Lokasenna

A man meets a woman who is cloaked in mystery. But who is Bj�rn? A story based on Norse mythology.

I thought perhaps I should write it all down, these strange events, this strange girl. Well, not a girl exactly, she’s a woman around my own age, or so I’d say (I never did find out a lot about her). I guess you could say it began with fire and rain, sort of fitting now I look back on it. We’d been waiting outside not 5 minutes before it began to pour, of course we could see it coming; the wet pavement and heavy clouds were typical, everyday signs.

She was walking around the building when I first saw her, staring into one of the bottom floor flats – the one with the smoke tumbling from its windows (funny how you can live in a block of flats for 2 years and still barely know your neighbours). She let out a little yelp after stepping into a dirty puddle; it would have been pathetic if it hadn’t been so cute. Most of my fellow Saturday night losers turned to look, taking a glance before turning back to watch the toaster’s smoke disappear into the smog of the city. I didn’t turn back, not even to look at the fire engine as it wailed to a stop in the street. She was alone but wearing men’s pyjamas, a man’s black coat and a pair of slippers that almost slid off each time she took a step.

I wondered if she even lived in my building, or if she was staying the night with someone as her clothes suggested. Lucky man if so, I thought, she’s a stunner. She really was. Blonde hair reached her shoulders, flattened against her fine cheeks in the rain, startling blue eyes and a slim physique complimented her sharp features. The full moon finally dragged itself from behind the mass above us, and transformed golden hair to silver. As this magic happened, it seemed that a general consensus murmured its way through the crowd waiting outside the building. It was agreed that everything was taking far too long, and why don’t we head down to the pub, out of the rain?

She seemed at a loss in the warm glow of the firelight, looking around for a familiar face. I can only assume that she didn’t know anyone as she finally sat at a table by herself. Something drew me to her, some strange feeling of knowing her. I can’t rightly explain it, but it pulled me across the floor to stand by her rickety table.

‘Is there anyone sitting here?’ I asked. She turned to look at me and I saw the fire dance in her eyes.

‘No,’ she replied, ‘you’re quite welcome to sit here if you like.’ Her voice was like nothing I’d heard before, soft, lyrical but so detached, almost ethereal. And so I sat down opposite her, my pint sloshing against the sides of the glass. I noticed she didn’t have anything to drink, so I asked her if I could get her one.

‘That would be lovely,’ she said. I felt her eyes on me as I walked up to the bar to buy her a vodka and coke. It was such a normal drink for such a strange girl. She seemed like the wine type to me, sophisticated, cultured. That doesn’t really make sense seeing as she was wearing pyjamas, but that’s how it is sometimes, beautiful things wrapped in brown paper.

Over our drinks we spoke a little, the small chatter of strangers. We began to learn about each other. I told her about my work as an Ornithologist. Of course first I had to explain what that was, and then why someone would be interested in studying birds anyway. I told her about the magazines I wrote for, my favourite articles that I’d had published. We spoke of colours, films, music. She laughed at the fact that I still love Chicago. I told her about Liz, my white tabby.

‘You like birds so much and yet have a pet cat?’ she said. I guess it does sound sort of weird when put like that.

‘Well, she is a house cat,’ I tried to explain, ‘she doesn’t really go outside, so she’s no threat to birds. It’s too dangerous with the roads and everything.’

‘I love cats,’ she said. ‘If I should ever own a cat, I would call her Signy.’

‘That’s a great name for a cat! Speaking of names, I’ve realised that I never asked for yours.’ My sheepish laughter was loud in my own ears. She held out her hand, and I took it in my own.

‘My name is Freya.’

‘And I’m Ben.’

Shaking her hand, I felt how delicate it was, I was scared to break it. She was like china, beautiful.

‘Do you mind me asking, Freya, why are you wearing those pyjamas? You don’t seem to be with anybody . . .’ I trailed off as her eyes darkened.

She told me about her twin brother. His name was Bjørn. They’d lived together in the very building in which we live now. The way that she spoke of him was in a tenderness that I’d never heard before. She spoke of the time, when they were small children, still living with their parents in the days when the air was clean, when the days went on forever and one-penny sweets only cost one penny. It seems like a dream world compared to our lives now. I started to wish that real life had never begun after hearing her stories of a mythical trap door in a wood; they could only ever find it when they weren’t looking for it.

But Bjørn had died. Not 8 months ago he’d been mugged, beaten unconscious and dumped in a canal. I was almost surprised that she wasn’t crying, maybe all her tears had dried up. I put my hand over hers and said that I was very sorry for her loss. She stared into my eyes, searching for answers, maybe, or perhaps just comfort. I’m not sure exactly what she found, but she drew back and looked at me.

‘You look a lot like him you know,’ she said. I wasn’t sure what to say to that. Her eyes were haunted. I’m not sure who she was looking at, me, or her dead brother. I’m not sure I ever want to know. I looked around the pub to find that it was almost empty. Freya seemed to have noticed too.

‘Ben,’ she said, tightening her hold on my hand, ‘let’s go home.’

I don’t know why I didn’t take her back to her flat. I don’t know how the rest of the night happened. It started out so simply, growing complex as the night grew old; someone somehow set a toaster aflame, and the rain poured, and the pub had a warm fire, and her brother drowned, and she was in my bedroom and her brother’s coat was on the floor.

Everything was at once hot and cold, soft and hard. Extremes teased every tiny hair to stand on end and every nerve ending to tingle. I’m not sure whether her touch burned or left trails of ice along my skin. Nothing was quiet, and nothing was still. We toppled onto the bed and I tasted sweat on her skin and vodka on her tongue. The air was heavy with her quiet gasps, her breathless moans. Her little whimpers sent blood coursing along every pathway. Electricity sparked across her skin, I could feel it on my fingertips, the energy rumbling in every cell. Her creamy skin was dotted with freckles like pomegranate seeds and I knew that I could never leave her. Liz scratched at my door as my world shifted and tumbled. Amongst the movement of our bodies I heard a name flutter softly from Freya’s lips. It began with ‘B’.

Author's Note

Any interpretation is welcome, and I am extremely grateful for constructive criticism.