“I don’t know. I’ve had too many lives. I’m so, so lost.” He buried his face in his hands and wept.
She stared at him for a while. “We should be in love. Everything is as simple as that.” She shook her head. “We should have stayed in Hel.”
Sigurd nodded. “We’ll love again, in Hel,” he agreed. He began to sob, his face dissolving in tears and snot. She sat there watching him, part of her in pity, part of her in love, part of her in disgust. How had she ever fallen for this weak thing? She had an inkling, just an inkling of what had been done to him, how he had been ruined. He had not an ounce of betrayal in him, but he had been made to betray. Two lives, each in opposition to the other. In the gap in between those two lives, Sigurd could not move, could not choose, could not act. He above all people was for the one vision, the one life. Without that he was nothing.
“You’re not who you were,” she said at last. “You’ve been beaten by that sad old bitch. All big bones and shit. Go on— fuck off. Take your miserable tears with you.”
Sigurd stood up, looked at her with a dreadful expression that broke her heart all over again. He left the room. As he reached the door, she called softly, “But I love you forever, my darling.” He paused, then left. She never knew if he’d heard. It was the last time she ever spoke to him.
Bryony sat still a long time, thinking. She thought to herself, Let Gudrun have what was left of him, let her remember every day how her family had ruined something that was once so splendid. But Sigurd was still Sigurd; she still loved him with all her heart and soul and he loved her back. There was still one way for them to be together. He had said it himself: They would love again in Hel.
It was time to die.
Death is not unexplored. Jesus went there and back, so did Odin. Sigurd made the journey at least twice. But where did they go? In those places, can lovers be united? Yes, surely you can love—Bryony was the proof of that. Death is a place where more than one can be and now it was time for her to go home, and to take her Sigurd with her.
Bryony lay in her room for the rest of the day and all that night, but she did not sleep. As soon as the light was in the sky, she called for Gunar.
He came up soon enough. He’d been waiting for me. He still wanted me. Imagine! You steal something, you destroy it, and then you want it back whole. What kind of man is that?
He didn’t come near me though, and he was armed. He had nothing to fear, although he didn’t know it. He was staying behind.
He peered at me anxiously. Poor, dishonest Gunar!
“Sit down, Gunar, and listen,” I said.
He sat, never taking his eyes off me. He loves me and fears that I am his death. No death for you, Gunar! You’re just the messenger.
I began by telling him true things. True things make the best lies—the lie is in what is left out. How Sigurd had ridden down into Crayley before he knew him. How we’d been lovers. How we’d sworn to belong to each other forever. We were children in love. He believed me. Of course. It made sense. He’d seen us together. He knew how Sigurd once was and what he’d turned into. The truth—it’s irresistible.
Then I moved on to lies born out of the truth. How Sigurd and I made our plans, dreamed our dreams. How we planned to emerge and take over the world—to conquer the country! Our ambition knew no bounds. Unite the country! Make it whole under us. The whole world would share our love!
Gunar frowned, but didn’t argue. Then back to the truth; how Sigurd had gone back up to fetch the dragon skin to rescue me.
“It’s true,” said Gunar. “He was looking for the skin, he told us that.” I could see him thinking, that clever man Gunar! He wanted to believe. You see, Sigurd was in his way. Sigurd had always been in his way. But Gunar was a good man. You understand? He could not act unfairly, he had to believe that what he did was right. And that he did easily, politician that he was. He believed that sending Sigurd down in his shape to get me was right. He believed that taking a woman who had fallen in love with another man, against her will, without her even knowing, was right. Yes, Gunar, you’re gullible enough when it comes to fooling yourself for the sake of yourself. You even want to feel righteous about your wickedness. An overdose of sincerity—how good that makes him feel!
“And yet Sigurd married Gudrun,” he pondered.
“Politics, Gunar! He came up here and what did he find?
You were in the way. He wanted your organization, your government. He knows a good job when he sees it. He did what he had to do. You see him with Gudrun almost every day. Do you think he loves her?”
“He did once.”
“He grows tired of the deceit,” I said.
He shook his head. It did seem to him that Sigurd had once loved Gudrun.
“He loved me once, but he forgot me quickly enough. He loves easily; he forgets easily. Now he has forgotten her.”
He half nodded. Yes, that could be true. Sigurd had loved me, he had forgotten me. He had loved her; now he did not love her. At least not with a love Gunar could understand.
I shrugged, as if to say, The mind of Sigurd! Who knows the nature of his deceit, it comes in many layers. Gunar nodded. Whatever the explanation, he could see that there was deceit in Sigurd.
Then I began the real lies, the big lies. How when Sigurd came down a second time in Gunar’s shape, he’d told me at once who he was. At first I didn’t believe, I had no idea such things were possible, I’d lived away from the world, I knew so little of it. But Sigurd knew things about me, about us. He soon convinced me.
“Why?” Gunar could not understand. Why had his friend appeared to deceive me, and yet deceived him?
“Gunar—we were lovers. We are lovers.” Ah, poor Gunar— see him turn pale at that! “He said there was a kingdom. It was in the way. I would be queen, he would be king. Don’t you see how he’s changed, even you must be able to see that? He’s tired of this game. A man like that—do you think he’d be content to be anything but the highest and most powerful of all? That’s what he was made for, that’s what he is. He’s conquered everyone else. There is only one man left in the way, Gunar. You.”
And Gunar began to nod. Yes, he could see it. “His time is over, you see,” I said. The truth again. “The time for heroes and monster killers and generals is gone. It’s your time now, Gunar—the time of politicians and lawmakers. He wants what you have.”
And Gunar, poor weak Gunar, who wanted so very much to have what Sigurd had, found it so, so easy to believe that Sigurd wanted what he had.
“He wants to rule,” he said. He was amazed that he hadn’t seen it before.
“He’s fooled us all, Gunar. Do you think he can’t fool you, as well? His ambition never stops. He gave his wife my ring—my ring!” I never needed to act out anger. “He swore to me he’d stop sleeping with her to get me back on his side and broke his promise the night he came back up and handed me over to you. It made me feel dirty, Gunar, to marry you just because Sigurd had ordered it. I knew nothing of these things. Every promise he ever made he broke. He has all the charm and the good words, but we are little things to him. His heart is full of lies.”
Gunar, poor weak Gunar, thought hard about it. But you see how much sense it made? He had no idea about Grimhild and her tricks but he knew that Sigurd had once been open and free, and that now he’d become withdrawn and secretive. Why else? He had secrets, that much was clear. What other secrets could there be but these ones, which made so much sense? These were the secrets that offered Gunar what he wanted: Sigurd out of the way. They offered him his dreams come true.
“I can’t believe it,” he said. But he already did.
“What can we do about it?” he asked. But he already knew.
Before he left, Bryony told him one more secret, just in case he needed to know. In between Sigurd’s shoulder blades was a spot the dragon’s blood had not touched. There and there only could Sigurd be pierced.
Gunar’s eyes flashed. She knew that? That was the final proof; th
ey had been intimate. Everything else followed from that.
With Gunar gone, Bryony lay back on her bed. Outside the sun was only just beginning to warm the air. She had nothing more to do until darkness.
So sorry, Bryony! Sorry, Sigurd! Sorry, Gunar and Gudrun. Things haven’t worked out the way they should. You’re all people of goodwill—how has it gone so far? Bryony lies still and stares at the ceiling. The heat is rising. Wet fingers of it creep into her, under her clothes, behind her eyes. Good weather for a murder. She takes off her top, but she’s still melting. She strips and lies there naked while the sweat pools between her breasts. So beautiful, Bryony. So ill-used, so deadly. A creature of vision and imagination, she needed to be handled with care—more care than Gunar knew how to provide.
Gunar and Hogni sit hunched together in a far part of the grounds, arguing and agreeing, agreeing and then arguing again, unable to believe where they are headed but unable to turn away. In turn they try new lines of thought, new explanations, but all lead to the same place. Sigurd is lying, Sigurd has his own agenda. After each excursion they look into each other’s eyes and see the same thing: death. They wonder that such a thing is possible. But it is not merely possible. It is the only thing that can happen.
Sigurd himself sits alone by the lake, remembering. Down there he lies—he can see the spot. He winces as he recalls the oar beating down over and over again onto his naked face. Generous Jenny Wren gave him everything from that night.
He is at his lowest ebb, but even now he is not defeated. He could stand up if he wished, lift the world on his fingertip, and send it hurtling in another direction. If Andvari’s ring is the twister, he is the straightener, and he is the stronger of the two. And yet he has chosen submission. Is the world not good enough for him? Surely he can’t be hoping to wash away our sins with his blood—the guilt he would leave behind is a sin in itself. No. The truth is Sigurd is falling in love again. He can’t help it. And this time, it’s total. Now he loves everything—not just his lovers and his friends, not just mankind or nature, but everything: the dirt, the shit, the depression. He loves murder and hatred and death. His spirit had been crushed by the betrayal of having lived two lives and he loves even that. Sigurd was finally falling in love with all of creation. He has seen the future and he is not in it. He goes forward toward it as he must, glad or not glad, but with an open heart.
As night became deep, like the vampire, Bryony rose. She knew what to do. Sigurd had told her everything. Now she went to see for herself.
Grimhild did not know how, but she understood well enough that somehow Sigurd had recaptured his stolen memories. He’d told her—taken her on his knee, held her tight in one hand, and explained to her. She had licked away his tears and pretended not to understand, but her little doggy heart has not been still since that day. She has experience of how such discoveries tend to pan out. On the day Bryony found out about her betrayal, Grimhild had peeped in through the door and seen terrible danger in the white face staring back at her. She had taken to sleeping in the bluebell woods lately. Her house was no longer safe.
She was rusty now, with lack of exercise; but when she saw Bryony coming through the woods in the dead of night, far beyond the house where no one could watch, she turned and ran, but felt in no immediate danger. She was a match for most things on two legs. To her surprise and horror there were feet behind her tail in moments, and, though she put on a burst of speed, she was swept up into the arms of her enemy in a moment.
She turned and snapped, but Bryony dealt her a blow to the muzzle of such violence that she lost two of her remaining teeth, felt the bones in her neck open and close, and her eyes pop in her head.
“I eat bitches like you for breakfast,” Bryony told her.
She carried the trembling little dog to the folly. Grimhild tried to bark; Bryony snapped her forearm just above the wrist and held her muzzle tight while she cried.
“No,” she said. “You’ve lost everything. If you want to live, if you want your children to live, call your servant.”
Grimhild had no choice; but there was hope. Bryony was surely no match for Ida, who had been improved long ago. She had the power of a bear in her fat red arms. Grimhild regretted now not changing herself; she’d been thinking of it lately. Her children needed her, and she was getting old. Perhaps a more youthful clone . . . ? Ten or twenty years off, a nip and a tuck, some extra muscle hidden away, why not? Her children, too. They had become . . . well, a little too complicated, perhaps? Maybe it would be better to wipe the slate clean and start again, with a Gudrun who didn’t love Sigurd, and a Gunar who hadn’t fallen so foolishly in love with this disastrous young woman?
She called Ida up with three short barks. They had planned for such an emergency as this. Bryony did not know, but of course she guessed. She could have no way of knowing how powerful Ida was—but Ida had no way of knowing how powerful she was. She was the true beast, daughter of Odin, born in Hel. When Ida came storming out of the lift with an ax in her hands, her flat mouth set in a hard straight line, her neck bulging with fury, her face and arms red with angry blood, Bryony stepped neatly behind her, slipped a cord around her neck, kicked the ax out of her hands, and strangled her quickly and quietly, holding Grimhild the while between her knees, where she squeezed just tight enough to crack the old dog’s jaw. Don’t doubt it; Bryony had no pity left.
Down they go, the girl and the bitch, into the magic space hidden inside the door—and there it all is. If Bryony had any doubt of Sigurd’s words, it is dispelled now. Rows of Gunars, Hognis, and Gudruns, all waiting to be sparked by their mistress. By their sides, the banks of equipment with their latest memories stored. Little Grimhild whimpers as Bryony’s finger strays toward the plugs. She turns her pleading doggy eyes up to her captor: Spare my babies! But Bryony has already moved on. The murder of futures is not yet begun. She turns a corner—and there they are, the Sigurds, eight of them, all perfect, all beautiful, even with their pruney underwater skins.
Ahhh . . . here’s a thought. Was she tempted? Grimhild yaps and nods. There’s enough for everyone! One for Gudrun, one for Bryony—two, if she wants. Why not? He is the best after all. Doesn’t every woman deserve the best? You could start an industry! Grow your own! Roll up! Built like a stallion, moves like a panther, loves like a hero.
Bryony stares in disgust. Sigurd after Sigurd, mindless, unloved, unloving; not Sigurd at all, but robots of flesh, ghosts with trick blood. It is with this kind of clumsiness that Grimhild has ruined everything.
She ties the little dog up in a corner, binds her mouth with tape. Grimhild has a bit of a cold, the sniffles. She chokes for breath and has to curl her lips up at the front to get a wisp of air; maybe she’ll suffocate. Who cares? Not Bryony. She is only concerned not to be disturbed while she works.
DNA is fragile enough, but a copy is kept in every single cell. Bryony has her work cut out if she wants to make sure that Sigurd is not only dead, but stays dead. Murder is not enough. She could chop him up and dice him to a pulp and it would do no good. Molecular destruction is what Bryony is after—every cell of him must go, every molecule must be broken up. She intends to reduce Sigurd and all his copies to their very atoms. Her method? Fire, of course, the gift of Loki, god of lies. Fire, a lie so complete it renders the truth unrecoverable. It is the only thing that will unwrap Sigurd so totally that no future can ever know him again.
But where is this fire? She could call to Loki himself—he’d give her a light for a trick like this one, surely? But no need— Bryony knows where the house armoory is. There are flamethrowers there. A long job, of course—but there’s not even the need for that. As she walks past the warm tanks she sees Grimhild’s newest installation: an incinerator. How thoughtful! Puzzled by how Sigurd had recovered his memory and knowing nothing of Jenny Wren, she had nevertheless come to the conclusion that someone, somehow, had stolen the memories that she had left in that empty bottle eighteen months ago. Ida had communicated to her how u
npleasant the business of bashing the corpse down underwater had been. An incinerator was the obvious answer. Ashes remember nothing.
In vain does Grimhild whimper and beg. If only she could speak, she would make her promises, offer her deals. She could recover the old Sigurd, put him back in the past before all this happened, wipe Gudrun out of his mind, and give him back to Bryony as he once was. Too late! Bryony is beyond trust now, there will be no deals, only an end to things. Grimhild watches. Murder! She tries to shout, but all that comes out is a strangled whimper. Ah, Grimhild, those who tell no secrets say no truths. You should have written that up on your wall as well. All she can do is watch as Bryony carefully empties the tanks and with an air of careful concentration incinerates the silent Sigurds one by one. When each one is done burning, she rakes over the ashes to make sure nothing too big remains. Only when they are turned to powder is she happy with her work and moves on to the next.
Four hours later, the job done, Bryony turns her attention to the machinery that houses his memories. Turn them off? Not good enough; there will certainly be batteries. Once again she has no need to visit the armory. Grimhild’s laboratory is armed well enough, and a brief search soon reveals the weaponry. Thoughtfully, Bryony takes her pick. It’s confined down here, she doesn’t want to die just yet—she has to make sure her love is going with her first. She chooses a shotgun with explosive shells. One after the other, she pops off the machines. They bleed, they fizz, they cough up their guts, they sparkle and burst into flames, but not one of them cries out or begs for mercy. They have no mouths. When she is certain they are all dead and broken, she rakes through the wreckage, looking for hard drives, brain matter, or nervous tissue that might somehow have escaped the carnage. Anything suspicious goes into the furnace. She is thorough, is Bryony. She has learned that there is no such thing as a second chance.