by Arthur Slade
"There," Mordur said, pointing his flashlight towards the barn.
I could just make out Gunnvor past Uncle Thordy's shoulder. She was wrapped in a large fur coat and crouched in the beam of the flashlight. She wore a cloth cap, but her long grey hair was loose and falling past her shoulders. She glared at us, then pushed open a gate and trudged towards the barn, moving pretty fast for someone who looked older than Iceland itself. Had she walked all the way here from her home?
Sarah must have come to the same conclusion. "I think that's one tough ol' woman," she whispered.
"Gunnvor!" Uncle Thordy yelled. "Wait!"
She grunted something over her shoulder.
"She's going into the barn," Uncle Thordy said, anger in his voice. "She's going to frighten all the sheep. The crazy old hag. Why won't she stay where she belongs?"
He stormed off to the barn, flicked on the lights. We followed him through the front door. The sheep were gathered in one corner, huddled against each other, looking at us, their legs shaking.
Michael closed the door and we walked to the far end of the barn, passing through a gate. There was a large pile of straw in the middle of a stall. Gunnvor was on her knees, throwing handfuls of it behind her. A soft whimpering sound came out of the pile.
We stood back as first a leg appeared, then another, then a chest and arms and finally the face of a boy, maybe ten years old. His features were wild with terror, both his eyes were bruised and swelling. He was foaming at the mouth and holding up his hands to block the light. Strips of clothing covered him and there were scratches on his chest, arms and cheeks. Dried blood stained his body.
"He's been mauled," I said. "He looks awful."
"Scratches," Gunnvor barked over her shoulder in a thick accented English. She turned back, whispered softly in an almost sing song voice completely unlike her previous gruntings. "Onni. Onni. Onni."
How could such an old woman be his mother?
"What is wrong?" Mordur asked. "What happened?"
Gunnvor turned her head. "He wanders. He is feeble-minded." She stared daggers at Mordur. "I know you. Einar's brat. Snoopy as your father. Look where it got him."
Mordur didn't flinch. "How did your son get those scratches?"
"Not your business, whelp," she hissed. She cast her eyes to Michael, Sarah and I. "And stop staring at me. You smell of the new world. Thorgeir Tree-Foot’s little brood comes back to stink up the farm." She turned to her son.
A light of recognition came into Onni's eyes. He suddenly reached out and with a sharp cry and sigh grasped his arms around Gunnvor's neck. She lifted him from the straw. I saw a mean looking gash below his right eye.
A cloth bag fell from his hands. It was torn open, something that looked like liver slipped out onto the floor. Just like the bags I'd seen earlier in the day.
Gunnvor kicked at the contents. "Who baited him?" Her eyes were blazing with rage now. I edged back, afraid of what I saw in her. "Which one of you?"
No one spoke. I looked at the ground to avoid her glare. "One of you did," she said. "I would crush your bones if I knew which one." I didn't doubt her. There was steel in her words. Her skin was wrinkled and her grey hair wild about her shoulders, but her thick body looked strong. "If this is one of your tricks, Thordy, you will pay." She pointed a pudgy finger at him, still clutching Onni in her arms. Uncle Thordy straightened his back and narrowed his eyes like he was getting ready for a fight. "You try to cover up your scent with perfumes, but you can not hide from me." She spat at him, then strode past us, through the gate and out of the barn.
"We can help you," Uncle Thordy said, running after her. We followed.
"No help, not from you," Gunnvor grunted. "Just home. Away from your kind." She carried Onni to the sleigh and wrapped him in blankets. He had calmed down. His eyes stared listlessly at the sky.
"You can't drag him all the way home," Uncle Thordy said, taking a step toward her then stopping himself, as if he feared she would lash out at him. "Not through all this snow. Please, come inside, we can look after his wounds."
"This isn't enough snow to bother a real valley dweller." She pulled on a rope, tying her son to the sleigh.
"But ... " Uncle Thordy began.
"No," Gunnvor said, sharply. She began dragging the sleigh, each stride long and solid. She headed into the east, the Northern Lights swirling above her.
20.
A slight breeze was stirring, clouds had filled in the edges of the sky. Large flakes of snow started falling, getting thicker by the moment. The worst part of the storm may have passed, but Old Man Winter wasn't done dumping snow on us.
We went back inside the house. Grandpa was still in his seat, coughing so hard his face had turned red. Sarah quickly brought him water and he thanked her before tipping back the glass. I sat in the same chair with Mordur, happily, back on the armrest again.
Uncle Thordy looked down at Grandpa and shook his head. "You should be in bed, Uncle Thursten. You're in no condition to meet any of the relatives. They said they'd come as soon as the roads were cleared. Of course, I'd rather take you to the doctor."
"No doctors. Just bring me coffee," Grandpa whispered hoarsely, "thick and black as a witch's brew. Only two places to get the best coffee in the world: Gimli and right here at Thordy's. Coffee the way it was meant to be. It'd bring a statue to life."
"How can I argue with someone so wise?" Uncle Thordy went to the kitchen and returned a moment later with the coffee. Grandpa could barely hold it, but he managed to sip without spilling a drop. He glared over the steaming cup. "Stop gawking at me ... you'd think you'd never seen a man drink coffee before."
We sat back. Maybe he was starting to feel a bit better.
"So what happened?" Grandpa asked.
Uncle Thordy told him and the rest of us added our two cents.
Grandpa nodded. "So she's still as testy as ever."
"She claimed someone baited Onni," I said. "With a bag of ... of animal innards. And I saw a similar bag this morning outside my window. And at the old croft house."
"It was a butcher bag," Mordur explained. "I do not know where he found it."
"We better get a head count on our sheep tomorrow, Mordur," Uncle Thordy said. "I have an idea where some of those organs may have come from."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"They looked fresh," Thordy explained. "They might have been gathered tonight."
I didn't even want to think about what that meant. Sarah was kind enough to change the topic. "Did you see much of Gunnvor when you were a kid?" she asked Grandpa.
"A few times. And she looked exactly the same as she does now, the poor woman. It's like she doesn't age — or she was born old." He lowered the cup of coffee, resting it on his knee. "She once came down and gave my father what-for because his goats were bleating too loud."
"Isn't she a little too old for children?" I asked.
"I'm not sure who's son he is," Uncle Thordy said. "Or even where he came from. Maybe she adopted him. Mr. Gunnvor died years ago — before I was born. At least no one's seen him since around that time."
"So how old is she, then?" I asked.
Grandpa exchanged looks with Uncle Thordy, who shrugged. "I'd guess she's in her nineties," Grandpa finally answered, but he sounded uncertain.
"And she gets around like that?" Michael said in disbelief. "She cut through two feet of snow like it was nothing."
"I don't know how she does it," Grandpa said. "I should have asked her though. I need a little of her energy now."
I could have used some too, if only to keep track of my thoughts. One suddenly occurred to me: What did my hair look like? I bit my tongue to keep from laughing at myself.
Uncle Thordy cleared his throat as if he were about to speak. We all looked at him, but he just stared back, then shook his head. His face appeared even more tired and depressed, like someone had let all the air out of him. He stood, went into the kitchen and returned with the same cheeses we had s
een at breakfast, and some dried, smoked cod.
I devoured everything I could get my hands on. Michael and Sarah dug in too. Even Mordur took a handful.
"I think I'm starting to like this food," I whispered to Sarah.
"I does grow on you. Maybe we're getting tougher."
"So what was wrong with that boy?" Michael asked.
"Your guess is as good as mine," Grandpa said. "I'd bet he suffers from some sort of mental handicap."
"He was covered with blood though." I helped myself to a chunk of cheese. "What was that from?"
"Maybe he was attacked by the same thing that attacked you," Grandpa suggested.
"No. He would be ... " Mordur crossed his arms, shivered. "A kid would be torn in two."
"There has to be a connection," Grandpa said. "Odd that he would show up here on the same night. And naked. How did he make it through all that snow?"
Uncle Thordy cleared his throat again. His face had become stony. "Actually, it would be easy. He ... he was in a different form when he walked through the blizzard. His wolf form." Uncle Thordy's voice was solemn, each word said without emotion.
"He what?" Grandpa Thursten asked.
"He's an úlfr-madr. A shape shifter who can become a wolf. Just like the one who killed Kristjanna. That's why he was naked. That's why he's covered with blood. He's the one who attacked you kids at the croft house."
I leaned back into my chair. I didn't like the certainty in Uncle Thordy's voice. I glanced at Grandpa, expecting him to refute this wild claim but he was wearing his best poker face. He watched Uncle Thordy with curious eyes.
"You think I'm wrong, don't you?" Uncle Thordy accused, jabbing a figure towards Grandpa. "You think it's all in my head. But you weren't there in that cave. You didn't hold your dead wife in your arms. One of Loki's offspring poked a hole behind her ear and killed her, like it was a game. Maybe it was even little Onni." Uncle Thordy had clenched his hand into a fist and was squeezing so tight it shook. "And now he's got Gunnvor acting as his mother. How do you think she's lived so long? He's shared some of his blood with her. Taken over her mind so she looks after him while he sleeps between kills." Angry, red splotches appeared on Uncle Thordy's face. "They don't age like we do. He's probably fifty years old and he looks ten. Who knows where his real parents are."
He lowered his fist, glanced back and forth between all of us. His eyes burned momentarily into mine, daring me to speak out against him. He blinked.
"We all know how much you miss Kristjanna," Grandpa said softly.
Tears began to trickle down Uncle Thordy's cheeks. He gritted his teeth, wiped at his eyes. "Excuse me," he said, quietly. "Forgive me. Forgive me. I am not a good host today." He lifted his bulky body from the chair and trudged down the hall to his room, the scent of his aftershave lingering for a minute. The door closed.
"Uncle Thordy is not feeling well," Grandpa Thursten said, "and I don't know if he'll be better anytime soon. It's never easy to get over the death of a loved one."
I remembered standing on the basement stairs at home, watching my father cry so hard that he shook. This was years after Andrew's death. Dad clutched one of Andrew's hockey sweaters in his large hands and cried and cried. I backed slowly up the stairs and left him to his sorrow. Then I went to my own room, closed the door and bawled into my pillow. Grandpa was right. It wasn't easy to get over the death of someone you loved.
"Grief has been bad to Thordy," Mordur whispered. "My father said when the search party found him they could see big change — he already had ugly bags under his eyes and his hair had turned more grey. Even our dog barked when he came near. Tyr did not know him any more." Mordur hesitated for a moment, then added, "but I am believing Thordy is right."
21.
"Why do you say that?" Grandpa raised his bushy eyebrows.
"Because ... " Mordur rubbed at the side of his neck like he was trying to ease a kink. " ... because my dad once said a story to me. In 1950 a local crofter wounded a female shape shifter feeding on a reindeer. He caught her in a net and dragged her to the town square at Hvammstangi."
"How did they know she was a shape shifter?" I asked.
"She had the head and body of a wolf, but she was walking on two legs. She lived only for a few days. They took photographs. I looked it up. There are articles in the library about the strange woman-wolf, even a drawing. People came from every corner of Iceland just to stare at her."
"Did you see the photos?" Sarah asked.
Mordur shook his head. "No. None were good. Just a shadow lying against the stump of a tree. When she died her body fell all to pieces. My father went to see her a few hours before that. He said it was the most, very frightening thing he had ever laid his eyes on. But he felt sorrow. She was tied to a stake and left to rot while strangers stared. Dad said he had many nightmares after. His mother tried to say it was a circus trick, but he could not believe her. It had looked too real."
"Perhaps he was right," Grandfather said. He coughed another phlegmy cough, then spoke quietly, "it was my brother Jóhann, Thordy's father, who found that shape shifter."
We did simultaneous double takes. "What?" I said. "You ... you knew about this story?"
Grandfather nodded solemnly. "Yes. My brother phoned and told it to me. I was already living in Manitoba then. He was very excited ... I thought he had dreamt up the whole thing. Jóhann had a real gift for exaggerations and he was a little scatterbrained at times. He insisted he had caught a shape shifter; he even sent me the faded photographs of the lump against the tree. I told him he'd been hoodwinked. Up to his dying day, he swore it was a true story. Maybe I shouldn't have doubted him so much." Grandpa coughed again. "There is one thing that bothers me. Jóhann said he could hear a high pitched howling for weeks afterwards. It sounded like a younger wolf. He believed there was one more."
"Oh great," Michael said, "is it Onni, then?"
Grandfather fell silent, his lips a tight line. He drank from his coffee.
22.
The fire crackled loudly, and I almost jumped out of my seat. I was definitely getting too wound up. No more coffee for me.
"You know, I'd like to see what your father wrote on the calf skins," Grandpa said suddenly. Mordur pulled them out of the wooden box and handed them to Grandpa, who unrolled one and held it up to his face. He squinted, lifted his glasses out of his pocket and fumbled to put them on. "Je suis ... uh, I am ... uh .... It keeps mentioning this name, Skoll, over and over again. And it mentions Kristjanna, too."
"Uncle Thordy's wife?" Michael said. "Why would it mention her?"
Grandpa shrugged. He rubbed at his temple like he was trying to ward off a headache.
"It has the words loup-garou," I said. "We thought it might be a story."
"A weird one, if it is." Grandpa had opened the third scroll. "And there's a drawing of the spearhead. It says it's Jón Arason's spear. I wonder if that's Bishop Arason."
"Who?" Sarah asked.
Grandpa wiped some sweat from his forehead. "Bishop Jón Arason was from the sixteenth century. He was sometimes called the last real Icelander because he stuck to his beliefs. In fact he was beheaded by his enemies for those beliefs. He was an historical figure, but, of course, this is Iceland — there were folk tales about him, too."
"And they had something to do with the spear?" Mordur asked.
"Yes. And an úlfr-madr. One of the stories is about a woman who's husband went missing and was later found torn to shreds. They called in the Bishop and he told the local blacksmith to forge a spearhead much like the one Einar drew on the calf skin. The Bishop dipped the spearhead in holy water and marched into the hills. Hours later, a great howling and screaming was heard. In the morning Bishop Arason returned with a broken spear. The woman asked him if he had killed the creature and he said, 'Speak of the Devil and you give him life.' In other words, the deed was done, don't give the Devil any more of your time."
"Why would Mordur's dad make the spearhead?" I asked.
>
"Either it was just a hobby or he believed an úlfr-madr was loose. And not just any shape shifter, but a ‘pact- breaker'."
"What do you mean?" Michael lifted up the last piece of cheese and bit into it.
Grandpa squeezed his temples. He was beginning to look even more pale. "Remember the Bishop? Well legend says that around his time, all of Loki's children made a secret pact with the Icelandic leaders. They promised not to harm another human as long as the shifters were left alone. They took human shapes and lived among us. My father used to tell us tales about the shape shifters who broke the pact; every hundred years or so one would give in to the temptation of feeding on human flesh. Like the shifter who attacked him."
Mordur was leaning in, an eager look on his face. "Does the calf skin say more?"
Grandpa stared a bit longer, his eyes scanning the lines, his brow furrowed. "I'm having trouble focusing. Would it ... would it be okay if I borrowed these tonight? I — I'd like to take a look at them under better light. Maybe I can tell you something in the morning.."
"Oh ... yes," Mordur said, a little disappointed. "I will wait."
"I had better go to bed, then," Grandpa said and rubbed his eyes. "Either that or prop my peepers open with toothpicks."
"Uh ... " Sarah began. "Are we going to be safe here?"
"Of course," Grandpa said. "If that boy really is a shape shifter he looked to be in no shape to return tonight." He paused. A flicker of light came to his eyes. "No shape, to be a shape shifter. Ha! That's a good one." He wheezed out a laugh as he tried to get up. Sometimes Grandpa was such a goof. I glanced over at Mordur and rolled my eyes in feigned embarrassment. He smiled and nodded. My heart skipped a beat.
Michael gave Grandpa a hand up. "Who knows," Grandpa continued, "in the morning we may wake up and have a good chuckle at all our theories hatched in the middle of the night. Góda nótt."