The Legends of Orkney

by Alane Adams

  A bird flew down to a low branch and chirped. Its chest was bright yellow, and its back was blue and orange. It shook out its feathers, preening in the sunlight. Its eyes met Sam’s.

  Touch me, it cheeped, or at least Sam thought he heard the words in his head.

  He reached out a hand, and then he hesitated. Was the island really safe? Every place he had been to in Orkney had dangers. Sneevils. Biters. Why would Asgard be any different? Warning bells went off in his head. He looked around, seeing things differently. The bird let out another encouraging chirp, but underneath it, Sam heard malice. Tucking his hand into his shirtsleeve, he touched the bird through the fabric and felt a prick and a shooting pain in his hand.

  The feathers were barbed. One had pierced his sleeve and hooked in his skin. The bird chirped again. This time it bared a row of spiny teeth and let out a vicious shriek before launching itself up into the sky.

  Sam looked around, his fears realized. The beauty of the day seemed false, as easily ripped away as a paper covering.

  A hissing sound revealed a poisonous snake coiled around that same branch where the bird had been. The harmless insects hovering over his head were now large biters, thirsting for his blood, waiting for the right moment to strike.

  Sam looked down at the berries in his hand and saw they were rotting. He let them drop to the ground and sank to his knees.

  Nothing was what it seemed in this place. He had let his senses get bewitched. Sam knew he had to stop thinking that what he was seeing was real. He touched the pouch that held his one connection to Odin.

  “Odin,” he said out loud, “It’s me. Sam Baron. I need your help. Orkney needs your help. They sent me to ask you for a token, like this one.” He opened the pouch and shook the stone out, holding it up. “Remember Hermodan? He got a stone like this from you. If you have another like that, I could sure use it.”

  The jungle grew quiet. The animals stopped calling to each other, as they also seemed to be waiting for an answer to the boy’s request.

  Sam sat back, closing his eyes and letting the pure, warm sunlight bathe his face. He clenched the shard of rock tightly in his fist, squeezing it with all his strength as he made his plea.

  “Odin, please help me,” he whispered.

  When he opened his eyes, Sam was on a rocky plain. The jungle had vanished, as if it had been nothing more than a figment of his imagination.

  He stood up slowly. Surrounding him now were jagged mountains. No trees, no sign of any living thing. A harsh wind began to blow, kicking coarse sand into his eyes. Carefully tucking the rock back in his pouch, he pulled up his shirt to cover his face from the blowing grit. What now? he wondered.

  Shelter, his brain supplied, as grit began to dig into his skin. He started walking, blindly searching for an escape from the wind.

  What felt like hours passed, and the terrain didn’t change. After a while, the sandstorm mercifully died down. Visibility restored, Sam followed a narrow, rocky trail he found that led higher up the mountain to a low saddle between two peaks. He staggered the last few steps to the crest.

  The mountains stretched as far as he could see. He spun around, searching for a destination, something to aim for, but every mountain appeared the same from his vantage point. The narrow trail he was following split into two, heading to the left peak or the right. Eeny meeny, Sam whispered to himself, then chose the trail on the right and soldiered on. He continued uphill for an eternity; then the trail ended abruptly at a blunt rock wall.

  Sam checked for handholds or false doors, but it was a dead end. The wall was solid.

  Ignoring the aches and pains in his feet, Sam retraced his steps to the saddle. This time, he headed up the other trail toward the other peak, moving as quickly as he could.

  And found himself back at the same wall of rock.

  Turning in a circle, he told himself he had to be mistaken. He had taken a different trail but ended up in the same place.

  Tearing off a scrap of fabric from his shirt, he tied it to a fist-size stone and retraced his steps back to the fork and tried the other route. As he suspected, it led back to the same place. Sam picked up the rock with the fabric tied to it and weighed it in his hand.

  “Somebody’s got a warped sense of humor,” Sam grumbled aloud, searching for any clues. He looked up at the rock face. It rose above him, impenetrable and foreboding. The thought that he was supposed to ignore the obvious crossed Sam’s mind.

  He stepped back several paces from the wall, shaking his hands out, and then ran at it full speed. His shoulder crashed into solid rock, and he landed on his backside, winded and bruised.

  “This is getting really old,” he snarled out loud.

  Behind him, tittering, childish laughter rang out. Turning, Sam saw a small creature seated on a rock. Pale green fur covered its body. Its drooping ears were long, like a donkey’s, and its large, almond-shaped eyes glittered with mirth. It sat double-jointed on its haunches, its knees reaching its ears, chewing on its own toenail.

  “Where did you come from?” Sam asked. He had seen nothing else alive in this barren place on any of his trips down this trail.

  “Where did you come from?” it responded cockily.

  “I asked you first,” Sam said, stepping closer.

  “I asked you second,” the creature retorted, “and two is greater than one.”

  Annoyed, Sam tried a stronger approach. “I am a Son of Odin. I command you to answer me.”

  The creature laughed so hard it fell off the rock. Tears streamed down its face, and it began to turn purple.

  Sam grabbed the creature. “Answer my question,” he demanded.

  Still laughing, it fended off Sam with its arms, remaining just out of reach.

  “Answer my question,” it parroted, escaping to jump nimbly up onto the rock.

  Sam dove at the creature. “Stop copying me!” he shouted, but he came up with only handfuls of air.

  Sam whirled around. The creature had jumped to a rock behind him. Through him.

  “How did you do that?” Sam asked.

  Its lips pulled up into a wide grin, and it shrugged its crooked shoulders.

  Sam was trying hard to control his anger, but it wasn’t working. He had walked for hours without getting anywhere, and he was sure this little avocado-colored pest knew where he needed to go.

  “Tell me what to do,” Sam said, his voice rising.

  The creature’s face turned red, mimicking Sam’s expression, and its eyebrows drew together. “Tell me what to dooo,” it mocked.

  “Stop it!” Sam shouted, blood pounding in his ears. “Tell me how to find Odin, or I’ll shut you up for good.”

  At his words, the creature’s face drooped and its purplish lips trembled. Tears began to roll down its cheeks, and its whole body shook.

  Sam was taken aback. This was not the reaction he had been expecting.

  The sad beast hopped down from the rock, scooted past Sam, and walked away down the trail, its hands dragging, shoulders slumped.

  Sam felt like the worst sort of bully. “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling the anger drain from him.

  The creature kept dragging its pitiful self away.

  “I said I’m sorry!” Sam shouted, desperate to be forgiven and not left alone in this desolate place.

  The creature slowed, glancing back. “You are right, sir, to be angry,” it said softly, sounding much more intelligent and mature than Sam had given it credit for. “I deserve no form of kindness.”

  Then it continued dragging itself down the trail.

  Sam rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in the air. “Come on, just give me a second chance.”

  The creature stopped, squaring its shoulders back a little. “Second chance?” it said hesitantly. “I’ve never had a second chance. Banished I was, the first time I made a mistake.”

  “Banished? By who?”

  They were communicating. Okay. This is progress, Sam thought.

  The creature
climbed onto a rock and sat back on its haunches. It lifted one foot and nibbled delicately on its toe. “You know who. The one you seek.”

  “Odin?”

  Sam sat down on the ground before the creature, ignoring its disgusting habit of chewing on his toenails, eager to hear what other information it had. “You know where he is?”

  The little fella’s ears twitched, and it seemed to shrink down a size before answering. “Know, yes. Regrettably, I cannot take you there.” Its words were bitter; then it went back to toe nibbling.

  “My name is Sam. What’s yours?”

  “I am called Fetch. Pleased to meet you, Sam.”

  “Fetch? That’s not a name.”

  “It is indeed, sir. His Superior High Being calls me by my name whenever he sees me. Fetch me my pipe. Fetch me a glass of mead. Fetch me my eyeglass.”

  “So you’re Odin’s servant?”

  The creature bristled, its fur standing on end. It dropped its toe to glare at Sam. “I am much more than a lowly servant. The same way you are much more than a lost boy.”

  Sam leaned forward. “So help me find Odin. I must speak to him.”

  “Yes, you must. But you must find him on your own.”

  “How? I’m stuck on this mountain, and it’s a dead end. Where do I go? Come on, Fetch, there has to be a reason you’re here.”

  The creature snapped its fingers, as if it had just remembered something. “Yes. A reason. A message I was sent to deliver to you. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Okay, so deliver it,” Sam insisted, annoyed that Fetch had kept him waiting so long.

  Fetch stood up straight, cleared his throat, and then repeated the words it had clearly memorized with great care. “Be warned, Samuel Barconian. The journey ahead is dangerous. You will be tested.”

  Sam waited, hoping for more words of wisdom from the great Odin. But when nothing else came out of Fetch, he got annoyed.

  “Is that it?”

  “There is more, but I must have your word you will not be angry with me again.”

  “Yes—I mean, no. I won’t be mad, I promise,” Sam sputtered, impatient to get the rest of Odin’s message. “Just tell me everything.”

  “First, we must agree to part as friends,” Fetch said, extending a spindly hand.

  Sam didn’t want to touch him. Something about the creature’s furry flesh—that unnatural green color—reminded him of that barbed bird in the jungle. On the other hand, he figured Fetch would find his refusal rude, and he was the key to finding Odin. So, pushing past his unease, Sam slowly reached out and gripped the little paw.

  An icy chill that reached to his bones ran through him.

  “Remember, you promised . . . ,” Fetch worriedly reminded him.

  Those were the last words Sam heard.

  The world began to spin dizzily as Fetch gripped his hand tightly now with two paws, its soulful eyes burning into the boy’s. Sam tried to pull free, lifting the creature off the ground, but Fetch held firm, dangling in the air.

  For Sam, the world spun faster, until everything around him blurred. All light and color receded into pinpricks as a black curtain completely engulfed him. Sam felt Fetch finally release his hand, and the boy fell backward, down into absolute darkness.

  In free fall, Sam tried to grab at something, anything. But there was nothing solid, just the rushing of air as he dropped into a bottomless abyss.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Sam lost track of time and direction as he tumbled head over heels in the dark void, picturing a landing that was bound to be fatal—or, worse, incredibly painful and crippling. He frantically reached out to stop his fall, but there was nothing, just infinite blackness and an icy current of air rushing past that chilled him to the bone.

  “Hello?” he shouted. “Can anyone hear me?”

  Hear you, hear you, hear you, came an echo that sounded like his own voice.

  “Help me!” he yelled, flailing his arms as if they were wings that would slow his descent. If this was Odin’s idea of testing him, it seemed the god wanted to see if he could fly.

  Help you, help you, returned the echo. Help you help me.

  “What do you want?” Sam shouted, feeling nauseated and dizzy from the interminable plunge. “Who are you?”

  Who are you? Who are you?

  Fingers of freezing air swirled around Sam, probing at him, feeling the lines of his face, as if the darkness were trying to familiarize itself with him.

  “I’m Sam. Sam Baron.”

  The wind whipped harder, spinning him like a propeller, making each word he spoke a considerable effort to enunciate.

  Who are you?

  The echo was demanding an answer. Sam tried again.

  “I am Sam Barconian, son of Robert Barconian . . . and Odin!” He had to shout to be heard above the roaring wind. “Also son of Abigail Tarkana . . . and Rubicus. I’ve got a witch’s and a god’s blood in me. Is that what you want to know?”

  Sam wasn’t sure if he was imagining, but the current of air felt warmer, and softer, as if it was slowing down.

  “I need to find Odin so I can save Orkney. Please, help me!”

  The rushing wind rapidly slowed, and then it was as if there were no air at all, and Sam was just floating, suspended in darkness.

  His feet settled on something solid, and light began to fill the chamber from an unseen source. He was in a room with a desk and a single chair. Sam walked over to the desk and sat down. The walls were covered in stained, yellowed wallpaper. The desk was bare, except for a layer of dust and a single lamp. He pulled on the string and was surprised when the lamp turned on, even though there was no cord or electrical outlet.

  Sam drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk.

  “Okay, I’m here,” he called out. “What now?”

  No response. He rolled back the chair and saw a desk drawer he hadn’t noticed at first. Sliding it open, he found a single sheet of paper and a fountain pen. Sam laid the paper on the desk and picked up the pen, searching for inspiration.

  Was he supposed to write something?

  “Dear Odin,” he wrote, figuring it couldn’t hurt. “Please help me end the cursed red sun.”

  That was stupid. Odin wasn’t Santa Claus.

  He crumpled up the paper and tossed it over his shoulder. He opened the drawer and magically found a new sheet of paper waiting.

  Sam started again. “Dear Odin, please show me the way so I can help my friends and find my father.”

  Twice as stupid, Sam lamented.

  He tore it in half and let it flutter to the ground. He got up and paced the room, checking to make sure there were no hidden exits. Sure enough, there was nothing more than what he saw: four walls, a desk, a chair, and a lamp with no cord. Not even a door.

  “Great,” Sam muttered.

  Finding another fresh sheet in the drawer, Sam tapped the pen on the desk. This was worse than a pop quiz in English, when his mind usually went blank.

  It occurred to him that maybe he wasn’t looking for words. Maybe it was something else, something he could only visualize. Closing his eyes, Sam tried to clear his thoughts. It took a few moments, but an image of Leo floated up and hung there.

  Sam saw himself punching Leo at the lake because his friend had stopped him from going with the wraiths. He remembered the rage he had felt, and he began to sketch, feeling a trancelike quality take over his hand, as if he were recalling a memory.

  The picture that formed was of a young boy, a boy like Leo, around ten years old, with long black hair, walking down a trail. Sam made a crude drawing of a moon and stars, so it must have been dark. The boy Leo was smiling as he walked, happy and safe. Sam hesitated and the pen wavered, and then it flowed, and he drew a creature, a black, shaggy wolf, lurking in the bushes.

  A Shun Kara.

  And Leo was walking right toward it.

  Suddenly scared, Sam took the pen and threw it against the wall, but as it hit, it exploded in black ink. Then
the room tilted sideways, awash in blackness, and he found himself on earthen ground, rocks pressing into his back as he stared up into the cold night sky of Pilot Rock. Familiar stars winked down at Sam, and he could see the outline of the red rock against the sky.

  A low growl snapped Sam to attention. Rolling over, he looked through the bushes. A flashlight bounced along the trail. He could make out the faint image of a boy holding it. It looked just like the young Leo in his drawing.

  Is this a dream? Sam wondered. Or some kind of memory?

  Across the trail, Sam could smell the scent of the Shun Kara as it lay in wait for an unsuspecting Leo. Sam’s heart raced. Whatever this was, the moment felt real, and in his heart he knew if he didn’t do something, young Leo was going to die.

  Leo’s steps drew inexorably closer. The Shun Kara let out another growl, louder this time, and Leo heard it. He stopped in the center of the trail, waving his flashlight at the bushes.

  “Is somebody there?” he said.

  The wolf growled again and stepped out onto the path in front of Leo, a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than its young prey.

  Leo should have screamed and run, but he faced the wolf, holding the light in front of him, and dropped into a fighting stance.

  “I am not afraid, Shun Kara. I am a warrior of the Umatilla,” he said bravely.

  The wolf howled once and drew back on its haunches. Sam knew it was about to pounce on his friend. He had to do something. He had no weapons, nothing to help him at all, so he sprang from the bushes into the path in front of the Shun Kara as it leaped, tumbling with the creature into the cactus.

  The Shun Kara snarled in rage. The beast’s feral scent overwhelmed Sam’s senses; its rotten breath made him gag. He held on to it tightly, wrapping his arms around the predator and tried to get hold of its neck. Its fur was so thick, it was hard to find a choke point, but Sam’s thumbs dug in as its teeth sank into his shoulder, sending blinding pain through him.

  Leo stared at the boy and the wolf in shock.

  “Run!” Sam shouted at him. “Get away from here!”

  Typical Leo—he didn’t listen. Instead, he ran straight at them, trying to kick the Shun Kara off Sam. The wolf released Sam and bit down on Leo’s arm, twisting it as it tried to drag him away into the bushes.