Frost (23 page)

Perfect,
because that was exactly what was going on in my head: plain old common sense versus the weird and wacked. And dang it if the freaks weren’t gaining ground.

The games took place in an open field adjacent to the small Viking tent village. A roaring bonfire separated the areas between the camp and the field. In the chill and weak light of the early-spring day, the fire’s heat and glow was like honey dribbled on toast. And all the more welcome following the creepy-crawly tingle the rune reading had left me with. We found Baldur and Vigdis warming themselves by the crackling blaze.

“There you two are,” Vigdis said. “Come, the games are starting.”

We gathered around an impossibly long and thick swath of rope with two ginormous loops on each end. The rope was stretched over one seriously nasty-looking mud pit. A foghorn sounded, and soon two teams of men entered the clearing from opposite ends of the field. The first team looked like ancient Vikings, with crude garments made of shearling wool, horned helmets, and even the odd chain-mail tunic. The second team wore capes and hoods fashioned out of — what I hoped was imitation — sealskins. No mistaking what this game represented. The original townspeople of Hafmeyjafjörður versus the selkie folk. The two largest men stepped into the looped ends of the rope, and the rest of their teams positioned themselves in front of them. Again, the foghorn sounded, and soon the men were grunting like wild boars while the crowd cheered and whistled. It was hard-fought, but, in the end, the seals were wallowing in the muck. The crowd went wild with excitement. It was clear just which side the average Johann was rooting for. I noticed that Afi, Baldur, and Vigdis — in the minority with their silver tassels — frowned at the outcome. I followed my small
selurmanna
group toward the next event.

We watched a net-mending contest, relay races on large, handled hop-balls made to look like buoys, and a crazy beachfront finale that was a sort of triathlon. Part one was a sprint to the water, part two a frenzied stripping of layered clothing, and part three a swim to the end of the wooden pier and back. I couldn’t believe that so many people would brave those frigid waters, never mind bare such a sorry display of underwear. And when wet and drooping, more is definitely better.

It was after five. Darkness was pressing down. With a pinch, it squeezed the air from my chest. Torches and old-fashioned street lamps lit the scene, but, still, with the twilight came an eerie vibe. As much as the entire day was celebrated as a recreation of legends and stories, here, down at the water, I felt the oddest sensation. Air-ferried energies seemed to whisper in my ear, like a swell of ancient winds brushing over me. The crowds started to disperse from the waterfront, but I was rooted to the spot. I felt a presence and thought I heard the strange music again. I spun, scanning the beach. Down along the rocks, far from the gathering, I spied something splashing.

“Wait. There’s still someone in the water,” I said, pointing.

Baldur and Vigdis followed my finger with their eyes, but blinked back at me in confusion. “Where?” Vigdis asked.

“He was there a minute ago,” I said. “Or maybe it was even a woman. It was hard to tell. Afi, did you see someone, or hear anything?”

Afi’s eyes focused on the exact spot where I was pointing, seemingly even dipping his ear closer, but then he shook his head and said, “No, everyone’s out. See? All the clothes are picked up.”

So they were. On the beach, all the various pieces of clothing had been reclaimed. Had someone or something been there, it wasn’t one of the festival-goers. Afi and I exchanged looks. For the briefest of moments, I wanted to challenge him. Ask him again. I gazed out upon the rocks once more. Nothing. I distractedly fingered the necklace Afi bought me.

“I see you wear the Snow Queen necklace,” Vigdis said.

“The what?”

“The Snow Queen necklace. They’re very popular here. From the children’s story the
Snædrottningin,
‘The Snow Queen.’ Is reproduction of the mirror fragments that the queen uses to freeze hearts.”

“I don’t remember a mirror in the story,” I said, my heart squeezing in and out like an accordion. I heard the whiny music and wouldn’t have been surprised had a monkey with a collection cup jumped on my shoulder.

“If I remember correctly,” Vigdis said, “it’s the prologue. A story about a wicked troll who makes an evil mirror. While flying up to the heavens with it, in order to play tricks on the angels, it shatters and falls to earth, freezing the hearts of all those pierced by its fragments.”

I found it bizarre that we were discussing
The Snow Queen.
Had Afi or I mentioned the musical to Vigdis? Even if we had, it certainly hadn’t come up during the rune reading. When constantly tripping you up, coincidences — like long, scratchy skirts — became a nuisance.

“Who’s hungry?” Baldur asked.

I, for one, was and welcomed the distraction. It had been a long time since Vigdis’s rhubarb-filled pancakes, and something warm and hearty sounded good, provided the adjectives
blood, fermented,
or
sour-pickled
weren’t part of the description.

Baldur pulled four tickets out of his pocket. “Dinner and dance is at the festival hall, just a short walk away. Shall we?”

I followed my companions, passing the warmth of the bonfire reluctantly. At least “festival hall” indicated something with walls and a ceiling, which meant, if nothing else, a break from the wind. I had always known Afi bragged to be of rugged stock, but an outdoor event with snow still on the ground? And swimming in an icy fjord? No, thank you. Tables, chairs, plates, and forks were all the incentive I required.

From the outside, the hall was a low, squat building. Inside, it was a cavernous space with a vaulted ceiling and thick walls with narrow transom windows. One half of the enclosed area had long, simple wooden tables pushed together and lined up one after another. This would be no private dining experience; more like a boarding-school hall: Hogwarts on the Fjord. The other half of the room was used for buffet tables, a stage, and a dance floor. Baldur handed over our dinner tickets, and we got in line. Rustic earthen bowls and huge platters were overflowing with food. A seafood feast seemed, to me, bad karma for an event celebrating fish people. I, personally, loaded up on the carbs and veggies: flat breads and dark ryes, mashed potatoes, boiled cabbage, pickled beets, the yogurt-like skyr, rice pudding, and a whole array of cakes and cookies.

We sat close to the dance floor at the end of one of the long plank tables. Afi, Baldur, and Vigdis slipped into a conversation in Icelandic, and it was actually soothing to hear the hum of voices but not have to concentrate on the words, the way instrumental music frees you from the influence of lyrics. Vigdis and Baldur, seemingly, disagreed about something; Afi, I think, sided with Vigdis. I watched Afi with his relatives. He looked happier than I’d seen him in a long time. Back home, he was lonely and missed Amma, I knew, but I could tell that it was more than that. Funny that I had even used the word “home,” because that’s just how he seemed here surrounded by these Icelanders — at home.

I scooped the last bite of a piece of chocolate cake into my mouth just as the band took the stage. The trio — a fiddle, flute, and bass guitar — wasted no time. After a short greeting to the crowd, they started up. It was definitely folk music, a lively, hand-clapping, toe-tapping-style throwback. Nothing that would get cred at the Grammys, but, still, it buzzed the place to life. Vigdis and Baldur were the first two to hit the dance floor. They were so cute together, if two pushing-seventy gray-hairs could be called cute. Afi watched that first number clapping to the music and with a big smile creasing his lined cheeks.

“Watch closely,” he said to me. “We’ll give it a go next song.”

Uh-oh.
This type of dancing had rules and steps and a very specific order to things. The men twirled the women in unison; there were kicks, and stutter steps, and bowing, and circles formed. It was nothing like shaking my booty with Tina and Penny at last fall’s Homecoming dance.

“I don’t know, Afi. It looks complicated.”

The first song ended, and Afi pulled me to my feet. “People are complicated; this is just dancing.”

For an old guy, Afi could move. I did my best. Kicked when the others kicked, ducked under a bridge of arms when I seemed to be next in line, and even got the hang of the twirls he snapped me back and forth from, but I was always a half step behind the whole darn lot of them, though almost every one of them had a good fifty years on me. I stumbled my way through two songs, then begged off. Afi quickly found himself a new partner, who, I had to admit, was very light on her feet despite her size and age.

At first, I watched from the table. Then I made my way to the drink station, pointing and ending up with some sort of cider. For a while, I watched the dancers from the back of the room. Someone tapped me on the shoulder.

“You still have your silver tassel, I see.” It was the guy from the café earlier that day. The one who’d first mentioned the
selurmanna
to me.

I touched my cap. “For whatever it’s worth, looks like my
afi
can trace his roots back to one of the seven sisters.”

The guy lifted his eyebrows. “Impressive.”

“Not really. I’d say the census keepers around here are the ones to be admired. Are we talking close to a thousand years of town records? Now, that’s impressive.”

“Anyway, it looks good on you. Legend says the sisters were all beautiful.”

My heart dropped, landing with a splat on my kidneys, and all I could think of was Jack. There was nothing between me and this guy, so I was all the more confused by my physical reaction. And it was physical; I wouldn’t have been surprised had a bruise bubbled to the surface of my chest. What had just happened? It had felt like some kind of . . . of what? The word that came crazily to mind was
loss.
But that was the word the old rune reader had used. Was I just projecting her words onto an emotion I couldn’t identify? Was I feeling guilty that this guy was flirting with me? Was he flirting with me? He was still hanging around, eyeing me weirdly. But guilt I would recognize, right? This was different. A lurch to my gut as if something had happened. And if not to me, then to someone I loved.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, not even bothering to invent any more of an excuse than that.

I looked out to the dance floor. Afi, Baldur, and Vigdis were still high-stepping it. I grabbed my coat from the rack at the back of the room and plunged into the cold, dark night. A few people were gathered around the exit; I hurried past them, needing quiet and space to think. Lost in thought and disoriented by the darkness, I walked aimlessly, thinking about Jack. Was I imagining the coldness to our good-bye? Was I, so new at the whole relationship thing, inventing dramas? So what if he was too busy to get hold of me. He was, after all, at some arctic field camp. And devoting himself to the opportunity. Was I being juvenile? Acting like the schoolgirl that — for the record — I was? And just what was that drop I felt in my gut back there? I knew I hadn’t invented that. Not even I could manufacture a reshuffling of organs.

Outside, the air had turned brittle. After the warmth of the hall, my lungs rattled at the contrast. My feet slapped at the pavement until I ended up on a promenade overlooking a different section of the beach than where the polar plunge had taken place earlier. It was remote, with only a few lampposts illuminating a pedestrian path up above the water. The nearly-full moon hung like a paper lantern over the inky sea. Was I north of the festival? Or south? A gust of approaching voices scattered my brain fog; a huddle of dark shapes advanced.

I’d lived in LA long enough to have a healthy stranger-danger radar. I had to make a decision quick. Continuing down the path would put me farther away from the hall and civilization — such as it was — though it would, at least, put distance between me and the others. Standing my ground, or an about-face, would force an encounter, an option with definite risks. The water was a dead end, nor did a scramble up the dark and sloped berm separating this path from whatever was directly above it seem wise.

The pack, ten or so in number, drew closer. My weak-kneed limbs had taken the liberty of going with a let’s-see-what-they-want option. As the group pressed down on me, I could hear both male and female voices; they weren’t speaking English.

When only ten or so feet separated me from these dark forms, one — a girl — spoke to the others and then halved the distance between us. I had no idea what she said, but her voice had a hard edge, and I would have guessed something along the lines of “I got this one.”

Just as she was almost upon me, I was shocked to discover —

“Jinky?”

“Are you lost?” she asked. Her voice hadn’t softened any with the realization that we were acquaintances; it wasn’t a good sign.

“No. Just walking.”

Another girl had joined Jinky away from the pack. She circled as if inspecting me, like I was some kind of used car. I didn’t like it — or her. Had she tried to kick the tires, she’d have had a fight on her hands; I was getting pissed.