This was the last climb before the big day. The day we raided the upper reaches of the tree, to steal its sap. We clung more to the trunk and to larger branches, for their warmth. There were a few plants in the world that produced heat… and Yggdrasill was like a fiery hearth as temperatures became frigid. So effective was the tree’s warmth that deciduous plants survived the wintery chill, watered by constant snowmelt. Even as there were icicles on some branches, others still had soft soils collected on them, with delicious strawberries and mushrooms and worms in the ground… but there was no time for those.

This time, Ragnhild was with me for this last scout ahead. I don’t think I was meant to climb with her… and I think someone would be very upset when he found out. So I would make sure to find Njord and tell him all about it, later.

“Crow, can you help me with this…?” was Ragnhild’s usual call. It was a wonder how she survived on Yggdrasill at all, as she apparently didn’t know how to do anything by herself. She’d also lean right over me or into me; basically using me like furniture, almost sitting on me. It was like working with an overzealous pigeon who is constantly cooing and preening, with no sense of personal space.

“You’re so clever, Crow. And so funny!” But she had her good points, too. “Your hair is jet black,” she said, running her fingers through it.

Oh… that felt nice.

“Was Snow White your ancestor? You’re so very pale.” She continued with a lot of annoying questions like these. And when I made fun of her, she laughed more than Erik.

Later, after she sprained her ankle—again—I hauled her another distance. She would tell me to watch my hands, even as she wriggled around as I carried her. Women are exhausting.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Have you ever considered what we’re doing to the tree?” I asked, climbing after her. She was never capable of doing anything, but always insisted on lead-climbing—constantly asking me to watch her as she contorted herself in amusing ways.

“The tree…?” she said. “What we’re doing to it…? You mean, taking its sap?”

“Bleeding it dry, yes.”

She giggled a practiced giggle. “We could never drain the World Tree. The whole world would fall down if we did.”

“That’d be very bad, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh yes… but that’s why it can’t happen.”

“The tree does have a lot more holes in than it used to, though—more rotting bark and falling twigs.”

“Well, even if we didn’t take sap, that wouldn’t make any difference—there’d just be more for the other tappers.”

“You are pretty insignificant, now that you mention it.”

Her giggling vindicated me. “Oh Crow, you’re so funny. But I can show you something significant later, if you like….” Most of our conversations ended with a line like that, during our climb.

Grabbing onto a big round burl that made an excellent handhold, I somehow was reminded of Ragnhild. And when I told her this, she screamed! Not an unhappy scream, more like an eagle’s shrill screech… an unsettling noise.

It was a fierce, cold night. The wind roared even into our thicket, the tappers shivering miserably without fire… as fires attract the álfar. We constructed our own little ice-hut the previous two days, just to endure to the one when we would rush for the sap.

The night was long, dark and cold, huddling together to survive. Ragnhild made efforts to keep me warm, of course. She’d also tell me romantic things, like, “You smell worse than my brother.”

She also told me a secret tappers’ trick. Where, cuddling together skin to skin would keep us even warmer. I’d heard about this rumour before… but I informed her this was an old wives tale.

She kicked me. I should really mimic that frustrated noise she made… it was priceless.