by Arthur Slade
"Well, I'm going for my jog," Dad announced. "See you in a few minutes."
"What should I use to pick it up?"
"I'm sure you'll find something," he shouted. He was already at the edge of our campsite, pumping his knees up and down in a slow jog. "You've got a knack for being clever."
"I got it from Mom," I yelled, but he was gone, his feet a blur beneath him.
It took me awhile to choose the right instrument for the job. I finally settled on the small silver shovel in our tool bag. I went around to the side of the tent and picked up the pigeon's head.
Its eye stared at me.
Then I carefully scooped up the body. A swarm of flies took off, buzzed around, then returned to their prize. I felt my stomach tighten and wished I could somehow do all this with my eyes closed. A few flies abandoned the bird and landed on my cheek. Their tiny legs tickled me, but I couldn't take my hands off the shovel to brush them off.
I crept over to the garbage, walking as carefully as possible. Finally, I got to the can and gently dropped the pigeon inside. The flies followed.
I picked up the lid and placed it on top, whispering a small prayer. It seemed like the right thing to do.
"Bye-bye, Tweety Bird," a raspy voice said behind me.
6.
I turned around, expecting to see the creeps who killed the bird.
Instead, who should be standing there, but the girl from last night. Wrap-around, mirrored sunglasses hid her eyes, making her look like a Star Trek crew member. She wore ankle-high hiking boots, blue jean shorts and a black shirt scrawled with the words: Reality stinks and so do you. She was smaller than I remembered and she appeared fit. Energy seemed to crackle out from somewhere deep inside her. She smirked, then asked, "Poor little bird fall down dead?"
"Uh ... yeah." Flustered, I opened my mouth again and out came: "It wasn't your bird, was it?"
I could've whacked myself on the head. What a stupid thing to say.
She stared at me, or I think she was staring because I couldn't see her eyes behind the reflective lenses. Her grin changed into a grimace.
Oh, good job, I thought. You've gone and made her mad.
"You've never been here before, have you," she said.
"No, I haven't."
She removed her shades. Her eyes glittered with humor and I sighed in relief. "Hey, welcome to Drang Island," she said, spreading her arms like a tour guide, "the weirdest island in the whole, wide world." She stepped up and offered her hand. "By the way, thanks for the help last night. Sorry I was so defensive. I get that way when people sneak up on me in the dark. My name's Fiona Gavin."
"I'm Michael Asmundson." We shook. It felt a little awkward; I didn't quite get my hand all the way into hers. A sissy handshake. "So I ... uh ... see that your hair's red. Are you a Norj or a Swede or something?"
"A Norj? What's that? Some kinda nerd?"
"No, it's short for Norwegian."
She shook her head. "I'm Canadian. Born and raised in beautiful B.C. And I get the red hair from my mom. She's part Irish. Not that it's really your business."
"Sorry ... I didn't mean to be snoopy."
"No harm done," Fiona said, rather matter-of-factly. She glanced past me at our campsite. "Looks like someone tried to re-decorate your tent, too."
"Was yours hit?"
She nodded. "Yep, some kind of messy circular mark. If someone's going to be a graffiti bandit, they should try and pick up some artistic skills first. At least, you can make out words on yours. It seems to say, 'You are marked dead.' It's like a threat or something."
"Yeah, but what does it mean? Who would write that?"
Fiona shrugged. "Who knows. Most people who do this stuff are just pimply-faced geeks, out to get a thrill. I don't imagine it'll get solved. There's only one Ranger on the island."
"We met him," I told her.
"Great guy, isn't he?" She made a face like she'd just bit into a lemon. "There's not much he can do about the vandals, but stamp his feet and huff and puff. There are a few wild ones who hang out on Drang. Me included." She winked. I almost blushed. "Of course, maybe it's some of the sheep stealin' hermits in the bush, claiming their territory."
"Sheep stealers? What do you mean?"
"Last year a rich sheep herder tried to raise about thirty sheep here. Thought this'd be the perfect place to graze. Cost him a lot to ship them over. They all disappeared. People think it might have been the hermits, stocking up on their mutton."
"You seem to know a lot about Drang."
"Drang's my getaway place."
"Are you here alone?"
Fiona narrowed her eyes. "What's it to you?"
"I'm a secret agent," I answered flippantly, "It's my job to ask questions." I remembered how the weather had been last night. "You arrived after us. How did you get here?"
"Kayak."
"You came in a kayak! Through all that wind and lightning?"
"The sky was clear when I left; the storm hit me about halfway across. Kayaks are pretty dependable. And the trip wasn't that tough cause I was angry and I paddle better when I'm angry." I must have looked confused by her whole story, so she added. "I didn't have that far to go. My parents have a cabin on an island south of Drang."
"Do they know you're here?"
"You don't know when to stop asking questions, do you?" She looked like she was about to get real mad.
"Sorry," I whispered and shut my mouth.
An uncomfortable silence passed between us. Then Fiona pointed and asked, "Are those your bikes?"
"Yeah," I told her as we walked over to them. "They're rentals."
"They look pretty rugged." She lifted one up and let the front wheel drop down, catching it on the second bounce. "Good shocks on this baby."
"That's mine. I named it Sleipnir, after Odin's eight-legged horse. He was the fastest in all the worlds."
"You named your bike after a horse?" She frowned.
"Uh. Well, yeah. In our family we name everything we travel on or in; it's kind of a Viking tradition. Our boat is called Verdandi, after one of the fates; our car is Hugi and it's named for a giant who ran really fast. Well, fast as the speed of thought. Our car isn't that speedy though so it's kind of a sarcastic joke to call it Hugi ... " I trailed off.
Fiona had her hands on her hips, staring at me like I was a lunatic. "How ... uh .... interesting," she said. "Is the rest of your family as ... uh ... interesting as you?"
I opened my mouth to answer, but was distracted by the sound of someone running down the road behind us. I turned to see Dad huffing and puffing, taking his last few steps into the campsite. His t-shirt was soaked and a thin sheen of sweat glistened on his face. He was losing some of his hair and it made his forehead shine like a polished pink bowling ball. I'd learned a long time ago not to tease him about his receding hairline.
Why'd he have to go for such a short run today of all days?
He stopped in front of us. The lenses on his glasses were slightly fogged up and he was grinning mischievously. Fiona introduced herself. Dad said hi and raised one finger, as if he was about to start an important speech.
I knew he'd spit out something that would embarrass me. He always did whenever he found me with girls my age. He usually said things like "Michael has a birthmark on his behind" or "I hear my son's a good kisser."
Instead, he asked, "You two thinking of going biking?"
"Can we?" I blurted. "I mean—you don't mind if we borrow yours?"
"Go ahead." He took off his specs and started wiping them clean. He squinted at me. "You and I can go out tomorrow. Or the next day. We've got two weeks here."
"Do you want to go for a ride?" I asked Fiona.
"Yeah, sure," she answered, coolly. "But how about tomorrow? I was planning on taking my kayak out this morning."
"Oh ... okay." I tried to hide my disappointment.
"I was hoping you'd come with me," she added, much to my surprise. "I know you can rent kayaks down at the dock.
You ever been on one?"
"Yeah, a couple of times back home. Never out in the ocean, though. I'd be glad to tag along."
"Good!" Dad slipped his glasses back on. "I'll be rid of Michael for the morning at least." He winked at me then said, "We still haven't had breakfast. You want something to eat, Fiona? Or are you gonna eat with your parents?"
Fiona glanced furtively from me to Dad. "Uh ... no thanks. About breakfast, that is. I'll get some food at the tent and be back in about twenty minutes."
As I watched her leave, I thought about telling Dad that she was alone on the island, but bit my tongue. It really wasn't my business. And I sure didn't want Fiona upset with me.
"She seems nice," Dad said. "She from around here?"
"From one of the islands to the south, I think."
Dad nodded, rubbed his hands together. "How about scrambled eggs, Michael? And an orange or two?"
It sounded fine. He lit our one-pot camping stove and within a few minutes we were munching away on partly burnt eggs and bread toasted almost black.
"I can't imagine living here in the old days," Dad said. "It's fine today, in the middle of summer. But winter must have frozen the hearts of the settlers. Rain and snow and rain and snow. There are abandoned settlements on islands all around this part of B.C. Swedes, Finns, Icelanders, Danes; tough people, from a tough climate. And still they were beaten by this land—their bones buried in the earth or at the bottom of the ocean. And Drang is supposed to be the harshest of all the islands."
"Fiona said a few people actually do live here year round."
"Not many, I bet. A lone woodsmen with a wood stove, a winterized cabin and plenty of survival skills could make it, but you won't find any families out here. Even the Ranger packs up in October and takes a ferry to Port Hardy."
"Does Harbard live on Drang?"
Dad shrugged. "I wouldn't be surprised. He seems the type. Sometime today or tomorrow, I'll see if I can track him down. Trade him a drink for a few stories. I can always just wait by the docks until he shows up."
Dad stuffed his backpack with pens, paper, and notebooks. "Don't go too far out in the water. And don't be trying to show off, okay?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" I muttered.
"I'm just asking you to be safe. You' have been known to do stupid things to impress your friends, right?"
He was talking about the car incident again. He'll still be talking about it on his hundredth birthday.
"I'll be as careful as I can," I promised. Apparently this was enough for Dad. He hiked his pack up over his shoulder and in a few moments he'd disappeared down the road.
7.
I cleaned up our garbage, then plopped myself down on the bench next to the tent, sipping away at my water bottle. I felt tired, like I'd run a marathon or stayed up late cramming for an exam. I reminded myself I really hadn't had the best sleep the night before. And my short conversation with Dad was echoing around my skull. It seemed he was always expecting the worst from me.
A breeze rustled the branches of a nearby tree. I looked at the thick trunk and down at the roots, which were partly uncovered. In the Old Norse stories there was a tree called Yggdrasill that went from the underworld to heaven. Its branches held up the sky and a mighty eagle sat on its topmost bough, with a hawk resting on his brow. At the tree's roots was the dragon Nidhogg: corpse eater. Yggdrasill would survive Ragnarok; even outlast the gods. Whenever I looked at any big tree, I couldn't help but think it was somehow related to the world tree.
I thought about Harbard still believing that all the gods and giants were alive. That the great wolf Skoll chased the sun down every night, and Hati, another wolf, pursued the moon. That Jormungand was sleeping in the water, waiting for the end of the world when he would rise and spew venom across the skies and earth. And what about all the ghosts and trolls that my grandpa was always harping about? Did Harbard also think they existed? How could anyone believe that? And yet last night, in the middle of the storm, I would have believed anything. If I'd been told that Thor was battling with the giants, causing all the waves and lightning, I would've said, "Of course he is. It's the only thing that makes sense."
I thought of my sister. If there's any other fourteen-year-old kid who knows her Icelandic heritage as well as I do, it's her. She would love this place. In some ways it was too bad that we both couldn't come along on this trip.
"Wake up, sleepyhead!" Fiona exclaimed from behind me. I almost jumped out of my skin. I tried to pretend she hadn't surprised me. "You must be the dreamy type," she added.
"You must be the type to sneak up on people."
"It's my specialty. Quiet as a cat and twice as fast. You ready for an ocean adventure?"
I nodded and got up. We made our way through the campground, past the Park Office and down to the docks. We saw only two other campers. "It's getting busy down here," Fiona said, sarcastically. "Can hardly get through the crowds." I laughed.
I rented a kayak, a lifejacket and a double-bladed paddle from a grumpy old man who had a little shack next to the pier. He gave me back fifty cents and both quarters were dated before World War Two. Maybe it'd been quite awhile since he'd had a customer.
Fiona's kayak was sleek and red, shining with new paint and sitting lightly on the water. It must have been worth quite a bit of money, so I couldn't help but wonder how rich her parents were. She got in. I found my kayak a little further along the dock. The blue paint had been scratched and it looked like it had been torpedoed and put back together again, minus a few pieces. And yet when I climbed inside, pulled the spraydeck tight and headed out into the bay, I knew I was in a good kayak.
"I think I'll call it Mjollnir, after Thor's hammer," I said, "'cause it cuts through the waves so cleanly."
Fiona rolled her eyes. She was only a few feet across from me, expertly dipping her paddle in and out of the water. "You know, your family needs help. There's more to life than Norse stories."
"Don't tell my grandpa that," I said, "he'd keel over. Or swear at you in Icelandic. My dad might even do the same."
"Did you tell him I was here by myself?" Fiona asked quietly. I thought about how I'd been tempted. "Did you?" she asked, a little louder.
I shook my head. "I didn't think it was any of my business. I figured you'd tell him if you wanted to. I'm assuming you're not in any trouble ... are you?"
She paddled a few strokes before she answered. "No, I just need a break from everything. That's all. End of story."
I wanted to ask more, to find out what she needed a break from, but I didn't have the guts to open my mouth. Besides, I hoped maybe she'd tell me on her own.
Just as we were nearing the end of the bay, Harbard passed us in his ferry. There were two people standing at the back, holding the side and gaping at the rugged cliffs of Drang. They looked a little frightened. I wondered if he'd told them that only one passenger would return. Maybe it was some sort of traditional ferryman's joke.
He stared at Fiona and me as he went past.
"He's giving us the evil eye," Fiona whispered. Then she added with a raspy laugh, "We're doomed to crash into the rocks or get blown out to sea."
"Don't say that! He probably has the power to make it happen."
"I bet he does. Everyone in this area knows ol' Harbard. They say he's got second sight. He can even talk to spirits—you know—that channeling stuff."
"Really?"
"That's what they say. I don't believe in it myself."
"I do," I admitted.
"What?" Fiona set her paddle across the keel of her kayak. "You do?"
"Well ... I've seen a ghost before."
"Oh, please."
"No ... I mean it. One night about five years ago, my Grandma Gunnora appeared in my room. She told me she was going on a journey, but that she'd see me again someday. I thought it was really her, that she'd driven all the way down to Missouri to talk to me. But an hour later the whole family was awakened by the phone. It was Grandpa telling us t
hat she had passed away in her sleep. Back in Canada."
"That's a little spooky. Did you tell anyone about her visit?"
"My sister, Sarah. No one else ... except you that is."
I expected her to make fun of me, but instead Fiona just nodded and began paddling again. "Thanks for trusting me," she said a short time later. We were just outside the bay and the water was growing rougher. I had to work harder to move forward.
We went along the south side of the island, dwarfed by the tall cliffs. We kept our distance from the surf, gliding along silently. Occasionally Fiona would point something out, an interesting rock formation or an osprey cutting through the air. We didn't see any other bays or places to land.
I watched Fiona out of the corner of my eye. Her skill was impressive, every movement was smooth and perfect, like she'd spent her whole life in a kayak. Now that I'd seen her on the water, I wasn't surprised at all that she'd made it through the storm last night.
After an hour or so, I found myself getting dog-tired. I pulled up my paddle and Fiona did the same. The waves rocked us back and forth. "Where is it you live again?" I asked.
She pointed toward open water. "That way."
"I don't see land."
"It's there, I guarantee it. Straight south, paddle till your arms feel like they're gonna fall off, then go a little further." She rubbed her biceps. "Speaking of arms falling off, I'm about ready to head back. How about you?"
"You took the words right out of my mouth," I said.
I slipped my paddle into the water and hit something solid. Which surprised me, because we were about a hundred yards from land. I poked my paddle down again. About a foot into the water it stopped. "The water's really shallow," I said. "There are rocks right here."
Fiona looked over the side. "There can't be. They'd be marked by buoys to warn boats." She stuck her paddle in and it would go no further than a few inches. "Gee, you're right."
The water was too murky to really see anything. I leaned closer, almost far enough to tip the kayak. It seemed something was moving below our boats. An enormous, dark green shape. Suddenly a long smooth back, ridged with pointy vertebrae, broke the water between our kayaks then disappeared.
