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Ophelia rested the dipstick on her rag-wrapped finger and eyed the oil level. Three days had passed since her father’s body was found in a snow bank off Hatchet Pass. Checking the oil in her mother’s old Ford Bronco was the first clear thought she’d had since then. She’d woken up and understood the morning of her father’s funeral had arrived and he wasn’t there to make sure Mom’s truck was operational.
Grandma wasn’t there either. Couldn’t make it, Mom had said. Too busy.
How can she be too busy for her own son’s funeral? The thought occurred to Ophelia, though she’d not said it out loud.
And so she’d gotten up and faced the cold.
It was also Christmas morning, but they’d forgotten until Mr. Langdon appeared on the doorstep with a fancy hot breakfast and presents.
“What are you doing?” Bianca walked into the garage, a waft of icy air coming with her.
“Checking the oil.” Ophelia slipped the dipstick back into the slot.
“You know how to do that?” Bianca opened the passenger side door and tossed in her purse.
“I used to help Dad all the time.” Ophelia checked the antifreeze level next.
Mom opened the door and another waft of icy air came in.
“Bronco’s ready.” Ophelia tossed the rag into a can and closed the hood on the burgundy SUV.
Mom stared. “Do you know how to find Daddy’s files on his computer too? I have to, um, file for...for...”
“Social Security benefits and life insurance? Yeah, I found it this morning. I’ll show you when we get home.”
“Thanks.”
“You want me to drive?” Ophelia pointed at the steering wheel with her thumb.
“Um, if you want to, baby.”
Another four-wheel drive vehicle pulled up as they all piled in.
“The Langdons.” Bianca looked in the rearview mirror.
Mom got into the backseat, next to Bianca, and stared at the passenger’s seat back.
The Langdons were there to drive with them to the cemetery for Dad’s graveside service.
Like everything else, the funeral was a compromise for Mom and Dad. She was Catholic. He always said he felt closest to the Divine surrounded by trees and animals. The funeral would be held outside, officiated by a priest.
Togo Cemetery was home to dearly departed humans and dogs alike. Sixteen Iditarod sled dogs and nine mushers were buried there. A statue of the town’s namesake, Togo, stood at the entrance. He’d been one of the lead dogs who’d carried the life-saving serum to Nome during the diphtheria epidemic of 1925, along with the more famous Balto.
Ophelia drove slowly around the mountain switchback and down into the little valley. The lake spread out like a white bed before the birch trees. Gravestones dotted the landscape. Trucks and snow machines lined the road and crammed the parking lot. A Chevy was being pulled out of a ditch by another pickup and a couple of sturdy townsfolk pushed it from behind.
Mr. McDaniel was bedding down his dog team, spreading straw, shoveling steaming hot slump into their bowls. His oldest son and daughter helped, wiping down the sled, checking the runners for damage. The perpetually pregnant Mrs. McDaniel waddled from the fifteen-passenger van with the rest of their herd.
A parking place remained empty for Ophelia and her family next to the priest’s rusted-out Jeep.
Father Wings was a traveling priest who ministered to six other remote towns and villages by means of the truck and his twin-engine airplane. Ophelia couldn’t remember his real name. A little boy had started calling the priest ‘Father Wings’ decades before, because of his airplane, and the name stuck.
Father Wings stood next to his truck, long white robes flowing over his parka, snowpants, and boots.
Ophelia pulled into the space. “We’re here.” She looked back at her mother. Deep breath.
Her mother still stared at the back of the seat.
“Well, this is the shittiest Christmas ever,” grumbled Bianca.
Mom didn’t even notice the potty-talk. “This isn’t real. This can’t be happening. He’s coming home. Please tell me he’s coming home.”
Ophelia cleared her throat and swallowed hard. “I can’t, Mom. He’s not coming home. But we’re still here.” She exchanged looks with her sister.
“Mom, can you braid my hair?” Bianca blurted, catching on.
Mom needed to do something with her hands. It was the only way she could go on breathing.
“Of course, baby.”
Bianca got out and opened Mom’s door.
Ophelia exhaled. “Daddy loved Christmas. I can’t think of a better day for his funeral.”
Father Wings greeted Mom, but she didn’t respond.
Ophelia looked over to see her mother French braiding her sister’s hair, most likely intent on coiling it up under the black beret.
Bianca had sewn matching wool berets for all three of them. Ophelia pulled on hers and hoped she got it right, so her sister wouldn’t jerk her around and fix it. “We’re so relieved you could officiate, Father Wings.” She shook his hand on her family’s behalf.
Adrian emerged from the crowd gathered around the gravesite and walked toward them. He’d come and gone in the three days since she’d learned of her father’s death. Mostly, he’d held her on the sofa while they watched Star Trek something or other, but he’d also nagged her to test, take her insulin, and eat on time. Anticipating his visits was all that had gotten her out of bed and into the shower each day. “You all right?” He wrapped arms around her and held her close.
“Remember making out in the moose thicket? You’re a really good kisser.” A chuckle got out of Ophelia in spite of it all.
“Yeah?” He kissed her ear and warbled a little.
“Yeah.” She lifted her chin from his shoulder for one on the lips. “I wanted to go on kissing with you forever.”
Adrian rubbed his freshly shaven chin, as though in deep thought.
“Oh, dog, who invited them?” Bianca came around the Bronco with Mom and the priest, glowering back over her shoulder.
The Brynners’ black Hummer drove down the snowy hill.
Adrian kissed her forehead. “I’m going to keep an eye on things from a more strategic place.” He slipped something into her hand and walked away.
Opening her hand, Ophelia saw a Captain Janeway Christmas tree ornament, or part of one. The base was broken off and the letters, ‘WWJD,’ were etched on the bottom of one tiny boot. It meant ‘What Would Janeway Do?’ She smiled, just a little, and tucked the captain into her pocket.
Taking her mother’s other arm, Ophelia hurried along, hoping to avoid Martin in the mourning crowd.
He caught up with her on the outer edge. “My Sweet.”
Bianca wheeled around like a lioness. “Fff...”
“Bianca.” Mom jerked her arm before the ‘F’ word could get out.
Ophelia put a hand to her sister’s shoulder. “I’ll handle this. You go on.”
Bianca seemed ready to kill.
And so did Martin.
“Mom needs you. Go on.” Ophelia pushed her a little.
“Fine.” Bianca resumed walking into the crowd with their mother.
Martin wrapped her in a suffocating embrace. “I’ve tried and tried to come over, but that bitch-sister of yours won’t let me talk to you on the phone and everyone says you’ve hardly gotten out of bed. I was so worried.”
Ophelia pushed at his arms, but he didn’t budge. “Martin, I broke up with you.”
“I understand you’re upset. We’ll talk about it when you’re feeling better.” Martin cupped her face in one hand. “I’m going to take care of you. Nothing like this will ever happen to you, I promise. You’re much too special.” He kissed her upper cheek. “I got you a really great Christmas present.”
Ophelia saw his lips coming, but his arms were locked around her and a crowd of mourners probably didn’t want to hear her scream.
A rock slammed into the side of Martin’s head. It only pissed him off. He glowered into the snowy trees. “Stupid diabecracker.” And he took off.
Adrian. I wonder how long that tactic’s going to work.
No one else had noticed, as far as she could tell. They were all staring at the pale blue casket ready to be lowered into the pre-dug grave.
Every autumn before the snow flew and the ground froze, the cemetery keeper dug a few graves, just in case. Permafrost was such a pain.
Ophelia quickly blended into the crowd, negotiating her way through to her mother and sister standing with the priest.
“...completely drained of his blood.” Someone whispered.
“Shh.”
Ophelia scanned the crowd. She’d overheard in the comings and goings of neighbors that her father’s body had been partly devoured by wolves by the time it was found.
It wasn’t unusual for someone to be eaten if they died in the Alaskan wilderness, especially in the winter when food was scarce. Humans regularly jockeyed with bears and wolves for the position of top predator.
Brandon stood with a strange man on the other side of the crowd and a couple of paces from the nearest person.
The man wore dark glasses and leaned on a blind person’s cane. His face was as pale as Brandon’s. His dark brown hair was combed back, thick and wavy, but glossy like plastic. His small nose and lips gave him a shrewd appearance. In fact, others might’ve considered him quite handsome, but she sensed artificiality about him.
It was impossible to tell his age, but he seemed ancient.
Father Wings stepped in front of the casket, reminding her of the hundreds of sermons Dad had endured for Mom’s sake.
A feeling like too much cough medicine came over Ophelia and she cupped hand over her eyes. Please, no headaches, today of all days. She dropped her hand and blew out a breath. The feeling misted away.
I have not encountered such a beautiful mind in decades.
Ophelia scanned the crowd but couldn’t place the male voice with a face.
She can hear you. That was Brandon.
Ophelia looked at him.
He watched her with wide, blue eyes shining, but his expression said only that he liked her a lot and felt sorry for her.
She decided to stare at a rose bush, buried in snow.
Remarkable. What is her lineage? The other male voice spoke an even tenor with an indeterminable European accent.
Her paternal grandmother was English. Brandon again, but his tone dragged in reluctance.
English? No. I would say Icelandic. Or, perhaps...she’s from Sweden. Or both. A feeling of hunger gave way to fascination with a hint of fear. An incredible find for this location. I wonder...the Borean Realm?
Ophelia’s brow tightened. Why are they interested in Grandma? She’d need to have a talk with Brandon about prying into other people’s business.
“His daughter, Ophelia, will lead the eulogy.”
Sounds of muffled surprise spread over her neighbors and classmates. None of them had ever known her to speak in public.
She twisted her hand out of Bianca’s and stepped over the rose bush to stand next to the priest before her father’s lifeless body concealed within the long box.
After crying non-stop the first day after their father was killed, Bianca had spent the second day sewing their matching black dresses and berets. Then, she altered long black wool coats Mrs. Langdon had given them.
Ophelia was quite sure this creative frenzy had saved her sister’s sanity. She stuffed the paper scrap speech into her pocket and went on memory. “Bring the casseroles. Replace the shattered windows. Stay up all night with us while we cry. Feed our dog. Bring in the firewood and bandage our bleeding hands. But, know that none of this will make the choking, gripping sickness of grief go away. There’s nothing you can do. My father is dead, and no one can do anything about it.”
Mom pressed her black-gloved hand over her mouth and wept.
“He thought my mother was beautiful, even with black mascara streaking down her face. He always knew what Bianca was up to because he did the same thing when he was a kid. I’d do anything to be around him, to hear his stories, to make him proud of me.”
Bianca laughed a little along with another sob.
“My father is dead now. He wasn’t there to warm up my car this morning or tell Mom not to drink too much coffee. He won’t be taking us to Anchorage for our birthday. He won’t see us graduate from high school and college. And he won’t be there to walk us down the aisle if we marry.”
Mrs. Cox draped an arm around Mom who leaned into her shoulder.
“My father is dead now. He is dead. And there’s nothing anyone can do about it.” Ophelia returned to her mother’s side.
Bianca remain fastened to Mom’s other side, sobbing.
Ophelia just stared at the casket.
Father Wings led everyone in singing a hymn.
Afterwards, the priest delivered a much more uplifting mini-sermon, all about hope and her father living on through her and Bianca. He made parenthood sound like immortality.
Then, there was hand-shaking and the accepting of condolences.
Finally, just when Ophelia feared she would puke, they were allowed to leave.
“What are you doing here?” Mrs. Brynner’s sharp tone captured Ophelia’s attention as she walked with her mother and sister to the Bronco. “We will not tolerate your interference. We have been cultivating this Sweet eight years.”
“Eight years?” The older man who’d accompanied Brandon stood confronted by Martin’s mother. His tone indicated he wasn’t the least bit intimidated. “In all that time, did you really think your activities would go unnoticed?”
Mrs. Brynner’s voice sharpened. “Surely, you would not risk conflict over a specialized resource of little use to you.”
“Specialized resource?” The Elder’s lips curled in a maniacal way. “My dear lady, you have no idea.” He shook his head, tsk, tsk, tsk. “We would no sooner allow you access than we would toss Saint Edward’s Crown to swine.”
“Your kind is obsolete!”
Ophelia wriggled her hand free of Bianca’s. She’d been warned by Mrs. Cox that emotions ran high at funerals and sometimes nasty arguments broke out. It was up to her to diffuse the situation before her mother could be upset by it.
Brandon noticed her coming and stepped between her and Mrs. Brynner, who remained fixed on the Elder.
How Ophelia knew to think of the man as ‘the Elder,’ she couldn’t imagine, but she did. “Mrs. Brynner.” She walked as quickly as she could without slipping on the ice.
The Elder moved with Brandon as well, blocking Mrs. Brynner’s access to her.
Clearly, the adults knew each other and there was no love lost between them.
Mrs. Brynner faced her.
“It’s all right. Brandon’s my friend. I invited him.” Ophelia grasped his cold hand and couldn’t remember if she really had. “And this is his father.”
“Uncle, actually.” Brandon enveloped her hand entirely in his with great care.
She patted his arm sympathetically and knew it was a convenient lie. “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot your father passed away too.”
Mrs. Brynner leveled a cold glare on Brandon and his supposed uncle. She touched a hot finger to Ophelia’s other hand. “Of course. Please accept my sincerest condolences.” Her face was a mask. “You’re so Sweet.”
“Thank you.” Ophelia drew breath and pushed it out in a wintry cloud as Martin’s mother hurried to catch up to her husband.
Police Chief Gary Brynner cast a steely glance at the Elder and turned back to their black Hummer. Like his son, his dark blond hair curled, but he kept his neatly trimmed above the collar. Though he must’ve been at least forty, his hair was thick, not receding, and without one strand of silver.
“Sorry about that,” Ophelia said to Brandon’s uncle. “This is a small community. Everyone is very upset about this.”
“You are most kind, Princess.” The Elder nodded a bow, something one might expect of a gentleman in an old movie.
“My name is Ophelia, actually.” Her thoughts snagged on use of the word ‘princess.’ “Brandon...” Her hand grew cold from his nestled in. “Oh, you still don’t have gloves.”
She doesn’t realize. The Elder’s voice sounded so vivid, but his lips did not move. “Please, forgive me.” He nodded another bow. “We really must be going.”
“Thank you for coming.” Ophelia watched him withdraw.
“Please accept our condolences.” Brandon followed him, glancing back once.
“Thank you.” Ophelia turned and walked back to her mother’s Bronco.
The Ice Princess would not be left unprotected. The Elder spoke again. We must assess who else must be watching and waiting.
‘The Ice Princess?’ Sounds like a cruise ship. Ophelia glanced over her shoulder at the Elder conversing with Brandon. That would explain why Mrs. Brynner couldn’t stand him. She walked on. The Brynners don’t want tourists coming back to Togo. She trudged through the snow.
Foreign investors were nothing new to Alaska.