The Things Owen Wrote

by Jessica Scott Kerrin

  Owen tries to let the confusing moment go. It’s only mushrooms, he reasons, as he scrapes the uneaten ones from his plate into the compost. Still, his doubt niggles at him for the rest of the evening. Even when he goes to bed, there’s no escape. He dreams about the poor befuddled bat at Stephansson House, and forgets about his notebook hidden on the kitchen table that he wants no one to read.

  Two

  The next day when Owen arrives home from school, another warm casserole is on the front porch, this one in a polka-dot dish.

  “Pops!” Owen calls out after he eases past the screen door, carrying the casserole inside with both hands once again. The door bangs shut with a satisfyingly loud whump. There are even more tossed shoes piled up at the door, and they are becoming a challenge to step over.

  “In the kitchen,” his granddad calls.

  When Owen walks in, he sees that Neville is starting to put documents back into Gunnar’s boxes and stacking them against the wall.

  “Did you find anything else?” Owen asks after depositing the latest casserole onto the stovetop.

  “Nothing more. I couriered Stephansson’s travel journal and Gunnar’s notebook to the Icelandic archive this morning. But I also came across this. Have a look.”

  He holds out a tiny box in his palm. Owen takes it and removes the lid. Inside is a medal that is cradled in silk.

  The medal is shaped like a knight’s white cross with a blue oval disk in the middle. On that disk is a golden bird standing with its wings outstretched as if about to take flight. The medal is topped with a clasp that looks like a royal crown.

  “That’s Gunnar’s Order of the Falcon,” Neville explains. “It’s a medal from the Icelandic government that he received for translating Stephansson’s poems. Gunnar was so proud of receiving it, and rightly so. He brought it up every chance he got.”

  Owen plucks the medal from the box. It is much heavier than he expects.

  “Wow. This looks like something that a king would wear,” Owen says. He carefully puts the medal back inside the box and hands it to his granddad.

  Owen remembers something else that the costumed guide from his field trip to Stephansson House told the class.

  “Stephansson’s wife was given a medal, too, after Stephansson died, along with a fancy Icelandic dress. The dress was on display, but her medal wasn’t,” Owen recalls.

  “No? Why not?” Neville asks.

  “The guide told us that when someone who has been given the medal dies, it’s supposed to be returned to Iceland,” Owen says.

  “Returned? Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Can you double-check your field notes?” Neville asks.

  Owen’s notebook! His thoughts go jagged. Why did he mention something else he knew about Stephansson?

  Owen reluctantly gets up to retrieve the notebook from his bedroom, but then he remembers that he hid it on the kitchen table yesterday beneath some of Gunnar’s papers.

  “I left it here,” Owen mutters, sitting back down.

  He roots through the piles of documents that his granddad hasn’t yet put back into boxes. Only, he can’t find his notebook.

  His granddad starts to help.

  “What color is it, again?” Neville asks.

  “Green,” Owen says, not looking up from his search.

  “You mean yellow,” Neville says. “Here it is.”

  Owen’s granddad passes him a yellow notebook.

  Owen has a quick glance and shakes his head.

  “That’s not mine. Mine’s green.”

  “No, Gunnar’s was green. This is yours.”

  Owen’s granddad continues to hold out the yellow notebook.

  Owen grabs it, opens the cover and points to the author’s name written in chicken scratch.

  “No. See? This is Gunnar’s. Here’s his name.”

  Owen tosses the notebook aside and continues his frenzied hunt. He doesn’t want his granddad to find his notes before he does.

  “Oh,” Neville says in a soft voice.

  Owen pauses. He looks up.

  “What?” he asks, thinking his granddad has found his notebook and opened it.

  His granddad says nothing, but he is still holding Gunnar’s notebook. He flattens down the hair at the back of his head with a shaky hand.

  A freight train whistles forcefully in the distance. Owen’s granddad doesn’t flinch — the sound is so familiar.

  But the enormity of what his granddad might have done hits Owen as shockingly as if the freight train has derailed and slammed through the walls into their kitchen.

  “Pops. Did you send the wrong notebook?”

  “I suppose I did,” Neville says, staring at Gunnar’s notebook as if it had somehow tricked him.

  Owen can barely swallow. His notebook! The things he wrote! Oh, no!

  “Where? Where did you send it?”

  “To the archive in northern Iceland. By courier. It will arrive this weekend.”

  His granddad plucks a tattered road map of Iceland from the table and unfolds it. He shows Owen precisely where his notebook is headed. The map is covered in Gunnar’s handwritten notes about historic sites to see, all related to Stephansson.

  Owen’s mouth goes dry, dry as a dust cloud on the prairies after weeks of no rain. On top of that, he knows he’s doing his owl-blinking thing.

  “It’s no big deal,” Neville reasons. “I’m sure the archivist will love to read your field notes about Stephansson House. After all, he’s one of their most beloved poets. I’ll courier Gunnar’s notes tomorrow, along with my letter about the mix-up, and the archive will mail yours back.”

  Owen tries to think. Sure, the archivist might enjoy what Owen wrote, but Owen knows for certain that his granddad would not. And that’s going to be a huge problem because the archivist will use his granddad’s return address on the envelope. Owen’s notebook will be delivered straight into his granddad’s hands!

  Owen can’t let that happen.

  He just can’t.

  But how can he stop it?

  “So, Gunnar’s medal,” Owen says hesitantly, a desperate half-baked plan forming in his mind. “Don’t you think we should return it?”

  “Return it? To Iceland?”

  Owen isn’t sure where Iceland is. Somewhere up north, he thinks. The name is a dead giveaway. Still, there is no room for Owen to falter.

  “Absolutely,” Owen says. “That’s what the guide at Stephansson House told us.”

  Owen’s granddad slowly leans back in his chair to consider.

  “I suppose that I can courier it like I did with Stephansson’s travel journal and your notebook,” he says.

  Alarm bells go off in Owen’s head.

  “No, Pops! Bad idea. Gunnar wanted you to see Iceland. You said so yourself. You told me that he even gave you two free tickets. So I’m thinking that we could go this weekend. You and me. We could return the medal ourselves, drop off Gunnar’s notes at the archive and — oh, hey — I could get my notebook back. Easy peasy.”

  Owen is trying hard to make his voice sound light and breezy. Normal. He knows he isn’t telling the full truth of the matter, but the thought that his granddad might discover the things Owen wrote is too much to bear.

  Owen’s granddad studies Owen as if he is actually thinking about his crazy suggestion.

  “We’d have to check with your parents,” Neville says, more to himself than to Owen.

  “Yes, sure, let’s do that.”

  “Do you have a passport?”

  Owen marvels that he’s able to leap another barrier.

  “Yes! Mom and Dad got me one when they got theirs to go to Las Vegas.”

  “Where is it?” Neville asks.

  “My desk,” Owen says triumphantly.

 
“I suppose we’d only be gone for a few days,” Neville muses out loud.

  Owen’s thoughts race as he tries to come up with more selling points. What can he remember about Iceland from the field trip to Stephansson House? He knows that the Vikings settled there. He knows that there might be falcons flying about because of Gunnar’s medal. What else? If Iceland is up north, there must be lots of ice.

  “I know where my winter coat is,” Owen says. “So packing will be easy.”

  “Oh, you won’t need that. It won’t be cold. It’s June, same as here. But in Iceland, there’ll be close to twenty-four hours of sunlight.”

  “The sun doesn’t go down?”

  “Barely at this time of year,” Neville says. “Iceland’s up near the Arctic Circle. Still, there won’t be as much ice as you might think.”

  “Good,” Owen says, thinking that this must be a plus.

  “What you’re more likely to see are geysers.”

  “What are geysers?”

  “Geysers are vents in the ground that hurl boiling water from deep inside the earth high up into the air. Iceland also has volcanoes.”

  “Do they still erupt?” Owen asks, thinking that this is another plus.

  “On occasion. But mostly there are vast lava fields from former eruptions. Gunnar told me that the interior parts of Iceland are so rugged, astronauts trained there to prepare them for landing on the moon,” Neville says.

  That’s enough pluses, Owen thinks. He takes a deep, steadying breath.

  “So, we can go? To return the medal?” he asks, hoping against hope.

  To Owen’s great relief, Neville slowly nods yes.

  Owen jumps up before his granddad can change his mind.

  “Great! Let’s get packing!”

  “Right,” Neville says. “I’ll go home to find that travel voucher and I’ll call your mom and dad from there. You stay here and pack a suitcase. Don’t forget your passport.”

  Owen doesn’t have to be asked twice. He bolts from the kitchen and makes a dash for his parents’ bedroom where they store the suitcases. He hears his granddad shut the front door, putting their plan into motion.

  Owen rushes to the closet. He flings open the doors. Dresses. Pants. Housecoats. Suit jackets. Above that, boxes of toys that Owen has outgrown, all neatly labeled, as well as his dad’s long-abandoned rolled-up yoga mat. Below the hanging clothes, on the floor, are several overcrowded shoe racks along with more abandoned exercise gear. But in the far corner of the closet on his dad’s side, Owen spots the small suitcase he is looking for.

  Owen pulls it out and hauls the suitcase to his bedroom. He makes a beeline for his dresser but wonders what to bring. He has never had to pack by himself before, so he is unsure. He yanks open a drawer and pulls out a few balls of socks. He piles them on the bed.

  Underwear. He will want some, so he opens another drawer and pulls out a few pairs to add to the pile.

  What else? Jeans besides the pair he is wearing? Yes, and an extra T-shirt, too. Owen finds his favorite, the one his cousin made for him that reads Failure is not an exit strategy.

  What about a sweater in case he gets cold? He hears his mom’s voice in his head, but he realizes that a sweater would not be a bad idea, so he pulls out a turtleneck and lays it on the bed with the rest of the items.

  Bathroom stuff, he thinks. He is particularly proud of himself as he scoops his toothbrush, paste and comb from his cabinet. But he passes on the dental floss like he does every night, unless he is forced to use it. He hates flossing.

  Owen returns to his bedroom. He piles his things into the suitcase. At the last minute, he remembers that they will be staying overnight, maybe even two nights. He returns to his dresser and finds a fresh pair of pajamas to toss in, the blue-and-brown flannel ones with the rodeo theme that he has slightly outgrown. He zips up his suitcase just as the front door opens.

  “Owen!” Neville calls.

  Owen bolts to the front door. His granddad has combed his hair nicely, he’s wearing a tie, and he’s pulling a small rolling suitcase with one hand and carrying his old briefcase from when he used to work for the government in his other hand.

  “Your parents are fine and I’ve cashed in the travel voucher with Icelandair,” Neville says. “They offer a direct flight from Edmonton. We’ll leave tonight. If we can get on the road within an hour, we’ll make it to the airport in time.”

  “Great!” Owen says.

  He is going to Iceland! He really is! He’ll have his notebook back in no time, and no one will be the wiser.

  They step over the tossed-shoes pile and go straight to the kitchen.

  “Where’s your suitcase?” Neville asks.

  “All packed,” Owen reports. “I’ll go get it.”

  When Owen returns to his bedroom, he is pretty confident that he has packed everything he needs. He half expects that his granddad will ask to inspect his luggage, but when he doesn’t, Owen feels proud. He deposits his suitcase at the front door on his way back to the kitchen.

  “And your passport?”

  “Oops,” Owen says sheepishly.

  “Don’t worry. There’s a lot to remember,” Neville says.

  Owen returns to his bedroom and pulls out his passport from the desk drawer. He dutifully hands it over to his granddad. His granddad slides it into his briefcase for safekeeping along with Gunnar’s yellow notebook and his map of Iceland.

  “We should eat before we head out,” Neville says.

  He takes the lid off the warm casserole on the stovetop. But then he does something strange. He opens the cupboard and sets the steamed-up lid on top of the stack of clean plates. Without a word, he shuts the cupboard.

  Owl-like, Owen stares at his granddad.

  “What?” Neville asks when he sees Owen staring at him.

  “I … I’ll get us some clean plates,” Owen offers.

  Owen goes to the same cupboard, removes the casserole lid from the stack of plates and sets it next to the sink, all the while eyeing his granddad, who is now peering into the casserole dish. Owen lays out two clean dishes.

  There are a lot of travel details to remember, Owen reasons. No wonder his granddad is a little absentminded.

  They sit down to eat, and Owen is delighted to discover that today’s casserole doesn’t have mushrooms.

  “We’re really going to Iceland,” Owens states before his first mouthful. He is checking to be absolutely sure.

  “Yes, but don’t forget,” Neville says. “We’re there on serious business. We’re going to return Gunnar’s medal.”

  “And switch the notebooks,” Owen adds.

  “That’s right,” Neville says. He checks his watch. “We better hurry,” he says, and he digs into his food.

  They eat in silence, lost in their own thoughts about their upcoming mission.

  After they get up to rinse their plates, they put everything, including all the empty casserole dishes and their lids, into the dishwasher and store the extra food in the fridge.

  “Remind me to call the ladies from the Red Deer River Readers Book Club when we get to the airport. I need to put a halt to their casserole deliveries. I don’t want good food going to waste while we’re away,” Neville says.

  “Will do,” Owen says, but he is only half listening because he is rooting through a kitchen drawer to find extra batteries for his camera.

  Owen’s granddad grabs his car keys.

  “Wagons, ho!” he announces.

  Three

  Owen’s granddad locks the front door, and together they load their luggage into the trunk of his car. They get in and buckle up. Neville backs out of the wide driveway and they hit the highway. They are making good time.

  Owen sits back to enjoy the drive. They will head from Red Deer to the Edmonton airport, passing farmers’ fields, tractors m
oving between young rows of crops, and the occasional oil drill pumping up and down. Every patch of land is surrounded by cattle fences or a hedgerow to slow down the persistent prairie wind. There is a wide divide between their three lanes of heavy traffic and the three lanes going the other way between Edmonton and Calgary, two rival cities on the flat Alberta plains. The scenery spreads endlessly beneath an enormous blue sky unmarked by a single cloud.

  Fields.

  Fields.

  Farm buildings.

  Fields.

  Fields.

  Tractor.

  Every now and then, there is a tight cluster of trees standing alone in an empty pasture. Owen remembers what his granddad once told him. Whenever there is a clump of trees like that, it probably marks the ruins of an old farm, but the house and the people who planted the trees around the homestead are long gone.

  Owen pulls out his camera and takes a few photographs of the wide-open scenes as they fly by, while his granddad plays his favorite radio station, CBC. When the interviewer asks a question, sometimes his granddad answers back. But mostly he concentrates on the road and the large number of transport trucks zooming past filled with supplies or live cattle, everyone except them driving well over the speed limit.

  After they see the Edmonton airport up ahead, Owen’s granddad takes the turnoff and expertly parks the car in the crowded lot. They retrieve their luggage and walk through the main entrance for Departures. They check themselves in at the kiosk and make their way through the security gate.

  “It’s a good thing we have carry-on bags,” Neville says. “It makes things easier.”

  They are now in the waiting area, listening for their airplane to start boarding.

  “I left a message at your school and told them that you’ll be away tomorrow,” Neville says.

  “Good thinking,” Owen says, having forgotten that tomorrow is Friday, a school day.

  Then he remembers that he made plans with Kevin for that weekend. They were going to bike along the trail beside the Red Deer River and then cut across to the skateboard park where they would watch a regional skateboarding competition.