Frost

In the comfort of the small guest room, I tried on the costume. I loved it. The heavy gathered skirt, although a scratchy wool, had a good swish quality to it, one I wouldn’t have thought possible for such a sturdy cloth. Icelandic sheep: another example of the island’s against-the-grain tradition. And the cap’s silver tassel was silky smooth as it brushed my face. Clothing with moving parts — yes, now. And the small over-the-shoulder satchel was a very practical addition. I ran my finger over the worn brown leather. This was no modern costume reproduction. It was faded in dappled patches and as soft as a butterfly’s wing. Into it I stuffed a wad of Icelandic bills and a lip gloss. I was just about to toss in the pocket dictionary when the black velvet pouch of runes caught my eye. I’d yet to open the bag since receiving it; the engraved markings meant nothing to me; and I still suspected my fingers of some sort of betrayal in packing them. Modern dictionary practical; ancient alphabet useless, were the words I heard in my head. Again, my double-crossing fingers grabbed the bag and stuffed it into the satchel.

Voices alerted me to Afi and Baldur’s presence. I hurried to find them in the front room with Vigdis. They, too, were dressed for the occasion. Both wore black knit caps with silver tassels, white shirts, dark vests with two rows of buttons, red neckerchiefs, short knicker-style pants, dark knee-high socks held up with tasseled garters, and funny pointed shoes.

He tugged at his knotted red scarf. “Thank you.” He looked at me, nodding his head. His eyes were glassy. “You look like my long-departed sister, dressed as you are.”

“We make a fine group,” Vigdis said. “A very good start to a festival day.”

“There’s a luncheon hosted by the church, then speeches in the square, then games to build appetites for the big dinner at the festival hall, and, of course, the dancing. Most important is the dancing.”

Holy cow. All that in one day? Vigdis and Baldur hardly looked like endurance athletes, but I honestly wondered if I’d be able to keep up. Already they were idling high with adrenaline coloring their cheeks and tapping their toes.

“Do you think there will be time to find that café with Internet?” I asked. “I want to send an e-mail.”

“Of course,” Vigdis said. “We’ll drop you off on our way to the church. I will be busy with duties, so you take your time. Explore the village. Then come have a nice lunch.”

As promised, Baldur’s little sardine-can car dropped me off at the small restaurant. Once in town, my costume didn’t feel like such a good idea. The café catered to a young crowd, a hip crowd. So far, I seemed to be the only one under thirty dressed like the St. Pauli Girl. I made my way through the crush of small tables to an open seat in the back. I was definitely getting looks and comments. The language barrier didn’t help. In fact, it fueled my imagination. Was gofka Icelandic for freak, or for punked?

At least I had the promise of an e-mail from Jack to take my mind off the pointing and staring. I fired up my laptop and opened my Hotmail account. My heart fell with the realization that my in-box was empty. A waitress appeared at the table and rattled off something I didn’t understand. I supposed if I looked like I’d just stepped off the cover of an Icelandic travel brochure, her assumption that I could handle a basic sentence was fair.

I replied with two of the roughly ten words I knew, “Kaffi, vinsamlegast.” And just hoped I’d asked for coffee, please.

Mom, did you send Stanley a note for me? Asking Jack to send me an e-mail? Hope you’re feeling better. Love, Kat.

Just as I hit the send button, the waitress delivered the coffee and a small jug of milk. As I stirred a spiral of white into the steaming cup, my computer dinged. Man, did I love my ever-dependable Mom? And I had an ever-growing appreciation for command central.

Dear Kat, Stanley promised to pass your message on to Jack. It does sound like they’re busy, spending many hours in the field. If you want to try yourself, here’s the e-mail: info@klarksbergstation.net. In the subject line, put attention: Jack Snjosson. It won’t be very private, but they do seem to go through. Enjoy the festival. Love to you and Afi, Mom.

I took a sip of the coffee. Dang, it was strong. A cup of joe my dad would definitely appreciate. I typed in the e-mail address my mom had given me and Jack’s name into the subject line. The gist of my message was: Where are you??? E-mail me back!!! I can’t breathe.

I had just hit send when I felt a tap at my elbow.From the table next to me, a young guy with big blue eyes and sandy brown hair said, “Gobbledy orforick goop. Ekka mejr goop” — or at least that’s what I made out of what sounded like complete gibberish to me.

“Not Icelandic?” he said, switching into English. “But you’re dressed for the festival.”

I looked around the café. Two others up front, thank God, were also dressed like Hansel and Gretel.

“I guess I thought everyone else would be, too,” I said, adjusting my little woolen cap.

“But, you wear the silver tassel,” he said, pointing at the thick silken tail-like thing hanging over my left ear.

“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.

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

“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.

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.

Dear Kat, your message to Jack has been brought to my attention. Sorry to say that he is currently unavailable. I will get it to him at the first possible opportunity. Will explain more later. Pressed for time now. Best to you and Afi. Stanley.

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.