Valkyrie Symptoms

by Ingrid Paulson

  The morning was bright and warm, and after my run, I decided to explore the town. Not much had changed during the two years since I’d last visited Grandma Hilda. Downtown Skavøpoll was still a long row of family-owned shops lining a narrow main street. One side of the road backed into the water, while the other was built along the base of a slope that stretched up behind the town, dotted with homes and farms until it disappeared into the mountain. The stores along the water’s edge were scattered, fading into docks and rickety fishing sheds.

  I wandered toward the wharf and waterfront, where the fishing crews were unloading their morning catch. With every step I thought about my grandfather, who had taken me down to those same piers each morning when I was young. We’d buy warm croissants from the bakery and watch as salmon the size of German shepherds were wrestled out of the cargo holds and tossed ashore.

  The fishing crews had been up since the early hours of morning, hauling in nets full of fish, and it was amazing to see how much work they’d already done. While the rest of the country was still rubbing the sleep from their eyes, the fishermen had already unpacked their wares and were preparing the fish to be frozen and shipped all over the world.

  The men patrolling the decks and hauling on ropes and pulleys were every bit as barnacled and battered looking as their weather-beaten boats.

  Or so it seemed.

  As I leaned forward over the metal railing along the dock, watching the work progress, I felt someone watching me. So I turned. A boy, an older boy, was on the deck of a boat farther down the pier.

  Words utterly failed me. Except “wow.”

  Disheveled blond locks peeked out from beneath his baseball cap. He grinned when he caught my eye—a flash of pearly white in an otherwise tan face.

  I looked down, wondering if I’d been staring or if he had. Even though he’d seen me first, I’d definitely given him more than a casual glance in response.

  I started to walk away, down the pier, but I heard a deep voice behind me, slightly out of breath from jogging and saying something incomprehensible. My stomach dropped, but I managed to look composed as I turned to face the blond boy. He smiled expectantly, waiting for me to reply to whatever he’d just said.

  “I—I only speak English,” I said, ashamed that most of the Norwegian I’d picked up over the years was food related. I was hardly going to ask that boy to pass the bread.

  I finally looked up to meet eyes that were the breezy blue of a sun-drenched tropical sea, which was ironic in such an arctic climate.

  “You’re Hilda Overholt’s granddaughter?” It was more of a statement than a question, delivered in flawless English. He could have been a boy from any town back home, with that Wonder Bread smile. Maybe from a small town in the Midwest where they hold their vowels just a second longer.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m here for the summer.”

  “I thought so—I saw you running the other day, up in our neighborhood. I’ve been meaning to stop by. I live just down the road.”

  I nodded.

  “We met once before. But you were about eight years old. You probably don’t remember.”

  I shook my head. It was surprising that I could forget a face like his, even if I’d been just a kid.

  “You know,” he said, covering for my awkward silence, “you look just like your grandmother did when she was young. At least, in her pictures.”

  I felt warm. Once upon a time my grandmother was supermodel caliber. The pictures on her wall made that more than clear. I didn’t really know what to say. But I rarely did when I was talking to boys other than Graham and Tuck—and they hardly counted.

  Fortunately he didn’t seem to notice. He extended one hand. “I’m Kjell,” he said, then repeated it, “Ch-ell,” carefully enunciating the first part, since the Norwegian ch sound is harsher than its English counterpart. “I’m here for the summer too.”

  “Really.” I was determined not to blow a chance to make a friend. Better yet, a boy who didn’t see me and think of Graham. So I took a deep breath and forced myself to be bold. “And where do you spend the rest of the seasons?”

  He laughed. It was a noteworthy event—his teeth were so straight, it wouldn’t have surprised me if he said he’d had braces twice. But his smile was crooked. It was the best possible combination.

  “Oslo,” he replied. “At the university. I’m studying medicine, so eventually I’ll work summer shifts at a hospital. But for now, I’m navigator on my father’s boat. There.” He pointed to a newish-looking fishing boat a hundred feet down the pier.

  “That’s not at all impressive,” I said. “I mean, I’ve been a doctor since I was twelve. And nautical navigation? Kid stuff.”

  His smile took a playful turn. “I’ve heard you Americans mature quickly.”

  I wasn’t sure what to make of that. Given our obvious age difference, it triggered an uncomfortable association with the romantic disasters my mother’s art students got into during her summer program in Europe. It seemed that older Italian men also thought that Americans matured quickly. That comment wound away into awkward territory, so rather than replying, I pretended to be interested in the crates being lifted off the boat in front of us.

  “Are you free tonight?” Kjell asked rather abruptly. Then, a touch embarrassed, he added, “Some friends are going to a pub. Nothing fancy, but it’s better than sitting around Hilda’s doing nothing.”

  “I don’t know,” I said on reflex. Hanging out with a boy, even in a group, meant wanting it bad enough to fight for it. On the one almost-date I’d had that year, Graham and twenty of his closest friends had miraculously ended up at the same movie. As if my bio lab partner had been plotting for weeks to murder me in the dark.

  It took a second for it to sink in that there was no one there to stop me. Graham was five thousand miles away. And what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. I felt a smile building inside as I realized I was free to do whatever I wanted. “I don’t usually go out with strangers,” I said, even though I had every intention of doing just that.

  “But I’m not a stranger to the rest of your family,” he replied. “Your grandmother used to babysit me.”

  Even though it was beginning to sound less like a date and more like my grandmother had nudged him into taking pity on me, I held my smile and said, “Okay.”

  He rewarded me with another flash of straight white teeth. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  Before I rounded the corner and he disappeared from sight, I glanced back at Kjell. He was already at his father’s boat, easily stepping over the four-foot span of water that separated the deck from the pier.

  He was tall, cute, and smart enough to be in medical school. What more could any girl ask for? I paused to imagine what Graham would have done if he’d been there to witness the whole exchange. If he scowled when I was asked out by boys he’d known since kindergarten, I couldn’t imagine what he’d think if a college boy asked me out—a heart-wrenchingly adorable college boy. Graham’s certain disapproval was a point in Kjell’s favor.

  But Graham wasn’t there. And until he showed up, I didn’t have to play obedient little sister. Or listen to his comments about boys and their one-track minds. As if he wasn’t one too. For now, I was Ellie Overholt, an American girl in Norway, and I’d finally get to do things my way. Even if I wasn’t sure exactly what that was quite yet.

  I just knew that I, for one, couldn’t wait to find out.

  I HAD PLANNED to jog back to Grandmother’s house, but after my encounter with Kjell, I decided to prolong my window-shopping, savoring my newfound feeling of freedom. The bakery still had a few fresh croissants displayed in the window when I passed, and even if Grandmother had probably eaten breakfast five hours ago, I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist our favorite treat.

  When I pushed the door open, everybody turned and stared. And by everybody, I mean the three old women occupying one of the two café tables, sipping espresso from doll-sized cups, and the two burly fishe
rmen still sporting orange rubber pants misted with seawater. I pretended not to notice how they watched my every move. In a small town, newcomers are endlessly fascinating.

  So I wasn’t surprised when one of the old ladies rose and wobbled toward me, her carved birch cane tapping along the checkerboard floor.

  The baker leaned forward with a polite, expectant smile. He must have known who I was, because he didn’t bother trying to talk to me in Norwegian. Instead he nodded mutely as I pointed at the croissants and held up two fingers.

  The old lady reached me, so I turned and smiled, struggling to remember how to say sixteen in Norwegian, since holding up fingers for my age hadn’t cut it for a while.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she said. Her English was thickly accented, and it took a moment for the words to register, even though the malice behind them was unmistakable. “Stay out of our town.”

  I took a step back, my eyes flashing to the fishermen for help. Maybe this woman was senile. Or maybe she thought I was someone else. But whoever she thought I was, the fishermen were similarly mistaken. Because they narrowed their eyes in suspicion like they expected me to rob the place.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. I truly didn’t. Last time I’d been in Skavøpoll, people had stopped me on the street to ask questions about life in LA, listing celebrities I might have spotted or wondering if I knew their distant cousin who lived in Tennessee. Sure, Grandmother kept to herself, but that didn’t stop the town from being curious about me.

  The baker turned, handing me the package of croissants. His voice was sharp as he said something to the woman in Norwegian. I heard my grandmother’s name, but that was all I caught. The old woman scowled back at him. Whatever the baker had said made her even angrier. She muttered something about my grandmother that didn’t sound like a compliment as she lifted her cane and slammed it down on my foot. Hard.

  Pain shot up my shin.

  The fishermen burst into laughter.

  “Stay away. Or you’ll be the next to disappear.”

  There was a lump in my throat the size of a croissant as I realized everyone but the baker was rejoicing in my humiliation. They were all in on whatever strange inside joke was unfolding around me.

  The old woman turned and waddled back to her friends. The baker’s eyes were apologetic as they returned to me. “Tell Hilda she still has friends. Not all of us believe the rumors.” He shook his head, refusing the money I slid across the counter toward him. “Run home, and don’t pay her any notice.” He inclined his head toward the table of old ladies, who looked like they were contemplating a second assault.

  The baker certainly didn’t need to tell me twice. I had no intention of staying to be abused by a crazy old lady. Or mocked by a bunch of rude fishermen. It seemed that even if the town looked the same, some things about Skavøpoll had changed.

  AT SEVEN O’CLOCK that night, there was a soft knock at the door. I’d told my grandmother about what had happened at the bakery, and she’d laughed like it was the best joke she’d ever heard. Apparently the old lady was angry about something that happened at last year’s garden show. She’d spread rumors that Grandmother had cheated. Attacking me seemed like an over-the-top reaction, but as Grandmother showed me daily, flowers are important to old ladies.

  When I mentioned my plans with Kjell, Grandmother didn’t seem at all surprised. Even though it confirmed my suspicion that Kjell was acting under her coercion, nothing prepared me for her behavior once Kjell finally arrived. She could be a bit abrupt with most people outside our family. Which, come to think of it, might have had something to do with how the rest of the people at the bakery had acted that morning.

  Grandmother rushed through the entry hall to greet Kjell before I was even halfway out of my chair. She opened the door and pulled him into a bear hug—which was no small undertaking.

  I tried to understand what they were saying but only got the general gist that he’d been back for just a few days and she hadn’t seen him since the holidays. Kjell was clearly a favorite.

  I stood there, feeling stupid and silent, until finally my grandmother mercifully switched to English. “I’m so glad you two met,” she said. “And I know you’ll take good care of my Ellie.”

  “Of course I will,” Kjell said. “But she seems like the kind of girl who can take care of herself, too.”

  His response earned him more than a few points. As did the fact that Kjell looked even better when cleaned up—and far too sophisticated, in his dark slacks and sweater, to be seen with someone like me.

  “Ready?” Kjell asked.

  “Let me just grab a jacket.”

  I ran upstairs and dug through my suitcase for a sweater that would make me look slightly less like a high school girl who had no business hanging out with a cute college boy. Which was impossible. I finally found a black sweater that Tuck always said made me look like a little old lady. Far from ideal, but at least that meant it made me look older.

  When I was halfway down the stairs, I heard Kjell and my grandmother talking in low voices. Something about their tone made me reflexively pause to listen, even though I wouldn’t understand. I strained my ears, but the only words I could pick out were Odin and Valhalla. And only because I recognized them from my grandfather’s bedtime stories.

  Whatever Kjell said made my grandmother break into a peal of laughter. Oddly enough, it sounded forced. I wasn’t sure what could be so funny anyway, given that Odin was basically the grim reaper in Norse mythology and Valhalla was his home. From what I remembered, anything involving Odin was pretty creepy and gory.

  The step beneath my feet creaked as I shifted, trying to creep closer. Their conversation ended abruptly.

  One look at Grandmother’s arched eyebrow as I walked down the stairs told me that my attempt at stealthy eavesdropping had failed, to say the least.

  I wouldn’t have given their whole exchange a second thought … well, maybe not a third … if my grandmother hadn’t stood there a moment longer, blocking the door.

  “Just be careful, Kjell,” she said, switching to English and snaring my curiosity once and for all.

  Kjell nodded, giving Grandmother a loaded smile. “I promise I won’t disappear. I’m too big for the fairies to carry away.”

  “Even ridiculous rumors spring from a seed of truth,” Grandmother said.

  “What rumors?” I asked. If she didn’t want me to know, she shouldn’t have dangled a big juicy carrot in front of me.

  She shook her head and smiled as she tucked my hair behind my ear.

  “Nothing you need to worry about,” she said.

  I turned to go. In the reflection in the window beside the door, I saw Grandmother slip a small velvet envelope into Kjell’s hand, the kind that jewelers use. He upended it, and something silver slipped out onto his palm. Both of them clearly thought I hadn’t seen. But I was tuned into every single thing she did, given the way their conversation had made me reconsider Grandmother’s explanation of what had happened in the bakery. Rumors and disappearances seemed to be the new theme in Skavøpoll, and something told me they had nothing to do with last year’s garden show.

  “WE’LL HEAD TO the pub in a bit,” Kjell said as we climbed into his compact European hatchback. “First we have to pick up my friends.”

  We drove through town and stopped in front of a narrow alley that snaked uphill, disappearing into an older part of town. I heard the rattling metal under their feet before I saw the two shapes scampering down a fire escape and jumping the last four feet onto the uneven pavement below.

  “Look, Elsa, if they—if they say anything strange, just ignore it,” Kjell said. I could see his lips pressed into a thin line. He was nervous. “I’ve known them forever. And they’re great once you get to know them, but ever since I came home, they’ve taken up some, um, strange ideas.”

  “No worries,” I said. “I’m sure they’re great.” Out of everyone in the whole world, I was the last person to judge his friends.


  It can be hard to find people you can trust, and when you do, you hold on to them, imperfections and all. Most of my supposed friends were wannabe Graham groupies who didn’t make the cut. Even my best friend always flirted like crazy with Graham’s friends. Especially Tuck. I hated how much that bothered me—forcing me to admit things to myself that it was far safer to suppress.

  By then, the two shadows had reached us and were cramming themselves into the narrow backseat. One was a girl with a round face framed by chin-length red hair. There was something wholesome and open about her wide brown eyes that made me like her at once. Kjell introduced her as Margit. The boy, Sven, was standard-issue Norsk—blond, blue-eyed, and with teeth so white they practically glowed in the dark. Margit whispered something, making Sven smile and lean in close to hear the rest.

  Was this some sort of double date? Butterflies in my stomach were stretching their wings, preparing for flight.

  Margit slipped a nylon backpack from her shoulders and set it in the middle of the backseat. The bag was straining at the seams, its taut fabric struggling to swallow something roughly the size and shape of a microwave.

  “You’re joking,” Kjell said, sticking to English. “You aren’t bringing that with us.”

  “You bet I am,” Margit replied. First in Norwegian, then repeating it in English, presumably for my benefit, even though, surprisingly, I’d understood her the first time. She pulled roughly on the zipper until it opened just enough to reveal a bulky electronic box. Then she reached further inside and slipped a smaller object out of the bag that looked like a tiny remote control, only it was made of clear plastic decorated with fluorescent yellow trim. She pressed a flat green button on the front of it, and a white light inside snapped on like a flashbulb. Sven leaned in close and whispered something in Norwegian. I could tell they were testing it, making sure that whatever it was, it was working.

  “What is that thing she’s holding?” I whispered to Kjell

  Kjell sighed as he glanced over his shoulder. “That’s a personal locator beacon,” he explained. “We use them when we fish. If you get thrown overboard, lost, you activate it. That way the rescue helicopters can find you.” He paused. “And in the backpack is an old radio she pulled off her father’s boat. Seriously, Margit, don’t tell me you’re bringing those. This is taking it too far.”