Beautiful Wreck by Larissa Brown Page A

bed.
    If indeed a mythic creature like he would climb into a normal bed each night and sleep, instead of crossing a dark wing over his eyes or curling his wolf’s tail around his body. I thought of Hildur with a stab of anger.
    I did wonder about his bed, though—whether he had a real one that was more comfortable than the benches where we slept. Did he have pillows? I salivated, thinking of mine from before. Covers fresh from the dryer, their forms like great marshmallows, clean and bright. He wouldn’t have those, nei, but maybe something like them. I pictured Heirik lying on his bed, fallen down tired from the endless chopping and moving of wood. Too exhausted to even take off his boots. Maybe just his gauntlets untied, his belt and clutter of knives loose on the floor. His hair was splayed black and wild across a creamy white sheepskin. His features would be loose in slumber, not contained by the demands of being the chief. Just a boy sleeping.
    The wood of his door was warm to the touch, the latch cool and complex under my fingertips. A kind of keyless lock that only he could open.
    I shook the drowsiness from my head and pulled away from his door. I found a dark green cloak to secure over my shoulders, and I stepped out into the misty pleasure of morning.

    The stables smelled ripe and ugly, and my breath frosted the air. The light was still there in the sky, always in summer, but for a few hours it dimmed on either side of midnight. The lower temperature and dip into gray marked the passing of each day into night into morning.
    I called quietly for the horse and waited a long moment. Just looking, breathing in the farm.
    Lavender crept into the sky, as if pushing its nose under the big, gray quilt of nighttime. A breeze moved across my face, and with it I felt the stirring of every kind of animal as it woke. I felt the goats’ and cows’ and foxes’ hearts beat. I imagined a chicken opening one eye, the yawns of house dogs. I knew the baby would be struggling in his half-sleep to find Dalla’s breast, Lotta turning over next to them and thinking, I am awake . In an hour it would be warmer and the flies would stir, too, and start to buzz.
    Gerdi’s nose came cool and inquisitive, tickling my cheek, and I laughed out loud before shushing myself. I didn’t want to wake anyone, to call attention to us. I needed to ride Gerdi by myself, needed to do something bigger than expertly folding a pile of blankets.
    I got the simple saddle onto her and then the more complex reins. It felt good to do something with quiet determination, just me and Gerdi breathing and waiting for me to get everything right.
    It was so easy to climb up on her. One boot on the teardrop stirrup, the other leg over her back, my skirt like a giant red wing opening, and it was done. When her bones shifted, I did too, naturally as floating in the bath. And then she took off. With an uncharacteristic surge of direction, Gerdi whisked me away down the rocky lawn that sloped away from the stables. I held on tight, quietly grinding the word “Ho!” through my teeth until finally she slowed.
    By then, we were gone.
    As soon as we were away from the yard, she began to amble. I untangled my clenched hands from her mane, and tried to give in to her sleepy and sensual gait. My breath slowed, and I became peacefully thrilled that I’d gotten on her and rode away, alone. I was happy now to let her pick her own slow way over the uneven ground.
    This volcanic rock had been battered and bashed by time until it came to sit here in a variety of sizes from giant boulders towering over my head to dark black pebbles and sand. Every surface, everywhere, was grown over with pale moss and frilly white lichens that opened like bouquets of oak leaves. Wildflowers in every shade of yellow were sprinkled throughout it all. Gerdi nosed at them and chewed, and it was as familiar as breathing to just let my body yield and balance when she dipped her head low to eat.
    We