by Kristie Cook
Since it was pitch black, I couldn’t see what I was running towards, and I certainly didn’t see the fissures beginning to form in the dirt beneath my Nikes. My size six sneaker slid into one and I could hear the crack of my ankle breaking before I hit the damp earth. The chasm was getting bigger and soon my whole leg slipped through. My fingernails clung to the soil as it separated from itself, and I felt the chill creep over the ground as the terrible frost settled like a blanket onto everything it could reach. I started to shake—it would be death by freezing, then. But I knew chilled human wouldn’t be the worst thing the wolf and snake had eaten that day.
“Earth to Kristia! Hello? Are you even listening?” I rubbed my eyes and focused on the frowning face of my best friend since kindergarten. A sprightly brunette, Ardis was everything I wasn’t—adventurous, perky, self-confident. And at the moment, highly irritated.
“Sorry.” I shook off the remnants of last night’s bad dream. Ardis Behrman didn’t often grace our hometown of Nehalem, Oregon. Three hundred residents and a solitary stoplight didn’t hold much excitement for a girl studying acting at NYU. I treasured any conversation we had that didn’t require text or Skype.
“Vision?” She cocked her head.
“Hardly. Just tired. Nightmare last night.”
“The weird one about the animals hunting you down?” Ardis wrinkled her nose.
“That’s the one.” My favorite grandmother’s dark stories from the North were never far from my subconscious. I never understood how any woman in her right mind could lovingly recount the end of the mythological Norse world to an eight-year-old girl. Mormor always had a wicked sense of humor, so I liked to think her intentions were good. Or maybe she suffered from a touch of the crazy. The fact that, at eighteen, I still had vivid nightmares about Ragnarok; well, that spoke more about my own sensitivities than anything else. They were just stories.
“That dream’s just creepy, Kristia.”
“Tell me about it.”
“So.” Ardis rested her hands on the table. The metallic blue sparkles on her nails caught the light of the coffee shop where we’d had countless heart-to-hearts. “What’s new in Nehalem?”
I stopped just short of rolling my eyes. “Good one Ardis.” Nothing changed around here but the weather, and even that was freakishly consistent.
“And the University of the Pacific Northwest?”
“You mean High School, Part Deux?”
“C’mon, it can’t be that bad.”
“You do realize you’re the only member of our graduating class who doesn’t go there, right? The only one who isn’t going to end up married to someone they’ve known since kindergarten. And spend eternity working in the boring log mill or tourist traps.” It would be the latter for me. My parents’ antique shop was popular with the summer crowd and I was expected to begin fulltime work when I graduated. Not exactly the stuff of dreams.
“If you’re that bored, don’t just sit around waiting for something to happen to you—go out and grab it.”
“It’s not that easy,” I mumbled. Ardis was one of those people to whom good things came naturally. She didn’t understand that life didn’t just fall into place for the rest of us.
I glanced up as our waitress set two steaming mugs on our table with a little too much force. I raised my eyebrows. “Is everything all right today, Susan?” My voice strained with the effort of false nicety. In our twelve years of school together, Susan had always treated me like a social pariah. Clearly nothing had changed since graduation. I may not have been well bred, but I was well raised. I pasted on my best fake smile, though after enduring a lifetime of whispers and stares I had a very low tolerance for rudeness. It was my absolute pet peeve.
I held Susan’s glare with my own pleasant look until she scurried back to the kitchen, obviously uncomfortable. Well, I was used to that.
“Sorry, what were you saying? You don’t think it’s easy to change your life? You only think that because you’ve never tried.” Ardis sipped impatiently at her latte, the unofficial beverage of our rain-drenched town. “Look, Kristia, you’re my best friend and I think you rock. But is sitting around Nehalem for the rest of your life really going to make you happy? Really?” Score one, Behrman.
The minute she said it I was transported from the rainy-small-town coffee shop to a dreary house on the edge of Nehalem.
Rain fell outside the thin windows, and the air was damp with the faint scent of mildew. A cleaning caddy sat at my feet—judging from the smell of the bleach, I must have just scrubbed the toilets—and I sorted laundry while the television droned in the background. When the boredom consumed me, I crossed to a coffee table where I idly fingered my one indulgence in an otherwise uneventful life: my subscription to Travel Magazine. The cover boasted an Irish castle sitting in a brilliant green field of clovers.
My heart tugged—in my vision I was thirty years old, and I’d never even been on an airplane. I forced myself back to the coffee shop, where Ardis was watching me closely.
“What did you see?”
“Absolutely nothing.” I shook my head. I was resolute. My life was not going to turn out that way. It was one vision that could never come true. I drew a breath. I was eighteen years old. Time to choose the path I wanted my life to take. There was a whole world out there—what was keeping me from living in it? From living, period? “I have three years of college left. I’m not spending it here. Not anymore.”
“Awesome,” Ardis nodded her approval. “So what are you gonna do?”
“I’m …” I was at a loss. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Well …” Then it came to me. “Got it! UPN has study abroad. The deadline isn’t for another two weeks. I’ll spend sophomore year somewhere totally different—somewhere people don’t know anything about me.”
“Bravo.” Ardis clapped loudly, to Susan’s chagrin. She glared at us from behind the counter. “So where do you want to go?”
I had to think. Now that I’d made the decision to leave the country, where should I go? I thought about the book on my nightstand—a Jane Austen classic. Those ladies seemed to be enjoying themselves, in their own angsty way. They certainly had a good time romping through the English Countryside. There was my answer. Once I’d made up my mind, I pictured something altogether different.
I was on a big, fancy jet, flying towards Europe. A flight attendant handed me a coke with a lemon wedge, and I stared out the window at the endless, green meadows passing beneath. The businessman to my left read the Wall Street Journal, and the one across the aisle buried his nose in the London Times.
Oh, crimeney. What had I gotten into now?
“So where are you going?” Like always, Ardis glossed right over my little mind trip. Bless her heart.
“England. No, Wales.” A few miles closer to home might make it seem a little less scary. I dropped my head in my hands. Darned hallucinations. I hadn’t had one in months, and I’d just had two in as many minutes. It was with no small amount of pleasure that I took the visions back.
The three hundred townsfolk of Nehalem whispered about my “handicap” when they thought I wasn’t listening—actually, it was a mental problem. It was generally accepted that I was two trees short of a forest. Thanks to some glitch in my brain, I saw random flashes of the future against my will. I’d been in two minor car accidents, failed four midterm exams, and had to avoid competitive sports entirely, all because I saw stuff at lousy times. This wouldn’t have been so much of a disability if I could have seen the winning lotto numbers, or even just the location of the radar-cops who hid along the 101. But to date, my premonitions had yielded zero useful tidbits. I saw the mundane, ranging from my mom doing a load of laundry to Ardis painting her toes fire-engine red. I was the world’s most useless psychic.
“Wales it is then.” Ardis nodded her head firmly. “Now we just have to make sure you actually get on that plane.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, let me th
ink, Miss Art History major—because that’s not the perfect degree to take over the family antique shop or anything.” Ardis jabbed me with a sparkly fingernail.
“It just so happens that I like art.” I did.
“True or false? You come home every weekend to study instead of staying on campus and actually having a good time.”
“I have a good time at home!” My protest fell on deaf ears.
“True or false? You’ve literally never been more than ninety miles from the spot you were born.”
“Well that’s just because”
“Buzz, time’s up!” Ardis giggled. “Kristia Homebody Tostenson, you win one personal escort to the airport to make sure you actually do something exciting for once in your life!”
“Fine,” I nudged her with my boot. “But you’re going to miss me when I’m gone.”
“You know it.”
***
Four months and one very bumpy plane ride later, I was seriously questioning this whole big-adventure plan. I was thousands of miles from home, hurtling through the air in a bouncing box. How exactly was this a good idea?
“Fasten your seatbelts, and return your seats and tray tables to their full and upright positions as we begin our descent into London, Heathrow. Weather is a pleasant fifty-five degrees with a light rain.” Thank heavens. The turbulent flight was almost over. “Seat up, Miss,” tusked the flight attendant, and I adjusted my chair guiltily.
“Sorry Ma’am,” I murmured to her retreating back, small-town manners a compulsive response. I leaned over to peer at the approaching countryside. Green pastures dotted with tiny sheep stretched as far as I could see, with farmhouses lining the landscape at sporadic intervals. The green was a stark contrast to the gray of the sky. I was staring down the barrel of a very soggy year.
This suited me just fine. I liked rain. The summer sun did not favor the pale. Besides, cold weather gave me an excuse to sit in my favorite reading chair with my beverage of choice—Earl Grey, one milk, two sugars. As we bounced through the sky, I tried to focus on what kinds of tea they’d have at Cardiff University in Wales, my home for the next nine months. Lots of fancy ones, I was sure. If I survived this flight, I’d get a whole year in Europe and a shot at a fresh start. Nobody knew me at Cardiff—for the first time ever, I wouldn’t be Crazy Kristia, the poor, weird girl who saw things. Maybe for once, I could just be another coed. It was my fervent wish to blend into the scenery.
I took a deep breath to soothe my sudden panic as the flight attendants opened the doors and my fellow passengers rose to exit the airplane. The great unknown suddenly seemed very scary.
***
I stood across the street from the Heathrow bus queue and glanced at the paper in my hand. According to the very detailed notes I’d written back at my desk in Nehalem, I had thirty-three hours until I boarded a train bound for Cardiff via Paddington Station. Thirty-three hours to see the British Museum, Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, and Shakespeare’s Globe. To eat bangers and mash, whatever those were. To mind the gap. I jumped back onto the curb as a truck careened past, honking its horn—to avoid getting killed by the traffic driving on the other side of the road.
Oops. My cheeks flushed as I looked down, now seeing the bold letters painted on the street, directing me to LOOK RIGHT. Oh well, at least I wasn’t the first tourist to make that mistake. I crossed the street with care and boarded the bus headed into town, practically pressing my nose to the window until the bus stopped three blocks from my hotel.
With thirty-two hours to go, I dropped my one suitcase in the modest hotel room and ran a brush through the tangled mess formerly known as my hair. I tied a charcoal scarf around my neck and raced downstairs into the brisk fall air. Outside, I breathed in the unfamiliar scent of exhaust fumes. It was the first new smell I could remember in a long time, and I fell instantly in love.
The buildings were so tall, the sidewalks so busy. Vendors pushed their carts, and big, black taxicabs paused to pick up passengers. The men had serious faces, and the women were so glamorous, sashaying in their stylish heels, with big handbags swinging at their sides. People rushed past the storefronts without seeing the take-out restaurants, Internet cafes, and coffee shops. The caffeine trade was thriving here, too. This tiny bit of familiarity was comforting.
With thirty-one hours and forty-five minutes to go, I climbed onto the double-decker bus touting FULL CITY TOUR in block letters. My scarf caught on the door, and I tugged until I set it free.
“Welcome, love. Ticket?” the bus driver asked. I fumbled in my purse until my fingers grasped the paper I’d printed out back home. “Excellent. Have a nice one, love.” I climbed the spiral staircase to the top of the bus and sat in the open-top. The air was just cool enough that I was glad I’d worn my heavier coat. Although I tried to listen to the tour guide, I was too excited to focus. I was riding on a double-decker bus. In London. This was surreal.
My plan was to ride around the city so I could tell Ardis I’d seen it all, but when we pulled up to the British Museum, the art called to me. I all but ran down the spiral staircase, thanking the driver as I jumped out of the bus. I caught myself just before I fell face first onto the street.
“Cheers, love,” called the bemused driver. I dusted myself off and waved over my shoulder.
“Cheers,” I muttered amicably as I checked for damage. All limbs intact. No blood. I wasn’t always that lucky. I walked as carefully as my excitement allowed and stopped inside the museum. This place held more art and artifacts than I ever could have imagined. Where to begin?
Thankfully, intuition took over. With determined steps, I strode to the Upper Level, taking in the sea of sculptures as I made my way along the corridors. Upstairs, my eye was drawn to something small and silver. It glinted in the overhead lights, a sparkling contrast to the worn pieces surrounding it. Without breaking my stride, I made a ninety-degree turn and walked toward the small case filled with coins and old jewelry. I squinted at the tiny pieces, focusing on each in turn until I came to the simplest one. The silver charm looked like it could have been worn on a necklace. It had the likeness of an eagle in the center, with curving waves making a circle along its borders. The symbol of Odin, Father of the Norse Gods—I recognized it from my grandmother’s stories.
I tugged fondly at the silver hammer I wore at my neck—a replica of MjÖlnir, the hammer of Odin’s son, Thor. It was my most treasured hand-me-down from Mormor. She’d worn it every day and passed it to me when I graduated from high school. Right before she died. Mormor’s charm was about the same size as the one in the case, and it was exactly the same shade of silver. The card beside the charm said it was found in Scandinavia and was probably made in the Viking Age.
As I stared at the case, I felt the familiar sensation that needled me day and night back in Nehalem. My gut tugged, confirming my suspicion—I was being watched. If the prickling at the back of my neck hadn’t tipped me off to the stranger’s presence, the positively massive shadow darkening the case would have done the trick. It only took me a second to pivot on the heel of my favorite black riding boot, but a second was plenty of time for my heart to leap soundly into my throat.
My eye-level hit at his chest where a dark sweater barely concealed the muscles of a well-defined torso. His thumbs rested casually in his pockets, and his arms strained against the sweater. I looked up, and up some more, until I finally reached his face. He stood a whole head above even the tallest visitor in the museum, and I was ashamed to admit, my jaw opened just a little as I took in his features.
A shock of tousled, blond hair rested atop an exquisitely-sculpted face. He had eyes as blue as a cloudless sky, cheekbones as chiseled as pictures I’d seen of the Alps, and lips the pale pink of my grandmother’s roses. His jaw was square and strong with a hint of stubble, and his nose looked like it was lifted off a Roman statue. It was more beauty than any one person should have.
Heaven almighty, was this guy for real?
Alt
hough Mormor had done her darndest to raise a lady, right then I was entertaining some very unladylike thoughts. I struggled to mind myself, determined to do her proud. She wouldn’t have fallen apart at this gooey feeling of familiarity. In my hormone-addled state, I could swear I knew this guy from somewhere.
Yeah, right. If I’d met him before, I would certainly remember it. I could pretty much guarantee that nothing this attractive had ever come through Oregon.
I waited a whole half-minute so I wouldn’t be obvious, disproving Ardis’ accusation that patience wasn’t my strong suit; then I snuck a quick glance. The stranger stared back at me with a look so intense I wondered if he was trying to read my thoughts. Not that I could have formed any right then. I forced myself to inhale. It would be just like me to meet the man of my dreams and pass out cold before he could ask for my number.
He offered a wry smile, so brilliant even in its offhandedness that I had to remind myself to breathe again. The old Kristia, the one Nehalem had written off as the Village Crazy, would have slunk out of the museum before she could embarrass herself in front of such a hunk. But this was the new me—the me who’d moved five thousand miles from home to experience adventure for the first time ever. I was determined to see how far this newfound spirit would take me. I lifted my chin and gave him my most winning smile. What did I have to lose? My hand raised in what I hoped was a casual wave, and I managed to squeak out my greeting. “Hi.”
The stranger opened his perfect, pale lips as if he were about to speak, then closed them. His eyes dropped to the hollow of my neck, where my necklace rested calmly despite my violent pulse. I touched the old-fashioned hammer self-consciously, feeling its familiar coolness. His eyes dimmed with sadness, then anger. He glared at my necklace, his gaze terrifying in its ferocity. I took a step back.
Suddenly, I was in a forest, sprawled across the dusty earth. Pain overwhelmed me, and I had trouble focusing. Two men fought in the distance. One, dark-haired and wiry, waved his hand. Sparks shot from his open palm. They struck the broadshouldered, blond Adonis standing ten feet away, knocking him to the ground. He stood and shook himself, charging at Sparky. His blond hair was a blur as he leaped on his opponent, fists flying in a frightening display of aggression. He was beating the thinner man senseless; any normal person would be dead by now. But the wiry man just laughed, the crazy sound filling the forest with its cruelty.
