A Warning About Swans

I pulled away from my sisters. The truth I held inside me wouldn’t be heard by near-girls, near-swans who’d never watched the light dim in another’s eyes.

So I swallowed my tales of blood and darkness and sought out Odin instead.

Chapter Eight

I found Odin (gaunt and thin as I felt) in the gentle melancholy of twilight. But the questions I asked him were anything but soft.

Why did you give me this gift?

Did you believe my hands would be steadier than Eir’s when I held souls in them?

Did you think my voice would be gentler than Rota’s and Sigrun’s when I said my goodbyes?

Did you understand my lip would tremble less than Mist’s when I untangled spirits from their rib cages?

Odin’s smile was tinted by the blue of the dying day. I gave you my own gift because I saw you with the wolf. You (alone) never wept when faced with suffering. You (alone) can carry sorrow without being crushed by it. You (alone) did not flee from the sight of death. You may be the youngest, Hilde, but you are also the strongest in ways even I did not intend.

(If only I could have wrung tears from my eyes on the day the wolf departed for the Other Wood! The wolf deserved them— and I deserved the joy of my childhood back.)

I shook my head. I don’t feel strong. I only feel tired.

Odin leaned against an oak; it bore his weight, his years without complaint. Come with me, Hilde.

I have a story to tell you. One your sisters need not hear.

I knew the place Odin led me to for what it is: a boneyard, a haunt.

Gray and faceless stones jutted from the lichen, marking the graves of the creatures buried there.

Who were they?

Who might they still be in another world colored by nothing but the rain?

I circled the stones, counting them off on my fingers; there were six in all. Odin stretched a withered hand out across the nearest stone. You are a new creature, Hilde. But your power is ancient. Once, there were more of us who saw the silver road. We traveled through woods and vales, collecting spirits, sending them on. The names of the others were:

Holda, Berchtold, and Krampus, Perchta, Rübezahl, and Hel.

We called ourselves the Wild Hunt, for we were untamed.

I wanted to carve the names of the Wild Hunt in me, these former members of our brotherhood, our sisterhood. They should be here with us now!

Odin raised his head, watching the daylight turn into a ghost of itself. No enchantment can persist forever, Hilde. Magic is a river that will eventually run dry for us all. Their magic waned— and so did they.

I didn’t realize every word our father spoke that day was said in farewell.

Odin disappeared when we were ten. It’s been six years since any creature saw him— my sisters and I included.

Did he grow tired of our woods?

Did he leave to weave new dreams in distant lands?

Or did he fade away

(as most creatures believe), his magic no more than one last sigh on the wind?

(As he said all magic would be, someday.)

Whatever became of Odin, I don’t expect we’ll ever see him again.

Why would we?

He had done his duty as our father, arming us (and the forest) against the threats he worried we might one day face.

But it stings like a fistful of nettles to know he didn’t say goodbye.