Frost

by Wendy Delsol

  “Sounds perfect,” Brigid said with a parting wave.

  “Did you guys get a look at that body?” Logan asked. “Hello! You are one lucky dog, Jack.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, looking for a cake server in our utensil drawer.

  “You got room in your suitcase for me?” He punched Jack in the shoulder. “Because she is smokin’ hot.”

  Jack didn’t reply, lucky for him. Unlucky for Logan, I opted to go with our largest knife in lieu of the wimpy cake server.

  “Logan,” I said, holding the knife in front of me. “I hardly think —”

  Logan cut me off. “What’s the bunk assignment like? Did they teach you about shared body heat in your survival training? ’Cause a guy would warm up nicely cozying up between her —”

  “Logan,” I said in a tone that conveyed everything; the slash of my knife through the air was probably unnecessary.

  Matthew and Jack choked back laughter in some kind of bro-spiracy.

  “Easy there,” Jack said. His eyes dropped to the knife.

  Like I would really use it. Like I needed anyone — Jack in particular — telling me “Easy there.” It was condescending and insulting. And Logan had been inappropriate.

  “What if she hears you guys?” I said in a sulk.

  “She didn’t hear anything,” Jack said.

  “Which makes it OK?” I asked, dumping cake slices onto plates. I deliberately served Jack the piece that was upside down and misshapen. I then carried a tray out to the adults in the front room. When I returned, Jack had his coat on.

  “Tomorrow’s an early morning,” he said. “I should be going.”

  I found my own parka in the pileup of belongings and followed him toward the foyer. He briefly mumbled a “Good night and thank you” to my mom, but overall his departure was abrupt and kind of rude.

  “Wait up,” I said, stumbling behind him down the porch steps.

  He paused at the driver’s-side door to his truck, which was parked in the driveway, but didn’t say anything.

  “Are you OK?” I asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “It just seemed like —”

  “I said I’m fine.”

  His tone definitely implied otherwise.

  “So why are you taking off, then? We didn’t even get any time alone.”

  “I’m not done packing.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right? Is it the flying thing?”

  “No. Though I really don’t appreciate my lack of travel experience being thrown in my face.”

  “Thrown in your face? It’s not like I said you were scared.”

  “I’m not scared.” His voice was gruff.

  “I never said you were. And maybe I don’t appreciate you drooling over Brigid with a pig like Logan.”

  “You’re overreacting.”

  “I am not,” I said.

  “Yes, you are.”

  The front door opened, and Brigid stepped onto the porch. Her timing couldn’t have been worse. Jack kissed me quickly on the lips and pulled away. Honestly, I’d been kissed by a dolphin at SeaWorld with more passion.

  “Take care of yourself,” he said, pulling at the truck’s door handle.

  “I will,” I stammered, too stunned to properly react. Take care of yourself? What the hell did that mean?

  Brigid approached us and stopped.

  “Katla,” she said, using my full name for the first time, “it has been a pleasure to know you.” She shook my hand with gloved fingers. “And, Jack, I will see you tomorrow.”

  “Looking forward to it,” he said, his eyes bright and eager.

  Though he gave me another brief kiss — on the friggin’ forehead — his gaze seemed to follow Brigid as she walked down the driveway and out to her street-parked car.

  Before I knew it, Jack was behind the wheel and backing down the driveway. My eyes chased between Jack’s truck and Brigid’s rental, and I remembered the dog-mushing command Jack had taught us.

  Leave it, I thought with a snarl.

  Following our last show, the curtain dropped and the stage exploded in hugs, tears, whistles, and cheers. I made the rounds, going through the motions, but I was not one of the revelers. My matinee and Saturday night performances went fine — just fine — not great. I didn’t fall or screw up, but I didn’t dance like I had on Friday, either.

  The problem was Jack. I missed him. I had expected to, but it was more than that. Our good-bye had been distant and cold. First cousins in a fair number of states could legally display more affection. Worse, I honestly didn’t know where we stood. “Take care of yourself”? It sounded more like a kiss-off than an accompaniment to a see-you-soon kiss.

  I kept trying to convince myself that it was just nerves. His fear of flying getting the best of him as takeoff loomed. But the way he had laughed at Logan’s remarks — I’d never seen that side of Jack before.

  Penny practically tackled me with her post-Gerda hug. “Are you coming to the Kountry Kettle?” she asked, her cheeks wet with happy tears.

  “I can’t. You know Afi and I start our trek to Iceland bright and early.”

  “Speaking of treks, what about Jack? Did you talk to him before his flight?”

  “No. I didn’t get a chance.” Because he hadn’t called me. Prior to boarding, Stanley had called my mom briefly, but Jack, he said, had wandered off.

  “Are you sure you don’t have even a half hour to come out and celebrate with us?” Penny asked.

  I shook my head no, but, in truth, it wasn’t the time I lacked, more like the right frame of mind.

  My mood was no better the next morning as I threw the last bits and pieces into my suitcase. I scooped a brush, a pocket English-Icelandic dictionary, and my makeup case from my dresser top, when a small black velvet pouch caught my eye: the runes from Jack’s grandmother. The sack sat where I’d dropped it the morning after returning from the blizzard fiasco, in a lopsided pottery bowl I’d made in seventh grade. Somehow, their association with my horrible blunder had prevented me from researching the moonstone rocks and their engraved symbols, or even handling them. My hand hovered over the crude bowl. Sure, I expected Iceland to be a little backwater, but an ancient alphabet carved into small stones — what did I think I’d trade them for, a handful of magic beans? I hardly knew, but my greedy fingers — ignoring the TSA baggage restrictions running like a news banner at the bottom of my thoughts — snatched up the pouch and tossed it into my suitcase. Next came a good-bye to my teary mom. She, at least, had pregnancy hormones and cabin fever to blame for her crazy emotions.

  “Now, remember,” she said, her voice thin, “call me, for any reason. Don’t worry about the expense.”

  “OK.”

  “And take care of Afi. Make sure he eats right. He’s been looking so thin.”

  “I will.”

  “Give me a hug, then.”

  Despite the big tummy bulge, she seemed small and weak as I leaned over her bed. Taking care of her, I knew, was a big job. I just hoped Ofelia was up to it. Ofelia. Just thinking about her gave me an uneasy feeling.

  “How’re we doing in here?” Ofelia said, appearing suddenly in the doorway to my mom’s bedroom. The uneasy feeling grew. Dang, her mind-reading thing was creepy.

  “I’m just about ready to head out,” I said. “Afi’s probably sitting on his suitcase in his driveway.”

  “No, he’s not,” Ofelia said.

  My mom gave her a quizzical look; the look I gave her required a stronger adjective.

  “He seems way too smart a fellow to sit in the cold,” Ofelia said, trying to cover her tracks.

  “OK, Mom,” I said, lingering in the doorway. “It’s just a week. We’ll be back before you know it.”

  “Love you,” my mom called out to me.

  “Love you back,” I said, backing into the hallway.

  Ofelia followed me downstairs.

  “Don’t worry about your mother,” she said. “I’ll t
ake care of her.”

  Take care of, I rolled it around my mouth like a marble. It sounded like something Tony Soprano would say. And definitely not helping my overall mood.

  “Thank you,” I said, wheeling my suitcase toward the back door.

  “Katla,” she said, “there is something I feel needs saying.”

  Kind of a long-way-round listen up, but it got my attention.

  “What is it?”

  Ofelia squinted and lowered her head. “I had not realized the strength of your calling. It is . . . What I mean to say . . . I would never forgive myself were I not to —”

  “Ofelia, just tell me.”

  “A warning,” she said in a gravelly voice. “You are more than a deliverer of souls, and more than a summoner of souls.”

  Again, Ofelia hesitated, giving me time to ponder the difference. So she suspected what I had done for Jacob. What I hoped I had done. There still had been no news on that front.

  “OK,” I said.

  “Special ones may appear to you.” Ofelia gripped my shoulder. “Be careful. A pact once made cannot be broken.”

  Oh, boy. And great. Because I needed one more thing to add to my load.

  “No need to worry,” I said, tucking my heaviest parka under my arm. “I’m on vacation, remember?”

  I couldn’t believe I was in Iceland. It had been a long, hellish journey. Afi had been so slow we almost missed our connecting flight in Boston, and we hit some scary turbulence over the Atlantic, but we were here. Iceland. Even its name was formidable. One of my favorite things about flying was the bird’s-eye view it afforded. Unfortunately, I barely got a peek at the terrain as we descended from clouds into an early-morning fog so thick it would make a pretty decent packing material. Once through customs and baggage claim, we hopped a bus for the transfer from the international airport to the regional airport some thirty miles away. It was a cold, rain-soaked day. From the bus windows, I looked out onto a barren volcanic landscape. It was not the happy little village scene I’d expected. Soon, though, we came into the downtown area of Reykjavik, Iceland’s capital and largest city. I was surprised at the number of modern buildings — again, not the Iceland I’d expected. Finally, we arrived at the regional airport and soon began the business of check-in and boarding; the allure of travel had long since lost its appeal. At least this last flight was short.

  When Afi had said his cousin Baldur would pick us up at the airport, I had thought that was his name, not a description. Turned out it was both. The guy looked like Afi, except Afi had a shock of white hair, whereas this guy was as bald as his name suggested. Except for the wired eyebrows and tufts growing out of his ears, that is. I supposed if you’d lost a whole head of hair, you’d be inclined to preserve it elsewhere. I liked his eyes, a blue so aqua they splashed. He was tall, like Afi, but stockier, with a belly that suggested a healthy appetite. Afi and Baldur hugged and slapped backs like a couple of linebackers. Then it was my turn for a hug. Baldur embraced me and said, “Aye, she’s an Icelander, all right.” Which I supposed was good, because his eyes twinkled as he said it. They jabbered away in Icelandic. I didn’t catch a word. Then again, there were only about five that I knew. And I didn’t think now was the occasion for “the toilet, please,” or the “I’m not hungry, thank you,” that I’d expressly learned. The idea of unwittingly chowing down on sheep’s head or fermented shark meat still had me freaked.

  For a pretty big guy, Baldur drove a little munchkin car. I scrambled into the backseat, holding my suitcase on my lap, trunks and hatchbacks apparently being another example of the U.S. super-size-me culture. It was the last day of March, technically spring, but there were still patches of snow on the ground. What struck me the most were the cloud-capped mountains hovering over us and the volcanic island’s lack of trees. Minnesota had spoiled me for trees.

  Baldur pulled out of the tiny airport’s parking lot and headed north. “So, Katla,” he said in pretty darn good English, “welcome home.”

  My breath caught inwardly with the word “home.” I hadn’t known how to describe it, but as soon as we had landed here in Akureyri, I’d had the oddest sensation of déjà vu, which I knew from my French grandmother translated literally as already seen. Here, in Iceland, I had the feeling that I’d already been. Except I hadn’t; my international travel consisted of Cancun, Vancouver, and Paris.

  “Akureyri,” Baldur said, “is considered the capital of northern Iceland and is at the base of the Eyjafjörður.”

  I’d studied the maps before leaving, but a pastel drawing could never do this justice. The Eyjafjörður was a long, fingerlike inlet, a fjord, that cut deep into the coast of Iceland off the Atlantic Ocean, offering a protective harbor for a centuries-old fishing industry.

  “The first Vikings arrived here in the year 890,” Baldur said. “And Akureyri has been a market town ever since. There is even reference to the old section, Oddeyri, in the Sagas.”

  Impressive, sure, but didn’t explain why it felt familiar to me. I knew for a fact the Sagas were not in my bookcase at home, nor did I think too many movies had been set in the area. Baldur explained we were on the Drottningarbraut, the road skirting the west side of the fjord and heading north into town. To my right, the inky-blue waters of the fjord were visible. Soon, scattered buildings came into view, and then the town itself. The architecture was typically Scandinavian, with scattered, brightly painted wooden buildings of canary yellow, electric blue, or whitewashed with metal roofs of leaf green and brick red. And it was larger than I expected: a bustling town with many shops, restaurants, and businesses.

  As if on cue, Baldur slammed his hand to the steering wheel. “Aye. Traffic,” he said.

  The “traffic” consisted of five vehicles in front of us at a red light. Seriously? The guy wouldn’t last a minute on the 405 in LA. Baldur did not live in Akureyri, which, with a population of 17,000, was far too “crowded.” He lived in the much smaller town of Hafmeyjafjörður, thirty miles farther north along the fjord. My eyes soon said good-bye to the vibrant Akureyri and to daylight itself. It really had been a long journey, and as much as I was fascinated by my ancestral land, I was blotto. The last thing I remembered was laying my head back against the window, with towering mountains to my left and the glassy blue fjord to my right.

  The next thing I knew, we were rolling to a stop in front of a small white house. I blinked my eyes several times. How long had I been asleep? How far had we gone? Thirty miles, I’d been told, about forty minutes, but surely it should take a lot longer than that to get to the end of the earth. Besides the white house, set on a hill overlooking the fjord, there was nothing else around.

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  “Baldur’s house,” Afi replied.

  “Where is everybody?” I was groggy and confused.

  “My wife, Vigdis, should be home,” Baldur said.

  “No, I mean the town. Afi’s hometown, where is it?”

  “Ah,” Baldur said. “It’s back down the road a ways.” He climbed out of the driver’s side and pulled the seat forward. “Vigdis and I like the peace and quiet.”

  As if living on a slab of volcanic rock in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean wasn’t enough solitude. And I had thought Norse Falls was remote. What did they do for a gallon of milk?

  Baldur hoisted first my suitcase and then me out of the minuscule backseat. I popped out like a stubborn cork, not my most graceful move, but after more than twenty-four hours of transport, I was happy to be on solid ground — even if it was a cliff house above an icy Atlantic fjord.

  Vigdis soon joined us in front of the home. She was short with dark hair, a round face, and shiny brown eyes. She pulled Afi and then me into hugs; they probably didn’t get many visitors out here, certainly not family from the U.S., anyway. I supposed the occasion called for an embrace, though I was sure my ribs would be sore. The woman was one serious bone cruncher.

  Vigdis took my hand and led me into the house like a toddler. Norma
lly, I would bristle at such disregard for personal boundaries, but something about Vigdis’s high, round cheeks and gummy smile had me suspending rules. That and an exhaustion level exceeding EPA guidelines: without sleep, I was a walking zombie. She led us up the path to the front door. The house was one story with an arched red door and a green corrugated roof. To one side of the path was a small detached garage, and to the other, old stone steps that descended downhill and toward the rocky shoreline.

  Once inside the home, Vigdis pulled kitchen chairs out for Afi and me around the long, battered farm table. Even with the short nap in the car, the travel, compounded by the time difference, was pulling me, like an undertow, out to sea. It was two in the afternoon on a clear, bright, although chilly, day, yet my body was telling me differently. Vigdis set out coffee and a platter of meats and cheeses, but I had no appetite.

  Finally, she punched her fists down on her thick waist and said, pointing at me, “This one needs a bed.”

  The bed, though only a twin, looked like a cocoon of feathery softness. Still wearing my travel clothes, I fell upon the tiny guest room’s mattress, grateful for the beauty of a down-stuffed duvet and central heating. I remembered how Jack had said he was a little jealous of our vacationer’s itinerary and comforts-of-home stay. Home. It made me think about my mom and Jack. My mom I could picture, remote in hand or fanned-open book poised atop her ever-growing tummy. But Jack. It bothered me that I had no visual on where he was or what he was doing. If my sleep-deprived mind had the facts straight, he’d arrived yesterday in Daneborg and had set out today by dogsled for the Klarksberg Research Station. It rankled me even more that we’d parted on such confusing terms. Was he mad at me? Was he not speaking to me? I pulled the lavender-scented duvet to my chest and surrendered to a much-deserved nap.

  I woke to the eeriest sound ever. Nothing. Never before had I been so aware of absolute silence. And it was dark — the kind of dark you could put on a scale and weigh. I sat up, thinking that it had to be the middle of the night. I was still in my travel clothes, so I must have slept through the afternoon, dinner, the evening, and — by the looks of it — midnight. For several moments I remained still, assembling the jigsaw of recent memories. I was in the guest room of Baldur and Vigdis’s cottage by the sea, in Hafmeyjafjörður, Iceland — Afi’s hometown. So, that was the where. I just needed to figure out the when. My toes located the fleece lining of my UGGs, and my outstretched hands found the desk chair over which my parka had been thrown. The central heating I’d been grateful for a few hours ago had been turned way down. I snuggled into the warmth of my jacket and slowly paced off the few steps to the bedroom door. It opened with the tiniest of creaks, and I stepped into the small hallway and toward the kitchen. From the large above-sink window, a shaft of moonlight illuminated the battered table and four simple wooden chairs. A digital clock on the stove showed the time as 3:47. Mystery solved: everyone was obviously in bed.