Countergift

       Helga Ragnarsdóttir left her cabin early but was still among the last to arrive at her brother’s house. Árni’s wife had another kid, a fifth already, this time without fancy genetic programs. Just for herself. Wow, the stamina. But then, it ran in Sigriður’s family; she had three sisters, all frisky, freckled, and chatty. Helga’s head would most definitely spin and split by the end of the feast. It was already pulsing dull after making proper gifts for the new baby. She was a mage, after all. She couldn’t come with a straightforward staple of onesies or a pretty coloured rattlebox. Well, maybe a rattlebox adorned with a stave might do, but Helga had already used the idea for Árni’s daughters. Indeed, it was noisy, and not just from other aunts. The house was brimming with children, Árni’s and others’. Bjarni ran to Helga and hugged her legs, almost toppling her. She held on to the wall and hoped the nagging feeling in the right knee was not a meniscus going to pop out. And certainly she wasn’t going to lift the kid up; her waist wouldn’t like it at all. How were those women able to bear children and then carry them? Helga believed her spine would snap long before delivery, were she to have a baby. So it was for the best that she had never been extremely popular with guys in her better years, and now it was too late. Two tiny nieces of Sigriður ran in, then squeaked, noticing Helga, and dashed back. The reputation of a grim witch proved useful for once. It kept more susceptible kids at bay. Alas, Bjarni was too young to be scared and too strong to be shaken off. Árni came next, unlatched the toddler off Helga at last, and brought her in and through greetings, well-wishes, small talk, and pitying glances, to the cause of the celebration. Sigriður was already as perky as ever, and yet another Árnason became much cuter than right after the birth. Now he did look like his dad, with red floss on the head, a slight semblance in the eye shape and the curve of lips. After four dark-haired changelings, it was so strange and endearing to see the familiar features in this tiny lump of life. Helga found herself smiling and decided this kid would be her favourite nephew. She congratulated happy Sigriður sitting in piles of other gifts, clothes for the baby and his mother, of all colours and materials but mostly wool. What else could be expected from sheep farmers? Helga’s gifts were just as expected of a mage and just as practical. A shirt with an embroidered anti-colic stave and a soother with an analgesic stave engraved on the wooden shield for future teething. Helga was still wincing when washing hands, as all the needle pricks and chisel cuts on her fingers itched. She put her hand on the copper-tufted baby’s head to say the blessings, another thing expected from a witc— a mage. “Oðinn the Allfather, Freyja the Giver—“ A dark plane under an overcast sky. Human figure, tall, male, if rather slender, with a long red braid. An unknown intricate stave blazing under his feet over moss and stones. Metal trinkets of a mage tingling under the wind on a wide blue knit coat. It ended in a split second. Helga even completed the blessing mechanically, still trying to catch up, to process—it was clearly a prophetic vision! Maybe the split second was not so short because Árni’s wife asked if anything was wrong. Helga said that her back did not appreciate even such a short moment of bowing, which was absolutely true, by the way. She wasn’t going to tell Sigriður that her son was a mage. Sure, everyone would be glad. A true blessing from the gods, wasn’t it? But Helga knew better. She didn’t consider herself blessed, not anymore. Long ago, a sullen, snarky girl believed that she would be respected and loved for her gift. Maybe there was some respect mixed with superstitions and taking her for granted. People thought that magic was coming miraculously free. You’d be appreciated, the teachers in the Academy of Seiður had been saying. They hadn’t mentioned the price. Maybe they didn’t know, since the lecturers were mostly making single demo staves for students and didn’t notice the miniscule bits of lifetime—or health?—it was taking. But Helga made her own observations. For a field mage, there were hundreds of fence posts to put those staves on, and dozens of sheep, and thousands of vegetable plants in greenhouses, and then it all needed to be refreshed in the next season. Helga felt herself so old and decrepit in the mornings. And in the evenings, after a day of hard work. And whenever she had to kneel down or stand up. And… And often, people who didn’t know her for long would think she was Árni’s older sister, when really she was seven years younger than him. Poor boy. Would he grow up like herself, ever tired, ever sore, ever expected to do miracles, and looked upon as an oddity of nature? Helga went back to the dining hall to help herself to some snacks and drinks (nothing strong or fatty; her stomach would not appreciate it), but not too far, on the lookout for a chance to clip a tuft of red hair unnoticed. She still had to make one more gift. *** Helga wanted to curse all and everything but didn’t give in to momentary urges. It was not her real wish; it was just short breath, a tiresome road through loose April snow, a sore toe, and cold, thin air burning in her lungs. It would end some more metres higher in the mountain, at that rock that looked perfect to her and her fylgja, then she’d rest and get into a better mood. It was a good rock—a solid rock running down to the bones of the earth. It would hold and spread the action of Helga’s stave all over the island. Magic of such scale might cost Helga more than a hundred sheepkeeper staves, but it was worth it. She went down on her protesting knees and took the paint jars and brushes out of her bag. The smaller jar, black paint with the ashes of one tuft of copper-red hair and one rowan twig, a brush out of dog fur. Runes of the name and runes of birth cluttered together on the bare vertical stone surface. The rest was to be made with a common carbon black made out of ash tree ash and adhesive. Circles and notches and lines and arrows from other staves combined in something new spread around the first runes. Helga had enough experiments in her youth to know what to expect from this or that element. Preserve – keep out – gods’ gift – put to sleep. Now the whole native land would protect its son from the awakening of his cursed gift from the gods. She had wanted to apply the stave under the main town bridge to cover the whole town or valley, but what if the bridge got renovated in the near future, or Reynir (what a good name Árni and Sigriður chose) moved to another place? And, being non-immune, he would never want to leave Iceland. Virtually, there was no world outside of Iceland, as Helga’s and Árni’s granddad had been telling often. The protection would last forever. With a feeling of the job being done well, Helga headed down to the town.