiesfrom the past.

Water surrounds us. To the north, the frozen sea is but oneday’s sail. To the south, the long fingers of Norway andDenmark are eight days’ journey. The sea offers us food andprotection, but takes many lives in return. Despite its peril,the men here are of a wandering nature. They look to thehorizon and refuse to let it lie. But they always return, if thesea or the sword does not claim them, for this island pulls onits people. Once settled they are bound, both by its beautyand its harshness.

I was not born here. I left the land of my birth as a younggirl, and came to dwell in Asgard with my father and brother.We were a peace offering, my family and I, a gesture ofconciliation between the Aesir and the Vanir, my father’s people.My father was already a widower, saddled with the burdenof two young children, so he had nothing to lose bythrowing his lot in with the Aesir. In return, they made uscertain promises. Njord, my father, was given control of theseas. Freyr, my brother, was given control of the harvests.And I was left with the tainted realm of love.

Over time, I’ve come to represent love’s failings. Men and women turn to me in equal numbers. They bring their brokenengagements, their shabby infidelities, their star-crossedromances, their spent marriages, their unrequited passions,in hopes that I will have a cure. Sometimes I do. More oftenI do not. For what they don’t know is that our world is anelaborate conceit. The gods have no real influence over thelives of men. We are nothing but totems: we occupy the spacethat men create for something larger than themselves. Fewwho dwell in Asgard understand this. Fewer still would admitto it. But false belief underpins us all.

And, as for the sharp spear of love, it too is a deceit. Longago, in another life, I was wounded by its impact. Now Iknow that solitude and self-reliance make far more loyal bedfellows.Though I’ve been married once before, now mybond is to the earth and the sky and the mountains that surroundme. My home, Sessruminger, lies in the south ofAsgard, snugly in the lee of Mount Hekla. Her vast glacialpeak rises up behind me like the imposing neck of a triumphantqueen. Hekla’s moods can be capricious: onemoment she is stark, calm, majestic; the next wild, dark andmenacing. But I am thankful for her presence, for it is shewho orients me when I take to the skies, and she who bringsme back to earth. My tale starts and ends with Hekla, and Iwill tell it as it happens, in the manner of the bards.