The Guardian

by Carol Robi

  To my disappointment however, dad drives on past the small cluster of houses. As we round the bend, I see another small 1750s cottage in the distance. Dad drives up its driveway, overgrown by sprawling grass and bushes, and parks behind a light gray Volkswagen golf. We pour out of the car hurriedly, tired of being cramped together in the car for the whole half hour's drive or so. I look around me, I guess I shall not be meeting any cute boys in the neighborhood. Bummer!

  A man walks up to us, his eyes briefly scouring my face before he shakes our hands. He then rumbles off talking and laughing with the others in rapid Danish, that I give up trying to follow. I instead begin walking around the house. I can still feel the enveloping rich air around me, and I am fighting its effects as hard as I can, not letting it enthrall me as it had during our trip.

  The house is very small, as typical with the simple styles the Scandinavians often embraced in the past. It has a thatched roof, which is in dire need of replacement, and its paint job is in desperate need of a new coating too. It has a simple rectangular shape, and a sharp pitched roof.

  I walk all around it, scrutinizing it, and I am soon back where I started. I catch some shadows, like the once I’d seen during the drive here, standing across the driveway staring at me. I do not dare look up again, not wanting to see them transform in shape like the one I had seen just a short while ago as we were driving.

  I can hear voices from inside the slightly ajar door, and know my dad and his parents are in there talking with the owner's son about the house. I walk over and push open the door, letting myself in.

  The windows are perfectly placed because it is bright inside, and the light gives it an illusion of space. However that is the only positive thing about the little box of a house. As I walk from room to room, I instantly feel claustrophobic. The main door opens to a little entrance hall that leads directly ahead into a small sized kitchen. One door on the wall to the right of the kitchen opens up to a medium sized room of about 25m2. There is also another door on the kitchen's left wall that leads to a smaller room of about 12-15m2.

  Another small door on the adjacent wall leads to a surprisingly spacious bathroom. The facilities are old and stained, and from the smell coming from the room, serious work needs to be done with the plumbing. The walls in all the rooms have chipped painting and irregular protrusions. The floor is irregular, as though sinking in some instances. The windows hold fast, but appear to be very old, and could not possibly keep out the bitter drafts of winter. My father however seems pleased and keeps discussing happily with the other man about what could or could not be worked on.

  Oh gods, he sounds like he wants to buy the dump!

  "Dad," I interrupt him just as he starts asking the man another bunch of questions. "It has only one bedroom," I point out, speaking in English, ignoring the stranger.

  "Don't worry, princess, we can easily divide the larger room on the other side into two rooms." He says heartily.

  Oh no, I think again. Dad loves projects. He wants to buy this house and work on it to try save it, just as he did before when he had travelled to poverty ridden corners of the earth and war torn areas to live among the people and aid them with rebuilding. He probably looks at this house as a charity project that requires his attention, there is absolutely no way I can change his mind now.

  "Dad, I don't like it," I whisper to him quietly, trying my luck again.

  "Caroline when we restore it, you will love it," he says, hugging me with one arm against his chest, before proceeding to talk further with the others over my head. I struggle free against his well-toned arm and walk out of the house, whose stuffy air feels foul and murky.

  When I am out again, I take in a large gulp of the rich heady air, shutting my eyes to let it seep deep into my lungs. I quickly jerk my eyes open, scrambling backwards when I feel the air warming up to temperatures I know not to expect here.

  Right before me is one of the shapeless ghostlike figures, like the ones I had seen earlier in front of my grandparents’ car, staring back at me with its hollow globes that could only be its eyes. I look down on the uneven ground, trying to calm my heart. However, from the even greater increase in temperature of the air around me, I know the creature has taken a step or more towards me.

  I try to turn and run back into the house, but the creature reaches out a part of itself towards my face with what looks like a protozoan limb, that in a split second transforms into a human hand. In my hesitation, long fingers emerge from the limb and clutch my chin hard in place.

  Chapter 7

  I almost scream out in shock, for I have never seen a ghost that could physically touch something. Well, I have also never seen a ghost that had no limbs grow a whole new set. The hand gripping my chin holds it unbelievably fast in place, not allowing me to turn my head or even open my mouth to scream. It forces me to stare at it as it slowly transforms before my eyes, into a tall lean but well-toned figure with cropped dark blonde hair and harsh cold blue eyes.

  Unlike the creature in the dashboard before, his eyes maintained the first color they get and so does his skin. His skin is creamy pale, resembling that of the typical Nordic men, and contrasting the darker skin tone of the dashboard creature earlier. Just like the sculpted sun-prince from earlier, the Viking representation before me is too a picture of perfection. I gasp as powerful large silvery wings suddenly sprout out of his back with just the tiniest hints of light blue at the tips of his wings. Right behind his head, I can make out the hilt of a sword. He taps it lightly with his left hand, as though reassuring himself that it exists, his right hand still holding my chin fast to look up at him. He too is dressed in the dark blue combat suit, just like the other one had on.

  What is going on? Am I going crazy? These aren't ghosts! Ghosts cannot physically touch me! I think in panic, as my heartbeat almost quadruples at my fear. The creature seems to have heard it, and it squeezes my chin even harder until I think he will break my jaw. I look up at him in fear and pain, and the emotion must have registered for he immediately lets go.

  I gasp in deep breaths of air, bending over, as I try to let the sharp pain on my chin recede. I look up to find the cruel god-like creature still looking at me, his face devoid of any emotion or regret at having hurt me.

  Cruel a-hole! I think to myself.

  I feel another surge of energy around me before a pair of tightly clad legs whose feet are tucked snugly in tough military boots, land gracefully and noiselessly beside me. I take a moment to slowly raise my head. The only other figure I know to be clad in that combat suit, is the creature from the dashboard. When I finally look up at the two faces before me, my suspicions are immediately confirmed.

  The two creatures stand tall before me, in every way as similar as similar can be. They mirror each other in every aspect, the way they stand, the way they are dressed, their build, height, muscle tone and most probably even their body weights. However the emotions their faces convey are as different as two faces of a coin; one adorns a warm welcoming smile, while the other's lips form a hard line, his face devoid of any emotion. One has sharp icy cold eyes, while the other boasts warm welcoming eyes. Regardless, they both look like ruthless warriors, ghost warriors that could touch me, and therefore could harm me whenever they want to. Ghost warriors with long menacing swords and powerful wings. Every inch of my body screams at me to flee, run as fast as I can in the opposite direction. But where to? No way could dad and the others fend off an attack from these two because for starters, they cannot see them. Maybe they are just interested in me, so there is no need to involve the others in whatever is fated for me.

  The sun-prince, as I call him, raises his hand to my face, distracting me with his welcoming smile and the warm eyes I feel I know so well. He rubs my chin gently, where it hurts from the second angel’s touch. He then drops his hand, rapping rapidly in a foreign language.

  The Viking-prince's touch replaces his. His touch unexpectedly burns my skin. I try turning my face away from his touch
, but his hold is firm and commanding. Realizing just how futile my attempts are, I relax my tense muscles and allow the heat palpitating from his silken touch to seep into my skin.

  I then notice something weird. As he touches my skin, I swear I could understand a word or two of whatever they are saying in the breathy light flatter of the foreign language they are engaged in.

  "..Hurt her...”

  "..Gentle...”

  "..Maybe...”

  The words do not make sense however, because he keeps brushing my chin and letting go, and thereby interrupting me from understanding full sentences of whatever they are saying.

  I get a crazy idea, and next time he swipes at my chin, I make as though to grab his hand and hold it in place. He however moves so fast, even though I have caught him by surprise, drawing his sword with one hand and wrapping his fingers around my neck with the other.

  I am now so scared that I can taste blood in my mouth. No one is talking anymore. The sun-prince studies me with a steady unemotional stare, not moving a muscle; while the Viking-prince stares down at my face, cold mistrust etched clearly across his face.

  Now I’ll surely die, I think. I try opening my mouth slowly, swallowing to wet my suddenly dry tongue.

  “What do we do with her?” The meaning of the unidentifiable words he says float into my mind, as his fingers remain wrapped around my neck. I doubt they would understand me when I speak, but there is definitely no harm in trying, considering how close that double edged sword is to slitting my throat.

  "Spare me?" I croak out.

  Their eyes drop to even colder depths when I say this. Please work, I think pleading to whoever is listening up there. Please if you exist - gods, spirits, anybody - make them understand me.

  "Please spare me." I try again. They continue looking at me with steady unblinking gazes, their emotions unchanging.

  "You understand Leshon Ha-Kodesh?" The Viking-prince asks coldly, in his foreign sing-song language, yet his words register meaning deep in my head, like a language I had learnt before but have long forgotten.

  The sun-prince has not moved a muscle, his gaze staring me down. I momentarily panic, fearing that I might pee my pants, like I used to do whenever I got bullied on the school's playground in first grade.

  "No, I don't know what language that is. But I can understand you somehow. When you touch me...” I say puzzled.

  "Do you understand me?" I ask cautiously. None of them even blinks, so I have no positive response.

  "If you understand, please stop hurting me. You are grabbing my neck too tightly." I direct this to the Viking-prince, and he immediately eases the hand on my neck, though he continues to hold me in the same fatal position.

  I guess they do understand me too.

  “What are you?”

  "My name is Caroline," I say slowly. "Please don't hurt me."

  "What are you, Caroline?" the Viking-prince mouths out, his sword moving even dangerously closer to my neck.

  "A girl?" Is the stupid thing I manage to think of saying questioningly, fear flowing through every fiber of my being.

  "Are you the portal’s guardian?"

  "I... I don't think so.. I am just Caroline," I stammer in answer to his bizarre question.

  "Caroline?" My dad calls emerging from the door of the house.

  Oh no! I think, please don't hurt him. In speeds definitely faster than light, for it wasn't even visible, except for the definite changes in the energy in the air, the two warriors must have run into the clumps of trees across the narrow road.

  I almost stumble forward at the shock of the quick release of my neck.

  "Yeah, dad," I say straightening up and forcing a smile his way.

  "What do you think? Do you hate it that much?" He asks, unsure of himself. My heart is still beating fast from the adrenalin of the recent activities, but I concentrate on my father's face before me.

  "It is cheap," he adds coaxingly. I know he needs this house, needs a project to work on, something to save, just to keep his sanity. So I smile up at him assuredly.

  "Let's take it," I say encouragingly, "just as long as you promise to soon make it livable." His face beams up at me.

  "It shall be fun renovating it, princess. You just wait and see," he says happily. He then follows the seller around the garden, tailed by my grandparents as they discuss the grounds and its amenities.

  I turn towards the road, to look for the two princes, as I call them. I don't see them. Are they gone? I ask myself. But then I hear the low wisps, sounds like a gentle wind rustling against leaves, but I know that that's not it. For it sounds like a whisper of the language, shon ka something, that I had just heard them speak. Only now I do not understand what is being said. I only understand them when I am in physical contact with one of them.

  The adults then round up back at the driveway, shake hands, and we begin loading ourselves into the car again. As we drive away, I look behind me to see if the creatures are following me, but nothing seems amiss. The rich air still clings on me, begging me to inhale it deep and lose myself in it like before. But I am now forewarned. Both times that I have lost myself into its thrall, unexplainable scary stuff has happened to me - shadowy spirits turning into human-like creatures with wings. I am definitely not letting it happen again. I stay attentive the whole drive, even after the air thins out into the normal crispy summer air with a light breeze. I embrace the calm that settles in me as we crawl onto my grandparents' driveway.

  Sleeps comes hard that night, after hours of my staring into the dark ceiling, wondering just what mess I’ve walked into here.

  Chapter 8

  "Dad please, come on!" I shout in frustration, banging the stupid door almost off its hinges behind me.

  Dad is insisting that I go to school this morning. He played me like a silly child, promising me all along that should the morning of the first day of school come, and I still felt strongly against going, he would let me stay home. Yet here he is insisting that I ought to go to school. I try relax while leaning against the door, inhaling deeply.

  "Caroline," he calls from outside the shut door. "It never gets better, even if you keep postponing the day you should start at your new school. Just go and get over with it, princess."

  "You promised!" I choke up bitterly.

  "I know," he replies, "and believe it or not, I have considered it this morning. And I still think you should go to school." He insists in his quiet but firm manner. I bang the back of my head against the door in defeat, for I know he has won. How could I refuse now without coming off as very childish?

  "Your grandfather will drive you," he adds softly. "Have a great day at school dear," he finishes, before his footsteps begin fading away. I yank the door open and run after him.

  "Dad!" I call, and when he turns, I fly into his hands, burying my head against his neck, my feet not touching the ground.

  "I won't fit in," I whisper softly in anguish.

  "Yes you will, Caroline. There are many non-ethnic Danes in the school," he insists as he rubs my back comfortingly, before kissing my cheek.

  "Hakuna matata, eh?” He says, placing me back on my feet.

  “Easy for you to say!” I return with a frown, and he chuckles.

  “Be good, be on time, and cheer up!" He calls out as he unchains his city bike hurriedly before riding off. I turn back into the house with an uneasy feeling deep in my stomach.

  I miss my mother. She would have understood me better. I miss New York, the anonymity one often feels as they walk down its streets or in the crowded school halls, blanketed by so many other individuals, most of them even clamoring for attention, hence benefitting those like me seeking invisibility.

  How many students would be in my new school? A hundred? Less? How many in my classes alone? I feel the familiar bands of fear encroaching my chest from all sides.

  I rush into the kitchen, bumping into my grandfather, whom I clutch tightly and look pleadingly up into his eyes. He shakes his head i
n response, denying the request that I haven't voiced out yet.

  "Please, granddad, please don't take me to school," I beg tears welling in my eyes. "Please," I break into sobs. The poor old man looks at me helplessly, before he rests my head on his shoulder.

  "It will be okay, Caroline," he cajoles me softly.

  "No, it won't!" I cry out.

  "Okay, listen. Let us go to school and finish the paperwork. And if you still want to come back home, you can come back with me," the old man says softly while rubbing the wild curls at the top of my head.

  I nod in agreement, to his compromise, and rush off to my room to change into a pair of denim shorts, a green tank top and a grey sweatshirt.

  I rush to the kitchen to grab an apple, and sticking my feet into my red converse shoes at the entrance. I then rush out and seat on the bonnet of the car. Grandpa walks out of the house slowly, with a bemused look on his face.

  "Shan't you have any breakfast?"

  "Why should I, when I know I will be coming back home with you right after registration?" I ask, smiling up at him. He shakes his head at my stubbornness as he slides into the driver's seat.

  "Should you go to school tomorrow, the bus stops here every thirteen over, and forty two over the hour," grandfather says, pointing out at the small bus stop across the road.

  "It will take you to the main bus station in town, taking about fifteen minutes as it does not take a direct route. Once there, you should change buses and pick number 502 that goes to Sønderbirk. Most students at the station will do the same, so you can just follow them if you get confused. You will know at what stop to get off the bus, because again many students will alight there, as there is an elementary school right across the road from your school. But just in case you are unsure, feel free to ask the bus driver," he explains further, and I nod again in answer.