Frankie Fish and the Viking Fiasco

by Peter Helliar

  The bear was growling louder now, and took another step closer.

  Sweating, Drew loaded his slingshot and pulled the elastic back. ‘I’ve always liked bears,’ he said, his voice shaking like a leaf on a trampoline. ‘They’re in my top three animals, just behind rhinos and mermaids. I once won a drawing contest in grade two for drawing of a bear riding a rocketship …’

  ‘Why are you telling me this now?’ Frankie hissed.

  ‘Because I think it’s grossly unfair that I am about to be eaten alive by a bear, considering all the hard work I’ve dedicated to them!’

  The bear suddenly tilted its head, and the boys gasped – but it was only looking at the Sonic Suitcase. It had quite clearly never seen anything like it before.

  ‘Come on, bear,’ said Frankie through gritted teeth. ‘You don’t need a suitcase.’

  ‘Yeah, what are you going to pack, bear? You don’t even wear clothes,’ Drew said in hushed tones.

  Frankie knew he needed to set the coordinates into the Sonic Suitcase, but it was like his body had turned to marble.

  Just then, a branch cracked somewhere nearby, and the bear turned its head. It must have suddenly remembered that snacking would spoil its dinner, because after a beat it began ambling off in the opposite direction.

  ‘Thank goodness!’ whispered Frankie. His heart felt like a shaken-up can of Coke waiting to explode.

  Drew lowered his slingshot. ‘Let’s get out of here, pronto, just in case that bear changes its mind.’

  And with that, Frankie unbuckled the clips on the Sonic Suitcase. They were a little stiff and made a loud snap-SNAP! noise that echoed through the forest.

  Frankie had never noticed how loud the buckles were before, but maybe he had never been in a place that was dead quiet while trying to evade the attention of a big brown bear.

  At that moment, the bear halted in its tracks, the fur on its back raising up in alarm. It wheeled around and faced the boys again, this time giving an angry, full-throated roar. If there was one thing this bear hated, it was loud, unexpected noises.

  ‘Hurry, hurry!’ Drew squealed.

  Frankie started typing madly. ‘The keyboard buttons are jammed,’ he screamed. ‘They have mud in them.’

  The bear reared onto its hind legs and it was only then that the boys saw the real size of the enormous beast. Looking as tall as a block of fur-covered apartments, it began lumbering back towards them like some hairy, walking nightmare.

  As Frankie tried to wipe away the mud from the keys with his T-shirt, Drew loaded a yellow paintball into his slingshot.

  ‘Sorry, Mr or Mrs Bear,’ he whispered, aiming at the bear’s belly.

  Pop!

  As always, Drew’s shot was right on target, stunning the bear with a small explosion of colour. Drew followed up with a red and a blue shot, all hitting the bear in the tummy.

  Pop! Pop!

  Drew didn’t feel great about firing paintballs at the bear, but he knew that the paint wouldn’t kill it. He just needed to buy them some time.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Drew panted.

  ‘One of the keys is stuck. We need it to get home –’

  The bear was now angry. VERY ANGRY. It let out a furious roar that sent chills down Frankie’s spine, and began pounding towards the boys as they quivered inside the belt-circle.

  ‘Just get us anywhere away from this very point in time,’ yelled Drew.

  ‘OK, this will have to do,’ Frankie yelped, mashing the Sonic Suitcase’s keyboard and hitting the space bar.

  ‘Happy travels!’ Drew called to the furious bear as it leapt towards them – just as he and Frankie disappeared, yet again.

  The trip was short in almost every conceivable way.

  Frankie had been in such a rush to escape the bear’s clutches that he wasn’t completely sure where he’d told the Sonic Suitcase to take them. A monkey with a blindfold could have hit the keys more accurately in that hurried moment.

  This time, the usual stretching and craziness of time travel felt like it lasted a microsecond.

  Slightly dazed, Frankie sat up and looked around. ‘This looks like where we were before,’ he said.

  ‘It’s exactly where we were before,’ exclaimed Drew. ‘There’s that weird old tree that looks like your grandad.’

  Frankie looked where Drew was pointing. He had to admit that the gnarled old tree did look a little like Grandad Fish.

  ‘Um, what’s that funny French word Miss Merryweather uses every time we get in trouble?’ Drew asked.

  ‘Déjà vu,’ replied Frankie. ‘And yep, it’s déjà vu all over again.’

  Thankfully, this time there was no bear in sight.

  ‘I aimed to arrive about a couple of hours later,’ said Frankie. ‘I figured the bear would have moved on by then.’

  ‘Well played, Frankie,’ said Drew, applauding. ‘Hang on, where’s the belt?’

  Frankie looked around, but the belt had long gone. ‘Oops. I think the bear stole it.’

  Drew groaned. ‘Stupid bear doesn’t even wear pants.’

  ‘Yeah, stupid bear!’ Frankie said. ‘Oh well, hopefully we won’t need it. Let’s find some Viking gear and get out of here, fast.’

  Despite narrowly surviving a bear attack, Frankie hadn’t lost sight of the real prize here: winning Best Costume at Lisa Chadwick’s fifth annual Halloween Parade. So, after carefully cleaning the mud off the Sonic Suitcase’s keyboard in case they needed to make another hasty escape, the boys headed deeper into the forest, their hearts set on finding authentic Viking clobber.

  As they walked with their hard plastic horned helmets jolting around on their heads, something struck Drew. ‘It’s so quiet. A mouse could fart back home and I reckon I would hear it,’ he giggled.

  Perhaps it was the adrenalin still rushing through their bodies, but Frankie couldn’t help but giggle too. Laughter is contagious, just like the flu. The more one boy giggled, the more the other giggled. Louder and louder it got, until Frankie and Drew were literally rolling on the ground laughing.

  Their laughter came to an abrupt halt, however, when a voice reverberated through the trees. It was a voice that spoke in a language completely unfamiliar to the boys’ young ears.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Frankie asked Drew.

  ‘Of course I did. I’m right here.’ The boys got up from their ROFL positions and looked around like meerkats searching for a taxi.

  ‘Hello!’ Frankie half-yelled, half-whispered. ‘Is anyone out there?’

  There was no reply.

  The clouds darkened overhead. In the distance, lightning lit up the sky and thunder crashed.

  Frankie and Drew picked up the pace and pressed onwards, the thunder crashing even louder than before and the lightning illuminating the sky in dazzling bursts. Then, as they rounded a bend in the path that led to a clearing, they came face-to-face with the owner of the voice they’d heard before.

  Or face-to-knee, to be more accurate.

  This person was enormous – like a man with another man sitting on his shoulders. He was a mountain of a man, with a ginger beard as thick as the Amazon rainforest. He had what appeared to be a bear’s pelt wrapped around his shoulders; the rest of his outfit was a curious mix of chain and linen.

  ‘That guy is huge,’ Frankie whispered to Drew through chattering teeth.

  ‘Yeah – you would need a chairlift just to reach his chin,’ Drew whispered back. And then he did a double-take. ‘Hang on … he’s not even a grown-up. Look at his face! He’s got pimples. He’s a teenager.’

  ‘But he’s got a beard!’ exclaimed Frankie, a little jealously. Frankie himself was nowhere near being ready to shave, even though he was twelve. He’d once woken up and thought he’d grown a luxuriant moustache overnight, but it turned out the cat had fallen asleep beside him with its tail across his face.

  The most ominous thing confronting the two time travellers was that this boy-mountain was carrying an axe. An extremely large one wi
th an intricately carved handle and a gleaming double-sided blade. A sharp blade that was dripping with deep red liquid.

  And if that wasn’t bad enough, a moment later Frankie noticed that the oversized man-boy had the same blood-red substance on his hands – and smeared across his face …

  The Boy-Mountain looked at Frankie and Drew just as curiously (although with considerably less terror) as they were regarding him.

  He took a step towards them. Instinctively, Frankie and Drew took a step back, convinced that this might be one of the final movements of their young lives.

  Then the Boy-Mountain made a gesturing motion with his hand. Drew took the unauthorised step of making exactly the same gesture back.

  ‘It’s been nice knowing you, Drew Bird,’ hissed Frankie, as the Boy-Mountain raised an enormous foot. But he didn’t step towards Drew. He stepped back. Frankie and Drew were as confused as a rhino waking up on a tram. ‘Maybe my hand movement scared him?’ whispered Drew.

  The Boy-Mountain didn’t look scared, though. Not. One. Little. Bit. He did, however, look slightly less murderous than before. It was like he was waiting for Frankie and Drew to make a move.

  ‘He wants us to step towards him,’ realised Frankie.

  ‘My mum told me never to step towards a stranger in the woods,’ hissed Drew, ‘especially if they have an axe with blood dripping from it.’

  But the Boy-Mountain repeated his hand gesture until, reluctantly, Frankie and Drew stepped forward. Immediately, the Boy-Mountain thumped his feet on the ground and, without really knowing why they were doing it, the boys copied.

  And then the most remarkable thing happened. Through that ginger forest of a beard, the corners of the Boy-Mountain’s mouth curled upwards into a smile. The boys looked at each other and grinned. Frankie felt like a butterfly that has left the cocoon and looked in a mirror.

  ‘I think he’s … dancing with us?’ he murmured.

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Drew, snickering. ‘And it’s the way my aunties dance at weddings.’

  The next time the Boy-Mountain made a move, the boys promptly copied him. The Boy-Mountain dropped his axe and roared with laughter, almost loudly enough to drown out the thunder claps that were still ringing out around them.

  If you’d asked Frankie and Drew a week ago what they thought Vikings liked to do for fun, dancing would have never appeared on the list. Yet here they were, dancing with the very first Viking they had ever met.

  Finally the Boy-Mountain clapped his hands together, as if to announce that the dancing was finished. He then spoke rapidly in his own language, patting his chest and pointing at Frankie and Drew.

  ‘Um … we don’t speak Viking,’ Frankie gulped. ‘Only English.’ And then he remembered the translator padlock Grandad had given him. This was the perfect moment to try it out! Quickly, he put down the suitcase so he could unfasten the padlock from its handle. Then he turned the key in the padlock’s base. Just like it had done back in the (formerly) Forbidden Shed, the padlock began to hum.

  The Boy-Mountain again thumped his chest and spoke. The padlock crackled like a radio, and Frankie’s heart sank. Maybe it couldn’t cope with this ancient language? But then the padlock hummed a little louder and a voice came through the clip at the top. ‘I am Birger.’

  ‘That’s your name? Birger?’ Frankie asked the Viking excitedly. He saw the Boy-Mountain’s eyes bulge as the padlock took his question and translated it into ancient Norse. He looked as amazed as an owl at its own surprise birthday party.

  For a moment Frankie was nervous that the Boy-Mountain might run away from the weird device, or even attempt to destroy it. But then he seemed to get over his shock. He grinned broadly, nodded and copied Drew Bird’s merry jig from moments earlier.

  Frankie patted his own chest, then pointed to his best mate. ‘I’m Frankie Fish,’ he said, ‘and this is Drew Bird.’

  Birger listened to the translation, then pointed to the boys. ‘Frankiifisk,’ he repeated slowly. ‘Dru-børd.’

  Then, quite suddenly, he turned and strode over to what looked like a pile of brambles at the edge of the clearing.

  ‘Uh – what is he doing?’ asked Drew.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ replied Frankie anxiously. He couldn’t help noticing that Birger had picked up his axe again. Maybe he was wiping the blood off it so that it would be nice and clean when he used it on them?

  A few minutes later, as the thunder petered out, Birger strode back – his hand full of something dripping red that he held out towards Frankie and Drew.

  ‘Are those tiny brains?’ squeaked Drew nervously, examining the squishy objects in Birger’s hands.

  ‘No,’ said Frankie slowly, ‘I think they’re … berries?’

  When Birger heard the translated word he nodded vigorously and spoke rapidly – too rapidly for the padlock to cope. It only managed a few words here and there.

  ‘Yes … berries … used … axe to cut … brambles.’ Frankie felt a flood of relief. ‘So that’s not blood on your axe and your face?’ he said.

  Birger frowned as the padlock translated, and for a moment Frankie was worried he’d made the Viking angry. But then Birger threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘Not blood! Juice! Here … try!’

  Frankie and Drew helped themselves to the juice-laden berries in Birger’s hand. They were delicious, and soon their own hands and faces were just as smeared with red as Birger’s were. Birger beamed at them. Frankie and Drew beamed back.

  They had been in Viking country for less than an hour and it seemed they had already made a friend.

  When they’d eaten all the berries, Birger looked at Frankie’s plastic hat like he had only just noticed it. He grinned and removed it from Frankie’s head, inspected it carefully and then doubled over, chuckling heartily.

  ‘Your hat … handles!’ Birger laughed, putting it on his own head.

  ‘They’re not handles, they’re horns!’ corrected Drew, indignantly. ‘And of course it has them. It’s a Viking helmet after all.’

  Birger shook his head, still giggling. ‘Real Viking helmet … no horns.’

  Wiping away tears of laughter, Birger reached under a nearby bush and produced a massive metal helmet. ‘See?’ he said, placing it on Frankie’s head.

  The helmet was heavy and huge and it definitely had no horns. Frankie’s neck was nearly crushed, but his heart swelled with joy. ‘I can’t believe I’m wearing an actual Viking helmet!’ he said excitedly to Drew. ‘What do you think?’

  Drew looked at it thoughtfully. ‘It’s way too big,’ he pointed out. ‘It’s all dented. It smells like dung.’ Then his face broke into a broad grin.

  ‘And it’s PERFECT! Lisa Chadwick has no idea what’s coming her way!’

  Unfortunately, the happy atmosphere was suddenly shattered by a terrifying growl from deeper in the forest, followed by several shouts of terror.

  ‘Ahh! Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!’

  The three boys froze. What was that?

  Then Birger’s face went white. Without another word, he ran towards the call, the little plastic Viking helmet perched on top of his head.

  Frankie and Drew stood frozen to the spot for several moments, not sure if they should run towards the commotion or away from it. But before they could make up their minds, the noise stopped.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Drew, nervously.

  Frankie shrugged, his heart pounding. ‘Should we go and check it out?’

  To his relief, Drew shook his head. ‘Nah, I think Birger sorted it out already. Better to leave Viking business to the Vikings, I say. We don’t want to mess with the fabric of time, right?’

  Frankie agreed wholeheartedly. The screams and roars coming from the forest had been bloodcurdling. He was in no hurry to go and find out what had caused them, although he was disappointed that they hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye to Birger.

  ‘Well then, let’s head home, hey?’ said Frankie, picking up the Sonic Suitcase from the muddy grass and pa
tting the real Viking helmet that was still weighing down his head. ‘Mission complete and all that.’

  But Drew stopped short. ‘The mission is NOT complete, Frankie.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s OK for you,’ grumbled Drew. ‘You have your Viking helmet. But I don’t have anything to wear for the Halloween Parade yet.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter which of us wins,’ Frankie pointed out. ‘We’ll just share the prize.’

  Drew crossed his arms stubbornly. ‘I want to look good in the Parade too! We came here for helmets, and I’m not leaving until I convince a Viking to lend me one.’

  Frankie briefly considered offering his helmet to Drew, but Birger had given it to him, and it was possibly the coolest thing he’d ever received. Besides, Frankie had heard that re-gifting is rude, so …

  ‘OK, OK, we’ll keep looking,’ Frankie sighed. ‘But only for a few minutes. And if we get eaten by a bear, it’s totally your fault.’

  ‘I’ll make torches for us from burning sticks,’ announced Drew. ‘Bears hate fire. It’s like their kryptonite. That’s why you never see a bear with candles on its birthday cake.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Frankie sceptically.

  ‘I’m positive!’ insisted Drew. ‘Bears hate fire the way school teachers hate fun. They hate it the same way Lisa Chadwick hates anything that doesn’t involve Lisa Chadwick.’

  And with that, Drew got busy making the torch. His dad, Gary Bird, had taken him camping quite a bit over the years and Drew was keen to put those skills to use. He even knew how to start a fire without a match, although this always took him a very long time to do and involved a lot of sweating and swearing.

  Frankie started to think it would be easier to duck back to modern times, grab a battery-operated torch and use that instead, except that doing so would wear out the time path. And Frankie knew from experience that wearing out the time path could have disastrous results.