Page 120 of Winter Lost

His eyes fell upon a harp sitting on the floor beside the only chair in the small living room. It was a Celtic harp, graceful and well-made. Silver and turquoise inlay managed to evoke Native art without actually looking like any traditional art that Gary was familiar with.

It was a knee harp, nearly three feet tall rather than the tidy little instrument the lyre had been. It was properly conformed, too, as if, this time, someone had studied what an actual harp should look like. When he touched it, it knew him.

He picked up the instrument and sat in the chair that was too big for him but still managed to be comfortable. He began tuning the harp, recalling a conversation he’d once had.

—

He’d picked up the lyre and experimentally run his fingers over the strings.

“You play?” Hrímnir had asked, almost plaintively.

“You don’t?”

The frost giant shook his big head. “No. I had a—”

“Lover?” asked Gary, surprised at the gentleness in his own voice. Gary was not a gentle man, but Hrímnir was one of the loneliest beings he’d ever met.

“Yes.” Hrímnir touched the silver face on the lyre. “She was fated for other things, though.” Then, in an obvious desire to change the subject, he asked again, “Do you play?”

—

“No,” Gary said, his soft voice feeling like an intrusion in this quiet room as he answered in the same words he’d given Hrímnir. “Now, if it were a harp—a Celtic harp, not one of those big orchestral things—I could have played one of those.”

He’d had a lover in Europe who played the harp and taught him a little. A small skill that Gary had pursued whenever the whim took him. As his father said of one of Gary’s half brothers, “Of course he’s an extraordinary idiot. Take any skill and add years of practice and you get extraordinary.” Modesty not being one of Gary’s virtues, he knew he was a good harpist. He enjoyed it all the more because he didn’t look like someone who would play a harp. Guitar, maybe, but not a harp.

It amused him that the harp, which all but vibrated with the magic it held, took so much tuning, as if it were an ordinary harp with new strings. But eventually he was satisfied.

He put his fingers to the strings and started to play.

Fiddly to tune it might have been, but the sound it made was extraordinary. Eventually, he lost himself to the music.

He didn’t even hear the snowmobile. The first hint that the owner of the cabin was back was Garmr’s cold nose on his bare foot. Without slowing his fingers, Gary smiled at the dog, who wagged his tail happily in return.

When the door opened and Hrímnir stepped inside in a wave of cold air, Gary did cease playing, stopping the strings with a careful hand.

“I didn’t expect to see you back here,” said the frost giant, closing the door.

Gary didn’t know if he was happy to see that Hrímnir was in his most human shape or not. The frost giant was smarter and more rational like this than in any other of his many forms, but Gary wasn’t sure that would work in his favor.

“I came to apologize,” Gary said. “I feel I owe you that.”

“Sorry you stole the harp?”

“The lyre,” Gary said. “I’m not sure I could have sneaked out with something this big. But no. I’m not sorry I stole it. My father didn’t tell me everything, but he does not lie to me. It was necessary for me to steal the lyre.”

“Then what are you sorry for?”

Gary couldn’t read Hrímnir’s tone or expression, but Garmr, with his nose resting firmly on Gary’s left foot, wasn’t alarmed.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said. He stood up and set the harp gently on the floor. Then he took two steps forward, rose on his toes, and kissed Hrímnir lightly.

Big arms closed around him, and Gary felt a wave of relief. He was forgiven, it seemed.

“I am leaving soon,” the frost giant told him. “It is time for me to find a new place.”

“I will not stay,” Gary said, thinking of Honey. Then, choosing words the frost giant would understand, words Hrímnir himself had given him, Gary said, “I am fated for other things. Another person.”

Hrímnir nodded. “But not today.”