The Monstrous Child by Francesca Simon

hoards.
    Want to know more about my life here? Actually, I don’t care what you want. You would do well to listen until I am no longer willing to speak.

24
PUTRID TIME

    HEN YOU HAVE ALL the time in the world, how do you live knowing that each moment will pass exactly as the one before? And the one now. And the one after. Each slow drip of putrid time, on and on and on and on and on and on and –
    How do you bear it? Even when you’re queen?
    When you live in a stinking pitch-black world, a livingbeing imprisoned inside a massive grave mound filled with the howling dead, you become a thing more dead than living. If beauty annihilates thought, then I have nothing but thoughts.
    I keep alive because of … him . Imagining a life with him. Living with Baldr in my mind. Our happiness. Our joy. We talk. We laugh. I remember when I heard him singing, his mellifluous voice. I remember his beautiful mouth.
    This is my hideous, horrible life:
    I slump on my High Seat. I lie on my damp bed. I visit my treasure room. I drink. I brood. I watch my slow servants.
     
    HERE –
    IS –
    GANGLATI –
    BRINGING –
    ME –
    A –
    GLASS –
    OF –
    WINE.
    NOW –
    HE –
    IS –
    PICKING –
    UP …
     
    You get the idea. Wanna trade places?
    Didn’t think so.
     
    Once I watched the dead throwing a ball, using a seal’s head glowing with heat, with flying sparks and fat dripping like tallow. That I had never seen before and I was diverted.
    Then they stopped, the head decayed, and nothingness resumed.
    Sometimes the bodies take up drinking horns and hold contests. They pour mead into their gaping mouths,which leaks through what flesh remains and dribbles onto the ground. The newly dead take time to shuck off such mortal pursuits. I watch them drink and drink, oblivious that their putrefying bodies and jutting ribs hold no liquid. They soon tire.
    Bet you can’t wait to join us.
    Every now and then, when I think I will go mad, I listen to the stories told by skalds, for the brief time they can remember their sagas, declaring ancient histories of mortals and gods and giants.
    Even the dead cease their relentless drone when a newly arrived skald stands in the middle of my hall and tells how the world began or how Odin sacrificed an eye for wisdom (the dunce).
    I don’t like poets, with their weasel words.
    I’ve had enough of being described as monstrous – and worse. The mead of poetry sours when poured down my throat. Not surprising, since poetry was a gift to people from One-Eye. Any wonder I hate it? I will keep my own history. I can bind time better than any.
    But, mostly, I hate. I have time – oh yes, more time than anyone, god or mortal – to stew. I am not time-fettered. The memories of the dead fade, until even their names vanish. But mine have sharpened. I live for vengeance. I breathe it in great gasping gulps. I dream of vengeance, feed on vengeance, let bile fill my veins. I drink poison, hoping others die.
    I warm myself with plans and schemes. Will any giants avenge my kidnap and steal Thor’s splotchy, buck-toothed daughter, Thrud? Wouldn’t that serve old red-beard right? Or what about Freyja’s simpering Hnoss, with her fat legs and pouty lips? Let her try living in my mother’s cave for a bit. See how long she’d last …
    And so my thoughts circle round and round.
    But, more than that, so much more than that, night after night, year after year, century after century, I think about Baldr. If only I could see him again. My thoughts about him are infinite. I know that he loves me. I know that I love him. I’ve never loved anyone before. When I feel I am drowning in despair he is the one thing thatkeeps me from hurling myself in Nidhogg’s way.
    I lie on my dank bed and close my eyes, my pillow scrunching and crackling under my head. I think of Baldr’s beauty. His kindness. His loving eyes. The way he picked me up and spun me round. He has got under my skin and into my heart. I can shut out the misery of