by Arthur Slade
"Now I know he's related to us. With a head that thick, he has to be."
"Oh, ha, ha." Dad set down his journal. "You know this island has interested me for years. All sorts of rumors about it have rippled through the Icelandic communities."
"What kind of rumors?"
"Well, they say ghost ships are sometimes spotted in the mist. Viking longboats with dark sails and figureheads in the form of a long necked monster. But no one's ever been able to board one. And you heard Harbard talk about the snake Jormungand. He actually believes in all the old myths that we only call stories. He was born and raised on this island—that's what the folks said back at Port Hardy. That means he might be a descendent of the original settlers, so I hope I get a chance to ask him about their beliefs."
"We came all this way to talk to that psycho?"
Dad shook his head. "I didn't have a clue that Harbard existed until a few hours ago. But my guess is he knows more about Drang than anyone else. Even his name suggests that: Harbard means Graybeard in the old tongue. It was one of the names Odin used when he disguised himself." Dad rubbed the top of his head, checking to see if his bald spot had grown in. For the thousandth time today. "The real reason I came is because there are supposedly ruins from the original village somewhere on the north end, along with a series of caves that might have served as shelter for the pioneers. I want to see these places. And talk to any locals I can find. Some swear that the fetches of a great Norse sorcerer still flit around the island."
Dad got a kick out of saying strange words and leaving me to guess what they meant. "Fetches?" I asked impatiently.
"Fylgja they were called in Old Icelandic. Dark spirits created by a mage well-versed in the unearthly arts. He'd take his soul and make mirror images of it, then send them out to do his bidding. These fetches were used to spy on the enemy, to cause a disturbance or to bring bad luck. They were invisible, unless you had second sight. Sometimes they could even be sent into people's dreams to deliver a message. They apparently helped drive the Icelandic settlers away from Drang."
"I see. This is going to be a fun vacation."
"I suppose now would be a bad time to tell you the snake population on Drang is extremely high; that for some reason they breed quite rapidly out here, even though it's such a cold climate. There have been a number of studies done, but the scientists can't explain why there are so many snakes."
"Oh, great." I slammed my head into my pillow, in fake anger.
"I thought you weren't frightened of snakes."
"I'm not. But there's a difference between not being frightened of snakes and wanting to go to an island full of them."
"Would it help if I told you only three people in Canada have died from snake bites since 1956?"
"My luck, I'd be the fourth."
"Actually, the fourth one might have been a well known scientist called Doc Siroiska. He came here last year and disappeared on the north part of the island. He was an expert on snakes. Some figure one finally got him."
I shivered. "That's great, Dad! Is this just some clever way to get rid of me?"
"Well, I always did like your sister better," he said lightly. I knew he intended this as a joke, but it still made me do a slow burn. I couldn't help but think it was partly true. Dad fluffed up his pillow, then set it behind his head and laughed. "You look a little scared, Michael. Cheer up! Tomorrow's going to be a grand day." He took off his glasses and placed them carefully in their case. "Goodnight."
I just nodded. Dad clicked off the light. About three seconds later he began to snore lightly. Was this a side effect of growing old?
I lay there, staring up into the darkness. I didn't quite feel ready to sleep.
A schlick sound came from outside the tent. Followed by a harsh almost growling noise.
Bears? I strained my brain, trying to recall if Dad had at any time mentioned creatures larger than snakes. I couldn't come up with a thing. It was probably just a stray dog.
The rain stopped. Dad's snoring didn't.
A can rattled.
I sat up. Dad was dead to the world. I thought briefly of waking him, then decided against it. I could check this out on my own. Grandpa had always said, 'Fearlessness is better than a faint heart for any man who pokes his nose out of doors.'
I found my jeans, threw on shoes and a shirt, grabbed the flashlight, and poked my nose out of doors.
A short distance away a branch snapped.
3.
It took awhile for my eyes to adjust. I crouched next to the tent, head cocked to one side, listening. A pale moon sent a few slivers of silver light through the pine trees, illuminating the abundance of plants and tall grass at the edge of the campground. Tendrils of mist floated a couple inches above the ground. The air was muggy and smelled of damp, rotting vegetation.
A dull repetitive thudding noise started, then stopped. I swallowed and took a few steps toward the echoes, clutching the flashlight tightly. I didn't turn it on for fear of attracting attention to myself. The small road at the edge of our campsite was clear and straight. I could follow it and still be within sight of our tent.
I crept up to the road. Now metal was ringing against metal. I carried on, step by step, my shoes sinking in mud. Water soaked through the sides and into my socks. Before I knew it, I had turned a corner and couldn't see our campsite anymore. The sounds grew louder.
Rain still dripped down from the trees. I padded ahead, careful to avoid any large puddles, moving as silently as I could.
A dark shape flitted across the track about five feet from me, eyes glowing with pale yellow light. I jumped back. Leaves rattled as the creature disappeared into the brush.
Cat, I thought. It had to be a big black cat. It was the same shape. And just as fast.
I forced myself to go forward. This was stupid. If my sister were here, she'd have told me exactly the same thing. Or said something wise like, "Fearlessness is better than a faint heart, unless it's dark and you're alone."
I was too curious to go back now. Not before I caught a glimpse of who—or what—was making the noise. I rounded another bend.
A strange gray form shifted in the wind, going up and down. At first it looked like the back of a giant, ghostly bear, shaking itself. It grew larger, filled with air, then deflated and fell. I couldn't make sense of what I was seeing.
Someone cursed.
I took another hesitant step and things began to come together. It was a tent. A camper was trying to set it up in the middle of the night. So we weren't the only residents of the park.
I squinted. A black figure was bent over, hammering another spike into the ground and grunting, but it was a tricky job without any light.
I cleared my throat.
The banging continued.
I cleared it again. Louder.
The person stood straight up, held the tool like a weapon. "Who's there?" a gruff, muffled voice asked. "This is an axe. I'm not afraid to use it! Who's there?"
"Uh ... I am."
The camper wore a waterproof sports jacket and stood a few inches shorter than me. The hood was up, hiding any features. The hatchet glinted in the moonlight. Small and sharp. "Do you have a name?"
"Yeah, it's Michael. Do you need help?"
"No. Bug off!"
I took a step back. "Gee. Okay. Just askin'. But I do have a flashlight, you know."
"A flashlight? Why aren't you using it?" the man growled.
"I ... uh ..."
"Look. Turn it on. Shine it at yourself, so I can see who I'm talking to."
So I did. The light blinded me, lit my face from below so I'm sure I looked ghoulish. My nostrils were probably glowing orange. "Oh," the raspy voice said, "you're just a kid."
This ticked me off. "Your turn." I pointed the light at the dark shape, but I couldn't see much. Just a nose and glaring eyes. Then he lowered the hatchet and pulled back his hood, revealing red hair cut short around the ears and two stern, angry eyes.
And soft lips.
My jaw dropped. "You're ... a girl!"
"You're quite the detective," she snarled.
"I couldn't tell," I stammered, "it being dark and you talking so raspy." She looked about my age. I stared at her, my eyes wide. She was pretty, with a thin nose and ivory-colored skin dotted with freckles. "Uh ... or is that your normal voice?"
"Will you point that light away?" she said, her voice sounding much lighter. She gestured toward the ground. "Better yet, shine it on the tent. That'd be helpful. At least I could pound in these pegs while you stand around in shock."
I lowered the flashlight.
"Thanks," she said. She began wielding the ax quickly, hitting the pegs squarely with the blunt end. She'd done this before. "Now point it over there!" she commanded. I moved the beam. She swung again. "And there!" I adjusted the angle. A second later another peg was in the ground. She barked a few commands and tightened a rope.
I was still amazed that she was even here. Who was she? What was she doing alone out here in the middle of nowhere?
"Hold this." She gave me a pole. She looped a yellow rope through a hook on the top of the tent then pulled up on the other side. With a click, her new home was suddenly high in the air and standing firm.
She came around to the front. "Your work is done. You can go now."
"But ... but what's your name? How'd you get to the island?"
She laughed. "Don't worry. We seem to be the only people dumb enough to camp here, so I'm sure we'll run into each other again. I'll tell you then. Goodnight."
She slipped into her tent.
I stood there, my mind buzzing. Then, feeling suddenly awkward, like I'd just been dismissed by a teacher, I walked back to our tent.
4.
I didn't sleep well. At first I couldn't stop thinking about the girl. Then finally I fell into a fitful slumber. I had a dream that I was at the far end of the island, surrounded by darkness. A thin specter, formed of malice and swirling dark blue light, rose out of the ground and started walking south, singing softly to himself. I followed, drawn toward him like a magnet. I had the feeling he was searching for something. He made his way over a tree that had fallen across a long, deep crevasse, then he drifted for a distance, and finally entered the campground and stole into our tent.
Once there he just glared down at me and Dad, radiating anger and bad luck. I stared up at him, finding it impossible to move. Then the vision suddenly ended and started over. I kept waking up and looking for the visitor, but the shape skulked into the shadows. I'd convince myself I was dreaming, fall asleep again, and end up right back in the same nightmare. Finally, after about half the night had passed, I drifted into sleep. I was exhausted.
Morning brought the sound of Dad humming to himself. I moved my arm and discovered my entire body ached.
"You gonna sleep all day, Michael?" Dad asked. "The early bird gets the worm, you know."
I opened my eyes and shook my head slowly, too tired to groan at Dad's cliché. He was clad in his blue jogging suit, sitting down, tying his shoes.
The sunlight was doing its best to turn the tent into a solarium. Birds chirped in the distance. Drang seemed like a completely different place than it had been eight hours ago.
I attempted to get out of bed, but all the muscles in my back tightened into knots. I forced myself to sit up. It seemed a year had passed since the last time I opened my eyes. Dim, dark shapes flitted in my mind, then vanished.
Dad was bent over, trying to open the tent door. "Some campers we are," he commented, running the zipper to the top, "we didn't even zip the flaps all the way down." He stepped outside.
Then I remembered about the girl. I searched around for my cut-offs. Maybe she was awake already. Or, did I just imagine her?
Dad huffed and puffed, doing his warm up exercises to get ready for his daily run. His outline was cast across the tent, a stretched-out cartoon version of him pumping his knees. Then he suddenly stopped. "Oh, my God," he whispered. This was pretty alarming because he never uses the Lord's name in vain. Well, except if the car gets a flat tire.
I did up my shorts and headed outside.
Dad was standing beside the tent, his arms crossed. His face had that slightly red tinge that meant he was getting mad. "I can't believe someone would do this," he said.
There, scrawled across our brand new tent was some kind of graffiti. The words were bright red and partly blurred by the rain. They said: YU AR MARKED DED.
"It's some kind of tar," Dad said. "It's gonna be near to impossible to get it off."
I stared at the letters. It looked more like thick blood to me, but I didn't mention that to Dad.
There was a footprint in the mud. It was astounding; so large that whoever made it must have been at least seven feet tall. Along side it were something like dog's tracks. A gigantic dog.
I felt a chill. It looked like giants had been hanging around our campground.
A gray, partially buried object caught my eye. Three or four feathers lay next to an odd, mud-covered lump. I leaned a little closer.
One of the feathers was stained red. And the lump wasn't a lump at all, but the body of a bird.
A headless pigeon.
Its head rested a few feet away. One dull black eye stared at me. "Dad, take a look," I said.
He came over. "What is—ohhh. What kind of vandals would kill a bird?"
"Kids," a voice said from behind us.
5.
We turned. There, blocking out part of the sunlight, stood a heavy-set man. He had a bulging stomach, thick arms and wore a uniform with a gray shirt and brown pants. A Park Ranger patch was stitched to his right shoulder. "I'm Dermot Morrison," he said, looking at us over the top of his sunglasses. His voice was deep and he spoke like he was used to having people pay attention to him. "And like I said it was kids."
"Kids did this?" Dad crossed his arms again.
I wanted to blurt out something about the size of the footprint, but my tongue was tied in a knot.
Ranger Morrison nodded. "Yeah, kids. They hit a few of the tents last night. Out for a fun time. They're bored, spoiled, rich punks who spend the summer here with their parents on the east side of the island. They sneak over to the campground to raise havoc." He smiled and turned away, like he'd just explained everything we needed to know.
"Well, have you caught them yet?" Dad asked.
"No," Ranger Morrison said over his shoulder. "I've got a few things to do before that." He stopped and faced us. "You can't just pick 'em up for nothing. You have to have your case together." He scratched the side of his nose. "But I'll get 'em. Don't worry."
"What's this graffiti supposed to mean?" Dad asked. The last part of his sentence sounded like s'pose ta mean.
"You a Yank?" the Ranger asked.
"I'm not sure," Dad answered. Morrison crinkled up his face with a look of utter confusion. "What I mean to say is we're from Missouri. If you're a Yank you're from the Northern U.S. And Southerners come from the south. Missouri's right on the border between South and North, so I don't know which one I am. Probably a Yank, though."
"I see." The Ranger gave us the once over, as if he was sizing us for jail cells. Or an asylum. "Anyway, the graffiti, as you call it, don't mean nuthin'. They just want to scare people. I wouldn't pay it any attention."
"Should we be worried about them coming back?" Dad asked.
"No. I have a good idea who did this. I'll drop by their cabin today, invite myself in for coffee. That'll scare the crap out of those juvees. Don't you worry, I've got it under control." He eyed us up again, seemed to dare us to contradict him.
"You will tell us when you get them." The way Dad said this, it didn't sound like a question.
Ranger Morrison sniffed. "You'll find out, one way or another." He looked down, seemed to smile. "You should probably put that bird in the garbage. It's gonna be a steamer of a day today and it doesn't take too long for them to start to stinking." He paused, pushed up his sunglasses, and n
odded to us. "Enjoy your stay on Drang."
He strode away, heading down the road.
Dad watched him go. "Michael, remember when I told you how friendly Canadians are?"
"Yes." He'd said this two or three times. Dad was born and raised in Canada, so he was pretty proud of the people up here.
"Well, Ranger Morrison is one Canuck who makes me go yuck." He winked. "I guess we shouldn't get too upset. It's all just a practical joke." Dad glanced at the pigeon, then back at me. "So should I flip a coin?"
"Flip a coin? Why?"
Dad's lips twisted into a wicked grin. "To see which one of us has to clean up the bird."
"You're older. You should do it."
"No, no, no, Michael—we're on holidays together and the key word is together. That means we split everything fifty-fifty. Besides, I brought you out here so you could learn something about responsibility."
Responsibility? Is that what this whole trip was about? Was Dad hoping he'd have a brand new kid who behaves properly by the time the vacation was over? I crossed my arms.
Dad had no idea he'd just offended me. He magically made a coin appear in his hand and was twirling it with his fingers. It was one of those gold-coloured Canadian dollars. "Heads or ... " He looked at the other side. " ... loon."
"Do I at least get to keep the loonie if I lose?" I asked.
Dad nodded and flipped the coin skywards.
"Heads," I mumbled as it arced through the air. Dad caught the coin, slapped it on his arm, then turned to display it. A floating loon stared at me. I'd lost. Just another sign of my bad luck. He tossed me the dollar and I stuffed it in my pocket.