by Tim Curran
The APC rolled up the streets as the mop-up continued.
—The End—
THE YULE CAT
Edward Wenskus
Jon Haroldsson shifted behind the blind he had built in the narrow alleyway, quietly rested the rifle on a garbage bin lid, and took a long draw of Scotch from his flask. It was cold in Vik that night, even for Iceland. Though Mýrdalsjökull was kilometers away, the arid glacial wind wended its way down through the village like fingers reaching for the sea.
The Scotch warmed him though. Enough so that the cold wouldn't slow his reflexes when the Jólakötturinn came again.
Four hours of daylight had departed quickly, as it always did on Christmas Eve. Now it was moonless and casket black and even the northern lights were absent in the sky.
Perfect. Jon slid his black fleece gloves on again and pocketed the flask in his jacket. He wouldn't be seen.
At least, he eyed down the rifle's night scope to the snowy street again, not until it was too late.
***
Yesterday, twenty-three years.
"But I don't want to wear it!" Arna stomped her foot as punctuation.
"It's polite." Mother continued to dust briskly. Company would be over in just a few hours, relatives from all over place like Reykjavik and even Akureyri. Vik was a very small village, but it was their family's turn to host this Christmas.
Arna's blond ponytail whipped around as she followed Mother to a pair of wooden picture frames. "The wool she uses scratches my neck!"
Young Jon put a few more ornaments on the tree--figurines of Grýla and Leppalúði, troll parents of the 13 Yule Lads that came down from the mountains every Christmas to give presents if you were good or raw potatoes if you were bad. "Jólakötturinn will do more than scratch you," he said.
She spun to him. "Shut up!"
"One gulp and you'll be gone."
"You!" Arna took off a slipper and threw it at him. He ducked and it hit the tree, knocking tinsel and some low-hanging ornaments to the carpet.
"Jon, Arna, enough." Mother stopped dusting. Never a good sign. "Give your sister her slipper back and, Arna, please go help clean the kitchen."
Jon held out the brown fuzzy slipper and Arna clomped over and snatched it from him. "There's no such thing," she said in a loud mumble. "It's a stupid tradition."
Of course Mother heard that. "Well, if you won't wear the sweater my sister knitted for you, after all the time she spent on it, then I don't need to get you new boots until after Christmas."
"But--"
They continued, and Jon turned back to the tree. He picked up one of the fallen ornaments--Grýla and Leppalúði's cat, its back arched high, its expression dark, hungry. Jon had his new socks on. That's what kept you safe from the Jólakötturinn. Something new to wear on Christmas Eve. The Yule Cat wouldn't eat him.
***
Jon strained to see the face of his watch. Just after 11:30 p.m. He had been sitting in the alley for hours. But it would come. Especially now the festivities had died down. Unlike New York, where he'd spent the latter half of his childhood, Christmas Eve was very busy with food, presents. Christmas Day, by contrast, was a time to relax, go to church, take walks and--
The scene came rushing back. Even stronger now he was in Vik for the first time since it happened. Bile burned his throat.
He ran his glove across his beard, dislodging ice beads that had formed there from his breath. What if it didn't come? What if all his planning was for nothing? The chasing of a nightmare.
No. He knew what he'd seen. And it was burned into his memory.
***
Christmas Eve went well. Over a dozen aunts, uncles and cousins came to the house and they had a big dinner of smoked lamb and salt potatoes. Afterwards-and only after the dishes were done, which made Young Jon and Arna squirm-it was time for presents.
Jon got a new pair of skis and the latest Batman graphic novel, sent by relatives in America. Arna got a new set of paint brushes, ice skates, and a fancy blank journal.
Their aunt asked about Arna's sweater, but Arna had "spilled" some skyr on it before she could put it on, so it needed to be washed before it could be worn again. Mother was not happy. Arna claimed it was an accident and their aunt took the news well.
The family sat and talked for a few hours more, and then Jon and Arna were sent to bed, already having stayed up well past their normal time.
It was the middle of the night when Arna's poking woke him up.
"What?"
"There's a cat on the roof!" Arna whispered.
"So?" The house was cold and he wasn't getting out of his warm bed.
"It's freezing out there and it's Christmas! We can't leave it out there." She stopped. "Listen!"
Jon actually did hear it. A quiet, pitiful "marou" from somewhere close by.
"It'll be fine." He buried his head under his blankets. "Someone just forgot to let him in. He'll be there in the morning."
"There aren't any cats nearby, because if there were I would know." Arna loved pets, and in a small village, she made it her business to know them all. "Besides, sometimes cats aren't good at getting off things they climb up."
"Fine." He rolled over, but stayed under the covers. So tired. "You explain it to everyone why we have a cat in our room tomorrow morning."
"I will." Then, suddenly, "Jon!"
Jon peeked out. "What?"
Arna stood frozen in her pajamas and socks, staring out the window. Her mouth was open just a bit and she stayed like that for a moment. Then she scurried up and placed her face right on the cold glass and craned left and right as if trying to see something.
"What?" Jon said again.
"I saw a big shadow."
Jon paused. "It was probably a neighbor. Old Erik, maybe."
"Maybe." Her tone indicated she didn't believe that at all. Then they heard the "marou" of the cat again and she unfroze. "Will you help me?"
Jon mumbled. "I'll be with you in a minute."
"Okay. I think it's on the far roof. I'll go open the window down the hall and see."
"Don't wake everyone."
Arna padded off.
Jon closed his eyes for a moment. Just a moment, it seemed. Then he was being jostled again. This time, it turned out to be Mother.
The room was still dark. The sun wouldn't come up until 11:00 a.m. But even so, he guessed it was still early.
"Did one of you leave the hallway window open?"
He yawned. "Arna."
Mother noticed his sister's rumpled, empty bed the same time he did. "Where is your sister?"
"I don't know. She was going to let some cat in from the cold."
Mother frowned. "A cat?"
Jon nodded.
Her face steeled. "Stay here."
Jon rubbed his eyes, ran a hand through his matted hair. Now that he thought of it, he wondered where Arna was, too. Probably has the poor cat trapped somewhere, putting ribbons or bells on it.
He heard Mother calling out for Arna downstairs and then the door outside opened and she called out there, too. She must have walked a distance from the house, as the sound of her walking on the snow grew quieter.
And then the screaming started.
He didn't know what the noise was at first. It didn't sound like any person could make it. He jumped up to the bedroom window and couldn't see anything, so he ran down the hallway to the window that Arna had left open getting the cat. It was closed now, but he could see...
What he saw didn't make sense. The road was all snowy except where it was dark and blotchy. It looked like splashes and for some reason his chest tightened. There was something in the center of the biggest splash and Mother was on her knees next to it. Howling.
Then he noticed there were other smaller somethings in the splashes all around the center. Some of them were stringy like long sausage.
All Jon could do was shake then. Relatives were coming out of their rooms and asking him what was going on. He heard them b
ut the words didn't make sense for some reason. It was just more sound mixed with Mother's screams as she pawed on her knees at the dark snow. He just pointed and they all rushed away.
He watched as more and more people came out and crowded the street and soon he couldn't see the stained snow or Mother anymore. Then he could move and the first thing he did was look away.
But his glance lowered to the roof in front of him, just outside the window. He saw that all of the snow had been disturbed, as if something big had crawled around on it. Did Arna go out and then fall?
He leaned forward and then saw the dark stains in the roof snow. There was a big splotch and then a drizzle trailed off to-
He felt the moan come up his throat. There was a small foot in a yellow sock. Left in the snow with nothing else around it.
And there was something else.
On the edge of the stained snow was the massive imprint of a paw.
***
Everything that followed was a blur. Maybe shock stopped details from imprinting. Maybe he chose not to remember. All he really knew was that the next days were dark and empty and unreal.
The town decided that the attack must have come from a polar bear, although no one had ever heard of an attack like this. Bears weren't native to Iceland, but they occasionally came to shore on ice floes. It had to be, since no big predators normally lived on the island. Of course, the hunting parties they sent out couldn't find one, even after scouring the frozen hills for weeks.
Jon could have told them that. In fact, he did.
"It was the Jólakötturinn!" he insisted. He knew. The print was from a huge cat, a cat he'd heard. That Arna had heard.
"Jon, no." Mother's face was red and wet all the time now.
"It was! Arna heard it and she wasn't wearing her new sweater to keep her safe and it was right here!"
She grabbed him and held him to her chest. "There's no such thing." Then, tighter, with a barely contained whisper. "There's no such thing."
That was the last time she held him. Within the week, Mother began to shut everyone out.
Their family-Mother's sister, especially-helped as best they could. But then Mother began insisting that Jon should live in America with their distant cousins. They tried to talk her out of it, that she and Jon should stay together. But she wouldn't be reasoned with. Even under the medication they started to give her.
When asked why, all she said was: "He'll be safe there. He'll be safe."
Eventually, everyone realized it was probably for the best. Once they agreed, she stopped talking altogether.
Jon went to New York without even hearing her say goodbye.
For the next twenty-two years, she never let him visit. Or the doctors didn't.
Then last year, she died.
***
The wind stilled and the stars hung over the alleyway like daggers.
Jon could feel the cold of the rifle through his gloves as he brushed a touch of snow from the barrel. So many years he'd waited for this. And the U.S. had been a good place to learn how to shoot.
Yes, it would come. It had to eat.
The legend dated back centuries. The news articles, not as far, but the pattern was there if you looked for it. Dead children. Christmas Eve. Almost every year, and explained away as some accident or tragedy. All in this desolate area of the country.
When he inherited Mother's old house-his old house-it all fell into place. He moved back to Iceland. And now he was going to end it. He owed Arna that much.
God, Arna.
He heard a sound.
Something crunching up the ice-crusted snow of the street. Footfalls, soft-too soft for boots. Too many feet.
Then, a plaintive, muffled, all-too-innocent "marou."
Jon swallowed hard and put his eye to the night scope just as the Jólakötturinn prowled into view.
Black lynx ears pointed upward from sharp feline features and impossibly long black whiskers. Its lanky body must have been over four meters from what Jon could see, its tail long and barbed, swishing back and forth in a slow, languorous pattern. From mammoth, powerful paws, bone-white claws curved into the snow with each pace.
Jon's gasp was only the slightest whisper, but it must have been enough for the Jólakötturinn to hear.
It stopped instantly and glared down the alley.
Terror.
Almost half of the Jólakötturinn's skull was devoid of flesh and fur, pale bone exposed in the icy air. Its ribcage was ruined and gaping, scraps of skin clinging to yellow tendons and blackened tissue. Decayed muscle flexed and slid where swaths of hair were missing. But its eyes, jaundiced and narrow, glowed with unearthly animation and bale.
Jon's finger trembled on the trigger. But he had to stop.
The girl dangling by the arm from the creature's mouth must have been about six years old. Unconscious, thank God, as her arm seemed to have dislocated by the way it twisted loosely in the Jólakötturinn's jaw. She was blond. Thin. Bloodied.
Just like…
"You son of a bitch," Jon said and shot.
The bullet slammed into the Jólakötturinn's haunch, spinning the creature's back end to the ground. Just as quick, it righted itself, faced Jon and growled a dark rumble, no longer a luring cry, that shook the very walls of the alley. The girl now hung limp between Jon and the cat. No chance of another shot without hitting her.
Fetid stench rolled up the alley as the Jólakötturinn's dead eyes bore into Jon's. Its claws flexed and pawed and a string of steaming drool cascaded down over the girl's hair.
Suddenly, a shaft of light appeared on the street. A door opening. Someone had heard the shot.
The Jólakötturinn spun and disappeared in an instant.
"Dammit!" Jon knocked over the garbage can and several boxes in front of him as he scrambled out of the alley.
He slipped in the snow as he spun toward the creature, loping toward the hills with huge bounds. It was so fast.
But it didn't drop the girl.
He couldn't let it get away. God, he couldn't. He knelt, sighted, breathed a prayer, and fired again.
This time the shot hit the Jólakötturinn from behind, knocking it forward into a skid. It lay there for a moment as Jon ran forward. But just as impossible as before, the massive cat righted itself, hissed, picked up something from the ground in its mouth and bounded away.
Jon reached to where the creature had been and found that it hadn't taken the girl. Not all of her, at least.
Amazingly, the girl was still alive. Still unconscious and now shaking with shock, her body trying to come to terms with the fact that her right arm had been ripped off.
He whipped off his scarf and tied it tightly around the jagged stump, and it quickly saturated with blood. There was yelling behind him, so he knew she'd have help. He couldn't wait.
He raced the hundred meters to the small garage outside his house and flung the door open. There would be more snow further up the steep hills but for now the ATV would work.
Jon stopped himself. Think. What happens when you catch up with that thing? It wasn't like bullets seemed to hurt it. Hell, was that thing even alive? How do you kill something like that?
His fury focused him. He'd figure something out. Maybe it just needed to be shot in the right place. But he'd better have some other options.
He grabbed an assortment of equipment and stuffed it all into the storage box on the ATV. The rifle he strapped near the front of the vehicle for easy access. He pocketed a headlamp and some batteries as well. He might have to look for tracks on foot.
Behind him, from the street, he heard his name being called. No doubt the townsfolk wanted to know about the girl, about what happened. Jon shook his head. The monster's tracks should be explanation enough, like they should have been years ago, and there was nothing more he could do here.
He had an idea of where the Jólakötturinn was headed.
He grabbed his helmet, fired up the ATV and aimed for the jagged black hills
.
***
The creature's tracks were easy enough to follow for the first few kilometers. Its prints were huge holes in the snow, and while they sometimes climbed out of sight up to bare-rock ridges, they still paralleled the snowed-in sheep path that Jon was able to keep the ATV on.
The tracks eventually wandered down to the path again and even slowed to a trot. Jon steered around an outcrop of black lava rock and braked suddenly. He saw why the creature had slowed.
The small arm had been stripped to bone, the snow around it spotted red in the ATV's headlight. Flesh remained on some of the fingers, but that was all that was left.
Jon killed the engine and the headlight, took out the rifle and flipped up the helmet's face shield. He scanned the area through the night scope. No movement that he could see. But the terrain was getting rougher now and it was much easier for something like that to hide. Still, he had kept up with it for the time being.
And it was still headed north, like he thought it would.
He secured the rifle again, started the ATV, and accelerated.
Another hour or so had passed when he came upon the river. It was frozen, but he doubted it could hold the weight of the vehicle. The creature's tracks led right up to the bank and then disappeared. It wasn't too wide-perhaps four meters-but the cat could have leapt it easily.
