A woman’s voice from all angles.
“She will arrive,” chirps a lighter voice.
I open my eyes. Gasping. No air. Three women stare. They sit on gnarly roots. Titanic, gnarly roots.
“She was always here,” says the oldest one, an old crone.
“Dearest Urd,” says the one in the middle. “So why does she appear before us?”
They are all wearing the same dress, tied together at the bottom of the skirt. A long stick is held by the old crone and the teenage girl on the other side. The woman in the middle wields a knife, carving into the stick held by the others. She doesn’t look at her work. Her eyes are locked on my face.
I try to speak. A bubble rasps my throat. I can’t breathe.
“She will speak,” tweets the youngest one.
“She wasn’t the first,” says Urd, her wrinkles moving like waves across her face.
“Nor the last, but she is just right for the moment,” says the carving woman. “Welcome, girl.”
“Yes, Verthandi, she is welcome,” says the crooked old lady. “How long it has been. Fresh blood, old body.”
The teen flashes angry eyes at Urd.
“What more will you say to hurt?” she snarls at her elder. “Wodnaz will never return.”
“Dearest Skuld, he was here. I know,” replies Urd as she taps her temple, unmoved by Skuld’s aggressive tone.
“Forgive my sisters,” says the one they called Verthandi. “They forget to appreciate what is in front of them at present.”
“No worry,” I croak out, shocked that I can speak.
“She spoke!” shouts the crone.
“She will speak again,” says a smug-looking Skuld as she shakes her head at the ancient Urd.
“Where am I?” I blurt out.
“See?” says Skuld. “She will ask more questions.”
“They always ask the same thing,” laughs Urd.
Verthandi’s hands keep carving into the wood—perfect patterns of leaves, serpents, wolves, and runes. Not once has she looked down at her work. I am spellbound by her movements. My body is not my own. I cannot control my muscles.
“Look around you, dear Kilda,” says Verthandi. “You walk where your ancestors did, and where your?—”
“Descendants will,” says Skuld eagerly, giving me the playful look of a teasing teenager. “I knew you would say that, Verthandi.”
“Focus on what the girl asked, Skuld,” says Urd, shaking her head. “How many times have you completed folk’s sentences?”
Urd raises her eyebrows, lifting the weight of innumerable folds of skin. I can see her eyes glitter at me from beneath her wrinkles. Who are these women? Skuld scoffs in response to Urd’s accusation.
“You never change, Urd.”
“And you are never the same.”
“Sisters, please,” says Verthandi. “Give a second for our guest to soak in the situation at hand. Where do you think you are, Kilda?”
I know the answer. I know because when I look up, the trunk of the tree the three are sitting on stretches endlessly into the heavens. It rolls off my tongue.
