Frankie Fish and the Viking Fiasco

by Peter Helliar

  Grandad got to his feet and paced around the kitchen, rubbing the back of his head. ‘I guess I am a little bit to blame here,’ he muttered. ‘I mean, I did invent a time machine and what’s the point of having a time machine if you’re not going to use it?’

  ‘That’s right!’ Frankie said, leaping on Grandad's sentiment like a frog leaping onto a cake made of flies.

  ‘And it’s not every day ye get a real Viking sitting in yer lounge,’ Grandad said, glaring at Birger, who was staring with interest at Nanna as she sipped from the tiny floral tea cup.

  ‘I know, right?’ said Drew, enthusiastically. ‘When you think about it, it is pretty cool.’

  ‘So, ye need the Sonic Suitcase to return him to his Viking family in Norway?’ growled Grandad.

  ‘Well, Birger is not actually our biggest problem right now,’ Frankie admitted nervously.

  Grandad turned and stared at him. ‘What is your biggest problem then?’

  Frankie suddenly felt hot and sweaty.

  ‘Um … have you seen the news this morning by any chance?’

  Grandad looked at Frankie for a moment, then dashed over to the TV and clicked it on.

  ‘Are we watching Family Feud?’ Nanna asked hopefully.

  ‘Um, kind of,’ said Frankie. Even at a moment of great stress, he couldn’t resist making fun of her love for Family Feud. But his smirk quickly fell away when a close-up of a furious bearded face filled the screen.

  ‘Brynjar,’ Birger whispered, walking towards the TV and gently touching the screen.

  The news was cycling through various clips of Brynjar, whom everyone seemed to be treating as either a joke or a publicity stunt. Some of the clips were of Brynjar looking angry, others showed him looking confused and posing for selfies with tourists. No-one seemed to know what to make of him. Was he crazy or was he part of some Halloween stunt?

  The only people who truly understood the severity of what was going on were currently huddled around Grandad’s twenty-year-old TV. Finally, the old man coughed and uttered what was probably the most obvious statement ever made in the history of obvious statements.

  ‘Right. Looks like ye’ve really screwed up this time, lad.’

  In their extremely short (but still way too long) time spent with the Vikings, Frankie had realised that the best strategy for survival was to stay away from Brynjar. Brynjar was angry, prone to yelling and had breath like he had swallowed a big fish that had drowned in garlic.

  For all these reasons, running AWAY from Brynjar was highly recommended. Running TOWARDS him, as they now planned to do, seemed like a very foolish idea.

  Double YIKES in pike position.

  Frankie ran through his current ‘to do’ list: hunt down a furious Viking, then send him and his Viking brother back home before the world found out what was going on and utter chaos was unleashed. There was also the small matter of Lisa Chadwick’s Halloween Parade, which was now only a few hours away.

  Somehow, even after everything that had happened, Frankie found himself hoping madly that they’d still be able to compete and win that hundred-dollar Cocoa Pit voucher once and for all. But it wasn’t looking likely …

  Judging by what they’d seen on the TV news, it looked like Brynjar was probably heading towards the city’s Botanic Gardens. Since Grandad had lost his licence, a train ride was required to get there – as soon as possible.

  Can you imagine a flying Whattsiedonk? Or a hovering Hopposwank?

  Probably not.

  Don’t feel sad. The reason you cannot fathom a Whattsiedonk or a Hopposwank is because they have not been invented (and let’s face it, probably never will be).

  So you can imagine how confused and amazed Birger was as he rode on a train with Frankie, Drew and Grandad that day. Not only was he sitting inside what appeared to him to be a great steel serpent, it was moving. Fast.

  ‘His head might explode from sensory overload, if we are not careful,’ Grandad said, concerned. With the Sonic Suitcase on his lap – and the translator padlock once again clipped to its handle – Grandad was keeping a sharp eye on Birger, who stared out at the world whizzing past in fascination.

  Frankie had to admit that Grandad had a very good point. The smells, the colours, the machines – Birger was experiencing a whole new world and Frankie wasn’t sure how they could get him to forget it all. It would be like trying to forget the first time you saw fireworks or went on an aeroplane.

  In other words: basically impossible.

  As the train pulled to a stop at the station nearest the Botanic Gardens, Drew asked a very good question, particularly by Drew’s standards. ‘How exactly are we going to catch Brynjar?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ admitted Frankie. ‘Any suggestions?’

  Instantly, Drew outlined three bird-brained ones. They were:

  1. Taser him, put him in a wheelbarrow and wheel him home.

  2. Use a Wonder Woman-style golden lasso to rope him up. (It was Drew’s favourite superhero movie after Thor: Ragnarok.)

  3. Ask him really, really nicely to come back home with them.

  All utterly useless.

  Disappointed, Frankie shrugged. ‘I guess we’ll work it out when we find him.’

  ‘Yeah, because that’s worked out so well for us so far,’ Drew answered sarcastically, a little offended that Frankie had rejected all of his brilliant ideas.

  As the group made its way to the Botanic Gardens, Frankie and Drew experienced their own sensory overload. They had only been to the city a couple of times themselves, and weren’t all that familiar with it. Once, they’d come on a school excursion to see the Symphony Orchestra. During the performance, one of the Mosley triplets continuously made fart noises with his armpit. Professional dobber Lisa Chadwick swore some of the noises did not come from his armpit at all.

  The class had also come to the city to see a parade and this time another one of the Mosley triplets got in trouble for kicking horse manure in Miss Merryweather’s direction. He tried to blame it on the wind, which no-one believed, partly because there was no wind but mostly because there was horse poop all over his shoe.

  Drew pulled his blue scooter out of his backpack as Grandad tried to remember which way the Botanic Gardens were. Then they began walking and scooting through the city streets, listening out for a primal Viking scream, their eyes peeled for any signs of Viking destruction.

  Surely a Viking as big as Brynjar wouldn’t be too hard to find …

  Finally, after only three wrong turns and some choice swearwords from Grandad, they arrived at the grand old gates of the Botanic Gardens. Maybe, thought Frankie, this place reminds Brynjar of his homeland? This green, lush place would have surely looked far more familiar than the grey skyscrapers of the city or the houses out in the suburbs.

  Not only were the Botanic Gardens green and lush, they were also HUGE. They covered acres and acres. Frankie’s heart sank a little as the group walked around the paths, up and down the rolling hills, checking under bushes and up into trees – finding diddly squat.

  The place was full of families strolling by, happily chattering about their Halloween costumes and their trick-or-treating plans. Frankie noticed with a lurch that Birger watched sadly as a father strolled by them, carrying his small son on his shoulders.

  ‘Oh my carrots!’ Drew Bird screamed suddenly, screeching to a stop on his blue scooter.

  Grandad turned around so quickly his head nearly snapped off his neck.

  ‘What the …?’ said Frankie.

  ‘I’m trying to teach Grandad how to swear without swearing,’ said Drew.

  ‘No, not that,’ Frankie replied, flustered.

  Birger simply pointed and stared.

  This is what they were all looking at:

  The Botanic Gardens included a kids’ play area that was full of swings, seesaws, monkey bars and various other pieces of play equipment. With so many fun things to play on, you would think that the kids’ play area would be full, but on this occ
asion it wasn’t.

  One of the highlights of the kids’ play area was the wooden pirate ship. Kids usually loved climbing aboard, spinning the steering wheel and hoisting the Jolly Roger flag, but today all the kids were staying well clear of it. This was because a strange, huge teenager, dressed like a Viking (but without the horned hat), was standing at the front of the ship, his fist raised in the air, screaming in a language that nobody could understand.

  Well, almost nobody.

  Birger, standing at one end of the kids’ play area, stared at his brother in open-mouthed amazement. At that moment, Brynjar stopped shouting and stared back in equally open-mouthed astonishment.

  Frankie reached for the padlock on the Sonic Suitcase and turned the key, hoping madly that it was working properly again.

  ‘Birger, do you want to go home?’ Frankie asked quickly. The padlock spluttered and crackled, but Frankie heard the word ‘heim’, which sounded like it might mean ‘home’.

  Birger nodded.

  Frankie lifted up the Sonic Suitcase and patted it. ‘Well, this is how we get you there.’

  Birger frowned. ‘It’s like … small longboat?’ he asked, via the padlock.

  Frankie nodded. ‘Yes, like a very small longboat.’ Then he pointed to Brynjar. ‘You tell him.’

  Frankie had no idea if the padlock had done a good job of translating this or not, but Birger went directly over to the base of the wooden pirate ship and began talking earnestly up at his brother, who glared furiously at him.

  Drew sidled alongside Frankie. ‘How do you think it’s going?’

  Frankie sighed. ‘If I had to guess, I’d say badly.’ There seemed to be a lot of shouting and fist-waving going on between the Viking brothers.

  ‘Maybe that’s just how they always communicate?’ suggested Drew.

  ‘If that’s the case, then Lou and I have a much better relationship than I realised,’ commented Frankie dryly.

  Frankie couldn’t shake the nasty feeling that Brynjar had guessed the role he and Drew had played in his father’s death and was filling Birger in on all the horrible details. The shouting and fist-waving became more intense until suddenly Birger stomped over to Frankie, wrenched the Sonic Suitcase out of his grasp and stomped back towards to his brother.

  ‘Ye let the VIKING take the SUITCASE?’ yelled Grandad in horror as Frankie gaped after Birger.

  ‘Bad idea, Frankie, bad idea,’ agreed Drew, shaking his head.

  ‘Have you ever tried stopping a Viking from getting what he wants?’ said Frankie defensively. ‘If you’re so great, why don’t you go and get it?’

  But before anyone could do anything, Birger was back at the base of the pirate ship, holding up the suitcase.

  If Frankie had been asked to predict how Brynjar would react to this, he’d have guessed that he would:

  A. Roar.

  B. Chop up the suitcase with his axe.

  C. Roar AND chop up the suitcase with his axe.

  Which is why the way Brynjar actually reacted was such a surprise. He went completely white and backed away from the suitcase so quickly that he almost toppled over the back edge of the pirate ship.

  Drew and Frankie stared, their eyes as round as a freshly pumped-up soccer ball.

  ‘Is he …?’ said Drew.

  Frankie nodded. ‘I think he’s afraid of the suitcase.’

  It seemed so unlikely that a huge, terrifying Viking teenager like Brynjar would be scared of a suitcase, of all things. But every time Birger lifted the suitcase towards him, Brynjar would shriek and recoil in terror. His eyes bulged like he was having an allergic reaction and he tried to shield himself from the suitcase as if it were a solar eclipse.

  Frankie hurried over to Birger to try to find out what was going on (and hopefully retrieve the suitcase in one piece).

  ‘What’s happening, Birger?’ Frankie asked anxiously, reaching for the suitcase.

  Birger spoke rapidly in reply, gesturing wildly with the suitcase as he did. The padlock did its best to translate.

  ‘Brynjar thinks box ... contains aurora. Very powerful … aurora can bring good things but also bad … aurora put colour on bear that killed Father. Brynjar won’t go near box …’

  ‘But that’s the only way he can get home!’ cried Frankie, frustrated. All the same, he did know how Brynjar felt. It was like the time he denied he had a toothache for a fortnight to avoid going to the dentist.

  He rushed over to Grandad and Drew, who were still hanging back from the spectacle.

  ‘What’s the deal?’ Drew asked immediately.

  ‘Yes, we need to get a wriggle on and get these boys home,’ grumbled Grandad.

  ‘Brynjar is petrified of the suitcase,’ reported Frankie. ‘And now he won’t go near it!’

  ‘I don’t blame him,’ said Grandad. ‘It petrifies me too, sometimes.’

  Frankie’s shoulders slumped. ‘I don’t know how we can get them home now.’

  ‘Unless ...’ Drew Bird said, then stopped, his hands tightening on the handlebars of his electric blue scooter.

  ‘Unless what?’ Grandad snapped. ‘This is no time for dramatic pauses, lad!’

  ‘Unless ...’ Drew continued, stroking his hairless chin. ‘Unless we find something that Brynjar is even MORE frightened of than the suitcase. Then he’ll be so scared that he’ll have to go home just to get away from the thing.’

  Frankie had to admit the idea made sense. ‘But what?’

  ‘School! Principal Dawson’s office! All three Mosley triplets farting at the same time!’ quipped Drew Bird.

  Grandad quickly squashed the ideas. ‘None of that will frighten a Viking, ye numb nut!’ he snorted.

  Frankie had to admit he was probably right. No, they had to find something truly terrifying. Something that would make the suitcase seem like a fluffy bunny rabbit in comparison. He gestured to Birger to come back, and the Viking obliged.

  ‘Is Brynjar scared of anything?’ Frankie asked him in a low voice. The padlock was making some odd spluttering noises, so Frankie attempted to act out his question to help move things along. He made dramatic shivering gestures like he was cowering from some invisible evil force.

  ‘It looks like you’re cold,’ noted Drew.

  ‘I don’t look cold,’ muttered Frankie, annoyed. ‘I look totally scared.’

  ‘Scared of the cold, maybe.’

  ‘I’d like to see how you look scared,’ Frankie snapped.

  ‘No problem.’ Drew took centre stage and cleared his throat, then launched into a dramatic array of movements like he was doing parkour, while also whimpering and pretending to cry.

  Birger watched both Frankie’s and Drew’s performances in astonishment. Then Grandad took his turn to get an answer out of the bewildered Viking, speaking loudly and slowly into the padlock, as if this might help him understand.

  ‘Birger, is your brother afraid of spiders? Ghosts? The dark?’ The padlock translated a couple of words haltingly.

  ‘Sharks?’ shouted Drew like it was a fun new game. ‘Hurricanes? Snakes? Butterflies?’

  ‘Who would be afraid of butterflies?’ Grandad snapped.

  ‘My dad is,’ Drew insisted. ‘He doesn’t trust the way they flutter by.’

  Birger seemed to finally understand, and his face crumpled a little, as if he were scared of what he was about to say.

  ‘Draugr,’ he said, trembling.

  ‘Dragor?’ Frankie repeated.

  ‘Does he mean “dragons”?’ guessed Grandad.

  ‘Maybe Brynjar is scared of Ivan Drago from Rocky IV?’ asked Drew Bird.

  ‘Draugr!’ Birger repeated emphatically. Then, as if inspired by Drew’s earlier dramatic performance, Birger stuck his arms out in front of him, and lurched around with stiff legs, moaning and groaning. He looked at Frankie meaningfully. ‘Draugr!’

  ‘Did yer Viking mate just swallow a fly?’ asked Grandad, concerned.

  ‘Grandad, look the word up on your phone!’ said Frankie
urgently.

  Technically, Grandad had a smart phone, but it was so old that it was more like a ‘not-as-smart-as-it-used-to-be’ phone. But as neither Drew nor Frankie had brought theirs along (and Birger was several hundred years too old to have one), Grandad’s was the only option.

  It took him several minutes to get the spelling right and correct his typos (‘Why do they make the letters so small on these doaty things?’), but finally the screen in Grandad’s hand filled with images.

  ‘What are those hideous creatures?’ asked Grandad, pulling a face and turning the phone around to show the others.

  ‘They’re zombies!’ exclaimed Frankie. ‘The Viking version.’

  ‘They look like my dad first thing in the morning,’ Drew remarked, a little unkindly.

  When Birger saw the pictures, the colour drained from his face and he stumbled backwards. ‘Draugr!’ he screamed, dropping the suitcase.

  ‘Are they real?’ Drew asked nervously.

  ‘As real as zombies are,’ replied Frankie, gulping.

  ‘Try telling your Viking buddy that,’ Grandad said. Birger had pulled his cloak out of Drew’s backpack and was now cowering beneath it.

  Frankie was suddenly feeling a lot more optimistic. ‘So we’ve found our answer then! We’ll use draugr to scare Brynjar into going back home.’

  ‘Oh sure,’ said Grandad with his famous acidic sarcasm as he picked up the suitcase. ‘All we need to do is find a mythical creature from the world of the undead and we can send these hairy Vikings back home. Easy-peasy, lemonsqueezy, ye numbskull.’

  ‘What if we told you we could summon the undead?’ Frankie asked with a twinkle in his eye. Drew grinned too.

  ‘Then I would say yer more deluded than a hitchhiking snake,’ Grandad retorted.

  ‘Well, for one night only, we can,’ Frankie said. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a piece of paper that he held up for all to see. It read:

  Lisa Chadwick’s Halloween Parade

  and Barbecue Feast

  6pm, St Monica’s Primary