Frost

by Wendy Delsol

  I figured it was a trick to get me to buy something. As a con, the woman likely dished out bogus fortunes and then asked for a fistful of krona in return. “I’m good,” I said, unhooking the strap to my leather satchel and pulling out my velvet pouch. “Already have my own set.” I shook a few of the rocks onto my palm.

  Goth girl’s lashes batted up and down. She spoke so fast and with such a hiss, I wondered if runic was a spoken language.

  “May I see them?” the girl asked, but before I could respond, she grabbed the pouch and the few stones from my palm in a very swift, very deft move: a sort of reverse shoplifting. While holding them, the girl closed her eyes and then, as if goosed, her eyes popped open.

  “Where did you get these? They’re very old.”

  “They were a gift,” I said.

  Gobbledygook was exchanged between the two. I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like the conversation ended with gypsy mom telling goth daughter to shut up. Some things don’t need a translator.

  “My mother will read them for you,” the girl said. It wasn’t a question.

  The woman shook a large white cloth from her pocket and spread it out on the table in front of me. One at a time, I was instructed to pull runes from the pouch and place them facedown on the cloth exactly where she pointed. Once I had pulled five and they were lined up as if at the four points of the compass and one in the middle, I was instructed to place my pouch to the side.

  At first it was confusing with them both speaking at me, but, within a moment or two, I learned to concentrate on the woman’s gentler — by comparison — voice, while ignoring goth girl’s more hawkish gaze and tone. I was picking up on a word repeated over and over, “Jinky.”

  “Is your name Jinky?” I asked goth girl.

  “Yes.” Her gaze narrowed.

  It took everything in me not to react. Jinky? Seriously? Somehow, her unfortunate — at least to me — name explained everything; I relaxed — a little.

  “Mine’s Kat.”

  She didn’t respond. All righty, then.

  The first rune I was instructed to lift was the very center one. I turned it over, revealing a kind of slanty upside-down capital F.

  “In a five-rune spread,” Jinky said, “this rune represents your current situation.”

  Currently, I thought to myself, some part of my money will soon belong to these two. I expected to be told something cliché, like an inheritance or a handsome stranger coming my way. Gypsy mom yakked some more.

  “It’s Fehu, except reversed or upside down.” Jinky bit her lip. “This signifies a loss.”

  Which is definitely in keeping with my it’s-all-a-sham-for-which-I’ll-pay theory.

  Next, I was instructed to turn over the rune to the left or due west of Fehu. It looked like two upright parallel lines attached by a small x that connected them from their tops to their centers.

  “This rune signifies your past. You have drawn Mannaz, the symbol for man.”

  Hmmm. I’d have expected the “man” to be in my future, but whatever.

  The third rune I lifted was above or due north of Fehu. It looked like a backward seven, but with the top slanting down at a more severe angle. As I turned this one over, the two exchanged a volley of rapid-fire conversation. Gypsy girl was all lit up, excited even, and seemed to be talking her mom into something; trying, anyway. Twice, she pointed at my tasseled cap. Gypsy mom prevailed, or so it seemed.

  “As your help rune you have drawn Lagaz, the water symbol. This is a powerful symbol and besides water can also represent psychic gifts and intuitive knowledge.” Though she spoke the word “powerful,” her voice was once again detached and monotone. “The help rune indicates the thing that you can use during this situation, in your case loss.”

  Wasn’t I supposed to be having my fortune read? And doesn’t fortune mean luck? The good kind? I sure hoped they’d get to that part soon.

  The fourth rune I revealed was the stone below or due south of Fehu. It looked like a straight line that stood upright: a number one with no hook and no base. Again, there was a lot of discussion going back and forth between the woman and her daughter. This time it seemed an angry exchange. For such a simple-looking symbol, it really didn’t seem worth all the fuss. Besides, it wasn’t like I was buying into their act. If they were any good at their proclaimed psychic abilities, they should have been pulling my doubts out like a giant magnet. Their exchange concluded with gypsy mom shaking her finger at her daughter.

  “As your obstacle you have drawn Isa, the ice symbol,” a pissed-off Jinky said.

  That got my attention. I was in Iceland, after all. And, for the record, was Jack Frost’s girlfriend. Plus, for all the heated chatter that had passed between them, it was far too short of a translation. Something had definitely been edited.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “Isa, like all the runes, has many interpretations. It can mean a standstill or delay to events. It indicates an elemental substance, a source of mystery. It can also indicate reversed love.”

  I did not like the sound of that one. Especially given the doubts I was having about Jack. For sanity’s sake, I figured I’d go with its elemental meaning, water below thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit. And chalk their arguments up to fiery personalities.

  Finally, I flipped over the remaining stone. The one to the right or due east of Fehu. It looked like a capital R.

  “As your result stone,” Jinky said, “you have chosen Raidho, the rune of journeys.”

  Well, duh — I was on vacation. And if I had kept track of the five stones correctly, my fortune read as follows: My present is a loss, my past is a man, my much-debated help will be water, my highly disputed obstacle will be ice, and the result will be a journey. And how much would that all cost me?

  “Are you not here for such a journey?” Jinky asked. It was the first time she had addressed me, not simply translated what her mom had said.

  As if sensing a slight to her authority, the mother interrupted her daughter with a long, spit-punctuated lecture.

  “I’m on spring break, if that’s what you mean?” I said. Man, these two were an odd pair. I sure wouldn’t want to sit down to one of their family dinners, an occasion at which I’d watch my back and my neighbor’s knife. “With my afi. Here he comes now.” I had never been so happy to see Afi’s hunched shoulders and wiry white hair.

  With those lightning-quick reflexes of hers, Jinky scooped up the runes and the cloth. By the time Afi was at my elbow, I was once again looking down at the table of jewelry.

  “See anything you like?” Afi asked.

  I felt a small tug at my sleeve and turned to see Jinky slip my velvet pouch into the pocket of my parka.

  “They have some nice things,” I said, ad-libbing, though I hardly knew why.

  The woman held up a necklace and dangled it in front of Afi, speaking in Icelandic.

  I gasped. It looked remarkably like the necklace Brigid had worn: the one that Jack had shattered. Though this jagged crystalline pendant hung from a strap of leather; Brigid’s had been on a silver chain.

  “She thinks this one would suit you,” Afi said.

  “I . . . I’ve seen one like it before.”

  Afi spoke again to the woman and then fished around in his pocket, producing a money clip. Before I could think of anything to say, he peeled three two-thousand krona bills from the fold and handed them to her. Six-thousand krona was, according to my rough calculations, about fifty dollars. I was in such a fog of surprise, I was hardly able to mumble an appropriate good-bye to the two peddlers. As we turned to leave, Jinky said, “Safe travels.”

  Though it was an entirely appropriate comment, it sent shivers down my spine. Partly because it had been delivered with a sneer, and partly because it seemed she wanted to say more.

  Afi and I stepped away from their booth. I, for one, was glad to go. “Thank you, Afi. You really didn’t need to buy it.”

  “The woman said it was a good-
luck piece, and that it would be a nice souvenir of your trip.”

  I looped it behind my neck, twisted the metal screw fastener, and zipped my jacket up tight. Sliding my hands into my pockets, I jiggled the pouch of runes, not knowing what to think. Were they con artists? Afi was out fifty bucks. And just what was up with that rune reading? Because of a guy, I was to expect a loss resulting in a journey where water would help and ice would be an obstacle. And the necklace? So like Brigid’s. I hadn’t seen anything like it on the table when I’d first examined their pieces. And now I was to consider it a good-luck souvenir.

  “The contests are about to begin,” Afi said. “First is the tug-of-war.”

  Perfect, because that was exactly what was going on in my head: plain old common sense versus the weird and wacked. And dang it if the freaks weren’t gaining ground.

  The games took place in an open field adjacent to the small Viking tent village. A roaring bonfire separated the areas between the camp and the field. In the chill and weak light of the early-spring day, the fire’s heat and glow was like honey dribbled on toast. And all the more welcome following the creepy-crawly tingle the rune reading had left me with. We found Baldur and Vigdis warming themselves by the crackling blaze.

  “There you two are,” Vigdis said. “Come, the games are starting.”

  We gathered around an impossibly long and thick swath of rope with two ginormous loops on each end. The rope was stretched over one seriously nasty-looking mud pit. A foghorn sounded, and soon two teams of men entered the clearing from opposite ends of the field. The first team looked like ancient Vikings, with crude garments made of shearling wool, horned helmets, and even the odd chain-mail tunic. The second team wore capes and hoods fashioned out of — what I hoped was imitation — sealskins. No mistaking what this game represented. The original townspeople of Hafmeyjafjörður versus the selkie folk. The two largest men stepped into the looped ends of the rope, and the rest of their teams positioned themselves in front of them. Again, the foghorn sounded, and soon the men were grunting like wild boars while the crowd cheered and whistled. It was hard-fought, but, in the end, the seals were wallowing in the muck. The crowd went wild with excitement. It was clear just which side the average Johann was rooting for. I noticed that Afi, Baldur, and Vigdis — in the minority with their silver tassels — frowned at the outcome. I followed my small selurmanna group toward the next event.

  We watched a net-mending contest, relay races on large, handled hop-balls made to look like buoys, and a crazy beachfront finale that was a sort of triathlon. Part one was a sprint to the water, part two a frenzied stripping of layered clothing, and part three a swim to the end of the wooden pier and back. I couldn’t believe that so many people would brave those frigid waters, never mind bare such a sorry display of underwear. And when wet and drooping, more is definitely better.

  It was after five. Darkness was pressing down. With a pinch, it squeezed the air from my chest. Torches and old-fashioned street lamps lit the scene, but, still, with the twilight came an eerie vibe. As much as the entire day was celebrated as a recreation of legends and stories, here, down at the water, I felt the oddest sensation. Air-ferried energies seemed to whisper in my ear, like a swell of ancient winds brushing over me. The crowds started to disperse from the waterfront, but I was rooted to the spot. I felt a presence and thought I heard the strange music again. I spun, scanning the beach. Down along the rocks, far from the gathering, I spied something splashing.

  “Wait. There’s still someone in the water,” I said, pointing.

  Baldur and Vigdis followed my finger with their eyes, but blinked back at me in confusion. “Where?” Vigdis asked.

  “He was there a minute ago,” I said. “Or maybe it was even a woman. It was hard to tell. Afi, did you see someone, or hear anything?”

  Afi’s eyes focused on the exact spot where I was pointing, seemingly even dipping his ear closer, but then he shook his head and said, “No, everyone’s out. See? All the clothes are picked up.”

  So they were. On the beach, all the various pieces of clothing had been reclaimed. Had someone or something been there, it wasn’t one of the festival-goers. Afi and I exchanged looks. For the briefest of moments, I wanted to challenge him. Ask him again. I gazed out upon the rocks once more. Nothing. I distractedly fingered the necklace Afi bought me.

  “I see you wear the Snow Queen necklace,” Vigdis said.

  “The what?”

  “The Snow Queen necklace. They’re very popular here. From the children’s story the Snædrottningin, ‘The Snow Queen.’ Is reproduction of the mirror fragments that the queen uses to freeze hearts.”

  “I don’t remember a mirror in the story,” I said, my heart squeezing in and out like an accordion. I heard the whiny music and wouldn’t have been surprised had a monkey with a collection cup jumped on my shoulder.

  “If I remember correctly,” Vigdis said, “it’s the prologue. A story about a wicked troll who makes an evil mirror. While flying up to the heavens with it, in order to play tricks on the angels, it shatters and falls to earth, freezing the hearts of all those pierced by its fragments.”

  I found it bizarre that we were discussing The Snow Queen. Had Afi or I mentioned the musical to Vigdis? Even if we had, it certainly hadn’t come up during the rune reading. When constantly tripping you up, coincidences — like long, scratchy skirts — became a nuisance.

  “Who’s hungry?” Baldur asked.

  I, for one, was and welcomed the distraction. It had been a long time since Vigdis’s rhubarb-filled pancakes, and something warm and hearty sounded good, provided the adjectives blood, fermented, or sour-pickled weren’t part of the description.

  Baldur pulled four tickets out of his pocket. “Dinner and dance is at the festival hall, just a short walk away. Shall we?”

  I followed my companions, passing the warmth of the bonfire reluctantly. At least “festival hall” indicated something with walls and a ceiling, which meant, if nothing else, a break from the wind. I had always known Afi bragged to be of rugged stock, but an outdoor event with snow still on the ground? And swimming in an icy fjord? No, thank you. Tables, chairs, plates, and forks were all the incentive I required.

  From the outside, the hall was a low, squat building. Inside, it was a cavernous space with a vaulted ceiling and thick walls with narrow transom windows. One half of the enclosed area had long, simple wooden tables pushed together and lined up one after another. This would be no private dining experience; more like a boarding-school hall: Hogwarts on the Fjord. The other half of the room was used for buffet tables, a stage, and a dance floor. Baldur handed over our dinner tickets, and we got in line. Rustic earthen bowls and huge platters were overflowing with food. A seafood feast seemed, to me, bad karma for an event celebrating fish people. I, personally, loaded up on the carbs and veggies: flat breads and dark ryes, mashed potatoes, boiled cabbage, pickled beets, the yogurt-like skyr, rice pudding, and a whole array of cakes and cookies.

  We sat close to the dance floor at the end of one of the long plank tables. Afi, Baldur, and Vigdis slipped into a conversation in Icelandic, and it was actually soothing to hear the hum of voices but not have to concentrate on the words, the way instrumental music frees you from the influence of lyrics. Vigdis and Baldur, seemingly, disagreed about something; Afi, I think, sided with Vigdis. I watched Afi with his relatives. He looked happier than I’d seen him in a long time. Back home, he was lonely and missed Amma, I knew, but I could tell that it was more than that. Funny that I had even used the word “home,” because that’s just how he seemed here surrounded by these Icelanders — at home.

  I scooped the last bite of a piece of chocolate cake into my mouth just as the band took the stage. The trio — a fiddle, flute, and bass guitar — wasted no time. After a short greeting to the crowd, they started up. It was definitely folk music, a lively, hand-clapping, toe-tapping-style throwback. Nothing that would get cred at the Grammys, but, still, it buzzed the place
to life. Vigdis and Baldur were the first two to hit the dance floor. They were so cute together, if two pushing-seventy gray-hairs could be called cute. Afi watched that first number clapping to the music and with a big smile creasing his lined cheeks.

  “Watch closely,” he said to me. “We’ll give it a go next song.”

  Uh-oh. This type of dancing had rules and steps and a very specific order to things. The men twirled the women in unison; there were kicks, and stutter steps, and bowing, and circles formed. It was nothing like shaking my booty with Tina and Penny at last fall’s Homecoming dance.

  “I don’t know, Afi. It looks complicated.”

  The first song ended, and Afi pulled me to my feet. “People are complicated; this is just dancing.”

  For an old guy, Afi could move. I did my best. Kicked when the others kicked, ducked under a bridge of arms when I seemed to be next in line, and even got the hang of the twirls he snapped me back and forth from, but I was always a half step behind the whole darn lot of them, though almost every one of them had a good fifty years on me. I stumbled my way through two songs, then begged off. Afi quickly found himself a new partner, who, I had to admit, was very light on her feet despite her size and age.

  At first, I watched from the table. Then I made my way to the drink station, pointing and ending up with some sort of cider. For a while, I watched the dancers from the back of the room. Someone tapped me on the shoulder.

  “You still have your silver tassel, I see.” It was the guy from the café earlier that day. The one who’d first mentioned the selurmanna to me.

  I touched my cap. “For whatever it’s worth, looks like my afi can trace his roots back to one of the seven sisters.”

  The guy lifted his eyebrows. “Impressive.”

  “Not really. I’d say the census keepers around here are the ones to be admired. Are we talking close to a thousand years of town records? Now, that’s impressive.”

  “Anyway, it looks good on you. Legend says the sisters were all beautiful.”

  My heart dropped, landing with a splat on my kidneys, and all I could think of was Jack. There was nothing between me and this guy, so I was all the more confused by my physical reaction. And it was physical; I wouldn’t have been surprised had a bruise bubbled to the surface of my chest. What had just happened? It had felt like some kind of . . . of what? The word that came crazily to mind was loss. But that was the word the old rune reader had used. Was I just projecting her words onto an emotion I couldn’t identify? Was I feeling guilty that this guy was flirting with me? Was he flirting with me? He was still hanging around, eyeing me weirdly. But guilt I would recognize, right? This was different. A lurch to my gut as if something had happened. And if not to me, then to someone I loved.