“What?” Uncle Thordy turned towards the kitchen, following my gaze. “Where?”
“In the window,” I answered, my voice cracking. “Just for a second. Someone looked in.”
Uncle Thordy got up, went into the kitchen. Michael and Mordur followed. They stood at the window peering through the glass.
“Th-there,” Sarah whispered. She was still seated next to Grandpa, pointing at the window in the living room. “Someone’s there.”
I turned. Glaring through the pane was an old, female face, eyeballs the size of boiled eggs, glaring from me to Sarah to Grandpa. The reflection of the Christmas tree lights made it seem like the woman was looking in at us from another world.
The old woman’s scratchy voice carried through the windowpane. She was shouting in Icelandic.
“It’s Gunnvor,” Uncle Thordy whispered, amazement in his voice. “I haven’t seen her for years.”
The name sounded familiar. Then I remembered Grandpa had talked about the old woman who lived on the hill. Only hours ago we’d seen her stone house at a distance. So this was Gunnvor.
“She says she’s lost her child,” Grandpa said. “She says we stole him.”
Uncle Thordy strode farther into the living room. “Gunnvor,” he said loudly, as if he was speaking to someone who was hard of hearing. He shouted something in Icelandic and pointed to the front door.
Gunnvor grunted a reply.
Uncle Thordy raised his voice even louder, repeated the words.
She disappeared from the window.
We followed Uncle Thordy to the front door. He opened it and called Gunnvor’s name a few times, then muttered under his breath like he was cursing. “Mordur, get the flashlights from the kitchen. I’ll need help to find her.”
Mordur went towards the kitchen, grimacing like he was trying to hold in the pain. Maybe his ribs were broken.
Sarah was already pulling on her coat and heading for the door. “I’ll help.”
“I’ll hold down the fort,” Grandpa said from his seat.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go outside. The woman didn’t look all that friendly. And who knew what else could be out there? Michael went out the door too, so I pulled on my jacket and, as I did, noticed a tear in the shoulder. Perhaps I’d caught it on something in the croft. It felt like a bad omen.
We filed out into the front yard. The snow had stopped and there wasn’t a breath of wind. The Northern Lights were back, dancing like angels through the sky. We circled the house, but the only sign of Gunnvor was a sled she had left next to the fence.
“There,” Mordur said, pointing his flashlight towards the barn.
I could just make out Gunnvor past Uncle Thordy’s shoulder. She was wrapped in a large fur coat and crouched in the beam of the flashlight. She wore a cloth cap, but her long gray hair was loose and falling past her shoulders. She glared at us, then pushed open a gate and trudged towards the barn, moving pretty fast for someone who looked older than Iceland itself. Had she walked all the way here from her home?
Sarah must have come to the same conclusion. “I think that’s one tough ol’ woman,” she whispered.
“Gunnvor!” Uncle Thordy yelled. “Wait!”
She grunted something over her shoulder.
“She’s going into the barn,” Uncle Thordy said, anger in his voice. “She’s going to frighten all the sheep. The crazy old hag. Why won’t she stay where she belongs?”
He stormed off to the barn, flicked on the lights. We followed him through the front door. The sheep were gathered in one corner, huddled against each other, looking at us, their legs shaking.
Michael closed the door and we walked to the far end of the barn, passing through a gate. There was a large pile of straw in the middle of a stall. Gunnvor was on her knees, throwing handfuls of it behind her. A soft whimpering sound came out of the pile.
We stood back as first a leg appeared, then another, then a chest and arms, and finally the face of a boy, maybe ten years old. His features were wild with terror, and both his eyes were bruised and swelling. He was foaming at the mouth and holding up his hands to block the light. Strips of clothing covered him and there were scratches on his chest, arms, and cheeks. Dried blood stained his body.
“He’s been mauled,” I said. “He looks awful.”
“Scratches,” Gunnvor barked over her shoulder in a thick, accented English. She turned back, whispered softly in an almost singsong voice completely unlike her previous gruntings. “Onni. Onni. Onni.”
How could such an old woman be his mother?
“What is wrong?” Mordur asked. “What happened?”
Gunnvor turned her head. “He wanders. He is feebleminded.” She stared daggers at Mordur. “I know you. Einar’s brat. Snoopy as your father. Look where it got him.”
Mordur didn’t flinch. “How did your son get those scratches?”
“Not your business, whelp,” she hissed. She cast her eyes to Michael, Sarah, and me. “And stop staring at me. You smell of the New World. Thorgeir Tree-Foot’s little brood comes back to stink up the farm.” She turned to her son.
A light of recognition came into Onni’s eyes. He suddenly reached out and with a sharp cry and sigh flung his arms around Gunnvor’s neck. She lifted him from the straw. I saw a mean-looking gash below his right eye.
A cloth bag fell from his hands. It was torn open, and something that looked like liver slipped out onto the floor. Just like the bags I’d seen earlier in the day.
Gunnvor kicked at the contents. “Who baited him?” Her eyes were blazing with rage now. I edged back, afraid of what I saw in her. “Which one of you?”
No one spoke. I looked at the ground to avoid her glare. “One of you did,” she said. “I would crush your bones if I knew which one.” I didn’t doubt her. There was steel in her words. Her skin was wrinkled and her gray hair wild about her shoulders, but her thick body looked strong. “If this is one of your tricks, Thordy, you will pay.” She pointed a pudgy finger at him, still clutching Onni in her arms. Uncle Thordy straightened his back and narrowed his eyes like he was getting ready for a fight. “You try to cover up your scent with perfumes, but you cannot hide from me.” She spat at him, then strode past us, through the gate and out of the barn.
“We can help you,” Uncle Thordy said, running after her. We followed.
“No help, not from you,” Gunnvor grunted. “Just home. Away from your kind.” She carried Onni to the sleigh and wrapped him in blankets. He had calmed down. His eyes stared listlessly at the sky.
“You can’t drag him all the way home,” Uncle Thordy said, taking a step towards her, then stopping himself, as if he feared she would lash out at him. “Not through all this snow. Please, come inside, we can look after his wounds.”
“This isn’t enough snow to bother a real valley dweller.” She pulled on a rope, tying her son to the sleigh.
“But . . .” Uncle Thordy began.
“No,” Gunnvor said, sharply. She began dragging the sleigh, each stride long and solid. She headed into the east, the Northern Lights swirling above her.