“I am grateful for your welcome. Though you may have heard me shout it before, I am Granuaile MacTiernan, and this is my hound, Orlaith.”
She wags her tail at the introduction and says, "Hello, Nice Furry Person."
Yes, he seems nice, doesn’t he? But he can’t hear you.
"No magic?"
He has magic, but it is very different from mine.
Skúfr waves for the others to follow, then comes farther into the room. “Come on, she’s a Druid sent by Father. Say hello.”
One by one, four more yeti come into view, the snow shedding off them and revealing their features. Most of them have ice rings about their face, but each is different from Skúfr’s.
The first to enter is as tall as Skúfr and carries a musk deer over his left shoulder, confirming that they had been out hunting.
“I am Erlendr Jötunson, the eldest. Welcome.” He has far more ice rings in his mane, so many that some of them clink against one another. “Please excuse me while I store our kill.” He moves past Skúfr to visit the freezer, and I see that his ice knife has the same disturbing red glow to it.
The third yeti introduces herself as Hildr Jötunsdotter, second eldest. There is nothing in her voice to indicate that she is female, nor do I see any physiological differences. Whatever the yeti have or don’t have swinging between their legs, it’s hidden behind a curtain of white fur, and Hildr, at least, has no br**sts bigger than those of her brothers. Hildr’s mane decoration falls between Erlendr’s and Skúfr’s, and I hypothesize that the number of braids and the complexity of their grooming is a marker of age as much as personal preference.
The fourth yeti, also fourth eldest, lends some weight to the idea. He has only two braids on either side of his face, and he introduces himself as Ísólfr Jötunson.
The last to enter is both the smallest and the youngest, with only a single braid on either side of her mouth, simplicity itself. I bet privately that this is the Zen yeti.
“I am Oddrún Jötunsdotter,” she says. She’s a full head shorter than her siblings but still towers over me. “Welcome. Can we offer you refreshment?”
“Yes, that would be great,” I say, suddenly aware of my thirst. I had brought a canteen, but the water inside was a solid block of ice now.
“We have mead and water,” Oddrún says.
I request mead for me and water for Orlaith. Oddrún asks Ísólfr to take care of Orlaith’s needs, while she takes long strides across to my side of the room, stopping in front of the counter where the stoneware rests. She lays her ice knife on the counter next to the plates and then squats down and pulls aside a panel of stone, revealing a hidden cupboard that I might have discovered had I looked any closer. She retrieves a small cask of mead and a mug of horn, then slides the stone panel closed. While she’s working on pouring me some mead, my eyes are drawn to Ísólfr, who has put his knife down on the far counter and extended his right hand, palm up, toward the cave entrance. As I watch, a flurry of snow flies into the space above his palm and hovers above it like an upside-down tornado. More snow keeps coming in, feeding it, and the bottom of the funnel begins to pack together and solidify, then harden into a bowl of ice, which clarifies until it is largely transparent but with swirls of decorative white flurries in it. Snow fills the bowl, then Ísólfr waves his left hand over it and it melts to clear water.
“Your hound will need to drink this before it freezes again,” he says.
We move out from behind the table, and he puts the bowl down in front of Orlaith while Oddrún offers me a mug of mead. It’s delicious to an almost unbelievable degree, and I wonder aloud where it came from.
Hildr grins and answers me. “Father buys it from Goibhniu and sends it to us.”
Orlaith laps up her fill, and the yeti invite me to sit at the table. Erlendr returns from the freezer as I seat myself, and I remember that I should be paying attention to the food.
“I will take over cooking,” the eldest yeti says, picking up the package of bacon. “Thank you for bringing this. I’ll be right back.”
He disappears again, and the four remaining yeti sit at the table with me, once they all fill their own mugs of horn with Goibhniu’s mead. Orlaith lies down next to my chair, and my head spins a bit over how strange and wonderful my life is now. I am drinking mead with the yeti in the Himalayas. And they’re very polite hosts.
But not especially talkative. They all look at me, expectant, but I am not sure what they’re waiting for.
It turns out to be Erlendr. They must not have wanted him to miss anything, for Hildr speaks as soon as he returns carrying an armful of wood. “We have never met a Druid aside from our father. Always he sends one of the Fae when he cannot come himself, and he has not visited us in person for more than a hundred years. Does your presence here mean that the secret of our existence is now known in Tír na nÓg?”
“No, you are still very much a secret,” I say, “but I have been let in on it. I confess I have come with hopes that you could help me.”
The yeti exchange glances, and then it is Oddrún who speaks next. “We could use some help as well. Perhaps we could exchange aid. What is it that you require?”
“I need an ice knife.”
Skúfr snorts. “That is all?” His hand shoots toward the cave entrance, much as Ísólfr’s had when making a bowl for Orlaith, and in a few seconds he summons snow and shapes it into a serrated knife, similar to the kind you’d find in a steakhouse. He lays it on the table with the handle facing me. “Done.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. I need a knife like yours. One that won’t ever melt.”
They all lean back, and Erlendr, who was inspecting the musk deer on the spit, whips his head around to stare at me. I fear I might have crossed a line.
Seconds tick away and I remain silent, afraid that I will make it worse if I add anything else. Finally Oddrún says, “She doesn’t know what she’s asking.”
“Clearly not,” Erlendr says, and holds up his blade. “She thought this was an ice knife.” They all kind of snort in derisive unison, and this succeeds in making me feel stupid.
“I do beg your pardon. What is the proper term for the weapons you carry?”
“They each have a name,” Hildr replies, hefting her own aloft, “but in general this is a whirling blade, not a mere ice knife.”
“A whirling blade. Very well.” I cannot fathom why this is a better name for a knife made of ice than ice knife, but I’m not going to criticize them for it.
Ísólfr says, “Brothers and sisters, perhaps it is not too much to ask when you consider what we will ask in return.”
Erlendr stalks over from the fire pit and looms over us. “It is too soon to think of that, brother. First we must ask why she thinks she needs a whirling blade.”
“Yes,” Hildr agrees. “We do not make them for others.”
I take a long swallow of mead for courage and explain that my father is possessed by a spirit of the air and I need a weapon crafted of water magic to free him. “My earth magic is insufficient. My archdruid suggested that I speak to you, and Manannan Mac Lir agreed, and it was he who sent me with your shipment of bacon to speak of it.” Dropping their father’s name couldn’t hurt. Or at least I hoped it couldn’t. After I said the words, it occurred to me that they might be upset with him if he had not paid them a visit in a hundred years.
“Father knows of her problem and he knows of ours,” Oddrún says, looking up at Erlendr, “and he sent her here. I think we are answered.”
Erlendr and the other three yeti grunt their agreement as a chorus. I notice that they are not creatures given to lengthy debate.
“Propose the exchange, then,” Erlendr says, and they all turn to watch me as Oddrún speaks.
“We will craft a whirling blade for you, tailored to your size and named according to your wishes, as a service of water magic in exchange for a service of earth magic. We can move what lies on top of the mountain but not move the mountain itself.”
“What are you asking? You want me to move the Himalayas? I can’t do that.”
“No, I speak of the sort of movement you have already demonstrated. Our cave is not a natural one; it was created by our father. He spoke to the earth and said he needed a room that looked so, and it was made as he said. We wish you to do the same.”
“Oh, you need another bedroom? I am sure I can arrange that.” I would speak to the elemental and it would be finished within the hour. This was good.
“No, not a bedroom. Something significantly larger. What we need may sound strange or unnecessary, but I assure you it will prevent us from going insane. We are so very bored, you see.” The other four yeti nod to confirm that they are all bored.
“I can imagine.”
“Good. We have expressed this sentiment repeatedly to faeries sent by our father. Through them, we asked him to visit us or, failing that, provide us with something new to do in the snow and ice, since we cannot mingle with humans. And the faery returned with something he called an iPad. Are you familiar with iPads?”
“Ah. Yes,” I say, encouraging her to continue. “This iPad had images inside it. Images that moved and made sound.”
“Videos of some kind,” I venture.
“Yes. Recorded images of a game called hockey. Humans play it in cold climates. Two teams skate and slap a puck around in an attempt to score goals.”
“I’m familiar with the game. It’s somewhat violent.”
“Yes!” Skúfr bellows, hammering both fists against the table and startling me. “A violent game played upon the ice! We were born to play it!”
“But we need a place to play,” Hildr says.
My jaw drops open as it dawns on me what they want. “I’m sorry. You want me to build you a hockey rink?”
“Inside this mountain, yes,” Ísólfr says. “Underneath where we sit. The faeries cannot do this. Only a Druid can. And you are a Druid.”
“Okay, wait, let me clarify something. I can’t do it either. Only the Himalayan elemental can.”
Oddrún shrugs away this annoying detail and says, “Accomplish it however you wish. We know you can make it happen. We propose a whirling blade for a hockey rink in the heart of the mountain.”
“Gods below, I don’t even know how big a hockey rink is.”
“We do,” they chorus, and Oddrún adds, “Father’s faery told us all the rules and regulations.”
“But what about nets and pads and sticks and everything?”
Erlendr smiles at me and backs up so that he is opposite the door. “We have already thought of this. Our style of hockey will be ice hockey in its purest form.” He holds his arms out from his sides, and in moments he is obscured by a small snowstorm pulled from outdoors through the auspices of his magic. When it clears away, he is padded in snow and has a helmet, a stick in his hand, and a pair of skates made entirely of ice. It’s a neat solution, because I doubt they’d be able to find any equipment their size otherwise.
“Well, if I can get the elemental to agree, then I’ll do it. Hockey rink for whirling blade.”
Toothy smiles all around and toasts to health and hockey. Erlendr announces that the musk deer is at least partially edible and uses his whirling blade to slice off a few juicy hunks. There are only five plates and now seven of us including the hound, but with the yeti’s permission I unbind a new plate for Orlaith and one for myself from the wall. They grill me about the NHL and which teams are the best. I feel woefully inadequate, since I know so little about the sport and can remember only some of the team names.
They are unimpressed with the Toronto Maple Leafs. “Who fears a leaf?” Skúfr asks, and I assure him that no one does. At least no one I know. Atticus makes a habit of mocking Toronto whenever he can, but I think that he has reason for it due to some unpleasant episode he had in the 1950s, when he lived there under the name of Nigel. He’s never explained to me what precisely happened, and I make a mental note to ask him.
“You would probably like the Colorado Avalanche,” I tell the yeti.
They grunt and nod. “A fine name! Worthy of the sport.”
After we have eaten our fill, Oddrún says she will begin to craft my blade while I’m working on the rink. While still seated at the table, she summons snow above her right hand, condenses and shapes it into a crude ice knife, then asks me questions as it floats there. Did I want my blade to be shaped like theirs or of a different design? How large? Serrated blade or no? I opt for a blade in the style of a military fighting knife, no serrated edges or sawing teeth. She balances it and makes the handle thin and grooved so that I can wrap leather around it. Along the top of the blade on the blunt side, a transparent tube of ice waits like a thermometer lacking mercury. She lets me hold it to see if it feels comfortable, albeit without the leather wrapping. It seems a tad light to my hand, and I say so.
“That is perfect. It will be heavier soon. You can go start your work now. I have what I need.” Oddrún takes the knife back and floats it above her right hand again, but this time the tip is pointed directly at her. She passes her left hand over the top of it, left to right, and the knife twirls clockwise. Another pass and it speeds up, and after a final pass it is moving so quickly that it blurs.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Erlendr answers. “The whirling begins. We will each take a turn before it is finished. Come with us.” He and the other yeti move toward the door, their turned backs indicating that the subject of the blade is closed. I’m not sure what he means by the whirling—I think there is some significance there that I am missing—but I don’t wish to be rude and persist in my questioning when the yeti are so clearly ready to move on. “We will show you where to build,” Erlendr says. “We want it separate from our home.”