Dried seaweed lay in dark tidal lines. The beach was desolate and rocky – evening was not far away. Above the beach towered a cliff with beech trees – above the trees Mani hung, his glow weak in the hazy weather. The seagulls were fighting over a porpoise carcass.
She knew the place, so it did not take her long to find the smooth, black stone. She placed her tools beside it – a knife, an iron ruler and a wooden spatula. Carefully she moved the stone, then used the knife to remove most of the ryegrass that had grown over the abyss. She measured the four finger widths with her ruler and then carefully removed the wet sand. A hand's breadth down, and it opened like a willing woman. She took a deep breath, then trusted her hand in there – then her arm – the rest happened by itself.
The grey houses of Niflhel, with their unnaturally smooth stone and dark windows, rose above her like mountains. The houses had no ornaments, no craftiness, just black, square window holes. In the distance smoke rose from enormous cairns, merging with the cold fog. Everywhere she looked, she could see the refuse of the dead. Everything here was human. Everybody dead.
She shivered. Her feet were as red as her hair, and the woollen dress helped little when the air was this misty. A dog approached her snarling – its chest red with blood. She looked at it, and it shrank from her gaze.
The corpses, in their strange clothing, passed her without looking – lost in their own miserable existence. One of them, though, threw a coin at her, but she knew better than to take it. She hurried down the path alongside the houses. The noise was insistent and terrible, the horseless wagons of Hel snarled at her. No gaze could make them go away, and they were numerous as salmon in a river. Only, this river was dried up and filled with black lava stone. Having been here before, she headed towards the place with the strange runes above the door. They knew her there.
The bald man with the Nidhug tattoos who stood guard smiled at her as he let her in. She ran up the stairs, past the red rooms with almost naked women sitting in soft chairs waiting for men, and up one more flight of stairs until she stood in the grave of the Vølva.
It was a red room, like the rooms of those proud priestesses below – dry and warm, with incredibly ornate chairs and tables. There was silver and gold everywhere. The Vølva, a beautiful woman in the most splendid dress she had ever seen, turned to her and said:
“You come again, my little ginger, with strange questions. Sit down and put a blanket over your cold legs. I’ll get you wine. And then, tell me – what is it this time? What is it you want to know from this old whore?”
