The Old Grind
Laura Frankos
The greatest challenge every young careerwoman must face: making Mother understand.
Fenia dumped a huge sack of rock salt into the magic quern Grotti as her mother Menia set the millstone to grinding. The old giantess stood on the rocky shore, waves lapping over her enormous feet. Menia stretched her hands over the enchanted quern as she cast the spell.
“Waters quick, waters deep, grind these stones—” She broke off suddenly, arms dropping to her sides. “Daughter! Not so fast! Pour them in slowly, or the quern will overflow. Your haste has caused me to ruin the spell. I must begin again.”
Scowling, Fenia took a tighter grip on the mouth of the sack and slowed the shower of rock salt. Her mother nodded approvingly and began the spell once more.
“Waters quick, waters deep, grind these stones, the salt to keep.” Menia pointed a stubby finger at the gray ocean and at once a channel cut through the waves. Water gushed through the eye of the millstone; it began rotating, slowly at first, then with greater speed. A whirlpool formed as the flow of water increased. The seas all around became more and more turbulent.
Fenia pointed at the whirlpool. “The humans won’t be pleased with us if they sail their ships through that Swelkie, Ma.”
Menia sniffed. “Humans! What do we gygers care what humans think? They’d be unhappier still if we neglected to grind the salt and all their precious fishes died.” She looked into the quern to make
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The Old Grind
sure it was grinding evenly, then turned her gaze on her daughter. “What has gotten into you, daughter? You’re edgy as an axe.” Her gray eyes narrowed. “Are you with child? I know that Cubbie Roo’s been hankering after you, but after that last row you had with him ...”
“Oh, him.” Fenia dismissed the giant with one wave of her hand and sat down on the shore. “He may be the biggest giant here in Orkney, but I can best him in all the things that matter. Did you see what happened when he and Tostig of Kiepfea Hill quarreled last month? Cubbie heaved a boulder and missed Tostig by fifty yards. Disgraceful.”
Menia clucked her tongue. “There’s more things important than good aim.” She picked up the bag by Fenia’s feet and dumped the rest into the quern.
Fenia snorted. “What about all his work at building a bridge between the islands because he doesn’t like to get his feet wet? Time and again he tries, but he always overloads his basket, and the stones spill into the sea. And besides, how could he help us with Grotti if he won’t get his feet wet?”
She succeeded in shocking her mother. “Grinding the sea salt is gygers’ business! You never saw your father help with Grotti, did you?”
“I never saw Father do anything except fish and poke holes in rocks with his thumb, which never struck me as a useful talent. Assuming I did marry, which is assuming a great deal, why couldn’t my mate help with the work? Maybe not with the spells, but dumping in the rocks and carrying the salt to the sea doesn’t take anything special.”
“It simply isn’t done!”
“That’s no answer,” Fenia retorted. “But it’s a pointless argument, anyway. I’ve no intention of marrying.” She gazed across the Pentland Firth at the dark smudge that was the island of Britain. “I want to leave Orkney, Ma. I went to travel, see the world. I want adventure and excitement. Most of all, I want to get away from this endless grinding.”
They had been speaking loudly; the roar of the whirlpool and
the thunderous pounding of Grotti made normal conversation impossible. Fortunately, giantesses have loud voices. Fenia’s last sentence, however, came just as Grotti finished grinding the salt, and boomed over the gurgling hush of the water trickling back to the ocean.
Her mother looked at her blankly. “You can’t mean it. There’s nothing for you out in the world. It’s cluttered full of humans. You’re better off here, with your own kind. What on earth would you do, anyway? You’re not trained for anything save tending Grotti.”
Fenia stood up and emptied the ground salt into a basket. “I thought I’d try my hand at fighting. I’m so big any human army would be glad to have me.”
Menia decided to use guilt to sway her daughter’s mind. “If you leave, what will I do? I’m not getting any younger, and Grotti must be tended every day. How my poor old bones ache.”
“You’re full of fishheads, Ma. You’re only two hundred and twenty-eight, the prime of life.”
“Two hundred and thirty. I’ve lied to you the last couple of decades.”
“Whatever.” Fenia lifted up the basket and began trudging up to the high cliff from which she would dump it into the sea. It would have been far easier to pour it right there on the shore, but Menia was a perfectionist, and insisted that the salt dispersed better this way.
“You will need some help, though, when I’m gone,” Fenia added. “I thought I’d hire a couple of dwarves.”
“Dwarves!” Menia howled.
“Maybe trolls. There’re plenty in the hills, but dwarves are more reliable.”
“Trolls!” Menia clutched at her head. “I can’t believe my ears! My own flesh and blood! We gygers have always had a respectable business!”
“So I’ll hire respectable dwarves.” Fenia reached the top of the steep hill and flung the salt over the edge. The ever-present Orkney wind caught it and scattered it over the crashing surf below, a white, crystalline shower.
Menia stood watching it fall. She resorted to a mother’s last tactic: delay. “We’ll talk about this later.” Without another look at Fenia, she began the trek back down the hill to their home.
“We’ll talk, Ma,” Fenia said under her breath, “but all your shouting will only add to the strength of the wind.”
Gygers have more sense than their male counterparts, who tend to believe everything can be solved with a few tossed boulders. When Menia realized that her daughter’s ambitions could not be swayed, she fought for a compromise. Fenia would go out into the world for a year, then come back to Orkney for an unspecified length of time. The younger giantess assumed it would be a brief stay; her mother hoped otherwise.
Fenia had few possessions, so packing was easy. Harder was finding suitable dwarves in the islands. At last she found a married pair selling woolen goods on Fair Isle and tempted them with the promise of a regular salary.
“Ma, this is Alberich and his wife, Erka.”
Menia studied the dwarves. “At least they don’t smell. Alberich, you say? Wasn’t that name in the news not long ago?”
“A distant cousin who was in the jewelry trade,” Alberich said hastily. “We’re weavers, got some lovely sweaters. Unfortunately, not in your size.”
Menia heaved another sigh. “I suppose they’ll do. The gods know what the neighbors will say.”
“Ma, we haven’t got any neighbors! I’m leaving before you say another word! See you next year.” Fenia hugged her mother, collected her gear, and went out into the world.
Contrary to legends, giants cannot hop from one island to another; if they could, it would have made Fenia’s journey much simpler. After swimming the Pentland Firth, she found little of interest in the Highlands save a few haggard, tattooed warriors who ran away as she approached. Slim pictings here, she thought.
She pressed southwards, and marveled how quickly the English ran away from her. “Almost as if they’d been practicing,” she mused.
“What I need is a way to get to the Continent; Britain is nearly as boring as home. Maybe there’s something going on beyond that ridge; I smell smoke.” Cresting the hill, she saw several buildings in flames. More Englishmen, long black robes kirted about their waists, were fleeing for the safety of the hills. “No wonder they’re good at running, even with those short legs! Hey, you!” she called to one of the men. “Shouldn’t you try to put out that fire?”
He stared at the giantess emerging from the woods. “Gleep,” he said, and fainted.
Another man hurried to the fallen body. “Brother Ethelred!”
“I’ll help you,” Fenia offered, bending over.
The second man went pale. “Th-thanks. With all the commotion of the attack, I fear poor Ethelred was unready for a visit from a giantess.”
“I’m just passing through.”
“That’s what the Vikings said,” the man said darkly. “But they’re still down there.”
“Vikings? Why, I’ve seen some near my home; nice big ships. Maybe I can get them to take me to the Continent!” Fenia clapped her hands in glee.
“Deus vulut,” said the second man, casting his eyes skyward.
Fenia pelted down the hill to the cluster of buildings. A human, long blond hair showing under his helmet, dashed out of a doorway and ran right into Fenia. He dropped a sack which fell with a metallic clank.
“I’m so sorry,” Fenia said, “Let me help you with that.”
The human backed away. “No, no, I don’t vant it anymore. I vas choost leaving.”
“Leaving? Are you one of the Vikings?”
For some reason, this made some of the fear leave his blue eyes. He stood up straighter, and nearly reached Fenia’s bellybutton. “Ja, I go viking. I am a Norseman.”
“Good. I want to come with you. On your boat.”
The Viking made a noise rather like the one Brother Ethelred had made. “I’d better take you to my chief, Ganga-Hrolf.”
“Hrolf the Walker? Why’s he called that?”
The Viking hesitated, measuring Fenia with his eyes. “Because he’s so big, no horse can carry him.”
“Good! We have something in common.”
Ganga-Hrolf was big, for a human. He was taller than her navel and considerably wider than most humans. He was delighted to learn that Fenia wished to join his men, but balked at crossing the Channel.
“What’s the point? We got plenty of good stuff to loot here in England; been looting it for years. Why not keep on wi’ it?”
“But Ganga-Hrolf . . .”
“Call me Rollo. Somehow I feel less big in same room as you.”
“Rollo, then. Consider the opportunities on the Continent! It’s many times the size of England. Just look at your map.”
They were sitting in what Rollo called a church. It had been one of the burning buildings, but Fenia herself put out the blaze because she liked its great, high ceiling. It reminded her of home.
“It’s a big gamble,” Rollo muttered. “Who knows what these Franks got? Maybe not’ing! Maybe I should just sail west and see what the gods placed on the edge of the world!”
“Oh, don’t go that way. My uncle, who suffers from an unfortunate hair condition, went that way years ago. He says it’s rather cold and unpleasant.”
“So is Denmark. Well, maybe we go there nodder time.” He folded his arms and looked up at her. “I take you to Francia. What you do?”
She shrugged. “Whatever you say. I’m your gyger.”
He slammed his fist in his open hand. “We fight! How can I lose wi’ genuine giant on my side?”
Fenia felt his enthusiasm. She smiled, and felt better than she had in days. Preparing to invade a country was far more interesting than grinding salt.
Rollo’s longboats were much larger than the tiny fishing boats of the humans in Orkney, but Fenia was still cramped. She couldn’t squeeze through the cabin door, so the Norsemen rigged a canvas
cover for her on the deck to shield her from the wind and rain while they headed back to Denmark to drop off the latest loot. The crew, under their chiefs orders, accepted her and were even pleasant. Her capacity for mead mightily impressed them. She wished her mother could see her getting outfitted for a chainmail hauberk, or singing with the crew by lantern’s light. Humans could be very pleasant when they weren’t shrieking.
They spent a few weeks in Danish towns, making preparations, then headed south to invade Francia. Fenia was glad. She had not liked staying in the towns; though the Vikings accepted her, their relatives, especially their female relatives, did not. The bolder women ignored her or made magical signs at her; the others fled. Small, daring Danish boys tossed rotten fruit at her and darted into doorways too narrow for her to follow.
Rollo’s ships landed without incident, and he led his army inland. Fenia trooped along loyally, studying the countryside. It looked very different from her windswept rocky home. The ground was dark and rich, the summer crops plentiful. Fenia marveled at the large orchards; there were few trees in Orkney. The men admired them, too: Many times Fenia heard men murmur they wished they had such grand farms. After several days’ plundering, Rollo returned to the ships to plan. “My scouts say the Franks are gathering an army; we should have company by the end of the week. Ready for battle, Fenia?”
“Ready,” she answered, but as the time drew closer, she worried how ready she might be. She had a shield, but the master armorer had barely begun her hauberk. Without it there was going to be a lot of gyger exposed to Frankish weapons.
Her fears were not unfounded. The Frankish army, though fighting defensively, concentrated their attack on the largest Norse target: Fenia. At the end of the day, she had endured dozens of cuts and punctures, and her shield resembled Menia’s pincushion. To her credit, she tossed a few boulders at the Franks, and her aim was true, unlike Cubbie Roo’s. She never got to use her axe; her best use, it seemed, was making the enemy flee.
Afterward, Rollo called it a victory, and planned to use the Franks’ rivers against them, sailing into the heart of Frankish territory and pillaging whatever they could. The men celebrated through the night. Fenia put vinegar on her cuts and went to bed. She didn’t want to admit to anyone, much less herself, that she did not enjoy her first battle. It was much more exciting than tending Grotti, but she could not call it fun.
Summer stretched into fall, with the same routine. The Danes ransacked the countryside, fought skirmishes, and enjoyed themselves immensely. Many of them suggested to Rollo that they stay permanently in this bountiful land. Rollo considered it. “We could make it a Norseman’s land, bring down our families from Denmark. . . .”
“Who needs that?” someone roared. “These Frankish and Breton maids are better looking than my wife!”
Rollo grinned. “Then it’s settled! Let’s winter here. Come spring, we’ll confront King Charles. We will make this land our own!”
The Vikings shouted with approval and beat their shields. Fenia ate a pot of porridge in silence and wished, for the hundredth time, that the cook used more salt. She was tired of marching, tired of battles, and especially tired of Frankish arrows. She looked up only when Rollo mentioned her name.
“We’ll lay siege to Chartres! We’ll build engines and catapults, and hammer its walls! But greater than any catapult is our own giantess, Fenia, who shall personally attack the front gates!”
The Vikings cheered again. Fenia had wearied of heaving boulders, too. At least when Orcadian giants threw them, they tossed a couple and were done, the point taken. These humans thought if one was good, fifteen were better. She hoped she would get plenty of rest over the winter; she feared she would need it.
The siege of Chartres was not successful. Charles the Simple had defended it well, and Rollo’s style of lightning-quick attacks was not suited to this type of drawn-out contest. Fenia dutifully threw rocks when she could; unfortunately for Rollo, there weren’t many to be had.
Several weeks into the siege, the Vikings were startled at dawn
by a surprise attack. Frankish cavalry had come down from Paris to harass the invaders. Fenia was cut off from Rollo’s main body of fighters, and nearly all the Norsemen with her overwhelmed. The Franks, as usual, kept their distance from her, but one knight threw a rock that caught her on the cheek. Dazed, she stumbled. When she looked up, a fine red haze seemed to cover the battlefield. She blinked, trying to clear her view. Then she blinked again, harder.
Flying through the mist on white horses were nine warrior-women in armor far better than her plain hauberk, long blond tresses flowing under their gleaming metal helmets. They swooped low over fallen Danes, touching them with spears. At each touch, a shimmering form rose up from the body and took a place behind the woman on the horse. Then the horses and riders vanished back into the clouds.
Fenia staggered forward, unsure which way to go. Two ravens swooped over her head, and someone impossibly strong grabbed her by the arm. A voice rang in her ears. “Lost your steed, daughter? Shameful! Mayhap we’ll find him back at Valhalla.”
Fenia was jerked upwards and deposited on the back of a huge flying horse with eight legs. An old man with a long beard and a blind eye sat before her. He craned his head around and squinted at her with his good eye. The horse looked at her, too, in a rather critical manner. “Putting on weight, daughter?” the rider asked.
Fenia didn’t know what to say, for she realized with dread that this must be Odin, greatest of the gods . . . one who didn’t get on well with giants.
Fortunately, he did not expect an answer. “Sleipnir, away!” Odin cried, and the mighty horse climbed higher into the sky. The ravens flew like black arrows before them, crowing so raucously it sounded like laughter. Moments later, Fenia saw a magnificent hall with a sparkling silver roof, impossibly situated among the clouds. Sleipnir landed, if one can call the action of setting hooves to clouds “landing.” They dismounted, and Odin began leading Sleipnir to a building near the great hall. He gestured to her. “Come, daughter, perhaps one of your sisters has brought your lost steed to the stables.”
One of the warrior-women emerged from the stables and gasped at Fenia. “Father, what have you brought from the field? This giantess is not ready for the mead of Valhalla!”
“Giantess? What’s that you say?” Odin turned to peer at Fenia. The ravens alighted on the stable roof and cawed again. This time, Fenia was sure they were laughing.
“By my good eye!” Odin shouted. “You’re right, Brynhild! I mistook her for one of you girls!”
Brynhild looked insulted. “Your ‘good eye’ is failing, Father. She’s too big and ugly to be a Valkyrie. Besides . . .” She stalked closer to Fenia, her nose almost twitching. “. . . we are all maidens, and she is not.”
Fenia stammered, “Well, you see, Cubbie Roo was over one night and he . . .”
“We don’t want the disgusting details, giantess,” snapped Brynhild. “Father, what are you going to do with her? She can’t stay here. She’s not one of us.”
Odin tugged at his beard. The two ravens clicked their beaks, watching. “In times past, I’ve had to deal harshly with giants, but I own the error here and must remedy it. What is your name? Fenia? Shall I take you back to that battlefield, Fenia? Or would you rather go to Jotunheim, the realm of the frost giants?”
Fenia thought quickly. Brynhild’s last disdainful sentence rang in her ears. The Valkryie was right: She didn’t belong here with the gods, but neither did she truly belong with humans. It was tempting to think of living in fabled Jotunheim with distant relatives of far renown, but what would a simple Orcadian gyger do there? The best place for her was . . . home. She hated to admit it, but Menia was right.
“If it please my lord Odin, I’d like to go home to Orkney, but for one thing: I was fighting in the army of the human, Ganga-Hrolf the Dane, and I feel badly at leaving his service so abruptly. I worry he may fail without me, though I truly wish to go home.”
“Tut! Huginn and Muninn here—” Odin nodded at the ravens “—have been keeping their bright eyes on your Norseman. He’ll do well enough without you. That land will be in his family for many generations to come, I promise you. Brynhild, fetch the mead for
our latest arrivals; I’ll be there to welcome them soon. Come, Fenia, mount again. Sleipnir can bear your weight, for he is the offspring of a giant’s steed.”
Fenia had barely time to cast one last look at mighty Valhalla, a view partially spoiled by Brynhild’s sour stare. Then Sleipnir plunged through the clouds again, whistling towards the earth.
“Some fun, eh?” Odin yelled. Fenia gulped.
Moments later, the eight-legged horse landed on the rocky headland of Fenia’s own island. Odin bowed politely after she dismounted. “Do forgive my error, Fenia. I don’t usually pick up pretty giantesses on battlefields.” The one eye gleamed. “Humans occasionally, but usually in their bedrooms. Good fortune to you.”
Then he and the horse were gone. Fenia walked along the shoreline. She could hear the familiar crashing sound of Grotti grinding the sea salt, though she could not see the magic quern yet. She clambered over a high, rocky spit, eager to see Menia again, though less eager to hear her gloating.
She looked up, and stopped in her tracks. There was Menia, tending Grotti, with Alberich and Erka by her side. And there, carefully pouring a huge sack of rock salt into Grotti, was Cubbie Roo, his feet in the roaring surf.
“What are you doing there?” Fenia bellowed.
They all stopped working. Grotti stopped grinding. Menia stood with her hands on her hips, waiting for Fenia to approach. “I might ask you the same thing. I didn’t expect you back so soon.”
“I meant him.” Fenia pointed at Cubbie, who was blushing.
Menia’s face grew sly. “Och, Cubbie’s been helping me ever since you left. These dwarves are hard workers, but not so strong as a giant!”
“What about his feet?”
Cubbie hoisted a leg. “Made some sealskin boots. Works pretty well.”
“What of you?” Menia asked. “Did you find adventure and excitement?”
Fenia thought back over her months with the Vikings. It had been an adventure, and some of it had been exciting. But other parts were boring or painful or unpleasant. “Yes, I did,” she answered slowly. “I’ve had my fill of them, and decided to come back to the old grind.”
Menia looked smug, but Cubbie Roo was worried. “Does that mean I shouldn’t help anymore?”
“Oh, no,” Fenia said hastily, realizing how much nicer looking Cubbie was then any of the humans she’d been with for so long— even Rollo. “Not when you’ve gone to the trouble of making boots and all.”
“If you like,” Cubbie said, “you can help me drop the salt from the cliff.”
“I’d love to,” said Fenia.
They walked off together. Menia laughed to herself. “Well, you can find adventure and excitement at home, if you’ll only look for them.”
Alberich tugged at her sleeve. “Now that she’s back, are we out of work, too?”
“Wait a bit,” said Menia. “How are you at babysitting?”