Trjábýr is a simple name. It means, "Tree-town." Not very creative… but then, few towns were built in the massive boughs of the World-Tree Yggdrasill. In fact, if you listed all the others that were, you'd only count a dozen or so—and none of them would be named Treetown.
image [https://i.imgur.com/mCWFfEe.jpeg]
Thor Street was perched on the first bough, wide enough for two oxcarts to pass each other—with a little bit of room for us pedestrians to elbow and shove our way along. I kept a tight hold of the sack slung over a shoulder, as I jostled through the crowd under the constant harangue of merchants. On each side of the street was a line of six-story buildings, the street shaded by the bulging upper floors. How kind of the rich bǿndr to build large, comfortable houses just to shade the karls who labour beneath them. The shade would indeed be very nice if it were a hot day… too bad it was freezing.
The street split at each fork in the bough. Loki Street was particularly hated; it rose at a steep angle, boards nailed into it like shallow stairs to make the twisted, gnarled road less murderous to climb. I dodged aside in two quick steps as a runaway cart came rolling down the icy Loki Street, ramming into an ox. The animal bellowed as it was knocked off its feet. Rising up from the ground, the ox flew into a rage, attacking the cart until it was boards and splinters. Goods were tossed everywhere and trampled under-hoof. Seeing the owner of the cart racing down with curses and shaking fists, I decided to leave before weapons were drawn.
Slipping down a walkway at the edge of the bough, I moved beside one of the lines of houses. Looking down, I could not see the ground a mile below. Rather, I saw a naglgata, a nail-street, while standing atop one of its houses. The sides of the boughs were put to good use, with little shacks fixed to the sides by large, fierce nails. Wattle and daub huts, mostly, made by mixing dead leaves in with muck and packing it onto a giant basketweave of a house. Flimsy as they seemed, their roofs formed a sturdy footpath by town law. There were some fine log houses amongst them as well, made with the twigs of Yggdrasill and from parasitic trees that grew out of his branches.
Looking up, I could see people relaxing in the cool air of their balconies, a few regarding me curiously. Solitude was a luxury in the wealthy Treetown. There was a fairly secluded place, a path suspended under the bough like a rope-bridge, in the crime-ridden underbough streets. Bridges crisscrossed between hanging houses; deathtraps as treacherous as the poison-sellers. Carrying a big sack to the underbough would guarantee being mugged. Or worse, becoming the latest gossip.
Avoiding that place, I moved towards the edge of town.
Between the boughs and forks, webs of vines had been woven. The larger vines were as thick as oak trees, but most were like thick ropes. On these vine-nets, strung between the bough-streets, tents were pitched by thralls and paupers. This area formed Vínbýr, the Vinetown, where the brothels sat on a natural hammock. Every week someone fell off of Thorstreet, landing in Vinetown with a slight bounce—an army of spirited harlots racing forward to kindly offer to help him get up… at least as far as her bed. To fall further down would involve searching for a gap in the net, or cutting your way through.
Children were playing, clambering over the sea of swaying vines. Many wore krōkhúfur, hook-hats. These were like grappling hooks, broad as their shoulders, and were tied to their belts by a strong cord. That way, if they fell through the vines, their hat would catch hold, and save them a long fall down to Hel.
As I watched, one fell through the net without a krōkhúfa. He caught onto a vine with hands and legs, clinging for dear life. The others laughed.
Chuckling, I left the town by one of its many ladders to a higher bough. The ones near town were very nice; a stairway you could climb with just your feet. I didn’t need to put down my sack and use an elevator or a rope to pull it up after me.
Following the bough, I distanced myself from Yggdrasill’s trunk. The road was rougher here, rounded slightly as you would expect from a tree branch—not like the boughs in town that had been worn smooth and flat over the centuries. My spiked climbing boots kept me steady, the nails in their soles gripping the bark as I pushed through bush-like twigs and stepped over knots in the wood.
“Heillir ok sællir!” I greeted a group of men. An old man with a dignified walk, followed by his two layabout sons. He dressed well for a karl, such that you could barely see the many patches and stitches his clothes bore from trading up and down the tree.
“Heill ok sæll.” The elder watched me carefully. “Harald, mind the donkey, there’s a cursed burl this way.”
A burl, a wooden lump in the tree, was obscured by a leafy sprout. A red ribbon hung from the leaves; a warning to others. Harald, the smaller lad, looked down at the burl, and back to me, then back to the burl. I stood aside, waving an arm to magnanimously let them pass first.
“Fuekk you,” Harald said. Or rather, Þökk you, “thank you.” Judging by his scowl… he meant it how it sounds.
The lad checked the belay cord between him and the donkey. He stroked its muzzle as it whuffled, blowing his hair with its nostrils. The ass was then led through slowly by Harald, as his larger brother pushed the wheelbarrow-cart hitched to the donkey. I saw they weren’t belayed to the cart itself… cowards. The donkey’s hitch had a break-cord, too, designed to snap and let the cart fall rather than pull the beast down with it.
“What’s in the sack?” the old man asked me.
“Potatoes!” Pulling my sack higher, I gestured grandly.
“What are potatoes?”
“Oh, they’re the most marvellous treats in the world! They come from Vinland, and a single potato can feed a man for a day!”
He looked at me, and back to his sons. “And what are you selling them for?” He asked, slowly.
“Oh ho! I doubt you could afford them, my friend. But if you like, I could give you just one… only for two aura of hacksilver!”
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His eyes widened. He looked to his sons as if searching for escape. “We already have so much… but may Meili lead us to cross branches again.”
“Your loss,” I shrugged. “You could’ve traded it for a golden apple of Iðunn, and become young again.”
He nodded, sourly looking between me and the town I just came from. “What’s taking you so long, lads?”
“Father, the cart is stuck on these bölvuðu sprouts,” Harald answered angrily. The donkey, which was unhappy to be stuck, got more worked up with its master’s anger, braying and struggling. Harald, cursing quietly, took out his knife to… cut away at the sprouts!?
“Stop!” the old man barked. “You eldhúsfífl! What are you doing?” He strode forward and grabbed the boy’s knife hand. He caught some of the blade as well.
“Father… you’re bleeding!”
“Never mind that! What got into your head to cut the tree? Do you think you’re too stupid to be cursed!?”
The boy had an exasperated look. “We just cut your walking stick off, Father.”
“My walking stick was a practically dead branch! The tree will gift us what’s dead, but not what’s living.”
“The Jarl’s men cut away branches and even burls—”
“And the Jarl’s men have taufrar to protect them, you hálfviti,” his brother added with a vindictive superiority. He unhitched the donkey, leading it away from the branches. It ambled about the bough placidly, enjoying its brief freedom.
“We have a taufr, too!” The boy bandaged their father’s hand.
“And you want to waste it on a few branches!?” His father said, helping him tie the bandage.
I could’ve snuck past… but it was just getting interesting.
“The tree won’t care about a few sprouts!”
“Do you want to end up like your uncle!? He kept grafting his orchard into Yggdrasill, until one day a Warg found him!”
“That just happened.”
“Beasts and spirits, the álfr, all of them will come after you, if you hurt the tree; do you understand?”
“The tappers get rich cutting the tree and taking its sap from it.” A slap rang out, the father’s blood smeared across the boy’s face.
“Never speak well of those outlaws! You’re looking for a sorry death if you think of becoming a tapper.”
“I didn’t say I was….”
“No more heimskulegr talk. Come along… we’ve shamed ourselves in front of the stranger.”
Sullenly, they said goodbye as I waved after them… waiting till they were far out of sight.
Then, once they were gone, the sack of potatoes slipped from my grasp. I watched it fall to the ground a mile below.
Time to find the tappers, I thought.
Detouring from the main road, I climbed a twig up into the tree canopy, “the Thickets.” A dangerous maze of crisscrossing twigs in the deep shade of the leaves, where the trolls, bandits and tappers roamed. Leaping, I pulled myself up to the next twig, then hopped to another. Twigs got so narrow in places it was like walking on a log. You had to be careful where you placed your feet in the shadows… but I was good at that, treating them like stepping stones in the light-speckled paths of the thicket, like a path of spidery fingers.
Soon, I stepped into a clearing amongst the thicket, the twigs thinning enough I could see about half an axe-throw in front of me, some six yards. I could just barely make out a higher bough which was my point of reference. It was about a tenth of a circle to my left on the tree, and about 400 yards up, two bowshots distance. Surely they were somewhere around here…?
"Prepare for Valhǫll, Interloper!" A man’s voice called to me like a battlecry. And there I beheld two Norn-bloods—a man and woman, each tall with red hair and great bull's horns. He was first to spring at me with a dagger; a climber's weapon.
"Wait! It's me, Crow!" Fleeing to a short, narrow twig—only a few horse-lengths long—I tightrope-walked to near its end. It began to shake under me. As I’d hoped, the large Norn hesitated to follow. He grinned, wickedly, and stomped near the base of the twig with his great, fat weight. The twig shook, but by bending knees and bouncing with it, I kept my balance, arms outstretched like a crow’s wings.
"So it is you, Crow…” He laughed as he stomped my twig again. “Should've known from your stumbling about like an eldhúsfífl. Our camp is that way."
“Leave him alone, Njord.” The woman fidgeted with hands clasped as Njord stomped again and I wobbled on the branch, arms waving frantically.
“Shut up, Ragnhild.” Njord gave a half-hearted stomp. He took a step back. Grinning between them, I cautiously walked my way to join them on the thicker twigs, happy to be back on solid-tree.
The female Norn, Ragnhild, sighed. Her narrow shoulders sank. "What took you so long?"
"Getting this for you." Reaching to my satchel, I presented one of the lantern-flowers that light Yggdrasill; hanging from his branches like countless stars during the long months of the winter-night.
"Fífl, I picked one myself." She covered her smile, choking back a sweet laugh.
I was a fair lad, and I'd enjoy that while I could.
“Enough heimskulegr talk. Keep your skirts down, sister,” Njord snapped, though she was wearing pants. “And you better be on time from now on, Crow, or we’ll see if you can fly.”
I smiled and laughed at the joke. He did not.
We walked in silence along a large twig, three abreast, following it back towards its branch. Time and again, Ragnhild would look at me and make a little noise like, “umm,” “so,” “well.” Her musical syllables were followed by a harsh grunt from Njord. We were getting to know each other so well!
Soon I smelled the campfire, the thin plume of its smoke almost lost amongst the twigs. The fire was built from dead twigs, leaves, and parasitic plants, Yggdrasill's bark merely blackened by the flames.
"And that's nine." A dvergr, a dwarf, was smoking a heavy iron pipe, clasping it with thick hands.
image [https://i.imgur.com/I3peOJo.png]
“Hallbjorn! Good to see you again!” I held out a hand to him. He looked like he was checking it for lice… his own finally coming up to shake it. The handshake was so firm I could hear human bone creaking under his dwarfish grip. “Your handshake is stronger than I remember!” The creaking grew concerningly loud, but I kept a smile.
The handshake mercifully ended with a mumble and a nod.
“Should I renew my oath?” I said, eager to show my loyalty.
Hallbjorn, which means Stone-Bear, regarded me coldly and shook his head. He turned to the five rough Norsemen who were sitting with him. Without an order given, they put out the fire, packing up the cooking pot and some of the embers as they got ready to begin our trek. They didn't even offer me warm mead... though Stonebear was kind enough introduce me to the others:
"That's Crow; he made us wait."