10.
Rand was heading north, twelve miles from Kinniwaw and five miles from his grandfather's farm. The tension in his muscles faded and his shoulders slumped. Heading out to Bumpa's farm was like heading home.
As a child, Rand had spent many of his weekends at Bumpa's. It was a haven from town, a place where everything slowed to a pleasurable pace. No one out there wanted him to go to school. No one made him clean the yard. No one picked him last for the baseball team. At the farm he spent most of his time riding the horses and running out into the hills, his imagination filling the valley with Dinosaurs or Roman soldiers.
But the days he had liked the most were the days when Bumpa would take his hand and lead him up into the hills and tell him stories.
Bumpa was a pet name that Rand had, if his mother's tale was correct, given his grandfather. He apparently exclaimed "Bumpa" one Christmas after his Grandfather had given Rand a horsey ride. The name stuck.
Thinking of that story reminded Rand of the rides he used to get as a child. He was on Bumpa's knee, moving up and down. "Giddy-up!" his grandfather exclaimed, making his knee go faster. "Yi-ho! Cowboy!"
Rand squealed in delight.
A grey haired woman laughed softly as she watched Rand. "Be careful," Emma told her husband. Somewhere behind her was a window and a warm spring day and the smell of flowers. Rand tried to magnify her image in his mind, to clarify it, but she receded from him as if the room were extending itself away.
Grandma.
Emma Craig had faded out of Rand's life before he had realized she was there. He wished that in those first five years he had listened to her, had stared at her, had somehow recorded everything that was Emma. Now all he had of his grandmother were a few pictures and a child's dim memories that were beyond interpretation.
Depression added its weight to his thoughts. When he noticed his jaw muscles tightening he consciously unclamped them.
He was going to Bumpa's, to the farm. There was no room for depression.
Rand pressed down on the brake. The car slowed and he made a left turn onto a gravel road that led into Mikwa valley. He adjusted the visor to block out a red sun. A few minutes later he turned into his grandfather's driveway. The sight of the small yellow house brought a familiar feeling of happiness to Rand. The picture window, the door, everything about the house whispered one word: home. Bumpa was sitting on the cement step, carving a piece of wood. He didn't look up but Thor, his German Shepard, did. The dog watched the car roll to a stop.
Rand opened the car door, stepped out and walked across the lawn towards his grandfather.
"Hi Bumpa!" he said, smiling.
"Go home!" Bumpa waved his hand. "Supper's not ready yet. Not supposed to see your ugly face for a half hour."
Rand's smile widened. "Are you trying to say I'm early, Bumpa?"
"Something like that." Bumpa slowly shaved a piece of wood from the carving. He looked up as Rand stopped before him. His one good eye glittered, his left glass eye stared straight ahead somewhere past Rand. His face was a map of laugh lines. "You're still here?" he shook his head, sighed noisily. "I suppose I'll have to stop carving and visit with you. I suppose I'll have to get you some coffee too...no, never mind about it being a bother, it is, but I'll do it anyway. You're my grandson. Lucky me." He set down the carving and the knife then rose, slowly. He ran a hand through his white hair. "Have to buy you a watch for your birthday. Teach ya how to tell time too." He turned and opened the screen door.
"You never change," Rand said as the screen door closed.
"Too old to change," Bumpa answered. He returned a moment later with two cups of coffee and handed one to Rand. "I figure we can sit out on the step and I can carve and listen to you babble about the incredible anguish of youth." He set down the cup, sat down on the top step, and picked up his knife and the carving.
Thor gave them a bored look, then slowly got up and trotted across the lawn. Rand watched the dog walk away. Thor looked back at him, and Rand had the unnerving (and yet in someway exhilarating) feeling that the dog could sense that Rand was looking at him. The dog disappeared into the line of bushes at the south end of the yard.
"How's your car been working?" Bumpa asked.
Rand turned back to Bumpa. "Fine," he answered watching the knife work its way into the wood. "Runs a little hot, though."
Bumpa nodded. "How's that girl?"
"Kari's doing fine."
"Well, don't let that one go," he said.
He flicked again with the knife, then drew a squiggly line in the wood. He drew another serpent-like line beside it, then turned it over and did the same on the other side. "See these," he said pointing at the lines he had just drawn.
"Yes."
"They represent Jormungandr, the serpent that wrapped itself around the world in the Norse myths. He was a symbol of infinity. And these circles," he pointed with the knife again, "are the golden apples that Brunhilde used to carry."
"What's the carving of though?" Rand asked. "It looks like a cross."
"It's just a good luck charm, that's all," he said as he flicked two more chips into the air. He set down his knife and held the sword-shaped carving in the air. It glowed red in the sunlight as if it were soaking up the light. He handed it to Rand. "It's yours."
Rand held it up, staring at it. "Thanks Bumpa."
Bumpa snorted. "I'd say you're welcome, but I know that in a minute or two you're going to step inside my house and eat half my pantry." He got up. "I'm sure supper's ready now, might as well get it over with."
He disappeared into the house. Rand stared at the carving for a moment then slid it into his jacket and followed his grandfather.
They ate silently. When they were finished, Rand pushed his plate ahead and leaned back in his chair. "That was good," he said.
"You expected something different?"
Rand laughed and drank from his glass. When he set it down he noticed that Bumpa was looking at him, staring openly, his face soft.
"You've seen things haven't you?" he asked.
Rand's heart skipped, he felt a sudden unstoppable guilt. What's he talking about? But he knew, didn't he? It was his sight, his inner sight.
"Yes, you have." Bumpa was staring seriously at him now. "It skips a generation, you know that? The seeing. Even when you were a kid I knew you could see. My grandfather saw things too. I've seen things, though it seems to be fading as I get older. You don't have to be afraid of it, Rand. Just tell me what you've seen."
Rand closed his eyes. "I don't know what I've seen. I always forget it after it comes. It's buried really deep." He paused, breathed in. "I had a dream about Conn and he was at this place, with an oak tree and a shack. And he was standing on a stone. This lightning hit him and he changed into something else. And he was angry." As Rand explained, the images retreated from him. "I can't say much more than that. I just know what I see is bad, I just know it. But I don't know what it means at all. It's like part of my mind is telling me Conn is going to do something bad."
Bumpa nodded. "Have you seen anything else?" he asked.
Rand shook his head, but a voice spoke up in his mind: You're not telling him everything, are you Rand?
I won't ever tell that.
What? About watching your parents die before it really happened. You could have saved them you know that?
I could not. I could not. I—
"Have you?" Bumpa asked again.
Rand shook his head. His mouth felt dry. "No."
Bumpa nodded. "This is going to sound vague, but I get this feeling that everything is not right in Kinniwaw. Like there's a festering wound that we've left festering too long. But I can't put my finger on anything. There's just these glimpses in my dreams of something coming out of the shadows." He set down his cup and picked up his plate. 'But I've had these feelings before and they turn out to be nothing." He carried his plate into the kitchen and Rand was left at the table. Bumpa came back a few seconds later. "Just tell me if
you see anything else, if anything strikes you as, well, odd."
"I will," Rand promised.
Bumpa smiled. "Why don't we do dishes then sit in the living room. I've got a story for you. I think you'll like it."
When they were finished dishes, they went to the living room. "I remember," Bumpa began and just hearing those two words reminded Rand of the excitement he had felt so many times as a kid . It was story time, again. Rand was sitting on the couch, his body warm and his stomach comfortably full.
"I remember," his grandfather repeated, "back in twenty-nine when I had only been in Saskatchewan for a few years. There was this old Icelandic man named Thursten. He came over to Kinniwaw to help one of his sons start a farm. I took a liking to Thursten right away; he was a great storyteller. He had memorized all the old myths about Loki and Thor and he had a few of his own bawdy versions. He'd open his mouth and they'd pour out. He was such a great old man. And he liked me too, he used to say I reminded him of his son that died in the war." Bumpa leaned back into his big armchair and stared out the window.
"Thursten scared me once, he scared me right down to my bones. I've never felt fear like that before, the kind that sticks in your stomach. You see, Thursten was a happy man, but he always had a haunted look in his eyes as if he was afraid something was pursuing him. I learned that night what it was. It was just a few nights before he was to go back to his family in Gimli. We had drunk our fill and it was late, that time when you know you should be going home, but you just don't want to leave.
"We were talking away, I can't remember about what, when Thursten just suddenly stopped and looked across at me. He asked if I was afraid of death. I answered no. Then he asked an even stranger question, he asked if I was afraid of the dead? How do you answer a question like that Rand? What do you say? I lied, of course, and said no.
"He just stared at me, those blue haunted eyes of his looking right through me at something that might be waiting outside the door. I wanted to turn around and look but I couldn't. Because what if something was there?
"He kept staring so finally I asked, 'Are you alright?'
"He shook his head. 'Draugr,' he whispered as he crossed himself.
The name echoed through the room, and though I didn't know its meaning, I felt it. There in the quivering of my stomach, in the dryness of my throat. The name.
"Thursten was still staring. I said his name, but he didn't snap out of it. Finally his gaze shifted and he stared again, directly into my eyes. 'Long ago,' he said, his voice even and controlled. 'When I was quite young and I still lived in Iceland, I had an evil cousin, evil in the way only men can be evil. He respected no one, not his parents, not his kinsmen. No one. He complained about the work he had to do, about the way others did their work. He had venom in his blood and his tongue was like a serpent's---he spit only insults at the world and defied everything. His name was Borth.
'He was a strong youth, he could outwrestle many of the men in the valley and he loved fighting. His mother died giving birth to him and from that day forward he carried harmathr---bad luck with him. If he walked by your house your cows would run loose, your food would burn in the oven; women would prick their thumbs if he entered a room as they were sewing. He used to beat me regularly. No one had any love for Borth.
'One day in December I murdered him. Not by myself, I had help, but I murdered him. I know the man you see now is old and passive, but then I was beaten, a beast, a dog. I had been kicked by him too often and finally a
time came when I could take my revenge. A group of us, my kinsmen and friends who had all been violated in one way or another by Borth, made a pact to teach him a lesson. We were just children, that's all. Children, hardly even into out teens. I was the oldest though, the oldest, and they all followed me.
'You see we hid in the pass at Ogen's valley, all six or seven of us, on a night when there was a full moon. We knew Borth would pass through the valley on his way into the village. We had dressed in rags and made masks of wood and feathers, so that we looked like mound dwellers. Just to scare him, that's all we wanted, to run around and poke him with sticks, to yell his name, and then run away. It was just supposed to be a trick, a warning, that's all.
'Borth rode up a little after dark, the clomping of his horse, a beast as huge and evil as him, echoed in our ears. I glanced and saw that my companions were frozen with fright, hypnotized by that sound and the sight of Borth. He looked so big in the saddle, his shoulders as gigantic as a troll's, his long cloak flowing down behind him.
'I knew nobody would move unless I did, that we would sit there and he would pass. Our moment would pass. So right before he got to us I launched myself onto the path in front of him and screamed, waving my arms and throwing a handful of dirt at him. Everyone else followed me, yelling and hooting around the horse, slapping its legs with their sticks. We were like little dwarves up from out of the ground, screaming, finally getting our revenge. His horse reared up, its hooves sliced the air above us. It neighed in anger, its nostrils flaring. But we weren't scared; we felt strong then, all of us, powerful with vengeance. We continued our attacks. The horse reared again, and Borth yelled, pulling back on the reins. Just as the horse reached its height the rein snapped and Borth tumbled from the saddle, still yelling.
'The path he was on was very rocky. I heard a soft thud when his head struck a stone. His horse bolted and we surrounded Borth, poking him with sticks and kicking at him, yelling his name in our lust for vengeance. Then as one, realizing something was wrong, we stopped. Borth didn't move. We all looked at each other, but no one said anything. We knew he was dead.
'I don't know who ran first, one of us did, and then we all followed, just running and running down the pass and across the fields, away from Borth's body.
'One of the villagers found him the next morning in a pool of frozen blood. We buried him three days later in the family cemetery. It was a strange funeral. No one cried. No one could.
'I returned to my daily work, not able to tell anyone my story. And I thought everything would return to normal. Then one morning, about two weeks after his death, I went into my henhouse and found one of my chickens dead on the floor. It had been strangled and there were no tooth marks, so I knew it hadn't been killed by an animal. I figured that one of the children from the village was just playing games and I forgot about it. But when I came back the next morning another chicken was dead except this time its legs and head had been severed and placed beside its body. It made me sick to see, sick and very angry that someone would dare do this to my livestock. So I decided to catch whoever it was.
'That night I took my pitch fork with me and I stayed in the coop. I leaned up against the far wall and faced the door. The coop was small, I could almost reach the door from where I was standing. It was warm in the coop and I had many clothes on so I soon sat down in the hay on the floor and fell asleep. I dreamed of a river filled with acid and blood that was slowly overflowing its banks. There were snakes in that river, huge snakes; the sons of Jormungand. Fire burned along the far bank. It was a strange, powerful dream; a dream from the old times.
'Then a noise woke me from the dream. The hens were moving around restlessly in the same way they do on the day I take them to the block. I stood up, still tired, the dream making my thoughts slow. I could feel the same thing as the chickens. That feeling that Death was floating through the air, searching. I wanted to get in a corner, to hide, but there was nowhere to go. I waited.
'At first nothing happened, then I heard something being slowly dragged across the ground outside the coop. The dragging sound would stop then start again. There was this growling sound too. The noises stopped before I could really be sure I heard them. I breathed in, relieved, then the door to the coop creaked inwards against the wooden bolt. A scratching sound filled my ears, as if a huge nail were being slowly drawn from the top of the door to the bottom. I froze, my breath caught in my mouth. The chickens had stopped moving. Everything was c
ompletely silent.
'Then again came the scratching, this time louder, harder so it seemed it would dig a groove into the door. The door began to rattle, the whole coop creaked as if a giant hand were pushing on its side. I felt suddenly cold. The scratching started for a third time, one of the planks on the door snapped and splinters and wood fell in on me.
'I could wait no longer. I grabbed my pitchfork, stepped forward, and yanked the shaking door open. An icy wind swept straight into my eyes and I had to squint against it. Before me, with one arm raised, was a huge shadowy man, misshapen in the moonlight. He took one shambling step towards me and became clearer so that I saw he was covered with dirt. Grass was stuck in his frozen messy hair. He stepped again, moving as if his legs were made of wood. I saw that his head was not frozen with water but with black blood. His eyes glowed.
"Cousin," he rasped. He stepped again. "I hate you."
'A huge white hand reached out towards me. I stepped back, slipped and hit my head on the hen's loft. I fell unconscious to the floor.
'When I awoke, hours later, I was sore and stiff and there was a dirty palm print on my jacket.
'I knew what had happened to Borth. He was a draugr, a revenant. My cousin was so full of hate he had become the walking dead. I did not know what I should do. The next time he came back it would mean my death. So I returned home and I took the silver cross my mother had given me and I walked to the cemetery and buried the cross in the dirt of his grave.
'He has not come back, but he is not gone. He waits underneath that dirt. The dead know who killed them, they know and if they hate enough...if they hate enough they'll find a way back. Sometimes, I can hear him screaming in the wind.'"
Rand leaned back in his chair. "Did you believe him?" he asked.
Bumpa shrugged. "He cried after he was finished. Before that I believed Thursten was the kind of man who never cries. I don't know if I believed him. When its dark I do. When it's cold. He asked me a question that night when he was finished his story. He asked: What if someone moves the cross?"
Damage Page 4
