Northern Frights

by Arthur Slade

  The bite on my arm had nearly disappeared, though it still ached.

  Hours later several R.C.M.P. officers showed up, with Ranger Morrison among them. "You're a brave kid," was all he said to me. Then a gray-haired Mountie named Sergeant Olson introduced himself. He and another officer asked me questions and I answered as best as I could, telling them what I thought they would believe. When they were finished, the sergeant shook my hand, which still hurt. He said a ride to the hospital was waiting for me in Port Hardy. Then he left to try and find the kidnapper.

  I found out later that the Mounties discovered the bones of a man in the caves. They used dental records to prove it was Siroiska. The coroner said he'd been dead for over a year. Days later a huge human skull with one extra-ordinarily large eye socket washed up on shore. It dissolved in a Mountie's hands.

  About twenty minutes after the police left, Harbard got up and convinced us that only he could get us home across the water. "I won't even charge you," he said.

  Soon we were in his ferry cutting through the waves. I sat beside Fiona at the back. I looked out nervously at the water.

  "Jormungand sleeps now," Harbard whispered. He must have caught my glance. "We'll make it to the other side."

  He was right. The water was calm and easy. The ferry cutting a smooth path through it. Harbard's prediction about my father and I had turned out to be right. Only one of us did return with him. I was just thankful it hadn't been any worse for Dad.

  We landed at a small dock on an island. Cabins were set on a hill, looking down on us. It seemed too real, too perfect, after being on Drang. Fiona got off and I climbed onto the pier with her.

  "Well, I guess this is it," she said. "Goodbye, so long and all that. I hope you'll drop me a note sometime, let me know whether you've made it home."

  "You know I learned something these past few days," I said.

  "What?"

  "That if I can make friends with you, I can probably make friends with anyone."

  She grinned, showing her dimples.

  Then I did something that completely surprised me. I kissed her. Quickly. On the lips. I stepped back.

  Fiona stood there, stunned. For the first time since I'd met her, she was speechless.

  "Goodbye," I said, "you'll have to try a holiday in Missouri sometime. It's nowhere near as weird."

  She nodded but didn't answer.

  I got back in the ferry and Harbard started to slowly pull away. Fiona was still staring at me. Finally she pointed and her shout drifted across the water. "I'll write you!" she promised. "As long as you don't tell me any more Norse stories!"

  I must have smiled for the rest of the trip. Before I knew it we'd landed at Port Hardy and I stepped onto the dock with a great sigh of relief.

  Harbard grinned. For him there were no long farewells. "Good-bye, Thor," he said, then he was heading away, as if it had been just another day's work.

  A tall, middle-aged Mountie was waiting at the end of the pier. He led me to his car and we headed to the hospital where my father was staying.

  Dad would finally have the perfect chapter to end his book.

  THE END

  The Loki Wolf

  Northern Frights 3

  By

  Arthur Slade

  Copyright 2000 by Arthur Slade

  www.arthurslade.com

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or (un)dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Arthur Slade.

  Cover art by Derek Mah

  www.Attoboy.com

  Contents

  Book 1: Draugr

  Book 2: The Haunting of Drang Island

  Book 3: The Loki Wolf

  Dedication

  This novel is dedicated to my brothers David, Ken, and Brett, who have all supported me in their own ways. And no, none of the characters are based on any of them.

  And I'd also like to dedicate this novel to all the Icelanders out there. Thanks for letting me borrow bits and pieces of your wonderful stories and heritage. I may have inadvertently changed the schedule for the Nordurleid bus to Hvammstangi and the Icelandair flight from New York to Keflavík, they will be running at the proper time from this moment forward.

  I would like to thank my wife Brenda Baker for her editing skills and my publisher Bob Tyrrell for the same. I also want to give a special tip o' the Viking helmet to Jón Jónson for reading a rough draft of this novel and to Brynjólfur Gíslason, who was kind enough to tell me a little about his home town of Hvammstangi. And I, perhaps, owe the most to Snorri Sturluson (1179 — 1241), who was an Icelandic historian, poet and chieftain best known for Prose Edda, a prose account of the Norse Myths. Without his version of the myths, these books wouldn't have been possible.

  Glossary

  1.

  One week before my trip to Iceland, I died in my sleep.

  Not a real death, of course. Very few healthy, fifteen-year-old girls pass away in their beds. No, I died inside one of my own nightmares. In the dream I fell from a great height — a cliff or a tower — and every bone in my body shattered when I landed on a pile of pointed stones. I awoke immediately, lying in a chilling pool of my own sweat. I didn't sleep again for hours.

  The next night I drowned in a wild ocean, the undertow pulling me down until water filled my lungs. Or was it the undertow? Did something — a giant sea serpent perhaps — have a grip on me? The last thing I saw before waking was the surface getting farther and farther away.

  On the third night the worst nightmare — the very worst — invaded my mind. I was running barefoot through a deserted town in a strange country, the Northern Lights drifting through the sky. Soon the town disappeared and I sprinted across a rocky plateau, gasping for breath, my long, red hair flowing in the air. Loping behind me was a gigantic wolf, its jaws snapping together and tearing off pieces of my flesh. There was no blood. No pain. But bit by bit he swallowed chunks of my body until nothing of Angela Laxness remained.

  I awakened, sweating and cold. I had somehow knocked over my night table, breaking my lamp. The noise was enough to bring my mother to my bedside. I couldn't explain to her what had frightened me. In fact I could barely speak, I was too busy trying to catch my breath. She held me like she used to when I was a kid, whispering, "It's going to be alright, Angie. It's just a nightmare. You're safe. You're safe."

  I dreamed of the giant wolf the next three nights in a row. My parents believed these nightmares were happening because I was worried about my upcoming trip to Iceland. Though I've traveled to Canada and to a few of the states near our acreage in North Dakota, I've never been across the ocean. "It's just your subconscious working through the new experience," my father said. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. You'll be safe. You'll be with your grandfather and your cousins. You'll get to see the farm our family came from."

  I nodded and said, "Yes, you're right. I'll be safe."

  My parents weren't going along because this trip was Grandpa's Christmas gift to the grandchildren and he wanted to show us the sights on his own. I'm sure Mom and Dad had considered calling the whole thing off in the last few days. I didn't know if I'd be that upset about missing it.

  You see, I'd had nightmares like this a few weeks after my younger brother Andrew died in a car accident. He was traveling with our neighbors to a hockey game and they were rear-ended by a large truck. It was a miracle anyone survived. Our neighbors did. My brother didn't.

  It all happened five years ago, when I was ten. I had a recurring nightmare where the sides of a car were closing in on me until I couldn't breath. Nothing anyone said or did could make the nightmares go away. Then one night Andrew appeared in my room, looking the same as he h
ad in life, medium-length blonde hair, a warm smile. Except he was ... ethereal. I think that's the right word. He touched my shoulder and whispered, "Just let it go, Angie, there was nothing you could do. Let it all go." Then he was gone. I haven't had a nightmare since.

  Until the wolf came loping into my dreams.

  My parents told my grandfather all about this phantom wolf. Grandpa Thursten is my mother's father and he's Icelandic to the core. He lives in Canada just outside Gimli, Manitoba, the site of the largest Icelandic settlement in North America. He knows every story about ghosts, dreams, Norse gods, and wolves.

  The night before we were supposed to leave on our trip, Grandpa phoned and quietly grilled me with questions: Do you remember the very start of the dream? Describe the wolf, was it grey? Why were you barefoot? Were there stars or a moon in the sky? I answered everything with as much detail as I could. Then he was quiet.

  "What are they about, Afi?" I said into the receiver. Afi is Icelandic for Grandfather. We grandchildren rarely use it — only when we want to let him know that we're serious.

  "You'll be alright," he said, "I promise. You will be alright."

  2.

  I am telling this in the wrong order.

  I should have started out by saying who my ancestors were and who I am. That's how all the Icelandic sagas begin — I know this because I've read most of the ones in my mom's collection. And all the Norse myths too. They always start with "so and so" was related to "so and so" and then "so and so" got in a boat and killed "so and so." And they end by telling you who "so and so's" offspring was. In Iceland it's important to know who you're related to.

  That must be why Mom spends her spare time researching our family tree. She and Dad are constantly trying to find out more about who we're descended from, what deeds defined their lives, what land they lived on, and how all of this made us into who we are today.

  They even know which bones belong to which side of the family. "Our past is written all across your face, Angie," Mom has often explained. "Your green eyes come from your father's side, your thin cheekbones are just like your grandma's, you can thank your Grandpa Thursten for making you so thin —"

  " — and your red hair is a freak of nature," Dad would always interject. They never did explain why I ended up being left-handed, even though they were both righties.

  Then they would tell me stories about the "so and so's" we're descended from. Inevitably the lecture would end up with a story about Grettir Asmundson, a hero who lived in Iceland many years ago. He was known for being big and mean and for beating up on a few ghosts and undead monsters. He was also an outlaw, but Mom and Dad usually glossed over that part.

  Whenever my parents were done their lesson in genetics, Mom would sum it all up with: "If you don't know your own past, you can't know who you are."

  So I will begin by saying, I am Angela Laxness, the daughter of Deidre and Jón Laxness of North Dakota. Through my mother's side of the family, the Asmundson's, I can trace our ancestry back to Grettir the Strong, a famous hero.

  It's a big deal in Iceland.

  3.

  The worst place to put someone with a fear of heights is a window seat in a jet that's about to climb 30,000 feet above the Atlantic ocean. Yet, that's the seat Grandpa Thursten gave me. "It's better to face your fears," he whispered, his lips curling into a knowing smile.

  Easy for him to say. He fell asleep before we'd even left the tarmac at New York. He missed me digging my fingers into the armrests until I broke one of my nails. It would take a couple weeks to grow it back to the right length. I held my breath as the weight of the Boeing's momentum crushed against my chest and we took to the air.

  A hand gently touched my shoulder and I tensed up.

  "Take a deep breath," my cousin Sarah whispered from behind me. Grandpa's seat was back and Sarah was able to squeeze her hand through the open space. I'd admitted to her earlier that I wasn't looking forward to hurtling through the sky at hundreds of miles an hour. "Breath in, then out. Everything will feel a lot better once you've got some air in your lungs."

  I heard Michael, Sarah's twin brother, chuckle, and I felt a sudden anger. He was always being the smart alec. I turned to tell him to shut up, but the jet engines kicked into overdrive, forcing me against the seat.

  I eventually did take a breath. And another. And another. Until I thought I'd hyperventilate. I'd braided my hair because my mom said it would be easier to travel without it flapping all over the place — I was sure the braids had loosened and individual hairs were sticking up like porcupine quills. So much for looking sharp on my first trip to Iceland.

  After several hours of flying I actually began to get comfortable, staring out the jet's window into the early morning darkness, trying to spot land. We'd been served a meagre breakfast of bagels and slightly warm scrambled eggs. I was surprised my stomach wasn't upset. I had control of my breathing, my heartbeat had slowed and I'd unclamped my hands. Maybe Grandpa was right; it was better to face your fears. At least I could look out at the wing and see that it was still attached.

  "Have you had any more skull guests?" Grandfather asked.

  Two seconds ago he was asleep in his seat, snoring softly. Now he was wide awake, his deep blue eyes staring into mine. He had a rather big, slightly crooked nose and he looked like each lesson he'd learned in his lifetime had given him a wrinkle — and there were lots of wrinkles. His thick white hair was styled like Einstein's.

  "Skull guests?"

  "Dreams, I mean. They used to be called skull guests in the sagas, because they came and stayed — like bad guests. Did any more of them drop by?"

  "No. Not since we talked on the phone. I don't remember having any dreams at all last night." And it was true. The big, bad wolf had left me alone, off loping through someone else's nightmare, I'd supposed, looking for another Little, Red-headed Riding Hood.

  "Good. Perhaps they meant nothing, then."

  Perhaps? What did that mean?

  "They did get me thinking, though," Grandpa continued, "about Thorgeir Tree-Foot."

  "Who?" Michael asked. Grandpa's seat was leaning far enough back that Michael and Sarah were able to peek at us, their blue eyes glittering, white-toothed grins splitting their thin faces. We were the same age, they were my best friends, and we had a lot in common, but I have to admit there was something a little odd about them. First, it kind of freaked me out how similar they were — dark hair, pale skin, with their heads absolutely crammed full of old Norse myths and legends. They weren't identical twins, but every time I saw them they appeared more and more alike.

  Despite that, I was happy to spend some quality time with them. They lived in Missouri and we hadn't had much of a chance to talk in the last year or so.

  Grandpa narrowed his bushy eyebrows. "So none of your parents has ever mentioned my dad, Thorgeir Tree-Foot?"

  "Our great grandfather was called Tree-foot?" Michael asked, that typical smart-aleck tone in his voice. "So that's why I'm always tripping over my own feet."

  "That's from not being able to chew gum and walk at the same time," Grandpa Thursten quipped. He waited for a comeback, received none, so he carried on. "Do you know how he got that name?"

  This was starting to sound familiar to me. Mom had told me this story when I was younger, but I couldn't remember any of the details. "No," I admitted.

  "Your great granddad had dreams just like yours, Angie. Potent dreams. Every night for a fortnight he dreamed he was going to lose his leg. It would get caught in a trap. Or he'd be building a fence and his axe would slip and sever his leg below the knee. Or, and he always said this was the most terrifying dream, a great serpent came from beneath the water and bit it off, leaving him in the middle of the ocean, trying to swim home with only one leg. The outcome of the nightmares was always the same: he would awake covered with sweat and reach down to be sure his leg was still there."

  I shuddered. The passengers across the aisle — an old guy in a brown beret and his middl
e-aged wife — were glancing our way now, which inspired Grandpa to raise his voice even louder. He'd use the intercom if the stewardess would let him.

  "One day my father had to take a trip from Bjarg to Hof, twenty miles or so across some of the most treacherous ravines in north central Iceland. It's not far from Thordy's farm, where we'll be staying." Thordy was one of Grandpa's nephews. I recalled Mom and Dad telling me some sad story about his wife dying, but I'd have to ask Grandpa about it later. He was too deep into this story already. "Make no mistake, the homeland is a place of beauty and death. One moment you'll be admiring a breathtaking waterfall, the next you'll be at the bottom of a cliff watching the ravens descend to pick your bones. Your great granddad was only nineteen at the time, unmarried, and searching for summer work. He'd heard that a sheep farmer was looking for help, so he hiked through the mountains, whispering the ancient rhymes his father had taught him, lines to ward away the specters and the mischievous, little Huldu Folk. He had three shiny pebbles in his pocket to leave as an offering at any cairns he passed, because he believed every ghost in Iceland desires some kind of tribute."

  Grandpa was starting to really wind himself up now. He even glanced over at the couple across from us to be sure they were still listening. My heart started going a little faster in anticipation.

  "But the journey was longer than my father thought it would be and it was getting close to nightfall. Soon he was alone on one of the passes, far from any crofts. All he heard was the tick tack of his walking stick on the path. A storm gathered overhead.