Northern Frights

by Arthur Slade

  "What!" Michael exclaimed.

  "I'm kidding. Couple more hours should do it." Grandpa pointed out the window. "The coast is that way. In fact we're not far from an outcropping that's sometimes called Skrymir's nose."

  "Is Angie's side of the family descended from Skrymir?" Michael asked. "Is that why her nose is so big?"

  "My nose isn't big!" I shouted. And it wasn't. It was petite. Maybe even too small, the Laxness nose I'd inherited from my father. "It's nowhere near the size of the Asmundson nose."

  "Please, you two, stop squabbling!" Grandpa shook his head, feigning shame. "Just use those big ears you all inherited from me for listening. I'll tell you who the sons of Loki are. It has to do with how Iceland was created, not by these so called continental drifts, but by one of the gods." He cleared his throat, a universal sign that he was about to start one of his stories. "You see, one day Loki, the trickster god, dared Thor to battle with the largest of the giants, Skrymir. He was a hundred times taller than Thor, his very shoulders held up the sky. Thor tracked him down, which wasn't hard considering the size of his tracks. He challenged Skrymir to a fight, then began swinging his mighty hammer, Mjollnir, again and again at the giant. The battle raged across all nine worlds, over mountains and lakes and valleys. Villages were crushed by the giant's feet, fissures torn in the ground by Thor's hammer. Through it all Skrymir laughed, saying, 'shoo shoo pesky red-haired fly.'

  "Loki hatched a plan to help Thor defeat the giant. The Trickster god slyly asked Skrymir to prove his strength by catching a hundred whales. Skrymir waded into the ocean. Thor jumped aboard a boat and paddled after him. While Skrymir was under the water searching for whales, only his head was exposed above the waves. Thor leapt atop him, hammering at his skull. Wherever he struck, rocks and flame spewed forth. Then ice and snow. Rocks and flame, ice and snow. Finally Thor gave the giant such a powerful blow in the centre of his skull that Skrymir's entire body turned to stone.

  "Skrymir's final words before his lips froze in place forever were a curse on Loki, telling him that his children would be forced to live on this new island as outcasts. Many ages later Loki betrayed the gods and brought about the death of Baldur, the most loved and beautiful of all the gods. The gods hunted Loki and his shape-shifting children down and turned Vali, Loki's favorite son, into a wolf. He killed his brother Narvi, whose entrails were used to bind Loki in a cave. Vali then fled, bounding away across the water, to the land where the sun shines at midnight. To Iceland."

  Wow. Someone getting his guts torn out. Grandpa was reaching a new height in storytelling gore. I hated to think what he'd come up with next.

  Grandpa opened his mouth to say something, then closed it and rubbed his chin. "And that was that," he finished, quietly. "At least that's all I can remember."

  Suddenly the lights went out. I turned, looked through the window. We were in a tunnel.

  "We're just going under the fjord," Grandpa explained. "No need to get all antsy."

  We eventually came out the other side, but the sky appeared much darker. Almost black.

  "So is that how the myth ends?" Sarah asked. "With Vali coming to Iceland."

  "Oh, no," Grandpa said slowly, " ... well ... myths and folk tales never really end. You should know that by now. They become part of other stories. The Irish monks were the first to land on Iceland. A few of their journals survived and they mention that they sometimes saw feral people in the shadows of the mountains. They called them lupinus and believed they were the spawn of the devil and that they could shift their shape into wolves or bears or whatever creature they wanted, as long as it was about the same size as they were — though most seemed to like being wolves for reasons I can't imagine. The creatures would even take the form of a familiar monk, just to lure other monks to their lair. The monks wore bells on their belts, which they rang to keep the evil ones away.

  "The Vikings who came and chased off the monks, spoke of the úlfr-madr, the wolf men. Icelanders in the 1500's wrote about these shape shifters building their own farms and taking human shapes to blend in."

  "Where did all these stories come from?" I asked. "What are they based on?"

  "Human imagination. But your great grandfather believed they were the sons of Loki. He saw one once. In fact that's how he got his name, Thorgeir Tree-Foot. You see it all started when he was taking a trip from Bjarg — "

  "Repeat! Repeat! You told us this story on the plane," Michael said, then seeing the confused look on Grandpa's face, he softened his tone, "This morning, remember?"

  Grandpa glanced back and forth between us. "I did, didn't I? Right. It seems so long ago." He drew in a breath. "Sorry, about that. I usually only tell my stories once a day." He crossed his arms and sat back. "I'll try to think up some new ones," he promised. Then, as if wanting to retreat from us, he closed his eyes.

  Sarah gave me a worried look as if to say: What's up with, Grandpa? I shrugged my shoulders.

  We travelled for some time in silence, the bus somehow managing to stay on the thin, snow — covered highway. Grandpa looked like he was asleep now. I studied his face, the wrinkles and the white hair. He did appear older than last year. A lot older.

  I shook my head. I didn't want to think about him aging. He was in his late seventies, wasn't he? That's still young for an Icelander. But when he'd had that little dizzy spell in the airport, I'd thought, briefly, that something was seriously wrong.

  I glanced at my watch. It was one-thirty in the afternoon, Icelandic time and the sky was already dark. It had been a lifetime since I'd rolled out of a New York hotel bed early in the morning to catch the flight. I needed a serious rest. I closed my eyes and slept fitfully. We stopped twice in small towns, but since Grandpa didn't move I just closed my eyes again.

  The sound of the engine slowing down woke me. We had turned into a gas station. Before I was even fully awake, we were standing outside, our luggage in our hands watching the bus pull away.

  "That's strange," Grandpa said, after surveying the area, "Thordy's supposed to be here to meet us." From where we stood, the whole town seemed empty. "I sent him a letter telling him exactly when we would arrive. Even called him a couple of days ago. We'll head downtown. It isn't far. Travels aren't over until you're safely indoors."

  Which apparently meant let's start marching.

  6.

  We tramped through Hvammstangi, a small town that probably didn't have much more than seven or eight hundred residents. It seemed a little too perfect, like there were sweepers who had cleaned up the streets before our arrival, dusted the town with snow, then hid around a corner. The pavement was made of concrete flagstones, each a foot and a half wide. The houses on either side of us were one-, two-, or three-stories tall, yet each was about the same width on the main floor. Many homes were covered with a thin metal siding that Grandpa explained was used all over Iceland.

  "It looks like protection from meteorites," I said.

  "Yeah," Michael agreed. He took a black headband out of his jacket pocket, and slipped it over his ears. "Is it closer to space up here? We're not gonna suddenly be sucked into the atmosphere, are we?"

  Grandpa made a harrumph! sound and tramped even faster through the snow. We marched down what seemed to be Hvammstangi's main street. A huge Christmas tree with glittering lights stood on one side of the block. Across from it was the local tavern, a place called the Hótel Selid. Grandpa went through the front doors leaving us shivering outside.

  "So, this is Northern Iceland," Michael said between clattering teeth. "It's even colder than I thought it would be."

  "This is nothing," I said, shivering. "You two have been in Missouri far too long. You need a taste of a good North Dakota blizzard to remind you what cold really feels like."

  "Everything seems so old here," Sarah whispered, a tone of awe in her voice. "Not just the buildings, though some of those are quite ancient, but the land. Just so much older than anything around Chillicothe."

  The town was beginning
to look familiar to me like I had seen it in a photograph. But the memory was so strong it felt as though I had maybe even stood right here, exactly where I was standing.

  "Are you alright, Angie?" Sarah asked.

  "Yeah, you're brain freeze or something?" Michael added.

  I shook my head, ignoring him. I couldn't remember where I'd seen this place before. "I'm just getting my bearings, that's all."

  Grandpa came out of the tavern a moment later accompanied by a middle-aged man who was wearing a sweater and walking like he didn't feel the chill. He grumbled a few words in Icelandic when he saw us. Grandpa answered, then laughed. The man remained sour.

  "I can't get a hold of Thordy, so we're gonna catch a ride with my new friend, Brynjólfur," Grandpa explained. "He just wanted to make sure you didn't bite. I assured him you've all had your shots."

  "Funny, Gramps," Michael said, "you're a real riot."

  Brynjólfur led us to his vehicle, which was some sort of large, four-doored jeep with oversized, knobby tires. Judging by the dents and chipped paint, it had been through a couple of near death experiences. We climbed in and started bumping down the road before I could even find my seatbelt. I quickly dug around in the seat, coming up with a few pieces of garbage and finally uncovered both ends of the belt. I didn't feel safe until I'd clicked them together and tightened it around me. The heater barely puffed out enough hot air to defrost a patch of the window directly in front of Brynjólfur. He turned out to be a worse driver than the jet pilot. Maybe they were cousins.

  Minutes later we were on an icy highway, heading inland. After a few miles of jouncing around we turned and bumped down a country road into a valley. There were the occasional signs of civilization, lights of farms here and there, all made eerie through the frost-covered windows. The lights grew fewer and farther between until we were in a land of darkness lit only by our headlights. The road roughened and a dim bobbing glow came into view, grew brighter. The jeep rattled to a stop in front of a house. It was one story high, plain-looking and painted white with a beat up four door, four-wheel-drive, truck parked out front. No lights were on inside. Across the yard stood a smaller, older looking home that appeared to be built right into the hillside. Behind them both was the shadow of another building.

  Brynjólfur didn't get out of his jeep. He waited until we had all our bags piled beside us, then mumbled a parting word to Grandpa, and jammed down on the gas. The jeep's tires spun on the ice, spitting a few pieces of gravel our way. Seconds later his taillights disappeared into the night.

  "Wow!" Michael said. He stared at the sky above him.

  There was no moon. The air was alive with shifting, glowing lights, brighter than the stars and so close they appeared to be skimming the top of the house. It awakened the oddest, familiar feeling in me, I felt like I'd been here before too. Deja vu all over again. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck began to stand up. A cold chill crawled down my spine, a chill that didn't feel like it would go away anytime soon.

  "The Northern Lights," Sarah whispered, "I've never seen them so bright. And so close."

  "They're a sight for sore eyes." Grandpa craned his neck, trying to see as much of the sky as possible. "I grew up under these lights. We're definitely home." He cleared his throat. "Well, no sense getting hypnotized by the Aurora Borealis, not when we could be hypnotized by a blazing fire instead. Now, remember, Thordy is my brother's son. So he's your ... well ... uncle, I guess. I hope. Or is he a cousin? Well, just call him Uncle Thordy, either way. He'll like it." Grandpa picked up his suitcase. "I don't know about you, but I'm ready for some old time hospitality."

  He strode ahead and rapped loudly on the thick door. There was a long silence. Grandpa let out a frosty, exasperated breath and pulled back his arm to give the door another good pounding, but the muffled sound of footsteps coming down a hall stopped him. They grew louder, the floor creaking like there was a huge weight moving across it. Uncle Thordy sounded like he was a giant.

  The door squeaked open half an inch and a shadow stared down at us. All I could see was a glowering eye.

  A gruff male voice barked something in Icelandic.

  "Four weary travelers, looking for some room at the inn," Grandpa answered in English. "And some coffee!"

  "Who are you?" the man asked. "Tourists? You trying to find the guest farm? Are you lost?"

  "No," Grandpa laughed, "not lost. I'd recognize the croft I grew up on. It's me — Thursten Asmundson, home for the holidays."

  The eye swivelled back and forth, back again. "Thursten?" the man snapped. "But he's in Canada. Not due until tomorrow."

  A porch light flicked on, the high watt bulb momentarily blinding. Grandpa bowed, a wide smile on his face.

  "You're Thursten?" the man asked gruffly. "I thought you'd look different."

  "I look the same as I did when I saw you ten years ago, Thordy, might have gained a wrinkle here or there."

  "It — it is you. Uncle Thursten!"

  The door suddenly slammed shut. I expected a warm greeting, instead we stood staring, waiting for it to open again. "I'll be right there!" Uncle Thordy exclaimed loudly then opened and closed another door inside the house. Finally, he yanked the front door open again and came out.

  He was a tall barrel-chested Icelander, his thick beard and hair speckled with grey. I'd guess he was somewhere in his late forties. His face had the familiar big-boned Asmundson look, with a long jaw and a rugged nose. He had three serious-looking scars that stretched from his right eyebrow into his hairline. He was wearing a pair of slippers, but didn't seem to mind tramping through the snow. He gave Grandpa a rib-crushing, bear hug. "You've arrived early! What a surprise!"

  "Surprise?" Grandpa wheezed. He coughed and Uncle Thordy stepped back. "But we're here when we said we'd be, Thordy."

  "You are?" Uncle Thordy scratched his head. "What day is it?"

  "Thursday, all day," Grandpa said.

  "Oh no! Oh, I'm so sorry." Uncle Thordy put one hand to his forehead like he was stricken with a sudden migraine. "I'm a day behind, I haven't been getting much sleep. I've been so confused. I was supposed to pick you up today. I'm sorry."

  "It's alright. Everything worked out. It just added to the adventure of it all. The kids had fun in Thorstein's jeep."

  "You survived a ride with Thorstein?" Uncle Thordy regarded the three of us. "You are tough. Look how big you three are. I've only seen pictures of you when you were tots, though I've heard quite a bit about you. The twins and Angie; our North American roots. You're all grown up!"

  "Uh ... hi," Sarah said. We all introduced ourselves and shook his hand. It was warm and strong. He was also wearing a layer or two of aftershave lotion. Very strong stuff.

  Uncle Thordy grabbed two of the nearest bags and lugged them towards the house. "Let's talk inside." We followed him.

  I was the last one through the door, I bumped it closed with my hip, set down my backpack and was hit by a blast of heat. At least Uncle Thordy believed in using his furnace. Maybe I'd finally get the chill out of my bones. The second thing that hit me was a slightly rotten scent in the air. A smell like the garbage had been left out too long.

  7.

  "Just toss your coats in the closet and throw your boots on the mat," Uncle Thordy said, opening up the closet door. "Then get your bodies into the living room."

  I found a hanger and gingerly hung up my jacket. It had been expensive and I didn't want it to get creased. As I went to close the door I noticed a big axe hanging on the closet wall, large enough to take out a good-sized tree with a few whacks. Why did Uncle Thordy need such a gigantic axe? Iceland wasn't exactly the most wooded area in the world. I closed the doors.

  Uncle Thordy led us down the hall and past the kitchen. The smell I'd detected at the front door lingered more heavily in the air here, but the kitchen was tidy. Maybe that's why Uncle Thordy hadn't opened the door right away, he was too busy hiding the garbage. It crossed my mind that he might not be into bathing too
much. Which I knew wasn't the norm here — Icelanders spent every spare moment jumping into hot springs.

  Uncle Thordy guided us into the cozy warmth of his living room. Actually, it was more like a library than a living room. Two large shelves sat on either wall, stuffed with books of all sizes. I was happy to see Uncle Thordy was a reader, just like the rest of the family. I'd have to sneak a peak at his collection, maybe there were some sagas I'd never seen before. Of course, it wouldn't do me much good if they were all in Icelandic.

  Next to one of the shelves was a scrawny Christmas tree, dotted with tiny versions of the Icelandic flag, a few scattered ornaments, two lines of lights and a lopsided star that pointed at a corner of the ceiling. It looked frumpy, but it was good to see something similar to what we'd have at home. I guessed Uncle Thordy had given us his best shot at decorating.

  I dropped my backpack and collapsed on a forest green couch, sitting as near to the brick fireplace as possible. A fire danced across two logs. I held out my hands, let the heat warm my fingertips.

  "I'll show you where you'll be sleeping later," Uncle Thordy said, "but for now, tell me about your trip."

  "It was bumpy," Michael said.

  "And rough," I added. "Did we mention it was bumpy?"

  "A character-building experience," Grandpa said, "unfortunately these three weren't starting with much character." He winked at Uncle Thordy.

  "We inherited all we got from you," Michael quipped.

  "Well ... I — I don't have a comeback. You got me that time, Michael. Guess I'm training you a little too well."

  Uncle Thordy grinned at the bantering, then furrowed his brows. "I am sorry I wasn't at the petrol station to meet you. I lost track of time. It always happens in the midwinter, there are so many hours of darkness you start to wonder when to sleep and when you should be awake. Soon your waking life becomes a long, slow dream. I am so sorry."