Frost (21 page)

“On festival day, only the
selurmanna
wear the silver tassel.”

“The who?” I asked.

“The
selurmanna,
” he said, still pointing. “The seal people. Your cap is a sign.”

Talk about
déjà vu.
Once again, I found myself in the uncomfortable position of someone pointing at my head and calling it a sign. And cap? That’s what the Storks call our ridiculous means of communication.

“It’s not a sign,” I said. “It’s just a hat.”

“But where did you get it?” he asked. “They are very obscure.”

Which, at least, explained the looks and whispers I had attracted upon arrival.

“My
afi
and I are staying with his cousin and his cousin’s wife. They’re all wearing them, too.”

“Then you are a descendant of the
selurmanna.
”

Jeez.
Like I needed more branches sprouting from my crazy family tree.

“What does that mean?” I asked, knowing — but not caring — how dumb I sounded.

“Ancestors who can trace their lineage as descendants of Finnur, a legendary forefather.”

That was a relief, more a matter of first dibs than something fantastical. His use of the word “obscure” probably one of those lost-in-translation moments;
rare
was probably the word he was looking for. Though his English was pretty darn fluent and his accent very light.

“So kind of like an Icelandic version of the pilgrims,” I said. “Was he a Viking settler?” At least I had a smattering of Icelandic history and felt confident that this was a good guess.

The guy laughed, smacked the table, and said, “Nothing so common for Hafmeyjafjörður, not according to the legends.” He gestured with his arms in a floppy circle. “Here is considered a place of old mysteries. Here it is believed the
huldufólk
walk the earth. Here the
vatnfólk
still swim the seas.” He then winked, as if making light of it all.

Just as I was about to ask for an English-please translation, my in-box chimed. I quickly pulled up my Hotmail account and saw that I had an e-mail from Klarksberg. As I opened the message, I heard the chair next to me scrape the floor and watched my chatty neighbor stand and wave to someone across the room.

“Enjoy the festival,” he said to me as he walked away.

I wanted to yell “Wait,” get a little more backstory from the guy, but I also wanted to read the e-mail immediately. Someone in Greenland was sitting at a keyboard.
Jack? Please let it be Jack.

My eyes scanned the message. My hopes drained with a glug. It read:

I read it three times, but still sat staring at the screen like some sort of code had been embedded in the short missive.
Unavailable?
Weren’t there, like, twenty of them, tops, at the base? What? Was he in the bathroom? In the shower? How long could either of those take? Which brought me to
at the first possible opportunity
?
Pressed for time
? They were dealing with climate change, right? Small gradual changes over the history of the planet. Hardly anything with a detonator attached to it. So why the hurry?

I closed my laptop with a snap. I hardly knew what to stress about first and most. My talkative neighbor calling my silver tassel obscure and a sign and calling the town a place of mysticism, or reports coming in of Jack being withdrawn, under Brigid’s special care, and now unavailable. I left the café with more than my strange cap weighing on my mind.

I found the church easily enough. It helped that it was set high on a hill and that the noon bells were louder than jet traffic over LAX. Though church bells were much more melodic. I followed the crowd into what felt like a meeting room or banquet hall. Rafters of rough timbers towered above, and the plaster walls were thick, with few windows. It felt like the real deal: a Viking longhouse, not some Disneyesque recreation. In the center of the room, there were long tables covered with crisp white cloths, while colorful paper lanterns and silvery netting hung from the ceiling and flags and coats of arms decked the walls. People carrying plates of food milled about. Finally, my attire allowed me to blend. Everyone was dressed as if stepping out of a Hans Christian Andersen tale. Silver tassels, however, were few and far between. Vigdis’s shiny round face was easy to spot. She waved at me from her place in the serving line, where she wielded a large spoon over an even larger serving dish. I found Afi and Baldur sitting at the far end of a table sipping coffee, with dirty plates pushed to the side.

I sat down at an empty seat.

“Uh, Afi, is there something I should know about this silver tassel?” I asked, fingering its shimmery fringe.

“It’s for the pure Hafmeyjafjörðurs,” Afi said.

“But what does that mean? Some guy at the café made it sound like it was unusual. And another thing: who are the
huldufólk
and the
vatnfólk
?”

The table got very quiet. Baldur cleared his throat; Afi stroked his chin.

“Afi?” I asked.

“These are old legends, Katla. Stories, really.”

Like I hadn’t heard that one before.

“Go on,” I said.

“The
huldufólk
are the hidden people,” Afi said.

“Hidden how?” I asked.

“Magical beings who are invisible to humans,” Afi said with no more inflection than a weather report.

“And the
vatnfólk
?”

“The water creatures of which mermaids, mermen, and the selkie belong.
Hafmeyja
is even the Icelandic word for ‘mermaid.’ Our town, Hafmeyjafjörður, translates to ‘Mermaid Fjord.’”

Again, Afi spoke so matter-of-factly. I kept waiting for him to crack a smile, slap a knee. Nothing.

“Hungry?” I looked up as Vigdis slid a plate of food in front of me.

I was, but I also considered food, like ancestors, a don’t-surprise-me topic.

“Thank you,” I said, trying my best to sound convincing.

“Is my specialty, rhubarb-filled pancakes and
blóðmor
sausages,” Vigdis said, beaming at me with pride.

I hoped it was the pancakes she was pushing, because, personally, I didn’t want
any
blood in my sausages —
more
was simply out of the question.

“You’ll have to eat fast,” Vigdis said, “because next comes the minstrel out in the square.”

“The minstrel?” I asked with a mouthful of pancake that was warm, and honey-infused, and disappearing quickly.

“Ah, yes,” Vigdis said, nodding with pleasure at my appetite. “The village minstrel will recount the story behind our festival. So many come from afar that is helpful to give the history. And for some years now is all done in English. You’re not the only tourist here today. We’ve become quite the attraction. Eat up, eat up,” she urged. “Is starting very soon.”

I dropped my napkin over two untouched blood-filled sausages. “Let’s go, then. I’d really like to hear the stories.” It was true. If I was going to walk around town with some symbolic silver tassel, I supposed I needed the 411 on it.

After stashing my laptop in Baldur’s tiny trunk, I followed Afi, Baldur, and Vigdis down the steep hill and into the town’s square. It wasn’t far from the café where I’d been earlier, but this was definitely a much older part of town. The shop fronts had a Nordic charm, with their bright colors and ornate trim. Some had medieval-looking turrets; others had pointy spire-like roofs; one even had a clock tower. And old-fashioned wooden shop signs hung from iron brackets. Over cobblestone pavers, we followed the festival-goers into the open square, where a stage had been set up.

Scattered through the crowd were the obvious tourists dressed in jeans and modern attire. Somehow, against this idyllic backdrop, they were the ones out of place.

Soon, an official-looking gentleman took the stage. Though his costume was also period, its high ruffled collar and big brass buttons down the front of a tailed coat spoke of authority. He introduced himself as the mayor and then, with as much pomp as he could muster, declared the festival open. The first order of business was the selkie legends.

The minstrel climbed onstage, and I almost took cover. Talk about hulking. He was tall and built. He wore heavy brown woolen stockings, a mid-thigh-length bright green tunic with gold braiding, a red cape, a wide leather belt and thigh-high boots, and a leather cap with fur trim. Yowza. His long dark hair and beard were thick and, quite honestly, in need of some very deep conditioning. He looked like a cross between Hagrid and one of the beasts from
Where the Wild Things Are.

He opened his arms in a gesture of welcome. “Once upon a time,” he began.

I relaxed. That’s how children’s books began. Fiction, from long, long ago: that, I could handle.

“God in heaven cast out those angels who merited neither salvation nor damnation.” He brought his hands to his side, hooking his meaty thumbs into his belt. “They tumbled to earth here on this Icelandic fjord, where their celestial traits set them apart from God’s children. Some fell into the waters and became the
vatnfólk,
the sea creatures, of which there are many. Others fell to the earth and became the
huldufólk,
the hidden people, also taking many forms. Of all the creatures, there’s but one with the ability to inhabit both land and sea. The selkie alone can shed its seal cloak to reveal a human form. Once a year, in atonement, the selkies come ashore here, the place of their fall.” The minstrel gestured in the direction of the fjord with his muscled arms. “In a cavern by the water, they dance with their long-lost cousins, the
huldufólk,
for one night, and then return to the sea, always seeking a return to God’s good graces.”

So far so good,
I thought. An annual beach party: a kind of dancing-with-the-fallen-from-the-stars. After an Icelandic winter, I was certain the locals would invent any excuse to celebrate.

“For countless generations, the townsfolk knew of this night and respected the privacy of these mystical creatures. One winter, though, ten hundred years ago, times were very hard and there were many hungry mouths to feed. A hunting party of menfolk waited on the rocks for an opportunity to slay the unsuspecting seals. One among this group, Finnur, a poor, unmarried fisherman, could not lift his eyes from the human form of one of the selkies. Legend says she had hair the color of fire and eyes the color of emeralds. Even the selkie-men sought her out, calling upon her to dance: ‘Lovely Leira, charm of the sea, Lovely Leira, dance with me.’ So enraptured was Finnur that he could not bear to see her hunted. Even after watching her shape-shift back into her sealskin, Finnur was captivated. To protect her from the hunters, he shielded her and her fellow seals with his own body.”

Still sounded OK to me. And as romances go, boy meets seal was an interesting twist. The hammy minstrel definitely had my attention.

“That night, Leira and the other selkies escaped, while a wounded Finnur could only watch helplessly as the beautiful creature slipped away,” the minstrel continued. “Afterward, Finnur was shunned by the villagers and forced to live in a small hut many miles from the town. Here he lived another summer and winter, but very lonely and with a heavy heart. The following year, the night of the dance of the selkies, he returned, hoping for a glimpse of the lovely Leira. Crouched behind some rocks at the entrance to the cavern, Finnur was approached by an elf, one of the
huldufólk.
The elf said:

The minstrel paused, locking eyes with many in the crowd. I looked around. Even Baldur and Vigdis, who must have heard the story year after year, were pink-cheeked and attentive. The beefy bard sure knew how to tell a story. I, too, was eager for the rest of the tale.

The minstrel continued, “The young fisherman eagerly consented. He was then invited to dance with the red-haired, green-eyed beauty. After a jig, the elf presented to the young man a sealskin, and instructed the fisherman to lock it away until the pact was done, but cautioned that on the night of the selkie dance, eight years thereafter, the pelt, and her freedom, were to be returned. As prophesied, over seven years, she was a loving wife and bore him seven children: seven girls, in fact, each as beautiful as their mother. During their final winter together, Leira, again, grew round with child, and Finnur, who longed for a son, was certain that Leira carried a boy. Yet on the eve of the dance, it was clear that the child was months from birth. Finnur begged his wife to abide by him until the child was born, after which he’d return her sealskin and her freedom. Leira, understanding the solemnity of the vow, insisted that Finnur take her, and her hidden sealskin, to the dance.