by Arthur Slade
“It’s him. It has to be.” Michael was pointing at the boy’s picture. “He’s a dead ringer.”
“I have to sit down,” I said. Which was true. My legs felt like they were suddenly transformed into wet clay. We went ahead to a small park and collapsed on a bench. Three pine trees cast three shadows across us and I shivered.
We read the article silently.
In the spring of 1941 young Eric Bardarson disappeared. The Bardarson family had been picnicking north of town. When they went to leave, their son had vanished. A search party was organized and though they spent the next few days searching, no trace of the boy was ever found. Donations to the Eric Bardarson Arts Scholarship are gratefully accepted.
“I told you he was a ghost,” Michael said. “He has to be.”
“It could still be some kind of trick.” Angie didn’t sound very sure of herself. “Couldn’t it?”
“I don’t know.” I examined the picture of Eric. He was wearing what looked like a school uniform: a tie, a shirt and suit jacket, shorts, long socks, and black shoes. He looked exactly like the boy we had seen. The only difference was that he was smiling in the picture.
Staring at the photo made me feel uncomfortable. In it he was a happy, young kid who was probably thinking about playing baseball or riding his bike; he had no idea that in a few days he would disappear forever.
Well, not exactly forever. If he was some sort of spirit.
I glanced at the rest of the front page. There was something about city taxes and a festival named Islendingadagurinn and at the bottom of the page was a grainy picture of a dead cow. The article below it explained that this cow, like several others recently, had been killed and had all its blood sucked out.
What kind of town was this?
I got off the bench, stepped out into the sunlight. I didn’t want to be cold anymore. “This is all way, way too weird.”
Both Angie and Michael stood too. Michael folded up the paper. “Yeah, I’ll say. Last year all we did was suntan, roller blade, and go fishing. And listen to Grandpa’s stories.”
I crossed my arms. “We had better tell Grandpa tonight, for sure. Even if he thinks we’re just being stupid, crazy kids.”
Michael and Angie nodded in agreement. They followed me down the sidewalk and we started trying to find our way out of town.
“Hey! Hello there!” someone yelled from behind us.
We turned around. Standing by the bench we were just on, waving a plastic bag, was a blonde-haired guy who looked about fifteen. He was wearing a black T-shirt and blue-jean shorts. He was as tall as Michael but very stocky.
“Hey!” he repeated.
It took me a moment to realize the bag he was holding was mine. With the book I had just bought. He started coming towards us.
“You forgot this,” he said when we were face to face. He had blue eyes and was grinning. His face was tanned.
“Oh . . . thanks,” I answered as I took the bag. “I’d have been mad at myself if I lost it—hey, how’d you know it was my book?”
“You look like the bookish type.” His grin got even bigger, revealing straight white teeth.
I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not.
“I mean it in the nicest way possible.” Was he reading my mind? I noticed that his hair was shaved at the sides like a skate boarder’s. He looked familiar, almost like someone I had seen on TV. “You three are new in town, aren’t you?”
“How could you tell?” Michael asked. “Is it stamped on our foreheads?”
“No. I know most everyone around here who’s my age. This place fills up with tourists and visitors in the summer. Besides, your shirt has the Dallas Cowboys on it . . . we’re all Blue Bomber fans here.”
“Who?” Michael’s face became a living question mark.
“Winnipeg’s football team.”
“I’ve heard of them,” I said, even though I hadn’t. I just wanted him to look at me. “We’re from Missouri.”
“Missouri? How come you don’t have accents? Why don’t you say Y’all and all that stuff?”
“Why don’t you say eh all the time?” Michael asked.
“Uh . . .” he paused, still grinning. “I see what you mean.”
“We grew up in Montana,” I explained.
“They grew up in Montana,” Angie added. “I’m from North Dakota.”
He looked at her and I felt a twinge of jealousy. “My name’s Brand.” This time when he smiled, dimples formed in his cheeks.
We all introduced ourselves and Brand shook everyone’s hand. He had a firm, warm shake and I didn’t want to let go. Angie winked at me when Brand wasn’t looking and I almost blushed.
“So where you guys staying?” Brand asked.
“With our Grandpa, Thursten,” Michael answered.
Brand laughed. “Ol’ Thursten. Does he still tell that story about the headless barmaid?”
“Yes,” I answered. “Do you know Grandpa?”
“He used to recite stories to us kids at school. We’d all have nightmares later. He’s really good friends with my grandmother. They sit and talk Icelandic to each other. Can’t understand a word they say . . . except when they point at me and say eykom every once in a while.”
“Akarn?” Michael asked.
“Little acorn. That’s what they call me. He’s a fun old guy.”
There was silence for a moment. Brand kept grinning through it all. He ran his hand through his hair. It went back to its original position. “Well, I have to go. If you guys come into town and want me to show you around, you can find me at Ye Ol’ Ice Cream Shoppe. I work there most days.”
“We will,” I said, maybe a little too enthusiastically.
Then he turned and was gone, striding down the street.
Angie looked at me and raised her eyebrows. “Well, well, well . . . I think I sense a crush coming up.”
“Oh, c’mon,” I answered. “We just met him.”
“And?”
“And . . . and we better get back to Grandpa’s.”
Angie laughed. I knew it wouldn’t be the last time she would tease me about Brand. We started walking out of town.
6
When we got back to the cabin, Grandpa wasn’t on the deck. There were lots of wood chips so he’d obviously been busy. We went through the front door.
“Grandpa, we’re home!” Michael announced.
No answer.
“Maybe you should yell, Angie,” he suggested. “He always hears you.”
Angie frowned. “Ha. Ha. Ha.”
We poked our heads into each room, called out his name. Still nothing. It was almost funny, each of us following the others around like three miniature stooges, opening doors, yelling, closing doors. Except I was beginning to get a little worried. Grandpa hadn’t said anything about going anywhere.
“Oh great, we’ve lost him,” Angie exclaimed, collapsing into a sofa chair. “How are we going to explain this to our parents? We lost Grandpa . . . but we had a great holiday.”
“I told you a bizillion times, don’t exaggerate!” Michael stretched out on the couch and yawned; his mouth became a gaping O. “He’s got to be around here somewhere. He likely stepped out with one of his friends. They’re telling each other big long stories about giant snakes or dead people right now. That’s all they seem to talk about around here.”
I sat in the other chair. “You’re probably right.” I covered my mouth as I yawned. It had been a long day already. I settled myself down, relaxing my body. I glanced at Michael and Angie; both had their eyes closed. We all deserved a nap, I figured. I let my eyelids slowly slide together.
I drifted into a vast, warm darkness. A moment later a dream worked its way into that black space. I was suddenly stumbling through a thick forest of trees at twilight. Ghostly wisps of fog drifted
ahead of me, catching the light of the moon. I wandered for a time, shivering and looking ahead. I wanted to go back, to get out of the trees, but something was pulling me forward, one step at a time.
I saw a figure in the distance and so I headed towards it. With each movement I was growing lighter, until my feet were no longer touching the ground. A wind had come up, pulling me a few feet above the earth and making me float.
I came closer, moving faster now. The figure was the boy: Eric.
Go away! he was waving his hand at me. Bad here! Go away!
He motioned harder; now he was yelling but I couldn’t hear him. He looked very frightened. As I passed him I could see tears in his eyes.
Big, ghostly tears.
And I knew he was crying for me. Crying because he must know what lay ahead, where I was going. How bad can it be when a ghost is weeping for you?
I floated past and I couldn’t even turn my head to look behind me.
A few seconds later I saw it.
A cabin. A very old cabin. Maybe one of the first ones built in this area. All logs and a sod roof, but the floor had sunk in on one side so it leaned crazily, the door at an odd angle. I knew there was darkness inside those four walls, that every nightmare I’d ever had was nothing compared to what waited through that doorway. I kept coming, heading straight at the door, gaining speed.
It opened.
And I was swept inside, into pitch blackness. Cold, smelly air surrounded me. The door slammed shut and I fell to a soggy floor. I pushed myself up and something wet squished below my hands. I sucked in my breath, felt my lungs tighten.
I couldn’t breathe. I was suffocating.
Then something started to slam on the door.
And I knew the dark evil thing was outside, wanting to get back in. Into its own home.
It banged against the door. Harder.
And harder.
The wood splintered into pieces. Then there was a dark blur of motion, two eyes glowing, two arms reaching for me.
Then I found air, snapped awake.
I was up out of the chair and standing on the floor. Alive. Heart beating. Breathing. In and out, like they were my first breaths ever. Once. Twice. Three times.
My heart wouldn’t slow down.
Both Michael and Angie were still asleep. I looked around. I was okay, everything was going to be alright.
This was the real world.
The door to Grandpa’s house swung open and banged against the wall.
A wolf was standing there, its gray, soulless eyes staring right into mine.
7
I screamed. Michael shot straight up into the air. So did Angie.
“What! What! What is it?” Michael asked, squinting at me, sleepy and angry at the same time. Then he saw the animal, its mouth open showing huge, glistening teeth. Michael jumped off the couch and backed away. “Nice puppy . . . nice puppy.” It looked from me to Michael to Angie, trying to decide which one it was going to swallow whole first.
I held myself completely still.
“Who in the blazes is doing all the screaming?” asked the wolf.
I shook my head. Was I still dreaming?
Grandpa stepped into the doorway, standing behind the creature. He was carrying a shotgun. “Somebody answer me! Who is yelling to wake the dead? Was it you, Angie?” He reached down and patted the wolf’s head. It arched its neck to give him a better angle.
Grandpa walked inside the house. “Well?”
“Uh . . .” I started. “It was me. I . . . uh . . . was dreaming and the . . . the wolf was just there and so . . .”
“Wolf?” He scratched his head. “Oh, Hugin here. He’s only part wolf. He’s half German shepherd too. Scared you, did he?”
“Y-yes.”
“Well . . . it’s good to be scared. Lets you know you’re alive. Bet your heart’s beating like crazy now.”
It was. I was going to wear it out before I turned sixteen.
Grandpa went to the closet and put his shotgun away. He locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and turned back to us.
“What were you doing?” I asked.
“Just poking around in the bushes. Thought I heard something out there this afternoon. So I borrowed Hugin here from a friend of mine and we went out tracking.”
“Did you find anything?” Michael asked. His voice sounded squeaky. Like he couldn’t catch his breath.
“I think you need a drink of water, son.” Grandpa cocked one eyebrow. “Or has your voice always been so high pitched?”
“No—” Michael squeaked, then paused to cough. “No,” he said in a deeper tone.
Grandpa nodded. “That’s better. Now what was the question . . . oh yeah. I didn’t find anything. Just a few broken branches and what looked like tracks.”
“Tracks for what?” Angie was still watching the dog.
“I couldn’t tell. I tried to follow them, and I thought Hugin had the scent, but, after bumping through the bush for a few hundred yards, he just turned and looked at me, barked a couple times like he was reciting the dog alphabet, then he ran straight home. So I followed.”
Michael sat down. “Did something spook him?”
“No. There’s nothing in that big ol’ world out there that will spook Hugin. I think he came back to the house ’cause he thought it would be safer for me. Guess we’ll never know what was out there. A bear, most likely.”
Hugin padded across the floor and sniffed at my feet. “Does he bite?” I asked.
“He hasn’t bit anyone this week as far as I know. Though he ate a kid whole last week. The kid was trespassing, though.” Grandpa went into the kitchen. Why couldn’t he just answer questions with yes or no? He was worse than us teenagers.
I reached down and patted Hugin’s head. It seemed about ten times as big as my hand, hard and padded with thick fur. I got down and looked eye to eye with him and he licked my face. It didn’t take me long to realize that I liked this dog. My father made his living training bird dogs, so I knew a good dog when I saw one.
Even one that was part wolf.
I could tell Hugin was more than just a normal canine. He was a king: noble, strong, and proud. The type of dog who’d drag you out of an avalanche or a burning building.
I sat back on the couch and Hugin nuzzled against my legs, pinning me there, forcing me to pat him. Angie joined me and Hugin began wagging his thick gray-and-black tail, quite happy to have so much attention.
I could hear Grandpa banging around the kitchen, glass clinking. He came out a few minutes later, a pot of tea in one hand and cups in the other.
“Who’s Grettir?” I asked as he set the tea on the coffee table.
“Grettir? Why?”
“That old lady at the bookstore said I had Grettir’s blood in my veins.”
“Oh . . . Althea.” He shook a finger at me. “I warned you about the folks in Gimli. They’ll talk your ear off if you give them half a chance. Then they’ll move to the other one. And she’s the worst of them all.” He lifted up the tea pot, motioned with it. “Hugin here belongs to her. She named him after one of Odin’s ravens. It means thought—he’s supposed to be faster than the speed of thought. Which isn’t very fast in your case, Michael.”
“Geez! Thanks, Grandpa!” Michael crossed his arms.
“Nice comeback, kiddo.” Grandpa began pouring tea into a cup. “Anyone else?” he asked when he was finished. I can’t say I much like tea, but a warm drink was exactly what I needed.
“Sure,” I said.
“Well, pour it yourself.” He laughed and sat back. “Grettir, Grettir, Grettir.” He took a sip from his tea cup. “She’s picked an old name . . . he might even be an ancestor of ours. Grettir Asmundson he was called or Grettir the Strong.”
“When did he live?” I was pouring my own tea. Hugin
had abandoned Angie and me for Michael’s attention.
“I don’t know exactly. The stories written about him date back to the 1300s, but he lived long before then. He was supposed to be one of the strongest men in Iceland. As far as I can remember, he just fought most of his life, recklessly. Though he was supposed to be a nice guy too—well, nice in a Viking kind of way. He even battled mound dwellers and supernatural monsters because human foes weren’t tough enough for him. But that proved his undoing because one day he locked horns with a monster who was too much for him.”
“You mean he lost?” Angie asked.
“No, not exactly. You see, he decided to try and wrestle a particularly mean thrall.”
“Thrall?” I asked.
“An undead man. This happened a lot in Iceland in the old days. People just didn’t seem to want to stay dead. They hung around and made a lot of noise and broke things. This thrall was a cruel, bitter sheep herder who had died mysteriously the night before Christmas—I think his name was Glam. He came back from the dead and started haunting the farmer he had been working for.
“Anyway, Grettir had heard about him and decided to spend a night at the farmhouse. He hid in a big fur blanket and waited. After about a third of the night had passed, something huge banged on the roof, then kicked in the door. It stomped across the floor and grabbed the fur. Grettir held on and the blanket ripped in two between them. Then they wrestled with each other so hard that they broke the door frame and the roof of the house and rolled outside, under the moon. Grettir was stronger and he overpowered the thrall and knelt on his chest. With his last bit of strength, Glam put a curse on Grettir so that from that point on, anything Grettir did with his strength would only lead to bad luck. Then Grettir lopped off his head . . . kind of messy but it’s the only way to kill these thralls, I guess. Grettir later was outlawed as a murderer and had to spend his last days on Drang Isle, a cold, desolate place. I think there was a price on his head and someone finally murdered him, even cut off his hand after he was dead. Just to get him to release his sword.”
“That doesn’t sound like a very happy ending,” Angie said.