playing again, but this time a black cat ran out in front of them, and they fell backwards right into the berry-pickers’ stall! They turned all purple from the smooshed berries, and now they have to work picking more berries for a week to pay back what they ruined. It was hilarious!” She was gripping her sides again, out breath from laughter.
When she was able to catch her breath and see clearly again, she surveyed the small clearing. The squirrel pelt was gone, but sitting in its place was a ripe golden apple. She reached out, tentatively taking the fruit in her hands. “Is this for me?” she whispered.
For years, she had brought small trinkets to place before the god, but never had anything been left in return. Hesitantly, she took a small bite. The soft skin broke easily and thick, sweet juices ran down her chin. It was by far, the sweetest fruit she had ever tasted. “Thank you, my lord.” She bowed to the altar, then turned and hurried back through the brush.
This ritual continued for several more years. At least once a week Sig visited the shrine, and at least once a week, a ripe golden apple was waiting. Though at first, her visits had started out as “make believe,” part of a child’s playtime, she gradually came to understand the gravity of the situation. Loki was no invisible friend at her beck and call. When she entered the clearing, she could feel a presence, cool even on the hottest summer days. It was silent while she would speak, then a breeze would slowly stir, caressing her cheek and drying any tears that formed. The gifts she brought were increasingly personal: a blanket she had woven, a pie she had baked, and once, a lock of her long blonde hair.
Finally, Sig turned the ripe old age of twenty-one. Far too old to be a maid still living in her parents’ home, Anur decided. For the first time since building it, Sig avoided the shrine in the clearing for a span of three weeks. She was, for the first time in her life, ashamed to approach the god.
The night before the wedding approached with the waxing of a full moon. Sig’s mother and cousins helped her bathe and braided her hair in an elaborate cascade of loops and curls. They all slept now, curled up in whatever empty space there was. But Sig could only sit by the window, watching the moon’s ascent. A wind began to pick up, driving its herd of billowing clouds before it. Grabbing a candle and its holder, she slipped out through the window and into the dark night.
As she began to pad across the barn yard in her bare feet, the first cloud’s shadow collided with the light from the moon. The dampness in the air pressed in around her, condensing on her brow and causing the light drape of her gown to stick to her skin. She rustled through the brush, finally making it to the clearing, just as the first light drops of rain began to fall.
40