Animals We Made [RETURNS June 7, 2024]

Years of Strange Iron | Part 3

A breeze made the fire dance. Nights had turned icy, solidifying the puddles in the wake of the rains. Einar gawked at his injured leg.

Moss oozed under him as he reclined on his back. He listened to the distant tide. Sloosh. Slosh. Sloosh. Slosh. Timid as the conversations of ghosts. A white moon shone now and again. Inhaling reverence, then exhaling scorn into the wondrous dark, he appreciated his furs, which preserved him as the land grayed on. His breaths misted. No rodents moved any longer in the undergrowth. Frost collected in spider webs and on the tips of grass blades. He imagined he was dreaming once or twice and needed to pinch his elbow to reassure himself that he was not. Spasming, idiotic with grief, he missed his loved ones.

The valley had paled away in the fog. He swallowed, and his throat burned. Getting a whiff of mold, he plugged his nostrils with his thumbs. He despised this odor he should have been accustomed to as it lingered even after the crops were gone. A swollen mass, his leg felt hollow. He wondered if prodding it might cause it to burst. The other man was cutting reeds with one of the daggers—newly washed—that had tasted Einar's blood.

Solveig wove the reeds together, fashioning a pot. He departed with the pot and brought it back full of river water and stones gathered from the bank. Removing and setting the stones about the fire, he waited for them to heat. When they had, so much so that they smoked, he lifted them with his knife and dropped them one at a time into that reed pot he'd made. They sizzled as they hit the water and caused it to glug and boil, sending up plumes of vapor. He tore a section of his cloak. Using the piece of fabric as a rag, he dipped it in the water and wrung the cloth out below him.

"Gods be damned." His brow furrowed. "If you didn't insult Odin so much, he might permit you to live."

Einar watched the cloth spatter the rocks. "He can go fuck himself thoroughly, right up the arse."

"Quiet. You're wasting strength."

"I don't care."

"You are stupid as an ox, talking like that."

"An ox doesn't fucking talk, does it?"

Solveig applied the wet rag to Einar's leg. "Then stop talking."

The fire crackled.

Around the men, uprooted weeds and grass bits swirled, and the plains were empty.

"Have you lost anyone to the iron?" Einar nestled into his furs.

"My uncle." Solveig rubbed his palms together. "The bastard hacked my cousins to pieces before I . . ." He gulped. "I didn't want to lop off his head, but he would've butchered me, and the whole while as he slaughtered he kept asking, 'Why am I doing this?' "

Einar fidgeted with the reclaimed pendant around his neck. "He would've stopped if he could."

"Without a doubt."

"Men and women corrupted by the iron do not seem robbed of their intelligence."

"Dear holy gods, I have witnessed a father apologize to his lad while strangling him blue."

"The corrupted remain sane, aware, lucid, though physically manipulated by the iron, forcing them to kill." Einar thought of Njal. "I was attacked by one of them. He'd murdered my f-fa . . . fa . . ."

"You needn't recount this evil."

". . . my f-f-f . . ."

"Try to relax. Your wound is bleeding again."

". . . my fa-f-father and . . . and . . . s-sis-s-s . . . s-sister and mother b-be-b-before . . ."

"Oh, this, your affliction."