by Wendy Delsol
I stood in the kitchen, looking out the window. The moon was a huge metallic ball. Were we closer to it this far north? My mathematician mom would have buried me with formulas about the earth, its axis, and rotation, but, honestly, it had never appeared so accessible to me before, had never appeared so enticing. Like in the movies, I heard music and assumed my mind was inventing a sound track to intensify the moment. Soon, I realized I really was hearing music. But from where? Everyone was asleep. Besides, the melody was odd, both eerie and compelling. It seemed to be coming from outside. Under the sink, next to a plastic bottle of dish soap, I found a flashlight. I clicked it on, brushing its light across the empty room. In a kind of dream state, I walked the few steps to the kitchen door, silently lifted the latch, and followed the old stone steps down the hill and under the silvery light of that giant orb.
The steps were about a thousand years old: cracked and overgrown with weeds. The path wound its way down the hill, skirting brush and bushes and a few forlorn trees. Strangely, I didn’t feel the cold, though my labored breathing hung like tinsel in the night air. Everything stilled as if yielding to the plaintive song. Even the waters I knew were at the bottom of the hill seemed at rest. The steps came around a series of large boulders, and I found myself on a stone-filled beach. Had I awakened the sleeping fjord? It roared to life with an urgent press of waters upon the rocks, quelling even the music. A plunk of water, like a stone being dropped, drew my attention down to the shoreline, and I swept my flashlight over the area. Were this LA, or even Minnesota, my hackles would be up, but this was Iceland. Did they even have bad guys? Or bears? Or anything scarier than Björk’s fashion sense? I walked closer to the shore. I heard a big splash, and I directed my small beam of light toward the sound that rippled with an echolike reverberation until it morphed into something like laughter, an almost girlish giggle. Then I saw the flash of a tail. It looked like a big fish — as big as me.
Holy crap! I dropped the flashlight and gasped. What the hell was that? I bent down over one of the giant boulders at the shore and peered into the water. What had I seen? What on earth had been there? I clumsily stooped to retrieve my light. By the time I stood up again, whatever it was was gone. And whatever trancelike state I had been in was gone with it.
The cold suddenly bit into me. My gloveless fingers went numb, and I had to draw the flashlight up and into my sleeve so as to shelter my aching hands from the whip of the wind. I scurried up the stone steps, eased the kitchen door open, and tiptoed through the house and back into the comfort of my small guest room. Still in my original travel clothes, I once again lowered myself into the safety of the down-filled duvet. I’d probably heard the wind whistling over the waves. I’d probably seen a dolphin, or a seal, or just a big ol’ ocean fish. Dolphins had funny vocalizations, didn’t they? Ones that were laugh like. More likely, I was still groggy from travel and allowing my imagination to get the best of me. For a very long time, I lay awake purposely thinking of other things. I hope Mom is OK. Has Jack been thinking of me? I listened for sounds of life in the house. I needed a shower, and I was starving and wanted breakfast. I just hoped it wasn’t fermented shark meat — or fish of any kind, for that matter.
Finally, I heard sounds from the kitchen and, more importantly, smells: coffee and sausage. My stomach barked at me from neglect. I wasn’t quite sure, given the time difference, but my rudimentary calculation tallied more than twenty-four hours since my last meal. I picked a brush through my matted-to-face hair and contemplated putting on a new shirt, but the promise of food was just too tempting. I walked quickly down the hallway, only slowing my pace at the kitchen archway. I didn’t want to appear ravenous, though I was.
Vigdis, spatula in hand, was at the stove. She turned, her appearance taking me by surprise.
“Vigdis?”
“Ah. Good morning, sleeping beauty.”
Funny she should mention a fairy tale when she looked like she’d just stepped out of one. She wore a white lace-trimmed cotton blouse with puffed sleeves and a gathered neckline, over which was an elaborately embroidered lace-up vest. Her black full-length skirt was topped with a white lace apron; and she wore a funny black wool cap with a huge silver tassel that hung above her left ear.
“Good morning,” I said. “I like your outfit.” Something had to be said about it, and I did like it. It was unique, anyway. I always gave props for originality.
As if on cue, Vigdis said, “For the festival today. Is custom to wear traditional Icelandic upphlutur costume.” She held the spatula away from her body and stepped to the side, making her long skirt sway. “I’m glad you like,” she said, pointing with her spatula to a garment bag hanging from the knob of a breakfront cabinet. “Yours is all ready to try on. I hope is good size.”
I stepped toward the zip-front plastic bag. I had always been a sucker for dress-up. Halloween, for me, had never been about ghouls or candy. And as a child, no treasure box full of cash and coins could have tempted me over an old trunk of scratchy gowns, boas, and cheap costume jewelry. “For me?” I opened the bag and fingered a red woolen lace-up vest adorned with embroidery.
“Yes. If you like?”
“I like,” I said, lifting the hangers off the hook and holding the garment bag against my front.
“Breakfast first,” Vigdis said, taking the bag from me and draping it over a chair.
I took a big-bad-wolf style inhale, taking in all the savory smells. “Thank you. I’m starving.” No sooner did a fried egg hit my plate than it disappeared. I ate three, maybe four. Vigdis was wickedly quick with that spatula of hers. Sausage links, too, were eaten too quickly to count or even ask just what was stuffed in the casings. I didn’t suspect fish, anyway, which reminded me of my wee-hours stroll. What to even think about that?
I dropped my napkin over my plate and carried it to the sink. Now that my stomach had stopped whining, my heart got a word in edgewise. Jack. Thoughts of him haunted me, and I wondered, for the millionth time, if I was on his mind, too.
“Did anybody call for me yesterday, while I was sleeping?” I asked.
“Your mother,” Vigdis said. “She wants you to call her back. Don’t worry about the time. She said she can’t sleep anyway.”
“But it would be the middle of the night there.”
Vigdis waved the spatula back and forth. “If it were me, I’d do as she says. Her orders were very clear.”
I had to smile at the thought of command central stretching clear across an ocean.
Despite my mom’s orders, it was still Jack I wanted to contact. “Do you have Internet here at the house?”
“Sorry. We’re too old for all that new stuff.”
“In town?”
“Sure. At the library. At the café. I see everyone on their computers.”
I had an e-mail address to Klarksberg Research Station that would go into their office. So even if I could get a message to him, it wouldn’t be very private. I also had a phone number, but I couldn’t exactly reverse charges to Greenland from Iceland. For now, I’d just have to hope my mom had news of Stanley and Jack.
“I guess I will call her. And then take a shower.”
“Of course,” Vigdis said, dunking my practically-licked-clean plate into a sink full of suds. “Come. Use the phone in Baldur’s office.”
Vigdis led me to a small room that had a view out to the shoreline. Had I really stumbled around out there in the middle of the night?
“Vigdis,” I asked, “how far away is your closest neighbor?”
“A couple kilometers, at least.”
Which ruled out an insomniac neighbor with the late-night giggles and a boom box.
I don’t know why I was reluctant to admit I’d ventured out last night. I’d even gone so far as to carefully replace the flashlight exactly where I’d found it.
Vigdis pulled the office door behind her, giving me privacy for my phone call.
The international operator connected me to our home phone, and
I heard my mother’s voice accept the reversed charges.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, Kat. I’m so glad to hear from you.”
“Is everything OK? Did I wake you?” She sounded so small and far away.
“No, no. I can’t sleep, but nothing to worry about. How was the journey?”
“Long. Exhausting.”
“How’s Afi?”
“Still sleeping, I guess. It’s early here. Though I’m not the one to talk; I pulled a Rip Van Winkle and pretty much slept through yesterday.”
“The time difference can be disorienting,” my mom said.
“Have you heard from Stanley?”
“Yesterday. Just briefly.”
“What did he say? Did Jack pass along any sort of message?”
“They sounded busy. Also tired from the long travel days. And apparently the dogsled trip was grueling.”
“So no message?”
“No.”
“He said he’d find a way to get hold of me,” I said, hearing the pout in my voice. He had, but in the weeks leading up to our trips, not at that botched good-bye.
“Stanley said —”
“What?”
“Jack’s been very quiet. A little . . . he didn’t quite know how to describe it, but said he was a little withdrawn. He even wondered if the cold was getting to him. It’s not an easy adjustment, so Stanley says.”
The cold? Anybody else, Stanley or my mom, might believe in such a theory. I knew better. Our fight could have him sulking; a breakup — if that’s what it was — could do the trick, too. Neither of those scenarios did much to lift my spirits. I racked my brain for other causes. “Maybe he’s coming down with something? Is there a doctor where they are?”
“Stanley didn’t think it was physical. Anyway, he said Brigid has been spending a lot of time with Jack. Doing what she can to help him adjust.”
Adjust? To what? Her? Away from what? Me? I did not like the idea of Brigid playing nurse to Jack. Not one bit. I seriously needed to hear from him.
“Do they have Internet access where they are now?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Can you e-mail Stanley? Have him tell Jack to send me a message. I’m going to find the café with Internet access in town today. Please?”
“Of course,” my mom said through an odd groan, long and loud.
“Are you OK?”
“I think so. This baby, though, is jumping like a fish.”
“Are you sure you’re OK? What does the doctor say?”
“I have an appointment today.”
“Is Ofelia handling everything?”I asked.
“She’s a godsend.”
As much as there was still something weird between me and Ofelia, I was glad someone was there for my mom. Her groan had sounded primordial.
The hot shower felt great, but I couldn’t help stressing out about my mom’s condition and what Stanley had said about Jack. Quiet and withdrawn? The guy had viewed the trip as the opportunity of a lifetime. He wasn’t the type to let anything get in the way of his personal goals. I hated not knowing what was going on, hated being out of touch, hated not being able to look into those deep blue eyes and fall into them. Because I did, head-over-heels, every dang time. I missed him so much. I wanted to know that he missed me, too. I wanted to say sorry and hear him say it back. And I wanted to be the one cheering him up — not Brigid. Despite cranking the hot water in the shower to full blast, I felt a chill run down my spine like an arctic front coming in fast and hard.
In the comfort of the small guest room, I tried on the costume. I loved it. The heavy gathered skirt, although a scratchy wool, had a good swish quality to it, one I wouldn’t have thought possible for such a sturdy cloth. Icelandic sheep: another example of the island’s against-the-grain tradition. And the cap’s silver tassel was silky smooth as it brushed my face. Clothing with moving parts — yes, now. And the small over-the-shoulder satchel was a very practical addition. I ran my finger over the worn brown leather. This was no modern costume reproduction. It was faded in dappled patches and as soft as a butterfly’s wing. Into it I stuffed a wad of Icelandic bills and a lip gloss. I was just about to toss in the pocket dictionary when the black velvet pouch of runes caught my eye. I’d yet to open the bag since receiving it; the engraved markings meant nothing to me; and I still suspected my fingers of some sort of betrayal in packing them. Modern dictionary practical; ancient alphabet useless, were the words I heard in my head. Again, my double-crossing fingers grabbed the bag and stuffed it into the satchel.
Voices alerted me to Afi and Baldur’s presence. I hurried to find them in the front room with Vigdis. They, too, were dressed for the occasion. Both wore black knit caps with silver tassels, white shirts, dark vests with two rows of buttons, red neckerchiefs, short knicker-style pants, dark knee-high socks held up with tasseled garters, and funny pointed shoes.
“Afi, I love the look.”
He tugged at his knotted red scarf. “Thank you.” He looked at me, nodding his head. His eyes were glassy. “You look like my long-departed sister, dressed as you are.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said.
“There’s none higher,” he said, winking and wiping the corner of his eye.
“We make a fine group,” Vigdis said. “A very good start to a festival day.”
“So what’s the schedule of events?” I asked.
“There’s a luncheon hosted by the church, then speeches in the square, then games to build appetites for the big dinner at the festival hall, and, of course, the dancing. Most important is the dancing.”
Holy cow. All that in one day? Vigdis and Baldur hardly looked like endurance athletes, but I honestly wondered if I’d be able to keep up. Already they were idling high with adrenaline coloring their cheeks and tapping their toes.
“Do you think there will be time to find that café with Internet?” I asked. “I want to send an e-mail.”
“Of course,” Vigdis said. “We’ll drop you off on our way to the church. I will be busy with duties, so you take your time. Explore the village. Then come have a nice lunch.”
As promised, Baldur’s little sardine-can car dropped me off at the small restaurant. Once in town, my costume didn’t feel like such a good idea. The café catered to a young crowd, a hip crowd. So far, I seemed to be the only one under thirty dressed like the St. Pauli Girl. I made my way through the crush of small tables to an open seat in the back. I was definitely getting looks and comments. The language barrier didn’t help. In fact, it fueled my imagination. Was gofka Icelandic for freak, or for punked?
At least I had the promise of an e-mail from Jack to take my mind off the pointing and staring. I fired up my laptop and opened my Hotmail account. My heart fell with the realization that my in-box was empty. A waitress appeared at the table and rattled off something I didn’t understand. I supposed if I looked like I’d just stepped off the cover of an Icelandic travel brochure, her assumption that I could handle a basic sentence was fair.
I replied with two of the roughly ten words I knew, “Kaffi, vinsamlegast.” And just hoped I’d asked for coffee, please.
I typed a quick e-mail to my mom, hoping she had her laptop on her belly.
The message read,
Mom, did you send Stanley a note for me? Asking Jack to send me an e-mail? Hope you’re feeling better. Love, Kat.
Just as I hit the send button, the waitress delivered the coffee and a small jug of milk. As I stirred a spiral of white into the steaming cup, my computer dinged. Man, did I love my ever-dependable Mom? And I had an ever-growing appreciation for command central.
Her reply read,
Dear Kat, Stanley promised to pass your message on to Jack. It does sound like they’re busy, spending many hours in the field. If you want to try yourself, here’s the e-mail: [email protected]. In the subject line, put attention: Jack Snjosson. It won’t be very private, but they do seem to go
through. Enjoy the festival. Love to you and Afi, Mom.
I took a sip of the coffee. Dang, it was strong. A cup of joe my dad would definitely appreciate. I typed in the e-mail address my mom had given me and Jack’s name into the subject line. The gist of my message was: Where are you??? E-mail me back!!! I can’t breathe.
I had just hit send when I felt a tap at my elbow.From the table next to me, a young guy with big blue eyes and sandy brown hair said, “Gobbledy orforick goop. Ekka mejr goop” — or at least that’s what I made out of what sounded like complete gibberish to me.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m not Icelandic.”
“Not Icelandic?” he said, switching into English. “But you’re dressed for the festival.”
I looked around the café. Two others up front, thank God, were also dressed like Hansel and Gretel.
“I guess I thought everyone else would be, too,” I said, adjusting my little woolen cap.
“But, you wear the silver tassel,” he said, pointing at the thick silken tail-like thing hanging over my left ear.
“So?” I asked.
