Erik swallowed and wrinkled his nose. “It wasn’t much of a victory, really,” he said.
Allyson said, “Are you kidding? You finished the whole race. The whole race! We, like, are soooo impressed. We weren’t sure you’d even make it to the starting line or if you’d end up throwing up all over your bicycle first. That’s a victory, little bro. For sure.”
Ragnar nearly knocked him over by draping his muscled arm over Erik’s shoulders. “And you survived a trip over Deadman’s Cliff! Not many people, Vikings or otherwise, can say that. When we heard about you going over the cliff and we were waiting to see which bits of you would make it to the finish line, it made some stuff really clear. Really, really clear.”
“It did?” Erik asked. “Like what?”
Ragnar nodded decisively. “It’s smash. It really is. How could I have thought my rune would be crush?”
“Let’s go eat!” Hrolf said.
When the group arrived home, they found that Aunt Hilda and Uncle Bjorn had outdone themselves. The dining room table was barely visible under the array of pies. Uncle Bjorn had placed Brunhilde’s red Lego representation of the racecourse as the centerpiece. Ragnar ducked into the kitchen for about ten minutes and came out with a bowl of popcorn. He plunked it down next to Erik with a grin, saying, “I skimped not on the butter and salt.”
The family feasted and shared tales of Sheepflattener victories past, from ancient days of yore through Allyson’s recent cheer competition. His mother even managed to get Erik to tell the story of how he ended up going over Deadman’s Cliff. They roared and grunted their approval when he said, “It was like falling over the edge of the world. Somehow by not thinking about what I was doing, I avoided the things that could have destroyed me and I made it.”
Ragnar tossed Sven up toward the ceiling and shouted, “Not thinking gets the job done every time!” Sally clamored to be tossed up next, and soon all three babies were being juggled, much to their delight. Uncle Bjorn started hurling pieces of leftover pie to Hrolf, who caught them in his mouth. Aunt Hilda and Erik’s mother sang Norwegian fight songs in two-part harmony. Erik ate another forkful of crust and admitted to himself that the Sheepflatteners did know how to party.
When it was time to clean up, Brunhilde tapped Erik’s shoulder and got him to slip outside with her. “We have not yet discussed the success of your phobia battle. I assume it was magnificent. I want to know more details.” She had her notebook and pen at the ready.
The solid thing in Erik’s gut was with him now, further solidified by all the pie he’d just eaten. He said, “I have to ask you something first. Did you plan with Sven to throw Mr. Nubbins at me at the start of the race? And did you plan with Mr. Nubbins to startle me in the middle of the race?”
Brunhilde regarded him with mild surprise. “No, brother. I did not arrange plans with an infant and a squirrel to help you conquer your worst fears. I am good, but I am not that good.”
Relieved his sister didn’t have control over everything, he blurted out, “I wasn’t going to race. This summer taught me a lot of things, and the stuff we’ve done has made me sure about my own chosen rune.”
Brunhilde put down her pen and looked impressed. “Finding one’s rune is serious business, a very personal journey of discovery. Are you ready to share your discovery with me?” she asked.
He decided to go for it. “It’s AVOID STUFF.”
“Oh, that is silly,” she said. “You will have to find something better.”
Her dismissal made the solid thing in his guts quiver slightly, but he was on a roll. He summed up what he hadn’t had a chance to say at the starting line. “After I refused to race, I was also going to tell you NO and make you listen to me for the first time. I was going to convince you that saying NO is very Viking.” He held his breath.
“Saying no IS very Viking,” Brunhilde answered. “And I do listen to you. Like right now, I am going to listen to you to tell me about the race after you stop jabbering on about avoiding and saying no to me. Talk,” she commanded.
Erik whoofed out a big mouthful of air. Even if I had thrown up on my bike and collapsed with real stomach cramps, Brunhilde undoubtedly would have tied my feet to the pedals and run alongside me, pushing me down Bonebreaker Hill with her hand on the back of my bike seat. The solid thing in his guts shrugged. Well, he always knew where he stood with his sister.
He described as much as he could remember of the race, from its fear-fueled start to finding the old path through Quicksand Swamp. Brunhilde took notes. When he was done, she said, “Even after going over the cliff, instead of finding some bed-shaped rock to hide under, you finished the race with your bike on your back.” She was scribbling rapidly. “If I understand correctly, sciurophobia may not be your enemy, after all. It may be an odd kind of ally for you. When you see a squirrel, it slams your other phobias out of the way so you can do what must be done.” She chewed the top of her glittery pen. “Perhaps we should get our own pet squirrel, and every time you feel like you cannot face something, your other option is squirrel nuzzling. It will put things in perspective for you.”
Erik’s face drained of blood, and the solid thing in his guts melted into slush. Brunhilde said, “Ha! I am kidding. Here is what you have told me: you came to stand with your teammates to face something you did not want to face. You rode into the mouth of many fears. And you emerged, still whole, still Erik, your shell as thick as ever. We can count this as another Sheepflattener victory.” She flipped back to the original page labeled ERIK VS. FEAR and made a big check mark at the bottom.
* * *
The next day, Erik walked over with Hrolf and Ragnar to the Hair Shack. He’d told them he’d be happier skipping the haircut, so they’d offered to use up his free trim in his place. Erik sat near the windows while Hrolf asked the barber to shave a patch over his ear in the shape of a fish and Ragnar had a stylist crimp a couple of skinny black-and-white-striped feather extensions into his hair.
When they got back to show off their new looks, Erik’s side of the family had begun packing up to prepare to fly back home to Connecticut. Hrolf kept having to stop the triplets from wiggle-crawling into different suitcases.
“Oh, it’s always so wonderful to have the cousins together!” Erik’s mother exclaimed. “There’s nothing like family. We’d love to host you down in Connecticut soon. Maybe this winter break?” She and Uncle Bjorn and Aunt Hilda compared calendars.
Erik asked Ragnar to accompany him through the house to gather up the last things he needed to pack. “Stay close, in case Mr. Nubbins is hiding somewhere,” Erik said as they walked to the bathroom.
“We don’t know where he ended up,” Ragnar said. “After he scampered behind you down the racecourse, we haven’t seen him around.”
He DID follow me, Erik thought. But at least he isn’t in the house anymore. He started to relax, but then tensed up again, realizing that he had no idea when the squirrel might appear again. Was there any way a squirrel could find its way onto an airplane? His mind skittered away from such a question.
“How is Sven taking it?” Erik asked as he picked up his toothbrush and toothpaste. “Does he miss having a wild animal ear to suck on?”
Hrolf walked by the doorway. “Oh, I took care of that this morning. We’ve got a new pet.”
Erik poked his head out of the bathroom to ask where his cousin had found a new pet so quickly, and a blur of light brown fur shot by with a Sven-shaped blur holding on to its back.
“What the—”
The blur of fur let out a high-pitched yowl, and Siegmund and Sally followed behind, wiggle-crawling at top speed and howling in response.
“You have a BOBCAT as your pet now?” Erik said. “That’s crazy!”
“It’s only a baby bobcat. We’ll build him a cat door so he can come and go as he pleases,” Ragnar said. “Mom said it was okay.”
The young cub lost control of its wide fluffy paws and slid into a wall at the end of the hall. The t
riplets caught up to it and snuggled next to it in a pig-pile . . . or cat-pile, as the case may be. The bobcat’s tongue curled out as it gave a mighty, toothy yawn. The babies yawned too, each showing a single sharp tooth of their own. Sven plugged one of the cub’s ears in his mouth and began sucking happily. He noticed Erik watching him in horrified disbelief and waved bye-bye.
It was time to go home.
* * *
On the way to the airport, Erik and Brunhilde had one last stop to make. They entered the children’s section of the library to return Fanny Fearless Fries a Fish, The Big Book of Fear, and the regular and the toddler versions of The Art of War to Mrs. Harkness.
Brunhilde bowed on one knee and raised the books over her head. “Thank you for lending us these tomes of knowledge. And the Fanny Fearless books. She is quite the character.”
Mrs. Harkness smiled. “You can drop them in the returns slot. I hope you found The Big Book of Fear especially helpful. Did you know I used to have a phobia myself? It’s called bibliophobia.”
Brunhilde quickly paged through the B section. She looked up, brow creased. “The fear of books?”
Mrs. Harkness winked. “Exposure therapy can do wonders, my dears. One has to stick with it, though. I personally found that a single treatment was not enough—only extreme measures worked in my case.”
Brunhilde looked thoughtfully at Erik, who immediately began shaking his head. “Nope, Bru, no, no, no,” he said. “Your measures were extreme enough. We’re counting my race as a victory, don’t you remember, and doesn’t Sun Tzu say There are some roads not to follow, some troops not to strike . . . ?”
They walked out of the library, Erik still trying to make a convincing argument, and Brunhilde pulling out her glittery pen.
Nineteen
The Walnut Rides On
One must howl with the wolves one is among.
—The Lore
Unpacking his suitcase at home, Erik was missing something he’d begun working on during the plane ride. He walked over to his sisters’ room to see if one of them might have seen it. He knocked on the door frame to get Brunhilde’s attention and saw his new red notebook in her hands.
“That’s mine. Can I have it back?” he asked.
Brunhilde ignored him, flipping through the first few pages of Erik’s notebook, the same size and style as her own purple one. She read the headings out loud: “ERIK VS. MOM SIGNING ME UP FOR ACTIVITIES, ERIK VS. THE TEACHER CALLING ON ME IN CLASS, ERIK VS. MR. NUBBINS EVER FINDING ME AGAIN.” She grunted in amusement at her little brother’s attempts to plan combat strategy.
“That’s private? I’d like it back now?” Erik said. He tried to make his voice firm, but his voice insisted this was a good time to speak in nervous questions instead.
Brunhilde kept ignoring him and continued to flip through the mostly unused notebook. She stopped flipping to look at a heading labeled ERIK + MOUNTAIN BIKING. Written underneath was the rune for UNCONQUERABLE. The opposite page had originally been titled ERIK VS. BRUNHILDE MAKING ME DO STUFF, but he’d scratched out replaced part of it , so the new title was ERIK + BRUNHILDE HELPING ME DO STUFF.
Erik took one step across the threshold. If Brunhilde went into her battle stance, he would give up on the notebook and get himself a new one.
Brunhilde looked up, her eyes unreadable. She snapped the notebook closed. “I believe this belongs to you, brother,” she said.
Erik snatched the notebook and scuttled back to his own room.
* * *
Weeks later, Mrs. Sheepflattener called out using her I-know-you-can-hear-me-from-half-a-block-away voice, “Children! Food’s ready! Why isn’t the table set yet?”
Brunhilde and Allyson came in from working with the horses, and Erik joined them in the dining room. One sister handled silverware, the other plates, and Erik took care of napkins and mugs. The table was ready before their parents sat down in their chairs with contented sighs.
“Mom, Mom, Mom, I have news!” Allyson squealed as she took her seat. “Bobby Tamboris came by cheer practice today and asked if I’d go with him to the homecoming dance! Bobby TAMBORIS!”
Their mother said, “Isn’t he one of the boys who work part-time at the feed store? Strong back on that one. Can lift hay bales without a whimper. Seems like a fine choice for a dance partner.”
Brunhilde snorted. “Bobby Tamboris,” she said. “I suppose he is better than that Dylan character from this summer.”
Allyson tossed her hair and smiled. “Oh, Bru, don’t be jealous. I’m sure one of Bobby’s friends would take you to the dance if I asked him.”
“Please do not,” Brunhilde said.
“What if I insisted one of his friends bring you?” Allyson clasped her hands together and flexed her biceps.
Brunhilde met her sister’s eyes. Erik moved his mug out of the way, waiting to see if she’d go for her battle-axe. Instead, Brunhilde said, “Ha! I would like to see any boy withstand the insisting of Allyson Sheepflattener. But I have no time for dancing. Debate team tryouts are next week.”
Erik’s mother said, “Tryouts, that reminds me! Erik, did you go to any of the club tryouts after school?”
“Mom, no,” he moaned.
Allyson looked his way. “Which phobia is it that’s keeping you from the tryouts, Erik? Enissophobia? Atychiphobia? Do you need me to come to the elementary school and do some insisting they let you in?” She flexed her biceps again and showed a new rune. This one said SISTER.
Brunhilde punched one fist into her other hand and asked, “Tell them if they need an assistant coach, I could be available. It seems I am quite good at coaching groups.”
Erik put his face in his hands.
Mrs. Sheepflattener said briskly, “Erik, since you’re not going to be doing piano lessons, you have to find something else to fill your time. Kids must stay busy, Odin knows.”
“I’m not doing piano lessons?” Erik looked up.
“Not anymore. Brunhilde came to me and asserted that she needs your piano time for her own training. She said you didn’t appreciate what Mrs. Loathcraft could teach you, while she could.” Their mother shrugged. “You certainly strain my muscles dragging you in there in each week, so I said yes.”
Erik opened up his mouth, found he didn’t know what to say, and shut it again. Brunhilde leaned toward him and said quietly, “I thought you could find something else to do after school if you did not have piano lessons to face. Something more fun for you. Maybe something involving two wheels?”
Erik still didn’t know what to say. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he did it one more time. In . . . my sister is rescuing me from piano lessons. Out . . . why? In . . . my sister. Out . . . rescuing me.
The phone rang. Technically, it yelled “gaaah!” rather than rang. In Erik’s voice. He let out a confused little eeep as his mother got up to answer it.
“Oh yeah, like what I did with mom’s phone?” asked Allyson. “I programmed her ringtone as your phone-yelp.”
“You recorded me?” Erik said. “Why?”
“I figured it would save us time, since we usually wait for you to yell after the phone rings so we’re all sure it rang. Great idea, right?” She took another heaping forkful of fish chunks.
“As long as no one decides to grab the phone and punch it, I guess it’s okay,” Erik said, thinking of Ragnar.
Their mother came back into the room, face bright. “That was your father’s cousin Sif calling from Miami—they’re planning a family reunion this winter! They said they’ve been taking lessons in something called salsa dancing and they want to teach us the moves. Apparently, they’re as good for the core muscles as the Sheepflattener Stomp-Round from the Lore.”
Allyson said, “Wow, I want to learn that. When are we going?”
Talk turned to what to pack for a winter trip to Miami. The discussion of Erik’s keeping busy was momentarily forgotten.
* * *
Brunhilde’s fingers drummed on
her leg with the relentless beat of a military march. Her mother sat next to her, reading a romance novel.
The door marked STUDIO #3 opened.
A girl with her hair wrapped up in tiny braids walked out of the studio. “Remember to use the metronome every time you practice, Denise,” said Mrs. Loathcraft, waving goodbye. She saw Brunhilde sitting next to Mrs. Sheepflattener, and her face creased into a frown. “Where is Erik?” she asked.
Brunhilde stood and offered her hand. “I am Brunhilde Sheepflattener, sister of Erik.” Mrs. Loathcraft took her hand and shook it cautiously. “I will be taking lessons with you now instead of Erik. He no longer has room in his schedule for your teachings.”
“Hmmph,” said Mrs. Loathcraft. “Do you have any previous musical experience?”
“I like to listen to Wagner’s ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ when I practice hand-to-hand combat. Otherwise, no. But I have not come here to learn piano.”
Mrs. Loathcraft leaned back against the door frame and folded her arms. “Why are you here, then? What do you think I can teach you if not piano?” she asked.
Brunhilde said, “Erik speaks of you in such terrifying terms. He believes you have the power to wither a student’s confidence with one glance, to turn their insides to a quivering mass of icy gel with a single word. I have come to try and learn your ways. This would be invaluable for field hockey games, not to mention debate team tryouts. Are you willing to share your secrets of crushing those who dare to stand before you?”
Mrs. Loathcraft glanced around to see if anyone else was paying attention to their conversation. None of the other parents or children appeared to have overheard. She leaned in closer to Brunhilde and clasped her elbow.
“Come inside, young lady.” The piano teacher’s face gave Brunhilde a happy shiver of anticipation. “I think you have come to the right place.”
“Have fun!” her mother said, waving as the door shut behind them.
Erik vs. Everything Page 15
