Frost

by Wendy Delsol

  “Don’t you know?” Grim continued, turning to me with a frown. For once, I had protocol on my side. As usual, she had the fine art of browbeating on hers.

  “Fru Birta,” I said. “Call roll. Then we’ll figure out what’s going on.”

  Fru Hulda’s name was called last, and twice, though it was evident her dais-raised chair was unoccupied. Just as Birta was about to close the book, I heard a familiar “Present.”

  We all turned to see Hulda standing in the doorway. She was thinner and more stooped than ever, but everything else — her tangled nest of gray hair, orange hat with floral trim, and drab gray apparel — was hallmark Hulda. Hallelujah.

  And screw protocol. I rushed from my seat and tackled Hulda like a fourth-down, minutes-to-go, championship-on-the-line play. For the record, she was smiling when I let go, and I don’t care what Grim says; Hulda always walked with a slight hobble.

  “Fru Hulda, you’re back!”

  The entire room came alive. Others hurried to greet her with hugs, and there was a buzz of excited chatter and laughter coursing through the air. Even Grim, I noticed, rose to meet Hulda. Her welcome was a brisk handshake, but it may have been one of the few sightings of Grim’s crooked smile.

  Hulda took her place, First Chair, and motioned for everyone to be seated.

  “Thank you, to all of my sister Storks, for such a warm welcome. And I thank you for your assistance and vigil during my long illness and absence.” Hulda gestured to Ofelia. “And what a pleasure it is to receive a new member to our fold. Velkominn, vinur. Welcome, friend.”

  Ofelia bowed her head in acceptance of the greeting. My own shied in shame for ever having suspected her.

  “As to the nature of my affliction,” Hulda continued, “there was indeed an enemy in our midst. One whom I detected within the hour of her arrival, and who, through sorcery and coldheartedness, sought to neutralize my powers and cripple my resistance — by trying to kill me.”

  A gasp worked its way around the room. The way Hulda had enunciated “coldheartedness” had me, too, sucking in air.

  “Though she came close, know that this crisis has passed.”

  “But, Fru Hulda, why do you not name this enemy?” Svana asked.

  Hulda gave me a brief in-cahoots once-over. “If only I could. Alas, it all happened so fast. I have only suspicions.”

  This upset the room, possibly even more than her “by trying to kill me” proclamation. I was seriously confused. Hulda had called the enemy coldhearted. She had to know. And what was up with that look we shared? If the crisis had passed, then why no full disclosure? My heart beat with big, blouse-lifting pangs of dread.

  “But how do we know for certain that we are all safe?” Birta asked. “Dorit’s whereabouts, for instance, are still unknown.”

  “Trust me when I say there are no immediate dangers,” Hulda said. “In the meantime, I thank you for coming out this evening without even a soul to bestow. I shall take this occasion to inform you of my absence for the next few weeks. These recent events have necessitated a trip to the World Tribunal. I hope to return with more information to share.” Several of the Storks interrupted with questions. Hulda raised her hand to silence them. “For now, I ask for your patience and for calm. Know that I am, as ever, in your service. Peace be.”

  The Storks filed out, lifting a cloud of nervous energy with their old-lady shoes. Even Grim had a little bounce in her step.

  “Katla, you will stay,” Hulda said. As usual, it wasn’t a question.

  When we were finally alone, Hulda said, “You have been traveling.” Again, not a question. Hulda would suck at Jeopardy.

  “I was in Iceland with my afi.”

  “And . . .”

  So what if game shows weren’t her thing. If she wanted it, the woman had a future in interrogation.

  “Fru Hulda, all those things you told me about the other realms . . .”

  “Yes, child.”

  “What if?”

  “Go on.”

  Where to start?

  “Did you know my afi was a descendant of the selurmanna, from the selkie stories?”

  “Of course.”

  “And that Jack Snjosson, while he was recently in Greenland on a bogus research trip, was lured away to Niflheim, by . . .”

  Hulda had been the one, way back last September, to tell me of the Snow Queen’s fondness for blue, and of my connection to red. So why was it so hard for me to say her name out loud?

  “By Brigid Fonnkona, the Snow Queen,” I finished.

  “This I suspected. Go on.”

  “I went after Jack.”

  Hulda nodded encouragement.

  “En route, I met a messenger of a King Marbendlar and a Queen Safira,” I said, speaking faster. Even knowing that Hulda was like me — para-abnormal — it still didn’t make recounting the events any easier. “He helped me get to Niflheim, where I figured out that Brigid planned on deep-freezing all the realms as revenge for global warming but also as a power grab. We got out, and I’m pretty sure that Jack did something to close the portals, because we’re back and everything seems fine: no eternal winter; spring is in the air, right? So, I think that’s pretty much everything, in a nutshell, anyway.” I took a big gulp of air.

  God, it felt great to spill. And so what if I had left out the part about using my sister’s soul as a kind of tollbooth token? I was going to fix it. No need to dwell. Besides, I could see by the look on Hulda’s face that I’d given her more than enough to think about. She was, after all, still weakened, and the immediate threat was passed. She’d said so herself. She left me with a “Peace be,” which, disturbingly enough, she turned into a question.

  For their first dance as a married couple, my mom and Stanley swayed to Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World.” Some kindhearted fairy must have dumped a whole gob of pixie dust on my mom, because, all day, she gleamed like gossamer. It didn’t hurt that her dress was the bomb: layered crepe, ankle length, and the color of latte foam. Its pleated waistline shook loose to a billowy skirt that swished as surprisingly smooth Stanley twirled and dipped her. If there were elfin creatures about, one of them had definitely hexed Stanley with some kind of happiness charm. Good grief, the guy was gaga for my mom. It was the kind of sweet and goofy you just couldn’t mock. His ruffled tux shirt, on the other hand. . . .

  Watching them, I got lost in a kind of dreamy recap of the whirlwind two months since our return. Prom, my seventeenth birthday, finals, and Jack’s graduation had been more than enough to keep me busy. Factoring in visits to the hospital and shifts at the store, it made for one dash-till-you-crash existence. Had it not been for Ofelia and her help, I’m not sure what we would have done. A light wind ruffled my tea-length, peau de soie silk dress. I loved it: a coral so candy it hurt your teeth. My mom had wanted something in the pastel family; she’d even mentioned blue. As the only other female in the wedding party, my threat to quit was taken seriously. Anyway, knowing how I was about clothes, she’d given up years ago. It was sleeveless and had a silky gathered ribbon that trimmed the scooped neckline and continued all the way around to a backless plunge. Should the evening grow cold, I had a matching silk wrap, but so far the weather had behaved, as if also under some sort of hocus-pocus. A waft of jasmine perfumed the air, and the tinkle of champagne glasses and the soft hum of conversation played backup to Louis Armstrong.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find Afi. He looked dapper in his charcoal suit and yellow tie, but there was no hiding the way the jacket hung loose over his bony shoulders.

  “May I have this dance?” he asked.

  “It would be an honor,” I replied, placing my hand in Afi’s outstretched palm.

  Seeing as my date, Jack, had mysteriously disappeared as soon as the DJ started up, I was appreciative of Afi’s offer, though I worried about his stamina. Since our return from Iceland, it was more than the still-hospitalized Leira rushing us to Pinewood General. A few weeks ago, Afi had
collapsed at the store. Despite a battery of tests, the cause was unclear. He claimed to be feeling better, but I didn’t like the sharp ridge of his shoulder blades or the sink in his cheeks. For an old guy, a convalescing one at that, he could still cut the proverbial rug. We danced two songs, and I noticed Afi glancing over at Ofelia and her sister. When the tempo picked up, he begged off and headed in the direction of the two single women. I took it as a good sign; he still had a little warrior left in him. I decided to go looking for Jack.

  After a quick search of the outside tables, I headed inside, where I ran into Julia, coming out of the restroom.

  “Thank you for everything,” I said. “It’s been a great day.”

  “I’m so glad. Your mother deserved a special day after everything she’s been through. How’s the baby doing?”

  I noticed she rubbed her own midsection as she said the word “baby.” Curious. I was dying to know, but she wasn’t showing yet, and it just wasn’t the kind of thing that came up naturally.

  “A little better,” I said. “The doctors are optimistic that she’ll be home sometime in July, just a few more weeks.”

  “The wait must be hard on your mom.”

  “It’s tough; she even says so. But she’s at the hospital for hours every day. Leira gets plenty of mommy time.”

  From a swinging door to the kitchen, a waiter bustled past with a tray of silver-capped room-service meals, leaving an oniony aroma in their wake.

  Julia scrunched her nose. “Yuck. Onions.”

  “You don’t like onions?”

  “Not right now.” Again, she touched her belly. “They call it morning sickness, but for me it’s twenty-four-seven.”

  My eyes jumped up and down from her tummy to her smiling face. “Are you?”

  “Yes. Not far along, but expecting.”

  “Congratulations.” I hugged her. It was probably a little odd, but I didn’t care. I’d worked hard to get that little stinker on board.

  “I couldn’t be happier,” she said. “It just feels . . . right, somehow.” She waved and hurried off, claiming work duties. I watched her go and preened with self-congratulations. Yes, now. Success and confirmation. Things were looking up. I’d actively brokered a soul to a human, a venture I knew was beyond the ability of my sister Storks. Leira was getting stronger every day; they hoped to take her off the ventilator soon. That had to be a good omen: that she was meant to be here — here on earth. And with this glorious weather, there could be no mistake. We’d somehow closed the portals.

  I should have known better by now than to gloat, even internally; it was a karma-buster, a big fat heap of humility. Continuing my search for Jack, I rounded a corner of the lobby, where, on a bench, sat none other than Hulda. Hulda? She hadn’t surfaced in the weeks since she’d left me with the questionable “Peace be.”

  “Fru Hulda, is that you?”

  “Ah, Katla. Come, sit.” She patted the cushioned bench.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, dropping down next to her. A Great to see you or How was your trip would have probably been more polite. In my defense, the woman had a way of knocking the p’s and q’s out of me. Half the time, I was happy not to lisp in her presence.

  “Saturday night is liver-and-onions special in the restaurant. I’m a long-standing customer.”

  I didn’t know why I bothered to ask. Of course Hulda would show up the night of my mom’s wedding, just as I was thinking that I had things figured out and under control.

  “So everything is OK, then? Your trip to the World Tribunal, just routine business?” I bit my lip; probably now had streaks of Guava Colada lipstick on my teeth.

  “No. Not routine. Many troubling disasters in this world.”

  Uh-oh. At least she said “this world.” Personally, I wasn’t ready to revisit the others — in conversation or in person. Of course, I’d been a little freaked at the news of volcanoes erupting in Iceland, but these things are cyclical. And kind of like the slots in Vegas, right? You never know when one will hit. Anyway, disaster was a very broad term. How many times had my mom declared my room a disaster? Too often to count.

  “Oh. More than usual? I mean, there’s always something, right?”

  “Katla, the World Tribunal is privy to more than what is reported on CNN.”

  Yikes. Hadn’t thought of that.

  “There’s more?”

  “Katla, did Brigid say anything unusual?”

  Crap. Brigid had said a lot, but in an almost head-in-the-sand reaction to what had taken place, I’d conveniently buried most of it.

  “Now that you mention it —”

  “Tell me.” Hulda clutched my forearm.

  “Snjoflóð. She was trying to create a huge avalanche.”

  “What else?”

  “There was this one word.”

  Hulda’s eyes popped forward like a boxed jack. I swear I heard the music, and then the coil of the spring. “What word?”

  “Ragnarök.” I said it in a get-it-over-with-quickly tactic, the same way I approached flu shots or the ingestion of nasty-tasting medicine.

  Hulda gasped. Definitely not a good sign. The woman delivered human souls and convened with a clandestine World Tribunal commissioned with the guarding of ancient secrets, for God’s sake. This was bad. Very bad. Like out-spooking Stephen King.

  “Katla, have you discussed this with anyone else?”

  Why me? Why always me?

  “Jack was there, but we haven’t discussed it. He was probably too weak at that point to remember it.”

  “Katla, listen closely, you must speak of this to no one.”

  Sounded good to me.

  “I may, again, be gone for some weeks,” Hulda continued. “I trust you will lead in my absence.”

  “Of course.”

  A familiar voice at the hotel’s front doors lifted my eyes to the revolving glass door. I saw Jack, and then my dad, entering the lobby. The craziest part was that as my dad exited the rotating cabin, I saw the flash of Hulda’s backside disappear into one of the opposite partitions. What the —? For old and infirm, she sure had boogied out of there.

  “Kitty Kat, whatcha doing out here?” my dad asked.

  “Just wondered where you both disappeared to.”

  “We were on bellhop duty,” Jack said, “loading the wedding gifts into Stanley’s car.”

  Naturally, Jack had been off do-gooding. And what had I been doing? Alarming an old woman who, one would think, was way past surprises. It was not lost on me that she still knew nothing about my pact with Queen Safira.

  “Has the dancing started?” my dad asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I better get in there,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “There were one or two of your mom’s colleagues who came stag.” He headed in the direction of the reception.

  It was a relief to know that my dad’s attachment to Brigid had been shallow. But honestly, my mom’s colleagues? He was, as my mom used to say, incorrigible. But fun, and sweet, and a great dad.

  Jack held his hands out, and I offered up mine. He pulled me to a stand, wincing as I applied pressure to his palm.

  “You’re never going to forgive me, are you?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Even though I traveled to another realm to rescue you?”

  “For that part, I’m eternally grateful.” He dropped an arm over my shoulder. “But, seriously, you severed a tendon.”

  “I know. And in the process ruined your chances at a lacrosse scholarship.”

  He peered down at me with a squint. “I showed real promise.”

  “You were never going to get that little flick of the wrist.” I demonstrated, quite poorly, the maneuver. He snatched my hand and pulled it around his waist.

  “So they’re dancing out there?” he asked. I sensed it was a subject-changing ploy.

  “Yep.”

  “You know I don’t dance.”

  “You don’t fast dance,” I corrected.r />
  “Thanks for the reminder.”

  He held open the patio door for me. It happened to be a slow song. Jack pulled me toward the dance floor. We passed Tina and Matthew, who made such a cute couple. My mom had let me invite Penny and Tina so Jack and I would have kids our age to hang with. Speaking of Penny, she waltzed by with my dad. I noticed one of my mom’s single colleagues, an attractive brunette, looking on. Penny had come solo, she and Pedro’s breakup definitely permanent. It was nice of my dad, sweet guy that he was, to ask her to dance over the comely brunette. Maybe he wasn’t as incorrigible as I’d thought.

  It was a Sinatra song; somehow I knew it was a request of Stanley’s: old-fashioned, a little doo-dah, but a good standby.

  The twinkle lights in the surrounding greenery were the perfect backdrop to the evening. Looking beyond their perimeter, I thought I saw . . . of course, fireflies: sparkler bugs, as Jacob had called them. Thank you, I dispatched over the breeze. I puddled into Jack’s arms and let my worries spool away from me. We had, somehow, sealed the portals. We were stronger together.

  As if tapping my thoughts, Jack leaned down and kissed me. No matter what the future held, what our combined destinies triggered, we had each other.

  Halfway through the next song, it began — a summer rain, starting up with a light sprinkle.

  It grew in intensity. Fat drops splashed my beautiful coral silk. The crowd threw up cries of alarm and excitement. Jack shrugged out of his suit coat and covered my hair and dress. We hurried, with the others, in pursuit of shelter. The stampede for the doors was both comical and exhilarating. Once behind the shelter of the plate-glass window, I looked over the now-soaked and abruptly evacuated patio. Drink glasses remained on tables. Centerpieces drooped. The DJ and a few helpers were tarping his equipment.

  “I swear,” Jack said, holding me at arm’s length, “I had nothing to do with this.”

  Caped in the warmth of his jacket, I brought a fist to my mouth, trying at first to hide the rumble, and then letting go with an all-out, body-shaking laugh. Because you can’t control everything. Because sometimes it just rains. And the best you can do is be on guard, be prepared, and have a good buddy system worked out. I collapsed into the cavity of his chest, his wet shirt muffling my giggles. Jack leaned his head against mine and joined in the laughter. Yep, I definitely had the buddy system figured out.