Northern Frights

by Arthur Slade

  "Soft footsteps echoed off the rock walls. Then came a sound of sniffing and a low, unearthly moan that made the hairs on the back of my father's neck stand up. He quickened his pace, knowing some evil thing was behind him. He muttered all the names of the undead in hopes of dispelling his pursuer. He wasn't afraid of anyone who was alive, but he knew the ghosts of this pass and the Uppvakníngur — those who walk after death — were to be feared."

  I was holding my breath. I let it out between clenched teeth. Ever since I was a child Grandpa had been telling us these stories about men who walk after death and monsters thirsting for blood. Every year I thought I'd outgrown them and every year I discovered I was wrong.

  "A rock fell over behind him, the breathing became louder and he began to run across the plateau, believing he was fleeing for his very life. The paths were hard to see in the darkness and he lost his way. His pursuer growled to one side of him, so father went the opposite direction. A few minutes later he could hear someone scrambling over stones behind him. Father knew he was being herded like an animal to the slaughter. Finally the plateau narrowed and he was trapped with a thin ledge as his only escape. He hugged close to the cliff, shuffling as quickly as he could along the path — his eyes set on freedom and safety ahead. Something was thrashing about on the plateau behind him, but he didn't dare look back.

  "When he was half way across there was a sudden rumble above. A small boulder hit him, then another and finally a hail of rocks and debris knocked him off the path. He rolled and tumbled down, end over end, coming to a stop at the bottom of a ravine. A large boulder had crushed his right leg to the earth, pinning him below the knee.

  "He looked around. Bleached skeletons of animals surrounded him, their bones broken in two as if a carnivore had been sucking on the marrow. Beside them were three human skulls, their brainpans cracked open.

  "He heard a rustling sound followed by a heavy-throated roar. The noise came from the far end of the ravine. To his horror a black bear slouched towards him, slaver dripping from its huge jaws. He had never seen a bear before and he knew none had ever roamed Iceland. And yet here was one of the beasts. He tried to fend it off by throwing rocks but it descended without hesitation, clamping its teeth into his shoulder. Father beat at it with his hands, yelled with all his might. But it snarled and shook him back and forth, playing with him as if he were nothing more than a doll.

  "It wasn't until the bear had dragged him part way out from under the rock that he was able to grab the nearest half of his walking stick. It was thick and the broken end was as sharp as a stake. He used all of his strength to jab it into the side of his attacker, through the thick hide and between the ribs, aiming for the heart.

  "The bear screamed, a noise that sounded almost human. For the rest of his life my father heard that cry echoing in his nightmares. The bear halted and glared down at him with raging eyes. It opened its massive jaws, took a step forward, then suddenly fell over to one side and lay still. It moaned, sucked in its last breath then slowly turned into a man, a stick embedded in his chest.

  "Your great grandfather dragged himself out from under the rock and crawled to the end of the ravine and upwards. His right leg was useless. It took all of his will to climb higher, repeating an old saying over and over in his head to keep himself going: cattle die, kinsmen die, I myself shall die, but there is one thing I know never dies: the reputation we leave behind at our death. He made it to a wider trail and was discovered a few hours later by a group of traders heading for a spring market in Reykir. When they brought him back home the doctor had to remove his leg. They replaced it with a wooden stump. And that was how your grandfather got the name Thorgeir Tree-Foot and how his nightmares about losing his leg came true."

  Grandpa settled back in his seat, a satisfied look on his face. Was this supposed to make me feel better about my own nightmares? I leaned back against my seat and tried to relax. The old man across the aisle was still gripping the armrest. I hoped Grandpa hadn't given him a heart attack.

  "What did that saying mean?" I asked. "It sounded kind of morbid."

  "My father had no desire to be known as the man who died alone in a chasm. He wanted people to remember him as someone who never gave up."

  "What did he think attacked him?" Sarah asked. I was surprised at the seriousness tone of her voice.

  The jet hit some turbulence, rattled for a moment. Were we in trouble? Where was the life preserver? Under the seat? I tried to remember the stewardess's emergency instructions.

  Grandpa waited patiently until the shaking stopped and the plane was once again steady in the air.

  "Your great grandfather came from a different time than you or I. He believed the bear was really a shape-shifter, a son of Loki. My father had more superstitions than priests have prayers."

  "What's a son of Loki?" Michael asked. "I haven't heard about them."

  "Well they were these — uh — mythical creatures who could make themselves look like you or I, or shift into an animal like a bear or a — " The pilot announced that we were about to land. "It's a long story, it has to do with Loki and a giant's curse and how Iceland was created. I'll have to tell you later."

  The engine slowed and the Icelandair Boeing 767 began to descend. My stomach lurched. I hoped the pilot was still in control. I looked out at a hazy, silvery-misted darkness.

  Below us, glittering white and black like an uncut diamond, was Iceland. The country of my ancestors.

  4.

  The landing was anything but smooth: the plane shuddered and hopped down the runway, tires squealing like banshees. The high-pitched metallic sound reminded me of my brother's accident — of what he would have heard in those final moments. I closed my eyes, which just made things worse. Time stretched out so it felt like an hour before we ground to a halt. My ears were ringing, my breath shallow. I unclenched one hand from the arm rest and the other from Grandpa's leg.

  "Thanks for letting go," he said. "I couldn't feel my toes anymore."

  I was slipping into a strange state of jittery confusion. Grandpa's words echoed around me and I couldn't hear anything else. The other passengers moved in slow motion, pulling their luggage from the upper compartments, putting on their winter jackets.

  I slowly sucked in some air, then let it out through my nostrils. That seemed to help. I did it again, swallowed, and my ears popped, releasing a flood of muttering and rustling sounds. People were moving at a normal speed. I stared out the window.

  It was still dark. We had pulled up beside a rather odd-looking building that could have been mistaken for a large, modern church. It was called the Leifur Eiríksson Airport.

  "Are you coming?" Grandpa asked. "Or you gonna take the plane home again?"

  "I — I'm coming." I gathered enough of my wits to grab my handbag and get my jacket from the upper compartment. It was still folded carefully and I was glad to see there weren't any wrinkles in it. I made my wobbly way towards the front of the plane, tagging along behind Michael and Sarah.

  The stewardess said goodbye to us and Grandpa told her some joke in Icelandic that made her laugh and blush. He was still a charmer, even though he was older than the hills. I glanced in the cockpit and saw the co-pilot wiping sweat off his forehead. Maybe I wasn't the only one who thought it had been a rough landing.

  Grandpa, done with his flirting, led us down the ramp and along the entrance tunnel. We were among the last people off the plane so it seemed like the place was deserted.

  "Did you go through a growth spurt, Michael?" I asked. He was about half a head taller than Sarah and I. "I thought we were all the same height."

  Michael puffed out his chest, proud as a peacock. "It's the tall tales Grandpa's been telling — they finally had an effect on me."

  "Tall tales? Is that what you think they are?" Grandpa, who was a full head higher than Michael, reached down and messed up Michael's hair, grinning like crazy. "Why you ungrateful little ingrate. If you weren't my own flesh and blood, I'd give
you — "

  We stepped into the terminal. Grandpa stopped, grimaced and turned pale, dropping his shoulder bag to the floor. "Uh ... uhhnn ... " he moaned. He rubbed at his chest and began tottering like he was about to fall.

  "What's wrong?" I asked. We gathered around, trying to keep him steady. I grabbed his hand. It was cold as a chunk of ice. Sarah and Michael held either arm. The remaining few passengers jostled by us, heading for an escalator. A young woman stopped momentarily to see if she could help, but Grandpa just waved her away. She walked on, glancing over her shoulder at us.

  Grandpa's lips were set in a tight line, his face ashen. He was trying to speak. He blinked slowly.

  "Afi," Sarah whispered. "Afi."

  His eyes momentarily closed and I thought he would pass out, then blood came back into his cheeks and he shook his head. He knocked three times on the wood wall. "No ... nothing's wrong," he whispered, hoarsely, "just ... just the land spirits saying hello." He inhaled. "Iceland knows when one of its own comes home. It's been too many years. That last trip was with your grandmother, on her birthday."

  "What was all the knocking for?" Michael asked.

  "To get on the good side of the spirits and the Huldu Folk."

  I shared a glance with Michael and Sarah. A do-you-think-he's-going-crazy glance.

  "Don't look so worried," Grandpa said. He laughed as he regained his color. "It's an old habit, nothing more." He sucked in a few more deep breaths. A minute later he gently pushed us away. "I don't want to stand too close to you kids, your silliness might infect me." He was definitely back to his old self.

  He picked up his shoulder bag, lead us through customs and over to our luggage. Despite our protests he carried his own suitcase, marching straight out the front doors of the airport. I slung my backpack over one shoulder, Angie and Michael grabbed their own bags and we struggled to keep up.

  Outside the only light came from street lamps scattered throughout the nearly empty parking lot. Oversized snow flakes drifted like moths down to the ground covering the waiting taxis and buses. I zipped up my jacket. Sarah did the same with her parka, which was so thick and puffy she looked like a grey marshmallow. I was glad I had thinsulate in mine. I still appeared slim but I'd stay warm. At least I hoped I would.

  "What time is it?" Michael asked.

  Grandpa made a big production of checking his watch. "It's about eleven in the morning. The sun should be out at noon."

  "Noon!" I exclaimed. "How long does it stick around?"

  "Till two in the afternoon." Grandpa held out his hand. He caught a snowflake, watched it melt in his palm. "Enjoy the sun while it's here because it won't be out at all in Hvammstangi."

  "It'll be dark all the time?" Sarah asked. She and Michael had the same surprised look on their faces. They could have been mistaken for identical twins.

  "Near enough to dark." Grandpa grinned, his eyes glittering. He'd obviously been waiting for this moment for a long time. "I guess I should have told you a bit more about Iceland before bringing you here. I'm getting forgetful in my old age."

  What kind of crazy holiday had I signed up for?

  At least it looked like the right season. Snow glistened from the surrounding pavement and buildings. A Christmas tree, lit by multi-coloured lights, stood near the front of the airport.

  It would be kind of weird to not have my parents around on Christmas day. And to be celebrating hours before them. Mom had given me some gift money which I planned to spend on an Icelandic sweater. For the first time it dawned on me that they would be on their own Christmas morning. I wouldn't be waking up and walking down the stairs to see what was under the tree. Mom and Dad would be alone, with both of their children gone.

  I felt my eyes water.

  "The snow will melt in a day or two," Grandpa predicted. "Then it'll start to rain."

  "Rain?" Michael asked. "Is this gonna be a wet Christmas?"

  "It's the warm water currents that keep ol' Iceland heated up. Did I mention the wind'll probably blow most of the time too."

  More good news, I thought. Was there no end to the surprises?

  Grandpa waved his hand and a taxi pulled up. Soon we were heading to Reykjavík, the capital. The sky had grown brighter, though I had yet to see the familiar sun. We sped down the road, Sarah and Michael pointing when we spotted the ocean. The rocky land was a bleak and almost sinister picture, with mountains looming in the distance. "It's so barren," I whispered. "It's like winter on the moon."

  "NASA used to practice moon landings in Iceland," Sarah explained. She was sitting in the middle seat, squished between Michael and I. "It was formed by volcanoes and continental drift. Even the Ice Ages couldn't put a stop to the volcanoes."

  "When'd you get so smart?" Michael poked her in the ribs. "You weren't smart a few days ago. Even a few seconds ago."

  Sarah held up a travel booklet, then used it as a shield against further attacks. "It's all in here."

  "If we have time," Grandpa said from the front seat, "I'll take you to the largest volcano, Mount Hekla. In the middle ages they believed it was one of the vents of hell itself."

  "Sounds like a hot place to go," I quipped.

  "Please, Angie, I can only handle one smart mouth at a time," Grandpa said, pointing towards Michael. The twins laughed in unison.

  We passed a few cottages and larger homes, then crossed a bridge, turned a corner and there was Reykjavík neatly laid out before us. The city looked small and tidy, like we'd stumbled on a fairy tale town.

  We drove through the outskirts, gawking at the tall houses. Some were light blue, others grey, even red. We bumped down various narrow streets and passed a number of giant churches with tall, bell-shaped spires.

  "Exactly where are we going, Gramps?" Michael asked.

  "To the bus depot. Thordy will be waiting for us in Hvammstangi. I'm sure he'll be glad to have some company. He's probably been pretty lonely since his wife died."

  "What did she die from?" I asked. "Mom just told me she'd passed away, but didn't say what from."

  Grandpa turned to face the three of us. We leaned closer. "It's really quite sad. Two summers ago Kristjanna didn't come back from an evening walk. The home croft has some really rough land up on the plateau. When I was a kid we'd lose at least one sheep a year to the cliffs. Thordy went out looking for her and was gone for days. The family and the local constable organized a search party and scoured the area. The hired man finally discovered Thordy in a cave, far back in the mountains, with his wife cradled in his arms. She was dead and he was completely distraught, moaning and rocking her as if she was just sleeping. No one knows what killed Kristjanna. There was no sign of an aneurysm or anything like that, just one tiny wound behind her left ear."

  "The poor woman," Sarah said. "And poor Thordy, too."

  "Yeah," I said. "Is he doing alright now?"

  "He sounded okay on the phone. But that's part of the reason why we're staying there," Grandpa explained. "To keep him company."

  The cab pulled to a stop in front of a rectangular, two-story building: the bus depot. People in long coats walked around. Other younger people were wearing backpacks. No one seemed to be in much of a hurry. The sky was still dark.

  Grandpa paid the driver and we began lugging our luggage to the depot. I was happy I'd managed to jam all my belongings into my leather backpack. Both Sarah and Michael had their gear stuffed into two, large canvas travel bags. They looked like something the military would use. Or a hockey team.

  "Just wait here," Grandpa said, "I'll pick up the tickets. You can stare at the pond across the way."

  5.

  The pond, as Grandpa had called it, was really a small lake of water across the street, guarded by a few trees. A pint-sized tower sat on one bank. Buildings reflected on the waves in the dim light. I wondered how this land would have looked when our ancestors first arrived on their Viking boats. Somehow they had built a city from nothing, making a place of safety and warmth.

 
; A four-passenger plane buzzed above the water and over us, so near we ducked. "The airport's right there," Michael said, pointing at a landing strip behind the bus depot. "Man, they sure pack everything close together."

  A minute later Grandpa came out with a handful of tickets and led us to a red bus with white lines across its side. The name Nordurleid was on the front. It was about half the size of a normal bus. I set my backpack on top of the other luggage and cued up behind Michael and Sarah.

  The driver was a long-armed man with a beard as thick as unraveled wool. He greeted us with two gruff words: "Gódan dag." We all said hello back to him. He took our tickets, motioned to the bus and began throwing our luggage in the storage compartment.

  Inside, there were only about five other riders, though at least fifty seats. "Better settle in," Grandpa said, "it's a long way to Hvammstangi." He paused, gave us a sly smile. "Hey, that could be a song." He began to sing to the tune of It's a Long Way to Tipperary. "It's a long, long way to Hvammstangi, but my heart lies there." Grandpa bowed, then sat next to a window.

  We started on our way. The wind whistled through the spaces between the sliding windows, cold drafts of air ran across my bare neck like ghostly fingers. I pulled on the window, but it was shut as far as it could go. I huddled in my jacket, hugging myself.

  About ten minutes later it dawned on me how quiet we all were — which wasn't that strange for Sarah, but Michael's mouth usually ran at 200 rpm's. I glanced over at him. He was staring ahead, his eyes glazed over. "You on another planet, Michael?" I asked.

  "No, I'm — "

  "Dreaming of Fiona," Sarah interjected.

  "Shut your — " Michael began.

  "What?" I cut him off. "You're still writing to her? This must be serious. Is she your true love? Your one and only? Your reason for — "

  "Please, stop this soap opera!" Grandpa shook his head. "This trip will be long enough without hearing about the heart-wrenching agony of teen romance. We're about ten hours away from Hvammstangi."