Kama. Terese Brasen

like the beating of a drum. The sounds echoed through the emptiness. Kama counted five blows each time, then there was quiet for a moment before a new trunk fell to the ground.

      The only smell was burning. To the east trails of smoke would rise, then dissipate.

      Inga liked to boast about all the men who wanted to sample her, as though needing to prove again and again that she was flawless and should never have been abandoned by the river. “If I looked like most girls,” she would say, “I wouldn't take my clothes off either, but I don't have anything to be ashamed of. I'm proud of my body.”

      Her first obsession had been Ole. Inga had wanted to say I love you. Kama remembered the two of them crossing the city. They had walked farther and farther from the market to the old town, where low-lying huts with v-shaped roofs were laid out without any plan or order. The houses had two levels, one at ground height, the other down below. Winds were already blowing, so families were living below, warmed by a fire pit burning in the center of the room. Across from Ole's, a wooden barn had been converted into a store. The door clanged behind them rousing the clerk. The store had a high ceiling and almost-bare wooden shelves. The man eyed Kama and Inga suspiciously. They didn't want to buy anything, just warm up, but there was no way of being inconspicuous—two strange girls from another neighborhood, girls who weren't about to buy flour or vegetables. They paid for black licorice, then left. They watched the crooked house across from where Ole lived. Clothes hung on the line. Smoke puffed from the roof opening, painting gray and white clouds on the icy blue sky. If Ole happened to look out the front door, he would see them both. He might even recognize them. Inga would throw a stone at Ole's door. When he answered, she would say, "I love you," then run away. Would Inga chicken out? Would Ole guess who it was? The excitement made Inga giddy. There were no small rocks to find, so Inga and Kama had gathered pinecones and threw them again and again against the door. The faint sound had rung through the empty house.

      Inga’s latest obsession was a dark-haired Finn. They had skied north deep into the trees, and now Kama was sitting guard, while Inga lay naked on a fur rug inside the tent. The Finn spoke strange words that neither Inga nor Kama could understand. Nevertheless, the universal language of grunts and moans coming from him and Inga was easy to comprehend.

      Later in the afternoon, when they began the trip home, Kama diverted them towards the smoke. Her curiosity was high after hours of waiting. She had traced the smell to a structure hidden among the trees. The walls were actually rough logs stacked on top of each other. Heat blasted from the building and melted a wide patch of snow around it.

      Kama and Inga parked their skis and pulled open the door. The room was a sauna without any silence or serenity. Hammers beat against metal. Saws screeched and screamed as they cut. From the doorway, the room continued far past what the eye could see. Roof openings drew steam up from the stone hearths out into the open air. The dwarf-like men who scurried from worktable to furnace seemed unaccustomed to visitors. They weren’t about to bother with something as inconsequential as two town girls. The room smelled like flint. But here the heat wasn’t just a quick spark. It lingered. It had seeped into the wooden tables and benches. It had fused permanently into hair, skin and clothes. The oppressive temperature had marked these men forever, just as bending over worktables had permanently curved their backs.

      “Let’s go,” Inga said, grabbing Kama’s arm.

      “Wait,” Kama said, pulling free and moving into the room.

      Charcoal filled a large, square, cup-shaped stone. A red-faced operator handled the bellows. The heart-shaped wooden boards were longer than he was tall. The little man panted as he opened and closed the instrument. It blasted air onto the burning charcoal. The hot coals melted the iron into pasty lumps. Other dwarves ladled the ore onto wheelbarrows and carted it to worktables. Deeper in the dark building, hammers would beat and shape it into swords, nails and hinges.

      Kama wondered if she was glimpsing the underworld below Midgard. The worlds operated concurrently, although they rarely crossed over.

      She followed the wheelbarrows. A shaft of light drew a straight line of white dust from the roof opening to a cluster of tables. Here the pounding was like the soft tingle of bells. Small hammers were flattening sheets of silver. Knives sliced thin strips. The metal was like buttery cookie dough. The silversmith lifted his head. His long beard was carrot-red like the curls that covered his skull. His hair started just above his eyebrows, leaving a very short forehead with room for just a few wrinkle lines. When he smiled, he revealed a perfectly shaped silver front tooth. He chose a temple ring from the pile on the table. His long fingernails were like jeweler’s tongs. They grabbed hold of the thin delicate string.

      “Try,” he said.

      He handed Kama the ring.

      “You try,” he said again.

      Kama placed it on her head. Delicate, ornate filigree dangled down her forehead.

      “For you,” he said.

      Women from around Kiev had worn these temple rings before the Norse people had arrived. Each style was from a different Slav tribe.

      “Looks good,” Inga said.

      “Are you sure?” Kama asked.

      “You look like a Slav princess,” Inga said.

      “You princess,” the smithy echoed.

      “And that’s a good thing?” Kama asked.

      “It’s a good thing,” Inga said. Kama found a coin in her pouch and placed it in the man’s hand. Then they left the dwarves.

      Kama and Inga skied with momentum, then slowed their stride. Their long spears helped them balance and push ahead. Kama watched her shadow. The moon stretched her silhouette and painted the dangling temple ring across the bright snow.

      As Kama and Inga neared the city, they could see the lanterns burning at the front gate. Inga turned and skied to her hut. Kama followed the pathway to the townhouses. Smoke rose from each roof. Light and vapor mixed then exited into the open night air. A torch yellowed the room. Father sat next to Mother on the side of Mother’s bed. Mother was in her underdress. There was a seared smell, as though stew was burned to the pot. Mother’s hair seemed to be tossed about. Why was Father here, still wearing his furs, making it clear he didn't plan to stay?

      Kama untied her boots. Mother's eyes were dark and frightened. Kama started towards her bedchamber.

      Father's voice stopped her. "Where have you been?” he said.

      “At the market,” she lied.

      “What stupid peasant thing are you wearing?” Father was standing now, this tall man with cold blue eyes. The silver cut into her skin, as he yanked the temple ring from her forehead. The dangling filigree landed in tiny pieces. Each broken section was capable of producing only miniature tinkles, but to Kama, the falling sounds were loud booms, like the river crashing and diving over rocks.

      She opened the bed curtain.

      “I'm not finished talking to you.”

      “I'm going to bed.” Then Father came towards her. He grabbed her and slapped her again and again. He shoved her against the wall and she slid down. Her shift moved up around her waist. Her words were scrambled sobs.

      Kama was still on the floor, back against the wall, hands covering her face, when Father slammed the door. His angry hurried steps took him back to the Big House. They died out slowly. Mother was still sitting on the bed. “Father doesn't want you playing with that Inga girl anymore,” she said.

      “What's wrong with Inga?” Kama asked.

      “He wants you to stay home and help me more.”

      “Why don't you say something?” Kama asked.

      “It's not my place.”

      “Not your place?” Since when did Mother care about going against Father? “If you're not on my side, get out of here."

      “I'm your mother. If you don't learn the