Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 125077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“Imagine, if you will, the trunk of Yggdrasil as the core of human civilization. The roots represent our past, our history, the foundations upon which we’ve built our world. The branches are the various cultures, belief systems, and ways of life that have sprung from that common source, and the futures we shape together as a species.”
Sven’s hand moved deftly across the board, adding detail to his drawing. I watched, mesmerized, as the tree took shape before my eyes. He added small figures at various points—some climbing the trunk, others perched on branches, still others tending to the roots.
“Now, girls,” he said, turning back to face us, “I want you to understand your role in this grand cosmic drama. As völur and operatives of the Sons of Odin, you are the caretakers of Yggdrasil. It is your sacred duty to water this tree, to prune its branches when necessary, and to ensure its continued growth and health, even as at times you may, in your prophetic minds, travel its branches.”
I felt a shiver run through me at his words. The weight of responsibility they implied was both terrifying and exhilarating.
“But Herra,” I heard myself say, surprising even myself with my boldness, “how can we possibly do that? We’re just… we’re just… you know… girls.”
Sven’s blue eyes fixed on me, and I felt the full force of his attention like a physical touch. “Ah, Mary,” he said, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, “you are far more than ‘just girls.’ None of you was chosen at random.”
He began to pace slowly in front of us, his powerful presence filling the room. “You see, civilization as we know it is in a state of collapse. The old structures are crumbling, the old ways failing. But in this chaos, there is opportunity. An opportunity to guide the course of human development, to shape the future of our species. That opportunity belongs to you as much as it does to us, your masters.”
CHAPTER 14
Mary
Half an hour later, Sven led us from the classroom to what I knew immediately as the mead hall. I could see the contrast between how the vast cavern of the ritual chamber, with its ship, might embody the sea, while this one—not as big, but more ornately crafted—surely represented the world of the Vikings ashore.
As soon as we entered, a voice rang out from a door at the side.
“Come, you lazy girls! Enough of your pleasures; it is time to serve your men!”
“That’s Mor Inge,” Sven told us. “Hurry up and get into the kitchen. Mor Inge can be even stricter than Mor Astrid, with naughty girls.”
My eyes hardly had time to take in the grand space as I scurried in the direction of the scolding voice. I saw a high vaulted ceiling supported by massive wooden beams, and I thought I could make out upon them the same sorts of carving I had seen in so many other places. For the first time, I noticed what must be some of the very runes Sven had lectured us about, alongside the stylized pictures of gods, heroes, and women at the feet of both. Tapestries adorned the walls here as well, as in my master’s house, seeming to depict a single battle in different phases: longships full of warriors, Vikings storming a beach, a melee with armored knights, a final scene of bloody triumph as the Norsemen carried away their human plunder.
The closer I got to the kitchen, though, the more I found myself distracted by the scent in the air, of wood smoke and roasted meat. My mouth began to water; my apprehension couldn’t stop my hunger.
Mor Inge, a stern-faced woman with steel-gray hair pulled back in a severe braid, stood by a large hearth. The flames cast dancing shadows across her weathered features as she fixed us with a disapproving glare. “Hurry now, girls,” she barked. “You must learn to wait upon your masters at table.”
We shuffled forward. I couldn’t help but feel yet again acutely aware of my nakedness in this grand setting. Mor Inge led us to a row of wooden tables laden with steaming pots and bowls. The rich aroma of stewed meat mingled with the earthy scent of freshly baked bread and the sweetness of ripe apples and plums.
“Pay attention,” Mor Inge commanded, her voice sharp. She lifted the lid from one of the pots, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam. “This is your masters’ breakfast. You will serve them with grace and efficiency.”
She demonstrated how to ladle the thick stew onto wooden trenchers, arranging slices of dark bread and chunks of apple alongside it. “Take care not to spill,” she warned. “Your masters expect perfection.”
With trembling hands, I picked up a trencher and began to fill it, trying to mimic Mor Inge’s precise movements. The weight of the wooden plate felt strange in my hands, so different from the modern dishes I was used to. I arranged the food carefully, acutely aware of Mor Inge’s critical gaze.