The Falcon's Feather

by Trudi Trueit

  In Aunt Marisol’s anthropology class, Cruz learned how to use PANDA, the Portable Artifact Notation and Data Analyzer. Another one of Fanchon’s inventions, the unit, which looked like a pear sliced in half from top to bottom, could tell you the type, origin, and age of any artifact in the world. That lesson was fun, too. Until Dugan, waving his PANDA unit, stood up and blurted, “Professor Coronado, if we’re going to use these gizmos from now on, why did we have to learn all that junk about stratigraphy and dendrochronology?” That earned them a stern lecture on the value of explorers knowing the fundamentals of the great and glorious study of the human record known as archaeology. It lasted 14 minutes. Zane timed it.

  By Wednesday, the rubbery aftertaste of the green juice Taryn and Emmett had made Cruz drink on Sunday was nearly gone. That, along with the prospect of seeing Iceland, had him almost feeling like his old self again. Almost. Cruz wasn’t the only one looking forward to reaching port. That afternoon, Professor Benedict practically flew into class. “Did you hear? We’ll be in Reykjavík tomorrow! I hope everyone is as pumped as I am for your first real journalism assignment!”

  Manatee classroom erupted in applause. Cruz tried to join in because he was excited, too. Yet he couldn’t help worrying he was getting farther away from the next piece of the cipher.

  “Your homework for today was to prepare background research on Iceland,” said their journalism teacher. “Let’s hear what you discovered. Femi, why don’t you start us off?”

  Clearing her throat, Femi lifted her tablet. “Reykjavík is the world’s northernmost capital and is located on the southwestern coast of Iceland. Settled by the Vikings in the ninth century, Iceland is about a hundred thousand square kilometers, making it a little smaller than the state of Kentucky. Iceland is called the land of fire and ice due to its numerous geysers, hot springs, lava fields, volcanoes, and glaciers. It is powered almost entirely by renewable energy sources, such as geothermal and hydropower…”

  “It’s just funny,” Emmett whispered to Cruz.

  “What is?”

  “I keep going over it in my head, the way your mom said, ‘If you run into trouble, go to Freyja Skloke.’ ”

  “What about it?”

  “She didn’t say go see Freyja Skloke or go look up Freyja Skloke. She said go to Freyja Skloke.” Emmett tapped his fingernail against his teeth. “I’m probably reading too much into it.”

  “No, I think I see what you’re getting at.” Cruz sat up. “You go to a place.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you think Freyja Skloke could be a street?”

  “Or a park or a store or a restaurant. It could be anyplace.”

  “It would help if one of us spoke Icelandic.”

  Emmett tipped his head toward the fair-haired girl seated in front of them. “We could ask Bryndis.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good—”

  “Ask me what?” Bryndis had turned in her chair.

  Cruz hadn’t realized they’d been talking so loudly. “Never mind—”

  “It’s okay. Really. I love Norse mythology.”

  Emmett frowned. “What makes you think we were talking about Norse mythology?”

  “You said Freyja Skloke, so I figured—”

  “Freyja Skloke is a Norse god?” asked Cruz.

  “Goddess.” She giggled. “And not the ‘cloak’—just Freyja.”

  “Huh?”

  Bryndis held up a finger to signal for them to wait. A minute later, she held her tablet out to Cruz. On the screen was an illustration of a tall, beautiful woman with a long blond braid. She wore a flowing white gown, a gold necklace with an amber jewel in the center, and a cape made of feathers. Below the image the caption read: Freyja, the Norse goddess of love and beauty, is able to fly by transforming herself into a bird with her magical cloak of falcon feathers.

  Emmett and Cruz looked at each other. Cruz’s mom hadn’t meant “Freyja Skloke.” She had meant “Freyja’s cloak.” They slowly smiled.

  “Cruz?” Professor Benedict was calling on him.

  He grimaced. “Sorry, I…I didn’t hear.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Her jaw was tight. “Why don’t you tell us something you discovered about Iceland that we haven’t yet heard? Stand, please.”

  “Um…sure…” His mind still reeling, Cruz got to his feet. “I…uh…thought the best way to learn about the country was to talk to someone who lives there, so I interviewed Bryndis.” Seeing Professor Benedict’s chilly expression thaw a bit, Cruz continued. “Her parents own a surfing and eco-adventure tour business in Reykjavík. You wouldn’t think surfing would be big in a place as cold as Iceland, but it is. People come from all over the world to surf. And by the way, it’s not that cold. Oh, and Bryndis told me in the summers she helps her uncle make rye bread for the tourists. It bakes in the ground, you know, because Iceland has geothermal hot springs. See, they dig a hole on the shore of the lake, bury a pot full of dough, and the hot water in the ground bakes the bread! I mean, it takes a while to cook, a day or so, because the water is only about two hundred degrees. It’s called…um…” He glanced down at Bryndis for help.

  “Rúgbrauð,” she prompted.

  “Rúgbrauð,” he echoed. “Also, most people in Iceland don’t have surnames. Instead, your last name is your dad’s first name plus the Icelandic word for either ‘daughter’ or ‘son,’ depending on if you’re a girl or a boy. Bryndis Jónsdóttir means Bryndis is the daughter of Jón. Her brother has a different last name. He’s Jón’s son so his last name is Jónsson. Bryndis says most everybody uses first names, no titles or anything, like ‘Mr.’ or ‘Mrs.’ Even students call their teachers by their first names. How great is that…” He paused. Nope. He’d better not chance it. “…Professor Benedict?”

  “Pretty great.” She grinned. “Thank you, Cruz.”

  Before taking his seat, Cruz raised his eyebrows at Bryndis to ask, How did I do? She gave him a nod. “Vel gert!”

  “Now that you have a bit of background on Iceland,” said their instructor, “your team mission once we reach port is to choose a news story that reflects an issue facing Iceland. It can be cultural, economic, environmental—whatever you like; however, you will tell that story as photojournalists. That means you’ll use only your mind-control cameras. No text. Just photos and videos. Yes, Zane?”

  “How many pictures and videos do we have to turn in?”

  “As many as it takes to tell the story. No more. No less.”

  With class winding down, Cruz typed Freyja’s cloak into the search engine of his tablet.

  “Already did it,” whispered Emmett. He tipped his tablet so Cruz could read the screen: FREYJA’S CLOAK WILDLIFE RESCUE CENTER.

  Cruz’s breath caught when he saw the logo. It was a gyrfalcon. The map on the site showed that the center was only a few kilometers west of Reykjavík. He could hardly believe it!

  “Are you going to email them?” asked Emmett.

  “No, I should go in person. You’re coming with me, aren’t you?”

  Emmett’s glasses had become a yellow, lime, and pink pinwheel. “Like you have to ask.”

  “I’ll let my aunt know what we’ve found. Can you fill Sailor in?”

  “Yep.”

  “Emmett, could you do me another favor?”

  “Double yep.”

  “The next time my mom gives me a clue? Remind me to ask her to spell it.”

  The snort was out before Emmett could clamp a hand over his mouth.

  * * *

  “THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Cruz was beside Emmett once again. This time, they were on their veranda, with Sailor standing between them, as Orion sailed into Reykjavík harbor. Elbow to elbow at the rail in their heavy jackets, the trio got their first look at the bustling northernmost capital of the world. The water and mountains surrounding the ci
ty were reflected in the glass-walled condos and skyscraper windows. White church steeples poked above perfect rows of square buildings even more colorful than those of Svalbard. Their bright yellow, red, orange, and blue roofs reminded Cruz of freshly painted dollhouses. Across the bay and far in the distance were the snow-covered trapezoidal hills they had grown accustomed to seeing in the north.

  Emmett pointed to a 200-foot, stair-stepped gray spire rising above the sprawling city. “That has to be Hallgrímskirkja church.”

  “Say that ten times fast,” joked Sailor.

  Emmett grinned. “It’s one of the tallest buildings in Iceland.”

  “I believe you.” She raised her hands in surrender. Good thing. Cruz did not need a repeat of their argument from Taryn’s scavenger hunt.

  “Bryndis must be excited to be home,” said Cruz. “Uh…where is she anyway?”

  “With Taryn,” answered Sailor. “They’re planning our dinner out tonight. Her family is going to meet us at Svartur Köttur.”

  “Smarta who?” Cruz asked.

  “Not Smarta. Svartur. Köttur,” Sailor explained. “I think it means ‘Black Cat.’ Anyway, just one of the local restaurants here.”

  “Oh, got it,” Cruz replied.

  Everything was falling into place. Once the ship docked, Cruz, Emmett, and Sailor would head to Freyja’s Cloak to recover the cipher, then return for dinner and a good night’s sleep so they would be ready for tomorrow’s mission.

  Team Cousteau had already decided what they were going to do for their photojournalism assignment. “Glaciers are melting all around the world,” Bryndis had told them. “In Iceland, we lose about eleven billion tons of ice a year. Skaftafellsjökull, one of my family’s favorite places to hike, is melting so fast it will be gone soon…”

  “That’s awful!” Sailor expressed what they were all thinking.

  “We have something like two hundred and fifty glaciers, and it’s hard to imagine they could all disappear in a few centuries.” A shadow crossed her face. “To Icelanders, losing our glaciers is to lose a part of who we are.”

  “Let’s do the story,” said Cruz.

  Emmett and Sailor agreed.

  “How?” grunted Dugan. “It’s not like we can watch a glacier melt.”

  “What if we got some old videos and photos and put them side by side with the ones we take up on the glaciers—you know, to compare then with now?” suggested Emmett.

  “My cousin works at the national museum in Reykjavík,” said Bryndis. “I’m sure she could help us locate some historical images.”

  It was settled. Team Cousteau would tell the story, in pictures, of an Iceland without ice.

  Emmett was nudging Cruz. Orion had reached the pier. Crews were tying down the lines and lowering the gangway. Grabbing their gloves and scarves, the trio rushed out of the cabin and down the passage without a word. Cruz wanted to get off the ship before anyone started asking questions. He led the charge down the gangway and onto the dock. Tapping his GPS Earth pin, Cruz said, “Locate self-driving car rental service within walking distance of—”

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Aunt Marisol!” She was blocking his path, her hands on her hips. Shutting off his GPS, Cruz glanced back at the ship. “How did you—”

  “Know you were going to make a dash for it without waiting for me? Gee, I don’t know.” She tapped her chin. “Lucky guess?”

  She knew him too well.

  “Come on,” she said. “I’ve got a car waiting.”

  They piled into the small automated vehicle parked at the harbor entrance.

  “Freyja’s Cloak Wildlife Rescue Center, please,” Cruz said to the computer, and they were off. The compact car navigated the angular streets of Reykjavík, packed with the colorful hotels, shops, and homes Cruz had seen from the harbor. As they reached the outskirts of the city, the roads became wider, the buildings more modern. They traveled through an industrial area, then followed the rocky coastline for several kilometers before turning off the highway. A long, narrow driveway led them to a barnlike building painted sage green with white trim. Above the door was a carved oval wooden sign with a gyrfalcon. Cradled in its massive wings were the words FREYJA’S CLOAK WILDLIFE RESCUE CENTER.

  Cruz was the first one out of the car. He rushed up the steps and into the building.

  “Góðan daginn,” said a young woman behind the front desk when they entered. Her blond hair was pulled back into two short pigtails behind her ears. She wore a blue flannel shirt and jeans. At another desk was a thin, dark-haired college-age guy in an olive jungle jacket wearing a fishing hat covered in enamel flags-of-the-world pins.

  “Hello.” Cruz’s hand went to the stone over his heart. He was so anxious he could barely think, let alone speak. “We…uh…we were hoping you could help us.”

  “Ah! Americans?” When Cruz nodded, the young woman grinned, revealing a space between her front teeth. “What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Cruz Coronado, and I’m looking for someone who might have known my mother. Her name was Petra Coronado. I know it sounds weird, but she told me to come here and show you this.” He took the falcon’s feather from his pocket.

  The young woman stared at it for a bit, clearly puzzled, then turned to the guy in the fishing hat. Sniffling, he shrugged.

  “Maybe our director knows.” She went for the open door behind her. Five minutes later, she reappeared, followed by a man about Cruz’s dad’s age with straight, shoulder-length, dark blond hair.

  Several inches above six feet, he was too thin for his height. He wore a wrinkled khaki jacket with holes in the front pockets, and the buttons that weren’t missing were clinging by their threads. A long blue-and-white-striped knitted scarf was wrapped several times around his neck. He had bright topaz blue eyes that matched the blue in his scarf. When he smiled, the creases at their corners helped to soften his pointed jaw. “I’m Nóri. How do you do?”

  Cruz cleared his throat. “Hi, I’m Cruz, and I’m looking for anyone who might have known my mother. Her name was Dr. Petra Coronado, and she was a scientist with the Society.”

  “The Society, huh?” Nóri’s forehead crinkled. “I did work for them once. Many years ago. We collaborated on some research. Puffins, I think”—he glanced at Cruz’s feather—“or maybe falcons.”

  Cruz lifted the plume. “Falcons?”

  Nóri looked at Aunt Marisol, Emmett, and Sailor, then the two people on his staff, then back at Cruz. “Now that I think about it, it was puffins. I’m sorry, I wish I could help you, but I don’t recall anyone by that name.”

  “I’m Petra’s sister-in-law and Cruz’s aunt, Dr. Marisol Coronado.” Cruz’s aunt extended her hand and the director shook it. “Maybe one of your employees or volunteers might have known her? It would have been some time ago, say, seven to ten years back.”

  “That long ago?” He shook his head. “So many people have come and gone in that time, I’m afraid…”

  “I know it’s a long shot,” pleaded Aunt Marisol. “But we’d appreciate any help you could provide. It’s extremely important.”

  “Leave your contact info with Elin here, and we’ll get in touch if we find anyone who knew…what did you say…?”

  “Petra. Coronado.” Cruz was starting to get irritated.

  “Thank you, Nóri.” Aunt Marisol put a hand on Cruz’s arm. “We’re traveling on the Academy’s ship Orion, and we’ll be in Reykjavík harbor until Monday morning.”

  He nodded. “I’d give you a tour of the facility, but we’re in the process of remodeling. All our rescues have been moved off-site.”

  “That’s okay,” said Aunt Marisol. “You’ve been more than kind. We should be getting back to the harbor anyway.”

  Nóri gave them a guarded grin. “Have a pleasant stay in Iceland. Bless.”


  Cruz was stunned. That was it? He—they—had come all this way only for a few polite words and a rushed goodbye? Why was Nóri in such a hurry to get rid of them anyway? Steaming, Cruz scribbled down his phone number on the scrap of paper the girl—Elin—slid toward him. Cruz didn’t want to leave Freyja’s Cloak. Not yet. Not without the cipher that he was certain was here somewhere, but Aunt Marisol had him by the elbow. She was dragging him to the door.

  “Get in the car, Cruz,” snapped his aunt when he loitered on the front steps.

  He obeyed. Reluctantly.

  As they drove away, Cruz saw Elin at the front door. She was locking it. Strange. It was only 10 after four, and the sign said they were open until five. Why would she be closing now? Plus, if they really were remodeling, where were the construction workers? Where was their equipment and building materials? Cruz didn’t see a single Dumpster. “There’s something odd about this whole thing,” he whispered to Emmett, who was quick to agree.

  * * *

  TWO HOURS LATER, Cruz was sitting down in an elegant restaurant somewhere in the middle of Reykjavík with the rest of the explorers. Over tall crystal glasses filled with ice water and tall crystal vases filled with silk blue poppies, they studied their menus as they waited for Bryndis’s family to arrive.

  Seated next to him, Sailor lowered her menu. “Cruz, are you okay?” she said softly.

  “I guess.”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “You’re not giving up, are you?”

  “No. It may take me a while to figure it all out, as in the rest of my life, but I’ll do it. I have to. It’s örlög.”

  “What-log?”

  “Örlög. Bryndis says it means ‘destiny.’ ”

  “Oh. Good.” The lines on her head began to smooth. “Because if you were thinking of giving up, I was going to talk you out of it. But since you aren’t, what are you going to order? Bryndis says we should try the licorice mousse. It’s a dessert, right? Because if it’s a real moose, there is no way…”