Entry 4 : Shifting Snows
CONTENT WARNING:
Kidnapping, Descriptions of death
Surviving in The Dale is an ever-changing maze of deadly pitfalls. Natural and unnatural dangers coexist in an environment that is inhospitable even to its most hardened natives. When exercising caution, it is still easy to lose one’s life, but the Nanoq spent generations transforming survival into an art form. We found the places where edible vegetation hid away and carefully monitored paths of the thick-furred elk that crossed our tundra in spring. When frigid winds came howling, we built bastions of ice and skins in which to lay our heads and could easily pack them away when it came time to move on. Other clans were much alike in their methods, but we found ourselves set apart when it came to the matter of raiding. While others in The Dale did so as a show of power or to gain spoils and territory, the Nanoq were forbidden by Selune unless it was at her command. She promised the land would provide all we needed, and so it did, yet, if any should dare strike against her chosen, we had her approval to retaliate without mercy.
Since the early days, many clans in The Dale stood below Selune’s banner. Our favor with her was well-known, and the approach of peace we practiced lent us respect, even from rivals. Many chieftains came to us when there were disputes among their clans, seeing us as a kind of neutral ground, and we were glad to lend our council and objectivity. On the occasions where war broke out among our neighbors, we joined the side Selune deemed righteous. This dynamic kept order among the clans and allowed all to live in a manner that befitted them. No one thought it would ever change, until Hrókr Enberg disappeared during my ninth winter.
He was a widow’s young son, and one of my closest friends. I consider now that this is why he was the first one taken, but at the time, no one understood the motive. Though he managed to escape his captors and return unharmed, this brazen act made Bjorn and Sigrid uneasy. They had weathered their fair share of battles and monsters, mourned the deaths of both old and young alike; these were all unavoidable realities of life in The Dale. What purpose could there be for stealing a child? No time was wasted in tracking down the tribe responsible, and as the Nanoq enacted their savage justice, they questioned again and again why the boy was taken. Each dying breath carried the same whispered reply, “Malar demands an offering.”
The god’s name was unknown to them, but the mere mention of a new entity made my parents' blood run cold. Surrounding clans turning away from Selune meant it was only a matter of time before our influence and neutrality were threatened. We were many, but we could not stand against every clan in The Dale alone. If this Malar demanded a sacrifice and his reach was spreading, how long would it be before he saw that demand satisfied?
Months went by without another disappearance but resumed with alarming frequency that summer. Boys were being stolen every few weeks and being found even less, each one taken by another clan in service to the hungry new god. For every son that was returned to his mother’s arms, there was another found broken and lifeless on a makeshift altar. I saw my father grow bone-weary, his cheeks sunken and his eyes glassy with fatigue. His hulking frame slouched with each passing day, as if his shoulders bore the weight of all those children who had not been so lucky as Hrókr. The name Malar soured his expression, and though he and Sigrid begged for guidance, Selune offered no explanation. No insight. No relief.
My parents would often stay up into the early hours of morning during those days, speaking in hushed tones as they huddled close to the fire. I slept to the sound of their muttering on most nights, but there is one conversation I could not help but overhear and will never forget.
Bjorn returned late, after I was already tucked beneath the furs, and set his great-axe by the door. “Another one gone. I’ve told the parents to ensure their boys do not wander alone and come home before dark but…”
“I know. It’s as if they’re being snatched from right under our noses.” Sigrid paused, her words catching with worry. “Bjorn, does it bother you that the boys are all —”
“Of course it does. Every time we fail I see the ghost of Bjolf’s face. I’m starting to wonder if perhaps these attacks keep missing their intended target.”
“Do not say that…”
“Why not? It’s a possibility, Sigrid, and I know the thought has crossed your mind.”
“What about Selune? What does she have to say?”
“Nothing. I have not heard her voice since Hrókr was taken, not even when I walk with the bear below a full moon. And…there is something else.” Silence reigned for a few moments, broken only by the crackle of flames as they licked at their feast of firewood. When Bjorn spoke again, his voice was colored with an emotion I had not yet heard or seen him show. Fear.
“The elk have not returned to us. I searched for their tracks throughout the Spine and across the ice fields. If they travel for the season, they have given us a wide berth.”
“What?! But…No, it’s no matter, there must be something else we can do. What about the southern clans? Surely they have goods we could—”
Cups clattered against stone as my father shot to his feet. “Which clans, Sigrid? The Rún, who stole Frode over the winter? Or the Thrall, who left Gorm’s body to rot by the sea and did not bother covering their tracks? Our allies are gone. Those that follow Selune are gone…and it seems that she, too, has abandoned us. When the moon was last full, I saw priests of Malar lurking along the treeline. Our treeline, and still she gave me no words.”
Bjorn sagged back to the floor, crumpling atop his pile of skins, and I could hear my mother shuffle close to pull him into an embrace. He sighed, “My father always told me the favor of gods is fickle, but I thought our people must be the exception.”
“And so we are, but when the gods quarrel with one another, mortals are always caught in the wake of their destruction. We must hold steady, as we always have, and trust that she will return to us.”
“I hope you are right, Ástvinur…”
Sigrid was indeed right, but it would be many years before her faith was rewarded. In the weeks that followed this brooding conversation, our stores emptied and the land continued to reject us. My people were barely surviving on half-starved rabbits and the occasional acorn. Doubters that had been peaceful since my birth now found their voices, Mistrust that had been murmured in secret was now shouted at every clan gathering. The calm reassurances of my parents did nothing to quell their dissatisfaction, and they could feel loyalty swiftly dwindling. It was at the peak of insubordination that we received a message from two priests of Malar, requesting a peaceful parlay with the Nanoq Clan and its leaders. Bjorn and Sigrid’s warnings were lost beneath cries of desperation from grief-stricken parents and withered scarecrows with hungry bellies. The Nanoq would hear what these priests had to say.