Page 2 of Between Broomsticks and Beating Wings
Moments later, Tove hopped up onto the counter and crawled into his safe haven. He curled up for his routine nap, knowing the walk there would be the same as always. He needed to save his energy for the bustling market and all the wonders it held. As I lifted the basket and propped it in the crook of my arm, a pang of grief hit me upon feeling the basket’s unchanging weight. It was as light as a feather these days.
Pushing the unappreciated feelings aside, I let out a sigh and said, “We really need to fatten you up. I swear, you’re losing weight.”
Tove opened one of his black eyes, then the other, staring at me with an attitude only he could muster.
“Oh, don’t you dare look at me like that. Humor keeps the tears away, you should know that. As it is, you’re the only one left to witness them.”
Tove closed his eyes in defeat, and I set him down to lace up my boots before heading out the door. As I stepped out under the light of the day, I twirled a chaotic, bent curl of strawberry blonde hair around my finger, attempting to form a neat ringlet, though my hair rarely did what I wanted.
The clouds passed overhead in varying shapes, waning then reforming as I carried myself down the straw path. I was thankful for my shawl in the crisp air, pulling it closer to my chest. I tucked the ends of my green fabric into the leather strings lacing the front of my dress so I didn’t have to hold it tight to my body. My mother had always told me I looked ridiculous when I fashioned my clothing in this way, and I’d always boasted about my method's practicality and convenience in response, more to annoy her than anything. While I slowly grew out of some of my childish tendencies, I still found myself wearing my shawl this way long after her death. Each time I did, it was as if I were raising my mother from the dead and hearing her bicker over my choices all over again. Amusement and familiarity would keep some of my antics alive forever, I believed.
As I rounded the corner, I averted my gaze from the sky and focused on the way the straw path bled into dirt compacted by many boots. The market was the liveliest place in all of Stormheim, filled with vikings and farmers alike. The folk of Stormheim were proud people, but not too proud to admitwe couldn’t do everything ourselves. That was the beauty in community—everyone coming together and stepping in where others slacked, knowing they would do the same for you.
My senses awakened as I sauntered past a cart of warm bread, my mouth watering in response. I made my own bread at home, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t tempted each time I came to the market and saw fresh loaves, ready to be devoured. The woman behind the cart with flushed cheeks smiled at me, and I smiled back, but I wouldn’t let her pull me in.
I gripped my basket tighter and carried on through the stalls and carts. I had a list. I wouldn’t stray from the list. Straying from the list was how I blew a week's worth of coin and came home with everything I wanted, yet nothing I needed. Today, I needed three things: a broomstick, mugwort, and beeswax candles. Anything else would have to wait, no matter how appealing a new crystal or a warm, woven blanket was.
“Kettlesdotter, when are you going to fill that basket of yours?” a loud voice called out into the market, pulling my attention from a whittled star resting on a cluttered table. “You carry it around every day, yet every day, it remains empty, all but that ratty strip of fabric.”
“I’ll fill it once I find what I’m looking for, Arnesson,” I said, not looking at the man as I perused his inventory. My fingers trailed over a bundle of twigs, just supple enough to be wound into the head of a broomstick.
My response pulled a chuckle from the merchant. The older gentleman was relatively new to Stormheim, joining our small forest village after his own was raided. Stormheim was a place of survivors, it seemed. Many said it was a horrible omen for us all to be in one place, believing we were the ones the gods refused to claim. While they should have taken us too, dividing us amongst their halls, we were left on Midgard for some reason unbeknownst to us. Village folk didn’t like the unknown, hencethe fear that, one day soon, something much worse than the gods would come collect us all.
Arnesson shot me another smile, as if his last one had faded with my silence. This smile was wobbly, lacking charm, unauthentic, unlike the first.
Nine realms.
“I’m sorry, did you say something?” I asked, noticing the way he ran one of his rough hands down the dirt-stained cloth hanging over his shoulder.
“Don’t worry about it, Kari. I’ve been told what was once held in that basket of yours,” he said, his expression softening. “You know, a litter of kittens was just found in the old barn at the edge of the village. The black one might be a decent fit for you and your…ways of the night.”
“Ways of the night? You make it sound as if I’m a scarlet daughter,” I said with a dry laugh. I peered down at Tove, who looked about ready to pounce out of his basket and onto the man who suggested I replace him. “It’s called being wand-wed, Arnesson. Your wife was a seeress herself, was she not?”
“My wife… Odin give me strength. She had the gift, yes. She didn’t practice her talents as you do, though. She was content in the ways of trees, harnessing nature to heal our people, instead of harnessing?—”
“Seidr?” I asked when the man seemed incapable of speaking the simple but loaded word.
The man cleared his throat, as though he would be struck down for standing so close to me as I said it. “Hmm, yes. Seidr.”
Men like Arnesson, who traveled from the south, were not used to the ways of Stormheim, or the north in general. There was talk of a new god who hated seeresses and their magic, their seidr, punishing all who acknowledged it. Here in the north, we knew the old gods claimed domain, and seidr was welcomed—if not encouraged.
“I have no need for a midnight kitten, but thank you for thinking of me. I do, however, need a broomstick,” I said, holding up the bundle of twigs.
His eyes darted from the twigs back to me. “That, I can do. Let me grab one from the back.”
“It’s not used, is it?” I asked, my gaze flicking back to the whittled star. My pointer finger found one of the points, and I pressed into it to test its sharpness.
“No, I just made it last night under the moon. It’s safe to bring inside your home, as it’s never been inside mine. I store them outside as well, friend. You’re in good hands.”
“Thank you, Arnesson. I can always count on your thoroughness. I have a feeling I have your wife to thank. May the gods treat her well, wherever she rests.”
“That, I have great faith in. She was a good woman and a wonderful seeress. The village folk where I’m from down south, Kaldrstein, all looked up to her, almost as if she were a goddess herself.” Arnesson paused, his dark blue eyes peering deep into mine. “I know you will be what she was for this village someday, even with your seidr.”
I fiddled with the end of my shawl, bile rising into my throat at the thought. Yes, I loved being the village's seeress. Yes, I loved getting glimpses into the future, even if that future wasn’t all too pleasant. But I didn’t want a position of leadership. I wanted to frolic, make my subpar pottery, and conjure spells in peace.
I felt the color fleeing my face as he stared at me expectantly. I wanted to tell him I’d rather catch flame than have a seat of leadership in this village, but I simply cleared my throat, found a smile, and said, “You’re kind, Arnesson, but trust me when I tell you, no one around here is looking at me like I’m a goddess.”
Arnesson frowned, then cocked his head. “Well, of course not!” He let out a laugh so outrageous, I didn’t know if I shouldjoin in or be insulted. “They may never look at you as though you are a goddess in the way the people of my village did my wife, but they do respect you and your talents. Even if they think you’re a nut.”
