Draugr (6 page)

“I will look after them,” she said. Althea stepped past the officer and into the house. She was wrapped up in a thick, gray shawl. She seemed to be glaring with her one good eye.

Sandowski stepped back. “But . . . Mrs. Thorhall. Did they phone you? I don't understand. How did you know to come here?”

“I heard you go past my house. I live a little less than a mile away. I knew something bad had happened. Thursten asked me to take care of the children if anything went wrong.” She turned towards us, squinting. “Are all of you alright?”

I nodded. So did Michael and Angie.

“Did Mr. Asmundson expect trouble?” Sandowski asked.

“He said he saw a large animal earlier this afternoon. He thought that it might be a bear. He borrowed my dog to help him track it.”

“I don't think a bear could make that much . . .” He paused, looked at us then back at Althea. “Anything you could tell me would help.”

“Why don't we go in the yard for a second?” Althea suggested. “You three sit tight.”

Althea and the officer went out the back door. I could hear her talking to him, but none of the words were loud enough to comprehend. A third voice joined in: Sergeant Roberts.

“What's going on?” Angie asked. “Does she know something?”

I shrugged. “If she does, she doesn't want us to hear it.”

A moment later I heard Althea say,
“Oh no . . . oh no . . . no . . . not him.”

I realized they had probably told her about Hugin. There was a long period of silence, then they began talking again.

“We're being left in the dark,” Michael said. “Just because we're kids.”

The door opened. Althea came in, both officers a step behind. “That's all I really know. If you need any help, please call me.”

“We will,” Sergeant Roberts promised.

Althea gathered her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “All that's important is to get the children out of this house . . . now. To let you do your work.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “If you can take them that would be a big help.”

Althea turned to us. “I know this is all a little rushed, but please grab your clothes and come with me. Your grandfather phoned me earlier and asked me to look after you. Apparently you have a bus to catch tomorrow morning.”

“I'm not going on that bus,” Michael said.

Althea looked at him, calmly. “I understand. We can talk about that in the morning. Everything will make a lot more sense then. Please, we must go.”

Something in the tone of her voice made me believe her, made me hurry. I went to the bathroom and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. A few minutes later we were at the door, ready to go, our suitcases in hand.

Sergeant Roberts was there. “Your grandfather will be just fine,” he promised. He didn't seem to believe what he was saying—he was just repeating a line he had practiced again and again in some police drill.

“I hope so,” I answered.

We followed Althea to her green truck, walking in a dream. It was a big old monster of a vehicle with an extended cab. Michael had to tug pretty hard to open the passenger door. We slid in silently.

Everything was happening too fast. I wanted to somehow slow it all down so that my thoughts could catch up.

“Close the door tight,” Althea said.

Michael slammed the door and a moment later we were on the dark road, dim lights shining ahead of us. Two police cruisers passed by, heading towards Grandpa's cabin.

I almost started crying.

“It's all going to work out,” Althea said, she touched my shoulder. I glanced at her. The dash lights cast dark shadows in her wrinkles, making her look even older.

I couldn't think of anything to say, so I just stared down. We traveled the rest of the way in silence. Soon she pulled up to her house, an old, white, two-story building with a bright yard light.

We all got out and followed her inside. Her home was warm and inviting.

“Would you like anything?” she asked. “Tea? Hot chocolate?”

We shook our heads. I was too tired to even yawn. I glanced at Michael and Angie. They could barely keep their eyes open. “I think we just need to sleep,” I said.

Althea showed us to our room on the second floor. Two beds covered with huge quilts. A small window. An old radiator in the corner. It felt cozy and safe.

Althea said good night and we slipped into our beds. I wanted to say something to the others . . . even good night . . . but I was just too exhausted. Too much had happened and my body felt heavy.

The quilts were warm and thick.

I fell asleep.

I woke up to bright morning light streaming into the bedroom and to the smell of bacon. A moment later Althea knocked gently on our door.

“Good morning,” she said. “Breakfast is ready.”

I mumbled thanks, slid out of bed, and gathered up my clothes.

“It just doesn't seem real,” Angie said.

“What doesn't?”

“This room. All the sunlight. It's like nothing happened last night. Like it was all a dream.”

Michael gently removed the handkerchief on his arm. The wound was thin and dark. “Everything happened alright. My arm hurts and my leg feels like it was squeezed in a pair of vise grips.” He lifted the leg of his pajamas. A purple, circular bruise colored his ankle. “I really would like to know how that happened.”

I thought I knew, but I kept my mouth shut. It just seemed too early in the morning to start thinking about things like that. I went to the bathroom and changed into jeans and a T-shirt. It's funny, my ankle seemed to hurt too. I looked at it, but there was nothing wrong. I guess I was just feeling sympathy pains for Michael.

I needed to have a bath. There was a huge bathtub in one corner, with legs shaped like tigers' paws. It would be so nice to take a long soak, to get all the stiffness out of my muscles. But I didn't have time.

I wandered downstairs, following the smell of bacon and coffee to the kitchen. I passed through a hallway and stopped in the living room. There were hundreds of books on a bookshelf that went from the floor to the ceiling, all neatly stacked and ancient looking. No Danielle Steele or Stephen King books here. Most of them were in other languages, Old Icelandic I guessed—with names like
Volsunga Saga
and
Ari's Libellus Islandorum.
I touched the jacket of one of them and tiny pieces came off on my fingers. I wouldn't have been surprised if some of these books were the only copies in the world.

Three books lay open on the coffee table.

What would Althea be reading?

I heard the clinking of cutlery in the kitchen; she was obviously busy. I padded over to the table and looked at the first one. It was as aged as all the others, a book that looked like it had been brought over here on a Viking ship and carried across the land in a treasure chest.

It was open to a dark ink drawing of a huge man in a tattered tunic with a fur vest. His arms were bare and bulging with muscles. He was kneeling on a giant, ugly, black shape that could barely be called human looking. He seemed to be holding the creature down. The thing's eyes were glowing in a frightening way. And the moon was shining on them both.

Not exactly what I wanted to see first thing in the morning.

I carefully turned the book over, afraid it would fall apart, and saw that it was titled
Grettis Saga.
It was the story of Grettir, the man whom Althea said was our ancestor.

I set it down. I glanced at the other two books and realized they were journals. I peered at the writing inside the one on top. It was all scribbled, written by someone in a hurry.

The smell of bacon finally drew me towards the kitchen.

“Sarah, you're up!” Althea was standing by the stove, scraping a huge pile of scrambled eggs from a black iron pan into a bowl. She was wearing a dark brown dress that reminded me of an oversized potato sack. Except it looked really comfortable. “I thought I'd have to bang on your door with a hammer.” She smiled and winked with her good eye.

“Uh . . . no you wouldn't have to do—” I started and before I could say anything else, Michael and Angie stumbled into the room behind me, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes.

“You're all awake. Good.” Althea was still smiling, though I noticed now that she looked tired and strained, like she hadn't slept for ages. Had she been reading all through the night?

“Did you hear anything about Grandpa?” Michael asked.

Althea nodded. “I talked to the police this morning. They . . . they haven't found him yet. They're going to continue looking today. They're organizing a search party.”

“Do they know what . . . who he was fighting with?” I asked.

“No,” Althea answered. “But they probably didn't tell me everything. That's the way the police do things.”

“What can we do to help?” Angie's voice sounded as worried as I felt.

“I don't think you can really do very much. I'm sorry but that's the truth. It's in the hands of the RCMP now—they'll take care of everything.” She came over with a plate of fluffy yellow scrambled eggs and bacon. “I know this is bad for your arteries, but eat up. You have a long day ahead of you.”

We ate. And despite my mood, the food tasted delicious. The bacon crispy and perfect. I followed it all with a small glass of orange juice. When we were finished, Althea looked at us. “Just leave the dishes. I'll get them later. You better hurry, we have to get to the bus depot in the next hour. The bus leaves at 10 am sharp. And they don't wait for anyone.”

“We can't go,” Michael said.

Althea looked down. She spoke softly, her voice persuasive. “I understand, Michael. You're worried about your grandfather. That's only natural. But what do you expect to do? Help the police? They know what they're doing. It will be better if you three go home, to your parents.”

“And wait?” I asked.

“Yes. Wait. That's all we can do now,” she answered.

“But—” Michael started.

Althea still spoke softly. “No, Michael. I promised your grandfather I would send you home. That's what I intend to do. You'll be safer there.”

“Safer?” I asked. “What do you—”

Althea shook her head. “It will be better for you, is what I meant. Better for all of you. Now, please, go and get ready. I'll take you into town in twenty minutes.”

We left the table and went to our room.

“This is stupid,” Michael said as he zipped his overnight bag closed. “We can't just leave Grandpa here. Not without knowing what happened to him.”

“We don't really have much choice,” Angie said. “Grandpa wanted us to go home. Althea wants us to go. What can we do?”

I sat on the bed. “It just seems like something's going on and no one's explaining it to us because they don't think we can handle it.”

“I agree,” Michael said. “Althea and Grandpa are both keeping secrets.”

I was starting to feel a little angry. “We have to find—”

“Are you ready?” Althea asked through the half-open door. I nearly jumped out of my skin. I hadn't heard her come upstairs. “I have the dishes done and the truck running.”

“Uh . . .” Michael paused. “Uh . . . yeah.”

The door swung open. She was smiling. “Then come on. Let's pile in and head to town.” Her voice had that fake cheeriness that sometimes crept into my parents' voices when they were trying to get me to do something I didn't want to do.

We followed her downstairs and out into the driveway. It was a warm, perfect day, already starting to get a little hot. All across Gimli, families would be heading out their doors to go suntanning and boating. But we were on our way to a bus and home.

We got into the truck. Michael sat in the tiny seat in the back. Althea looked around, left then right, as if she was afraid of running over something. Then she sighed and I thought I could hear real sadness in her voice. I glanced at her.

“I was looking for Hugin,” she explained. “He usually comes with me when I go to town.”

She took a deep breath and put the truck in reverse, turned around, and headed out onto the paved road. She went left, away from Grandpa's cabin and towards town. She drove slowly.

Somewhere behind us in the trees there were police officers calling for Grandpa, looking for prints, their German shepherds following scent trails that no one else could see. Would they find anything?

I didn't think so. I just knew it in my gut.

We drove on. After a few minutes I remembered what I had discovered in the living room. “Althea?”

“Yes?” she answered.

“I—I noticed some books in your study. This morning. One of them was Grettir's saga.”

“Oh yes. I was reading it last night.”

“It was open to a battle scene. Is that where Grettir fights that . . . that . . .” what was the word Grandpa used? “. . .
thrall?”

“You know about Grettir and Glam?”

“Yes.”

“That's the point where Grettir is cursed by Glam. He says he will always see Glam's glowing eyes before him, whenever it is dark or he is alone. So he will never be at peace.”

“Why were you reading it last night?” I asked sharply.

“I . . .” She paused. “I was reading it because after I met you in my store, it reminded me that it had been a long time since I'd looked it over.”

“Oh,” I said. I wasn't sure why I had asked her. “What were the other books?”

“You're certainly inquisitive, aren't you? Your grandpa said you were pretty sharp.” She glanced at me, smiling slightly, then looked back at the road. “They were old family histories. Just reading about my relatives and such. Nothing more than that.”

I nodded. I wanted to ask her another question, but couldn't think of anything that didn't sound stupid. I was missing something somewhere.

We passed the sign that said: “gimli 1 kilometre.” The morning sun erased all the shadows and seemed to have polished up the town, making it look clean and perfect.

A short while later we pulled up at the bus depot. Two cars and a pickup truck were parked in front. There was a coffee shop right there and a laundromat. Neither seemed very busy. A Grey Goose bus sped past us, momentarily blocking the sunlight.

“Is this where we catch the bus?” Angie asked once we had parked. “It looks different in the day.”

“This is it.” Althea opened her door. “I'll go inside and get your tickets. It's plenty hot out, so why don't you three have a seat over there?” She pointed at a bench next to the depot. “The bus should be here in about ten minutes.”

We got out of the truck, our suitcases and overnight bags in hand. My luggage felt like someone had stuffed twenty bricks inside. We trudged over and collapsed onto the bench. Althea disappeared into the station. The door squealed as it closed.

“This sucks,” Michael announced. “It's just completely wrong.”

I agreed with him. But I had no will to move or to say anything else. I felt sapped of my strength. Empty and tired.

A hot, dry wind came up, twirling with dust and scraps of paper. It twisted its way against the side of the building and right over us and seemed to hover there. I coughed, rubbed at my eyes. A second later the mini-tornado was gone, but I was still trying to clear my throat. A pound of dirt had found its way onto my face and into my hair.

I heard the door squeak open again.

“Are you alright?” Althea asked. Her voice sounded muffled. Were my ears filled with dust? She had three tickets in her hand. “You sound like you have something stuck in your throat.”

“The . . . wind,” I answered. Then coughed again before I could say any more.

“Maybe I'll get you all a drink before you go.” She turned and went back into the depot.

At the same moment I heard a screeching, scraping noise that sounded like metal being twisted and torn in two. The bus was here, slamming on its brakes, bringing another cloud of dust with it. My coughing doubled. The bus went by only a few feet away from us and I glimpsed tinted windows and a bus driver with sunglasses. I knew already that I was doomed to sit beside the most boring person in North America and listen to his or her stories about what it was like to be a kid.

For hours on end.

I stood, choking now.

“Sarah?” Angie asked. “You gonna be okay?”

“No . . .” I mumbled. The dirt was clinging to the inside of my throat. “Just gonna go . . . to the bathroom. Wash my face. Gargle water too.”

I stumbled away from the bench and into the coffee shop. I pushed open the door into the ladies' room. There I twisted on the taps and wet my face with cold water. Then I bent down and gulped a few mouthfuls of icy, bland-tasting water. It woke me up and my coughing slowly died. I ripped off a paper towel and dabbed at the excess water. It was like drying my face with sandpaper.

When I looked in the mirror, I almost scared myself. My hair was wild. There were black bags hanging below my eyes. The stress of the night before had worn lines in my face, deep creases. I looked like one of those old rock stars who should have settled down years ago. Was my face going to stay this way?

But there was something else I hadn't seen before in any of my family pictures. A hardness. A strength. It was revealed in the shape of my jaw, in the steadiness of my eyes—a look that reminded me of my grandfather. A similarity. Passed down through the ages.

Blood of my blood. That's what he was. And he was in danger . . . a danger I was beginning to realize even the police couldn't save him from.

I drew in my breath. Straightened my back, heard it crack.

I looked around, not sure why—like there was something in the bathroom that I needed to find.

The window was set low in the wall, open to let in the summer air. I went over to it, yanked it all the way up. I knew I could fit through if I stood on the toilet.

And if I went out the front, Althea would see me.

I climbed on the back of the toilet, stood, and pulled myself out. I scraped my knee on some metal part of the window, but didn't really feel it. Then I lowered myself onto the ground and glanced around. I was at the back of the bus depot. Gimli was in front of me. Houses and more houses.

It was only a short dash to the alley. Beyond that was a park.

I was overcome by a burst of new energy. I was taking action, doing something.

I started running.