Draugr

by Arthur Slade

  “I can’t really say for sure. Just that something bad was going to happen. And obviously it did.”

  “Was he—” I swallowed. “Was he warning us about a draugr?”

  Althea laughed, so loudly and forcefully that I was shocked. “Heavens no! Thursten’s been filling your head full of stories. I’ll tell you what I believe happened last night. It’s exactly what I told the police.”

  18

  Althea reached for the largest of the books on the table, a tattered and stained journal. It looked like it had been through the wringer a hundred times over. I remembered that it had scribbled handwriting inside.

  Althea opened the cover carefully. “Last winter I found a large, brown package waiting for me at the post office—it was this book. It had been sent to me by members of Kormak’s family. They still own the land he dwelled on, and one of them had made the journey to the cabin and found this. They kept it at their home in Iceland for a few years, unopened. Then they heard I was writing a history of Gimli, so they sent it to me. It’s Kormak’s old journals.”

  “What does a man who died years ago have to do with Grandpa?” Michael asked.

  “I’ll get to that. Just give me a second.” She flipped through a few pages, read a bit to herself, then flipped ahead some more. All the paper was yellow and the book looked like it would fall apart. “Ah, here’s something.” She pointed at the page. “‘And I can feel the hatred boil up, a living thing inside me. Every time I see his face, hear his voice . . . I know he is my born enemy. I loathed his father . . . I loathe him. This Thursten from the valley, son of Thorgeir.’ Then Kormak writes blóth about twenty times in a row.”

  “What’s that mean?” I asked.

  “Blood. He seemed pretty obsessed with blood.”

  “Was it Grandpa he hated so much?” Angie had her arms crossed.

  “Yes,” Althea answered. “It was. About the time this was written, your grandfather had just arrived here from the old country. By talking to him and by doing research on my own, I discovered Kormak was one of the Grotsons, a family that had a long-standing grievance with the Asmundsons, your family. He had moved here and brought the feud with him.”

  “What was the feud over?” I asked.

  “Well, about seventy years ago, Kormak’s father accused your great-grandfather of stealing one of his cows. It even went through the courts and Thorgeir was declared innocent. But there was a rumor that the old farmer actually was in love with your great-grandmother . . . though she’d never had anything to do with him. Apparently he passed this hatred down to Kormak.”

  “Did he ever do anything to Grandpa?” Angie asked.

  Althea shook her head. “No. Just wrote in this book. Kormak was a little bit bothered in the head. Pretty well everyone whom he had cross words with—and that was a lot of people for a hermit—ended up in this journal. But most of the entries were about Thursten.”

  “Okay,” Michael said, “so this Kormak guy didn’t like Grandpa and he wrote a bunch of mean stuff, then he kicked off. What’s this have to do with today?”

  “Well . . .” Althea flipped ahead a few pages. “Right here is Kormak’s last entry, presumably written only a few hours before he died. It says, ‘Revenge will be mine after night, after death, after everything. The light will not claim me.’ It’s dated the same day he collapsed in his front yard with a failed heart: June 30th, 1945.”

  Althea flipped ahead another page or two. “And right here the strangest thing happens. There are new entries written after Kormak’s death. With dates sometime in the last five years, if they can be believed.”

  My heart had skipped a beat. “New entries?”

  “Yes, written in a similar hand as before . . . but forty-five years later. Here, I’ll read you one.” She ran her finger down the page, stopped. “‘Darkness and fog and cold creep through my bones. I have had dreams and heard crowing voices, twice now the wolves and rats and all the dark creatures have come knocking at the door. The third time will be the last.’”

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” Brand said.

  “No,” Althea answered. “Not at first. But when you read more it starts to make a certain crazy semblance of sense. Here’s another one. ‘And I feel the hatred wrap around my flesh and sink its fangs into my heart. It is eating at me like the snake Jormungand who bites his own tail. It is an old, old hatred passed down through my flesh, my spirit, my bones—from father to son to son. A hatred for one man, one name: Thursten.’ This entry is dated only three years ago.

  “I’ll read you the very last one. It’s the worst. ‘Blood. Dead. Flesh. I am returned from the dirt, up from the ground. Draugr . . . Draugr . . . Draugr . . .’”

  “Did Kormak write this?” I asked.

  “No. Kormak was long, long dead and buried. His son wrote it.”

  “Son?” I had finished the last of my tea and was beginning to feel the coldness creep into my system once again. “His son?”

  Althea nodded. “Well, I did a little research on this—I don’t think his family read all the book. They just saw it was old and sent it to me—I’m good friends with Kormak’s first cousin. I got the impression they weren’t too proud about Kormak’s branch of their family tree—but they did find him interesting.

  “After I read the journal I wrote to the Grotsons about the new entries. They sent back a letter saying they didn’t know anything about them. But they included a piece of information that made me think quite a bit. They said Kormak had married only a year or so before he left for Gimli. His wife was quite young and many believed it was an ill match and that he had somehow bewitched her. Anyway, he left her with child and vanished to Canada. He apparently never saw his first and only offspring—a boy.

  “They told me his son was rotinn—rotten inside. His mother had a hard time raising him, it took years from her life. Apparently her hair went gray and her skin wrinkled up by the time she was twenty-five. He fought with everyone, was kicked out of school, and spent time in jail. But all this time his mother told him what a great father he’d had. She died, presumably of exhaustion, when she was thirty-four. Some of the relatives tried to care for the boy, but within six months he had disappeared. No one heard about him again for years. He just wandered around Iceland and Norway, wherever he could find trouble.”

  “What was his name?” Michael asked.

  “Kar. About five or six years ago, people who knew of him thought they had seen him passing through Gimli. He looks just like his father, sallow sunken eyes and heavy cheekbones. The people who saw him went to church that night to pray for the town. They said looking into his eyes was like looking into the burning orbs of the Devil.

  “A few days later I was down having coffee at a restaurant and I heard that hunters had seen lights in Kormak’s cabin. Of course, no one dared to go near it. Even fifty years later, no one wants to have anything to do with Kormak.”

  “So you think this Kar wrote in the journal?” I was starting to understand what Althea was getting at.

  “Yes, he might have stayed at the cabin and later his family members, not knowing he had lived there or was still there, took this from the table. I think Kar read it, then started to hate your grandfather just like his father did. His side of the Grotson family is known to be a little . . . mad. And the stories of people coming back from the dead are pretty common in the old land. He probably made himself believe he was actually undead. And he’s been planning his revenge for years. This is what I told the police and they’re looking for him now.”

  “But he couldn’t have done all the damage to the house,” I said, “one man couldn’t have.”

  Althea narrowed her eyes. “I haven’t seen the cabin in daylight yet, but I do know that it was dark and all of you were in a state of fear and worry, and sometimes your imagination makes your memories bigger than what you actually saw.”

  “But�
��” I started.

  “You would also be surprised how much destruction a deranged Icelandic man can do.”

  I fell silent. I wasn’t sure what was right. Maybe it only was a few broken windows and boards magnified by my frightened mind.

  “There’s one more thing you should know.” Althea looked seriously at us all. “Your grandfather and I traced your family lines back. And this Kar is actually related to you—a third cousin.”

  “We’re related to this crazy guy!” Michael exclaimed. “Great gene pool we come from.”

  Althea spoke slowly. “This is what I believe happened. You’re old enough that I can tell you the truth. I think Kar has probably dragged Thursten away and buried him . . . but kept him alive. Draugrs were known to do this to their victims as a sort of slow revenge. That means your grandfather is most likely still alive.”

  “For now,” Michael whispered.

  We were silent.

  “What can we do?” I asked finally.

  “Pray,” Althea answered. “Tonight—”

  The phone buzzed. It was sitting on a small desk and looked like it was a fax machine too.

  Althea went to it and picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

  She paused for a moment. Her face became set in stone.

  “I understand. Yes, I will be there shortly.”

  She set down the phone and turned to face us. “The police are having difficulty locating Kar’s cabin. Even their dogs seem to lose their sense of direction. I’m going to go out and help them.”

  “Why you?” Brand asked, clearly concerned about his grandmother.

  “Because I know those woods better than anyone. I’ll be safe. There will be six officers with me.” She smiled. “It’s not every day I get to be around six handsome men in uniform.”

  A minute later she was at the door, workboots on, her shawl around her shoulders. “Brand, there are leftovers in the fridge. Please, feed our guests.” She turned to us, her one gray eye serious. “We will find your grandfather,” she promised.

  Then she was out the door and gone.

  19

  “We’re not just gonna wait here, are we?” Angie asked.

  “What else can we do?” Michael flipped his hair out of his eyes. “We have to sit right here. But I don’t know if I’ll be able to stand it.”

  “Grandma knows what she’s doing,” Brand said. “She’s worked with the police before—she helps them quite a bit. And if anyone can find your grandfather, she can. She has a gift for those kinds of things.”

  “You mean she’s done this before?” I asked.

  “No . . . not exactly,” Brand answered. “She just has a knack for finding things, including people. Once when I was a kid I ran away from home and, to make a long story short, I got lost in the dark. For hours. She was the one who found me. She just knew exactly where I was.”

  “Yeah . . . you’re right,” I said. “She seems like she’s capable of anything.” The noose in my stomach was loosening. I sighed. “The police are trained for this kind of thing too. Everything will work out.”

  “The Mounties always get their man,” Brand said, a little flippantly. He was smiling. “It’s what they’re known for.” He stood up. “You know what we need right now is a little grub. How about leftovers?”

  “I’ll help,” I said a little too quickly. Angie gave me a quick wink. “That is, if you need help.”

  Brand motioned with his hand. “Sure. The more the merrier.” Then he headed for the kitchen.

  I ran a hand through my hair and my fingers got stuck in the knots. “I have to go to the washroom first,” I said. I turned left and went up the stairs. I thought I could hear Angie and Michael laughing behind me.

  Once in the bathroom, I looked in the mirror. There was dirt on my face, my hair looked even worse than it had in the morning. Oh no! My heart sank. I had looked like this all day. I found a brush and quickly brushed out the knots, practically pulling my hair out. When I was done, I pulled it back and tied it with a barrette I found on the counter.

  Then I laughed at myself. Here I was worried about my looks on probably one of the worst days of my life. It was silly.

  I did take the time to wash my face.

  Just before I left I stared at myself.

  That hard look I had seen before was still there. A feeling of strength.

  I wished I could understand where it was coming from.

  I found Brand in the kitchen, opening the oven door. A turkey pie was in his right hand. He slid it into the oven. “This’ll be perfect,” he said to me. “You got here just in time . . . what temp should it be?”

  I turned the knob to 375 degrees. “It’ll probably take at least twenty minutes.”

  I glanced up. Brand was staring at me, a look of caring in his eyes. “How are you feeling?” he asked quietly.

  “Uh . . . good,” I answered, suddenly feeling queasy. “Better, I guess, now that I know Althea is going to help in the search.”

  “All three of you should get medals. You’ve held up really well.” He paused. “In fact, you deserve a medal for getting away from Grandma. I would have thought it impossible.”

  I smiled. “It already seems like it was years ago.”

  Brand put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed lightly. “Your grandfather has probably whipped this Kar into shape and is just waiting for the cops to show.”

  I smiled. “Yeah. I hope so.”

  Brand opened his mouth to say something else and at that moment the phone buzzed twice. He shrugged, went over, and put the receiver to his ear. Instead of saying hello, he reached down and pressed a button. The phone made a squealing noise, then I heard a humming sound.

  “A fax is coming through,” Brand explained. “It’s probably from one of Grandma’s writing friends—they’re always faxing each other about Viking myths.”

  Brand watched the paper come out the top. “Wait a second—” he paused, “it’s from the Mounties.”

  He watched until it was completely printed. Then read it over. “Oh my . . .” he whispered.

  “What is it?” Michael asked.

  Brand looked up, his face suddenly serious. “It’s from one of Grandma’s friends in the RCMP detachment. Grandma must have asked her to look up the records on Kar. Apparently there was some kind of computer problem, so they couldn’t get the information right away. But it says this Kar guy died three years ago. Someone found him dead up in the trees—he had been attacked by an animal of some sort. He was buried in the Gimli cemetery.” He paused. “They’re going to concentrate on a few other leads. They brought park officials in to help them track a bear.”

  “A bear?” Michael asked. “Do they believe it’s a bear now?”

  Brand shrugged. “I don’t think they really know.”

  “Let’s go for a drive,” I blurted.

  “A drive?” Brand looked at me like I’d turned into an alien. “Grandma should be back soon. Besides, I only have my learner’s license.”

  “Where do you want to go?” Michael asked. Was he thinking along the same lines as me? I glanced at him, saw a look of concern.

  “Well . . .” I paused. I suddenly realized how bizarre my idea sounded. I realized I had to say it anyway. “I want to go to the graveyard.”

  “The graveyard?” Brand exclaimed. “Are you crazy? Why do you want to go there?”

  “I just have a hunch that’s all. About Kar.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’ll know when we get there. That some kind of clue about Grandpa will be waiting at the cemetery.”

  “I think she’s right,” Michael said. He still had that same concerned look. “Let’s go.”

  “Yes, let’s go,” Angie echoed. She too seemed very serious. Was it some kind of family ESP? Did they have the same hunch as me? All three of us had gathe
red around Brand.

  “We can’t just go.” He took a step back. “I can’t drive without an adult.”

  “We’ll be okay as long as you drive safe,” Angie said. “Besides, if you add all of our ages together—we’re in our thirties.”

  “Forties, actually,” Michael added. “Forty-two to be exact.”

  Brand took another step back. “But it’ll be dark soon.”

  “We’ll take flashlights,” I answered. All three of us moved closer.

  “You Americans are crazy. Grandma will kill me.”

  Angie put her hand on his shoulder. “We’ll be gone tomorrow. We won’t be any more trouble after that.”

  Brand paused. He looked at us, shaking his head and grinning. “Oh . . . okay. You win. If we hurry we can get back before Grandma returns.”

  We cheered. Michael punched Brand playfully on the shoulder. “It’ll be wild.”

  “It better be. ’Cause I’ll be spending the rest of the summer in the dog house.”

  Brand went to the broom closet and dug out two huge, black, metal flashlights. They were the kind the police usually carried. I turned the oven off, put the turkey pie back in the fridge. Within a minute we were all ready to go.

  Brand handed a flashlight to Angie and one to me. “We can take my grandpa’s truck. It’s out behind the house. I don’t think it’s been driven for a couple years, so we might be hoofing our way back.”

  “Let’s hurry,” I said. “Please.”

  Brand looked at me. His face was solemn. “Okay, for you I will.”

  Then we followed him through the patio doors and into the backyard.

  20

  The truck was the one I had spotted before—an old red Chevy with big tires, rectangular windows, and curved metal fenders. It gleamed in the sunlight.

  “Is this a ’57?” Michael asked.

  “It sure is,” Brand answered. “Grandma said she’d give it to me when I turn sixteen. She’ll probably change her mind after tonight.”