Frost (22 page)

“In the end, an anguished Finnur locked Leira, his daughters, and the sealskin in the hut and hurried to the dance in hopes of bargaining with the
huldufólk.
The elf was furious that Finnur had broken his vow and would hear nothing of a delay. The angrier the elf became, the greater the winds whipped, until a huge squall brought driving rain and waves the width and breadth of giants. Fearing for his family during such a storm, Finnur rushed home to find his hovel reduced to flotsam, his seven distraught daughters clinging to one another in fear, and his wife and her sealskin washed out to sea. Nor was it only the family of Finnur who bore the brunt of that storm. Villages up and down the length of the fjord were washed away that fateful night. Finnur took to the sea in his fishing boat, never to be heard from again. To this day, storms bring stories of a mist-shrouded skiff and ghostly form tossed by the swell of an angry sea. And the seven daughters — half-selkie, half-human — were adopted out to the kind families of Hafmeyjafjörður. Legend holds that the descendants of these sisters are sometimes more water creature than earthly being. And any who can trace an ancestor to one of these seven sisters are considered the
selurmanna,
the seal people, and wear the silver tassel to the selkie dance.”

At the conclusion of the minstrel’s performance, I turned to my grandfather. “Afi, how is it I’ve never heard of the seal people before, especially if we’re descendants? And just what does that mean? It couldn’t possibly be a true story.”

“Town records indicate there were seven sisters, daughters of one Finnur Haldorsson.” Afi scratched at his head. “The rest of the story, well, I suppose that as it passed from generation to generation, it grew, as such things do.”

“So there’re no selkies swimming in your gene pool?”

Afi laughed. “Our breed’s a long line of mariners, whalers, and fisherman, but two legs and two arms had every one of them.” He pushed up the sleeve of his thick woolen sweater and pointed to a bulbous blue vein that ran from the back of his hand over his wrist. “Though I’ve always said it’s seawater, not blood, coursing through these old veins of mine. But the
selurmanna
and the selkie dances — all the makings of a good story and a good celebration. No?”

“So far so good,” I said. “What’s next?”

“The games,” Afi said.

“What kind of games?” I asked.

Afi chuckled. “Like nothing you’ve seen before.”

He was right. We followed the crowd down to the waterfront, where, upon a large grassy clearing, a Viking encampment had been recreated. Colorful banners and flags flapped in the wind of the early-spring day. Though snow lay in scattered piles and the air temperature was in the low forties, tops, a weak late-afternoon sun did its best to brighten the scene. I myself zipped up my white down-filled parka. Afi, as well as most of the crowd, seemed unbothered by the brisk day.

Again, I was impressed by the scale of the event. A lively village lay before us. Simple stick hovels and canvas tents horseshoed one side of the perimeter, from which merchants and artisans sold their wares. We walked along, inspecting the many objects for sale. Shields and crude swords were popular items. Afi explained that later there would be a contest of Viking war tactics. Though some of it was clearly child-size and cheap reproductions, there were a few vendors who appeared to be hawking the real deal. I also noticed quite a few hooded capes made to look like sealskin. Leather belts, pouches, and saddlebags were spread over blankets and hung from makeshift display fronts. Fur-trimmed vests, chain-mail tunics, Viking helmets, Nordic sweaters, and sheepskin coats were also being sold by authentic-looking shopkeepers. Afi struck up a conversation with one of the wool vendors, while a table of jewelry, a few tents down, caught my eye. Behind the table sat a woman and a girl about my age. The woman wore layer over layer of bright peasant-style clothing, bangles up and down her arms, and a head scarf. Daggerlike slashes of eyeliner and smoky-blue shadowed lids intensified her brooding stare. She was either playing the part of a gypsy or was the true article. I guessed the latter. The girl had dark eyes, coal-black hair, and an all-black palette that was hard-core goth; even her lipstick and the tats inking her arms were midnight black. I smiled at her; she scowled back in return.
So much for customer service.

I picked up one of the medieval-looking crosses on a thick leather band. With my Doc Martens and against a simple white T-shirt, it would look great. As I was running the krona-to-dollars calculation in my head, I spied a pile of stones much like the ones stuffed into my leather satchel. My free-thinking fingers reached out and palmed a few of them, like dice.

I heard the woman jabber something at me.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m American.”

She looked at me, up at my cap and tassel, and then turned and squawked something at the girl.

“My mother wonders if you’d like to have your runes read,” the girl said. Though it was technically a question, or maybe even an invitation, her tone couldn’t have been more disinterested.

“My runes read?” I asked. I had thought they were an alphabet, not a fortune-telling device.

“With the aid of the runes, an
erilaz,
like my mother, can tell the future.”

I figured it was a trick to get me to buy something. As a con, the woman likely dished out bogus fortunes and then asked for a fistful of krona in return. “I’m good,” I said, unhooking the strap to my leather satchel and pulling out my velvet pouch. “Already have my own set.” I shook a few of the rocks onto my palm.

Goth girl’s lashes batted up and down. She spoke so fast and with such a hiss, I wondered if runic was a spoken language.

“May I see them?” the girl asked, but before I could respond, she grabbed the pouch and the few stones from my palm in a very swift, very deft move: a sort of reverse shoplifting. While holding them, the girl closed her eyes and then, as if goosed, her eyes popped open.

“Where did you get these? They’re very old.”

“They were a gift,” I said.

Gobbledygook was exchanged between the two. I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like the conversation ended with gypsy mom telling goth daughter to shut up. Some things don’t need a translator.

“My mother will read them for you,” the girl said. It wasn’t a question.

The woman shook a large white cloth from her pocket and spread it out on the table in front of me. One at a time, I was instructed to pull runes from the pouch and place them facedown on the cloth exactly where she pointed. Once I had pulled five and they were lined up as if at the four points of the compass and one in the middle, I was instructed to place my pouch to the side.

At first it was confusing with them both speaking at me, but, within a moment or two, I learned to concentrate on the woman’s gentler — by comparison — voice, while ignoring goth girl’s more hawkish gaze and tone. I was picking up on a word repeated over and over, “Jinky.”

“Is your name Jinky?” I asked goth girl.

“Yes.” Her gaze narrowed.

It took everything in me not to react. Jinky?
Seriously?
Somehow, her unfortunate — at least to me — name explained everything; I relaxed — a little.

“Mine’s Kat.”

She didn’t respond.
All righty, then.

The first rune I was instructed to lift was the very center one. I turned it over, revealing a kind of slanty upside-down capital
F.

“In a five-rune spread,” Jinky said, “this rune represents your current situation.”

Currently,
I thought to myself,
some part of my money will soon belong to these two.
I expected to be told something cliché, like an inheritance or a handsome stranger coming my way. Gypsy mom yakked some more.

“It’s
Fehu,
except reversed or upside down.” Jinky bit her lip. “This signifies a loss.”

Which is definitely in keeping with my it’s-all-a-sham-for-which-I’ll-pay theory.

Next, I was instructed to turn over the rune to the left or due west of
Fehu.
It looked like two upright parallel lines attached by a small
x
that connected them from their tops to their centers.

“This rune signifies your past. You have drawn
Mannaz,
the symbol for man.”

Hmmm. I’d have expected the “man” to be in my future, but whatever.

The third rune I lifted was above or due north of
Fehu.
It looked like a backward seven, but with the top slanting down at a more severe angle. As I turned this one over, the two exchanged a volley of rapid-fire conversation. Gypsy girl was all lit up, excited even, and seemed to be talking her mom into something; trying, anyway. Twice, she pointed at my tasseled cap. Gypsy mom prevailed, or so it seemed.

“As your help rune you have drawn
Lagaz,
the water symbol. This is a powerful symbol and besides water can also represent psychic gifts and intuitive knowledge.” Though she spoke the word “powerful,” her voice was once again detached and monotone. “The help rune indicates the thing that you can use during this situation, in your case loss.”

Wasn’t I supposed to be having my fortune read? And doesn’t fortune mean luck? The good kind? I sure hoped they’d get to that part soon.

The fourth rune I revealed was the stone below or due south of
Fehu.
It looked like a straight line that stood upright: a number one with no hook and no base. Again, there was a lot of discussion going back and forth between the woman and her daughter. This time it seemed an angry exchange. For such a simple-looking symbol, it really didn’t seem worth all the fuss. Besides, it wasn’t like I was buying into their act. If they were any good at their proclaimed psychic abilities, they should have been pulling my doubts out like a giant magnet. Their exchange concluded with gypsy mom shaking her finger at her daughter.

“As your obstacle you have drawn
Isa,
the ice symbol,” a pissed-off Jinky said.

That got my attention. I was in Iceland, after all. And, for the record, was Jack Frost’s girlfriend. Plus, for all the heated chatter that had passed between them, it was far too short of a translation. Something had definitely been edited.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“
Isa,
like all the runes, has many interpretations. It can mean a standstill or delay to events. It indicates an elemental substance, a source of mystery. It can also indicate reversed love.”

I did not like the sound of that one. Especially given the doubts I was having about Jack. For sanity’s sake, I figured I’d go with its elemental meaning, water below thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit. And chalk their arguments up to fiery personalities.

Finally, I flipped over the remaining stone. The one to the right or due east of
Fehu.
It looked like a capital
R.

“As your result stone,” Jinky said, “you have chosen
Raidho,
the rune of journeys.”

Well, duh — I was on vacation. And if I had kept track of the five stones correctly, my fortune read as follows: My present is a loss, my past is a man, my much-debated help will be water, my highly disputed obstacle will be ice, and the result will be a journey. And how much would that all cost me?

“Are you not here for such a journey?” Jinky asked. It was the first time she had addressed me, not simply translated what her mom had said.

As if sensing a slight to her authority, the mother interrupted her daughter with a long, spit-punctuated lecture.

“I’m on spring break, if that’s what you mean?” I said. Man, these two were an odd pair. I sure wouldn’t want to sit down to one of their family dinners, an occasion at which I’d watch my back and my neighbor’s knife. “With my
afi.
Here he comes now.” I had never been so happy to see Afi’s hunched shoulders and wiry white hair.

With those lightning-quick reflexes of hers, Jinky scooped up the runes and the cloth. By the time Afi was at my elbow, I was once again looking down at the table of jewelry.

“See anything you like?” Afi asked.

I felt a small tug at my sleeve and turned to see Jinky slip my velvet pouch into the pocket of my parka.

“They have some nice things,” I said, ad-libbing, though I hardly knew why.

The woman held up a necklace and dangled it in front of Afi, speaking in Icelandic.

I gasped. It looked remarkably like the necklace Brigid had worn: the one that Jack had shattered. Though this jagged crystalline pendant hung from a strap of leather; Brigid’s had been on a silver chain.

“She thinks this one would suit you,” Afi said.

“I . . . I’ve seen one like it before.”

Afi spoke again to the woman and then fished around in his pocket, producing a money clip. Before I could think of anything to say, he peeled three two-thousand krona bills from the fold and handed them to her. Six-thousand krona was, according to my rough calculations, about fifty dollars. I was in such a fog of surprise, I was hardly able to mumble an appropriate good-bye to the two peddlers. As we turned to leave, Jinky said, “Safe travels.”

Though it was an entirely appropriate comment, it sent shivers down my spine. Partly because it had been delivered with a sneer, and partly because it seemed she wanted to say more.

Afi and I stepped away from their booth. I, for one, was glad to go. “Thank you, Afi. You really didn’t need to buy it.”

“The woman said it was a good-luck piece, and that it would be a nice souvenir of your trip.”

I looped it behind my neck, twisted the metal screw fastener, and zipped my jacket up tight. Sliding my hands into my pockets, I jiggled the pouch of runes, not knowing what to think. Were they con artists? Afi
was
out fifty bucks. And just what was up with that rune reading? Because of a guy, I was to expect a loss resulting in a journey where water would help and ice would be an obstacle. And the necklace? So like Brigid’s. I hadn’t seen anything like it on the table when I’d first examined their pieces. And now I was to consider it a good-luck souvenir.

“The contests are about to begin,” Afi said. “First is the tug-of-war.”