She sat beneath a root of the great tree, the World-Ash tree that is called Yggdrasil, whose highest branches rustle in the bright sun of Asgard where the Aesir dwell, but whose deepest root strikes down into Hel. The massive trunk soared above her, high above the clouds to where the four winds in the shape of four stags leap and frolic in its branches. When they shake their antlers rain falls in Midgard, where mortal men live.

  But the old woman under the root did not look up; it was enough for her to know that the tree stood there, solid and massive, supporting the worlds, with runes of truth and justice carved as deep as a spear is long into its trunk. She gazed instead at the spring at her feet, whose clear water lay blue and placid and deep. On its far side two swans floated, each breast to breast with its reflected image. When they sing, their music can at times be heard in Asgard, but they were silent now in the golden light of the waning afternoon.

  The spring was the Well of Wisdom, far to the north of Midgard in the cold wastes of Jotunheim, and the woman sitting beside it wrapped in an old brown cloak was its guardian, Urda the earthmother. She was wise, and she was aware of certain events of the future, for she had drunk often from the well she guarded. This evening she sat waiting in calm expectancy, dreaming with her eyes open, gazing into the water as the evening breeze ruffled it. She was expecting someone, for she had seen his approach in her morning’s draught from the well, but she was not impatient. She waited tranquilly, while the swans circled on the water and the shadows lengthened.

  At length, as the sun was sinking into the sea of blood-red clouds in the west, she heard a footstep on the mountain path. A man came into sight, toiling up the steep mountainside with the help of an ash spear used as a staff, a cloak the color of a rain cloud wrapped around him and a sky-blue hood drawn over his head. She did not need to see his face to know who he was, for his massive shoulders, his firm heavy tread, and the strength of the hand that gripped the spear were unmistakable. She smiled at sight of him, a little in pity, a little in affection; but then she composed her features and waited with bent head, studying the water.

  The traveler halted at the crest of the path and stood a moment, breathing hard after his strenuous climb. From beneath the hood his eyes scanned the vista before him: the icy, mountainous wastes stretching to the horizon, the great gnarled root of the World-Ash arcing out of the sky over the well, set in its little dell of dead grasses, and the woman sitting before it, her brooding gaze fixed on the water. She did not look up. He drew a few paces nearer and at last she raised her head. Her face was placid under the brown braided hair streaked with silver; she betrayed no surprise, although he knew travelers did not come here often. But then she had never been a woman easily moved.

  “What do you wish here?” she asked.

  “I have come to drink from the well.”

  She knit her brows as if disconcerted. “There is a price to pay for a drink from this well.”

  “So I have heard.”

  She was looking at him carefully, but he did not think she could see his face beneath the shadow of the hood. She betrayed no sign of recognition. “It is a high price, traveler.”

  “I have need of wisdom,” he said brusquely. He thought of Brynhild the warrior maid, waiting at the foot of the hill with the horses. He had come a long way for his purpose, but he wished it were over with.

  “A wise man’s heart is seldom glad,” she replied. “Or so I have heard it said. In moderate wisdom lies happiness.”

  “I wish to know the future. I bear a great burden, and I need all the wisdom I can win.”

  Her face softened suddenly, and he knew that she must have recognized him. “You have suffered enough already in your search. It is well known that for nine nights you hung in the tree in the wind and rain, yourself offered to yourself in sacrifice, to gain knowledge of the runes. Was not this enough?”

  He threw back the hood with a rueful smile. “ I see that you are not easily deceived, Urda. Yes, I suffered once, when I was younger. But the years draw on, the World-Ash tree has grown taller, and the days of wrath and doom draw near. The fate of men and the Aesir lies heavy on my shoulders, and I seek where I can for wisdom to alleviate my burden.”

  She sighed, looking at his rugged face, burnt brown with the wind and sun of his travels, his gray hair and beard, and the piercing blue of his eyes. His gaze was keen and youthful, belying his great age. For a moment, as he leaned on his staff gazing quizzically at her, the years rolled away and he seemed young again, and she a maiden. She felt a sudden tenderness for him, despite the time and the chances that had come between them. Once she had borne him a child; a woman does not forget that easily. But even that child, the warrior maid Brynhild, could not help him now if his mind was set.

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  She shook her head sadly. “I would not see you pay so heavy a price.”

  “It is my choice. I wish to know more of Ragnarok, of the last battle. It may be that by some means I can postpone it. That is my task, and I must fulfill it whatever the cost.”

  “I see.” She bent her head again, looking into the water of the well, now growing dark with the shadows of evening. “The price is your right eye,” she said softly.

  He was silent. He had known it would be high, but that was very high. Still, if it brought him wisdom, knowledge that he could use to combat the Frost giants and the Mountain giants who sought to destroy the city of the Aesir . . . Such knowledge was worth any price. “I will pay it,” he said.

  She made as if to speak, then closed her lips, and leaning to her right, took a horn from a bush where it hung. She dipped it into the well and held it up dripping to him.

  He took the horn; the water dripped from his fingers like jewels of fire in the ruddy sunset light. He hesitated, then threw back his head and drained it in one long draught.

  The water was cold and fragrant with the scent of grasses, the scent of the earth. His throat was parched after his long climb; as he drank he forgot his high purpose for the moment, and thought only of quenching his thirst. Then he lowered the horn. For a moment he stood motionless; nothing had happened, and he was about to fling it down in disappointment when suddenly he stiffened. A sudden blinding vision of the future invaded his mind.

  The golden cock crowing the morning, waking those who would soon sleep forever; the dog with the bloody mouth barking, barking before the Cave of Gnipa; the blowing of Heimdall’s horn, crying Wake! Terror! Battle! as the riders of Muspellheim galloped from the south. Seafoam curling from the prow of the Ship of Nails, as it sailed from Jotunheim. The Rainbow Bridge breaking under the onslaught of the riders. The heroes pouring from the many doors of Valhall, brandishing their swords with wild war-cries. The Aesir striding to the plain of Vigrith and the final hopeless conflict. The crash of the forces together, like the crashing of great waves of the sea. The flashing, flaming riders, burning as they slew. The laughter of Loki, strident with revenge. The lashing of the Midgard serpent, bloody venom spewing from its throat to poison the lord of thunder. The blood flowing in dark rivers. The shaking, the tottering of the World-Ash tree, as the serpent Nidhogg gnawed it through at last. The gaping jaws of Fenris-Wolf, foam-flecked, and his own desperate lunge to slay. The snapping shut of those jaws in a welter of blood. Darkness. The vision faded into mist; he could see no more.

  He staggered under its impact; then slowly as it faded regained his balance. He stood gazing at nothing, bewildered by the wild nightmare. Slowly his sight returned to him. He looked around and saw the calm evening sky, shot with purple clouds, and the face of Urda watching him with concern.

  She did not speak, but rose and took the horn that had fallen from his hand, replacing it by its thong on the bush.

  He shook his head, trying to remember something he had seen.a ring. That was it. A circle of gold, glittering and bright, a thing of great beauty and danger. He could not see why, or how. And the face of a mortal man, stern and beautiful, his fair hair blowing in the wind of battle as the fire-edged sword in his hand rose and fell, shining with power. That was all. He could remember no more, but he felt a faint stir of hope, newborn and delicate.

  Urda sat motionless, but he became aware that she was watching him. He gazed back fiercely. “Are you all right?” she asked

  “Of course. Will you take the price, or shall I?” he said.

  She did not answer, but bowed her head again. The dusk was deepening; he could scarcely see her in her earth-brown cloak. It would be even harder with only one eye, he thought wryly. He could leave; she would not try to stop him. He gripped his spear harder, the spear on which were graved the same runes that were carved into the World-Ash tree: runes of truth to treaties, faith to promises. That was what constrained him. On those same runes Asgard was founded; and he was the lord of Asgard, the protector of oaths, the Father of Warriors, Odin the Wise. If he should fail in honor, the spear would shatter, and Asgard’s fall would not be far away.

  He transferred the spear to his left hand. He lifted his right, gouged deep, and plucked out his right eye. He staggered at the intense shooting pain, biting his lips to stifle a cry. Clenching his teeth, he tossed the eye to Urda; it rolled to a stop at her knee. She reached down quickly, picked it up and let it fall into the well, where it sank to the bottom. From it a shaft of blue light rose, piercing for an instant the surface of the water; then all was dark again.

  She rose and came to him, offering the edge of her cloak to staunch the blood that trickled down his cheek. He turned away, drawing the hood over his face to hide the empty socket. Heavily he started down the path to where Brynhild waited.

  “Farewell, Odin,” Urda said quietly.

  He paused. “Farewell,” he said, and went on over the crest.

  She stood and watched until the shadows of night swallowed him. Tears blinded her own eyes, and she let them fall. So proud, she thought, so mighty, and so weak. She turned at last and went to sit beside the well in the darkness, as the stars began to shine in the cold, remote sky.