by Arthur Slade
"Afi," I whispered, the tears coming freely now.
He blinked out like a light, like he'd never been there. I stumbled towards where he had been standing, my hands out like a sleepwalker. The air felt warmer for a moment, then it grew chill. "Not yet," I whispered. "Don't go yet."
I lowered my arms. He was gone.
The sound of howling grew louder. Skoll was charging down the hill behind me. I ran in the direction Grandpa had pointed, scrambling to the top of a steep incline.
There, leaning against the side of a mountain and glowing in the moonlight, was the church we had seen the day before.
35.
There wasn't much to the church — a tiny building, maybe three times my height, with two small windows and a door latched by a flat piece of metal. I twisted it and pushed, but it wouldn't budge. When was the last time anyone had been in here?
I threw my shoulder into it. Then, feeling eyes on me, I turned to find Skoll standing just a few yards away.
"Too late, Angie," he rasped, moving slowly towards me. He was holding his side. "Too late for you."
With a final desperate shove, I banged into the door and it swung open so quickly I nearly fell over. I slammed it shut and snapped the latch down and ran into the centre of the room. A large, stained glass window at the back of the church let in a dim band of light. I backed down the aisle between two short rows of wooden benches. Dust clogged my nostrils. Something brushed my neck and I almost screamed as I slapped at it. My hand discovered thick spider webs, caked with dust and insect wings. I was flicking the sticky mess of my fingers when the door rattled.
Grandpa had said it was safe here. I hoped that meant Skoll couldn't enter this holy place. Maybe there were invisible walls holding him out.
"You can't hide," he yelled. The latch snapped and the door swung open, almost off its hinges. He stood motionless for a moment, his glowing eyes scanning the room until they spotted me. "Why don't you just make this easy on yourself?"
"You ... you can't come in here, Skoll. Go on. Go away." I tried to remember the Icelandic words that Sarah had used, but they wouldn't come back to me.
He stepped into the church and nothing happened. I had expected something, a cry of protest from the church itself, or the ghosts of the long-dead patrons to come straight down from the rafters like avenging angels.
I looked around for another way out, or a weapon. There weren't even any Bibles to throw at him. "I did dream about you," I said, backing farther away.
"Of course you did. I know some of your clan have a smidgen of the sight."
"In my dreams you always died at the end. Every time."
He paused. A disconcerted look crossed his face. Then anger. "You are a clever little liar, aren't you?" His canine lips turned up in a smile. "You have only been on this earth for what, fifteen years? What's that to a thousand? A hundred thousand? We have been here forever. Since before your kind crawled its way up the slopes of Europe and put your vessels in the sea. What do you really know, child? Why should I honour a pact with such weaklings? Especially when you all taste so good." He crossed the floor and started up the aisle.
For every one of my steps, he took another, coming closer. And closer. His features were getting clearer; the slaver in his jaws; the anger in his eyes. But I could see his body was criss-crossed with deep scratch wounds from his battle with Gunnvor. And part of his left ear had been torn away. "It was my mother who died in the Town Square at Hvammstangi," he hissed. "She was over two thousand years old. Still so young. Killed by Thordy's father. I cannot even begin to describe the hate I have for your clan."
"We were only defending ourselves." I backed up a small set of stairs and bumped past the pulpit, an old ornate wood structure with a cross carved on the top. I was standing in the altar.
"You're prey, nothing more. You shouldn't fight back. When your parents come to collect your body, I will kill them too. I won't stop until every last one of your clan has been removed from this world."
Skoll suddenly stopped just past the front row of pews. He tried to budge, but it was like his feet were set in glue. He struggled.
"You can't come in here," I said, sounding ten times more confident than I felt. My voice echoed through the church. "Your kind aren't allowed."
He snarled even louder, twisting and shaking. Then with a mighty effort he lifted a foot and planted it in the pulpit area. It began to smoke, then to burn. He raised his other foot. "I'm going to tear you to shreds."
A short pole with a cross on the top was leaning up against the wall. It was the kind a priest carried during a procession; it had perhaps been there for a hundred years. Beside it was the large stained glass window with an image of a lamb standing on a Bible, glowing white from the moon's light.
I grabbed the crucifix pole, held it in front of me. I felt a sudden rush of energy, like my ancestors were somehow lending me their strength. The pole vibrated like a lightning rod. I tightened my grip.
"That toy won't save you." Skoll grit his teeth and struggled forward, fixing me with his eyes. "I'll make you pay for every second of my pain."
The axe wound in his chest was bleeding anew as if being inside the church had re-opened it. The blood turned to smoke when it hit the floor. There was something magical about this place.
"You're bleeding," I said, enjoying the sight of him growing weaker. "Grandpa gets the last laugh."
He snarled and leapt. I swung the pole with all my might and a blinding flash burst across his flesh. He fell on his back with a scream.
Skoll jumped to his feet, rubbed at the burnt mass of hair on his chest. It fell away in clumps. He glared at me, a look of pure murderous intent. He leapt a second time, straight at me and I struck him. The charge of energy nearly tore the pole from my arms. Skoll fell over, was up in the blink of an eye and after me again. This time I hit him square in the skull and the pole broke. An explosion of blinding white light surrounded us and he was blown back.
He landed in a crumpled heap, jerked about for a moment, then stopped. He looked dead; there were new gashes on his shoulder and forehead. He was shrinking back into his human form.
I dropped the shattered crucifix. My hands were black and burning with pain, I could hardly open them.
Skoll lay across the steps, blocking my way out. I lifted my foot to step over him, saw him stir under me, then he grabbed my ankle and yanked me down.
36.
"You little wretch," he yelled, throwing me against the wall. Even with his wounds and his power fading he was so much stronger than me.
I used the window sill to pull myself up and turned towards him. He was on his feet now, hunched over and clutching his ribs. One side of his face looked human, the other wolfish, as if he could no longer change into his full wolf form. He roared.
Everything slowed down. As he came at me, I reached into my coat pocket, grabbing the broken stub of wood that was still attached to the spearhead. Suddenly a new strength, like I had a direct line to Grettir himself, took hold of me. Skoll leapt and I set my feet, caught him below the chest with the spear and pushed with all my might. He yelled and hurtled past, but as he did he reached out and snatched hold of my arm. I dropped the spearhead. His claws dug into my flesh as he dragged me along. He crashed through the stained glass window, the image of the lamb smashing to a thousand pieces and showering us both. I was yanked around and my gut slammed into the window sill. My arm felt like it had been pulled right out of its socket. I hung there, my head and chest over the edge, looking down, the blast of cold air bringing me to life.
Skoll dangled beneath me, his claws still biting into my arm. His other hand, half claws, half fingers, gripped the window sill, leaving grooves in the wood. Below him was a drop into darkness, off the edge of a cliff.
The church was cracking and groaning like he might pull the whole building over with him. His left hand slipped from the window sill, caught my wrist, and he latched onto my arm with both hands.
I stare
d down into his face. It changed, so that it looked more human. Not Uncle Thordy's face at all, but younger. His hair blonde and soft.
Andrew.
"You. Must. Help me." It sounded like Andrew's voice. His eyes were narrowed, his face helpless. "I can't hold on, sister. Don't let me fall," he said helplessly, "help me. Don't let me die again."
He looked so much like Andrew. So alive. So real.
"I've got you," I said, edging slightly ahead, trying to find a better grip with my feet. I started to pull him up. My brain was getting fuzzy. There was something about his eyes that wasn't right.
I pulled him an inch higher. Then another, so he could almost grab the window sill on his own.
"You're a good sister. Higher."
He looked down. The back of his head was all black curls and matted hair, his neck covered with fur. Not like Andrew at all.
I stopped pulling. He glanced back at me. Andrew's features were melting away like wax. Skoll's left hand shot up, grabbing at my hair.
"I don't want to be known as the girl who was killed by the wolf," I said and I struck him. Hard.
He snarled, changing back to his wolf form, trying to get a better grip, his muscles in his arm bunching together. I pummelled him again with a fist.
He swung away from the wall, taking a clump of my hair in his hand. He was hanging on only by his grip on my useless, dislocated arm.
Then, with one final effort, I pushed and he fell like a stone, down, down, down, screaming all the way. He hit the edge of the cliff wall, flipped around a couple of times and finally crashed into the rocks below.
37.
I stared out the window for what could have been an hour. Skoll was lying far below me with his arms spread, his body outlined by the moon. Flakes of snow drifted down, lightly covering him. In time I couldn't see him at all.
I leaned against the side of the church, breathing deeply, trying to gather my wits. I shook off the numbness, found the spearhead and put it back in my pocket. The church was getting colder and colder and I needed to get home. I wandered out through the broken door and stumbled in the direction of Uncle Thordy's yard. I had to climb down a rock wall, careful not to put too much weight on my ankle. There were moments when I wanted to stop and just lie down but a verse kept repeating itself over and over again in my head, in time with each step: 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.
I passed the alcove and Mordur was gone. So was Gunnvor's body. It was a lifetime before I neared the farmyard. I was met by Michael and strangers in thick jackets. They looked like policemen. Two of them were carrying Mordur. The moment they got near I collapsed and they had to lift me. They wanted to know if I had seen Uncle Thordy. "He's dead, he's dead, he has to be," I whispered.
Then I passed out.
38.
I awoke sweating from a fever. I was in a bed, in a strange room. A shadow reached towards me and I froze, not able to move or yell out.
"It's okay, Angie," Sarah whispered, "it's just me." She dabbed my forehead with a cool face cloth, then put her hand on my cheek. A nightlight shone dimly from the wall, casting her face in shadows. We were in our room at Uncle Thordy's house. "You're going to be okay."
My body wouldn't stop shaking. My joints felt like they were on fire. "I saw Grandpa. And Andrew."
I expected her to tell me I was crazy. "Good. That's so good. I feel better, knowing he was able to help us one more time."
"Where is Gunnvor? Did they find her body?"
Sarah looked at me. "No. No one found any body."
My brain tried to understand this. Maybe she'd gotten away. Wasn't dead. "Everything hurts," I whispered.
"You need another treatment. I'll get the others."
And before I could ask her who the others were, she was gone. She returned with a middle-aged man and two women. They seemed familiar. One of them looked so much like my Mom it was uncanny.
"Who are you?" I asked. My teeth were chattering.
"Don't you remember?" Sarah said. "This is Uncle Thordy's brother and sisters. You met them the last time you woke up."
The last time? How long had I been out of it?
They circled me, spoke softly in Icelandic, and made me eat all this strange garlic-tasting stuff. They washed out my wounds with a liquid that stung ten times worse than iodine and smelled like stale beer. They didn't tell me what it was, and I didn't ask, but they hummed and whispered chants while they took care of me.
"You're going to the hospital, now," Sarah explained, just before I slipped back into unconsciousness.
I woke up briefly on the trip to Hvammstangi. We were inside a large jeep, heading down the road. It was light out, but of course the sun was nowhere to be seen. I was leaning against Sarah; Michael sat beside me clutching his arm. "Hi, Angie," he said, "back from the dead, I see."
I nodded. Turned my head. Mordur was layed out in the back, the woman who looked like my mom was holding him in place. "He's okay, isn't he?" I asked.
"Yes," Sarah said softly. "Yes, of course."
Then I was gone again. The next time I came to I was on a hospital bed and a doctor was bent over me stitching my arm. It was frozen, of course. I watched a needle going in and out of the places where Skoll's claws had torn open my flesh, sealing them up. The doctor saw I was awake and explained he wasn't sure if my left arm would ever be the same. They would have to see after the swelling went down. I'd definitely have to go to a specialist back at home. My ankle was the only other major injury. All he could do was wrap it in a bandage and tell me not to go jogging.
I was given a room in the hospital and by the next day was feeling well enough to walk around. When Sarah and Michael visited me, Michael was sporting a cast from his wrist to his elbow. "Want to sign it? I've already got a great collection of Icelandic swear words."
I did sign, using my awkward right hand. I'd have to learn how to do a lot of things with that hand now.
"After everything thaws, they're going to hunt for Uncle Thordy's body," Sarah told me, "and then give him the funeral he deserves."
Would they find anything of Skoll? I wondered. Just thinking of him made my bones ache. I pushed him out of my mind.
"Oh, by the way," Sarah said, "Merry Christmas."
"What?"
"It's Christmas eve," Michael said, "but we're going to celebrate when our parents get here."
I was stunned. I must have slept through a full day. A short while later Sarah and Michael took me to Mordur's room and left me to sit with him. He was still unconscious, had not come to at all. I held his hand and spoke to him. I found myself telling him about what my house looked like back in North Dakota, where I went to school, what my favourite classes were and what I was hoping to get for Christmas. It all just came pouring out of me. Finally, I told him how much I missed my Grandpa and my brother. I began to cry.
Still, he didn't wake up. Sarah told me they'd pulled a piece of what they thought was a claw from his neck, but it dissolved within seconds of being exposed to the air.
It was maybe the last little bit of Skoll left. The police only found ragged torn clothes where he had fallen. There was no other clue that he had ever existed. They searched Gunnvor's property, but both her and Onni were gone.
The next morning my parents arrived, along with Sarah and Michael's mom and dad, and we began preparing for Grandpa Thursten's funeral.
39.
The funeral was held in a small Lutheran church in Hvammstangi. As we arrived I knew it was a special occasion for the people of this area; there were a lot of townspeople standing outside. Inside, the church was packed with Icelanders dressed in black suits and dresses, waiting silently for us to arrive. I'd had no idea how important Grandpa Thursten had been to all the Icelanders here. Even a few friends had flown all the way from Gimli. The front pews had been left empty for us, and we were guided to them by a young altar boy.
The minister
who led the service said only a few words here and there; it was mostly songs sung one after another. I didn't know what they were about, though a few sounded familiar. There was something absolutely beautiful about the voices echoing in the rafters of the church, something that was, well, heavenly.
Near the end of the service, Uncle Robert, Michael and Sarah's dad, stood and spoke. He told the story of Grandpa Thursten's life, of his marriage, and how there had been no one like him and that truly this was a sad day on earth, but a bright day in heaven for he would be re-united with his wife. He ended the eulogy by reading a passage from the myth about how the world reacted when the god Baldur died: "All things wept. Fire wept. Steel wept. The mountains wept. The sky, the stones, the earth wept, the trees wept, all the animals wept for him." By the time Uncle Robert was done most everyone in the church wept too.
After the ceremony, they carried Grandpa's coffin outdoors and into a long hearse. It was late in the afternoon and the sun had slipped below the horizon, giving us only the slightest bit of light. I would never get used to the way the sun worked here. We stood by the hearse as people came up and hugged our parents or shook their hands. Then the mourners either walked home or got into their cars and drove away, leaving us to our grief.
It was a lot different that a funeral at home. Normally everyone would come to the gravesite. Maybe they did it differently here, just let the family look after their own. We climbed into our vehicles and followed the hearse out past Hvammstangi. We stopped along the edge of the ocean. My uncles and my mother carried Grandpa's coffin and set it on a boat piled high with kindling and smelling of gas. A fishing boat, the Akraborg, was waiting nearby in the water.
This wasn't a normal burial, my parents had explained to me. In fact, no one did this anymore, but it was what Grandpa had wanted. Then it dawned on me that this was why the people had gone on their way. Our business was ours alone. If no one from Hvammstangi saw it, then no one would have to report anything to the authorities.
