A slight breeze was stirring. Clouds had filled in the edges of the sky. Large flakes of snow started falling, getting thicker by the moment. The worst part of the storm may have passed, but Old Man Winter wasn’t done dumping snow on us.
We went back inside the house. Grandpa was still in his seat, coughing so hard his face had turned red. Sarah quickly brought him water and he thanked her before tipping back the glass. I sat in the same chair, with Mordur, happily, back on the armrest again.
Uncle Thordy looked down at Grandpa and shook his head. “You should be in bed, Uncle Thursten. You’re in no condition to meet any of the relatives. They said they’d come as soon as the roads were cleared. Of course, I’d rather take you to the doctor.”
“No doctors. Just bring me coffee,” Grandpa whispered hoarsely, “thick and black as a witch’s brew. Only two places to get the best coffee in the world: Gimli and right here at Thordy’s. Coffee the way it was meant to be. It’d bring a statue to life.”
“How can I argue with someone so wise?” Uncle Thordy went to the kitchen and returned a moment later with the coffee. Grandpa could barely hold it, but he managed to sip without spilling a drop. He glared over the steaming cup. “Stop gawking at me . . . you’d think you’d never seen a man drink coffee before.”
We sat back. Maybe he was starting to feel a bit better.
“So what happened?” Grandpa asked.
Uncle Thordy told him, and the rest of us added our two cents.
Grandpa nodded. “So she’s still as testy as ever.”
“She claimed someone baited Onni,” I said. “With a bag of . . . of animal innards. And I saw a similar bag this morning outside my window. And at the old croft house.”
“It was a butcher bag,” Mordur explained. “I do not know where he found it.”
“We better get a head count on our sheep tomorrow, Mordur,” Uncle Thordy said. “I have an idea where some of those organs may have come from.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“They looked fresh,” Thordy explained. “They might have been gathered tonight.”
I didn’t even want to think about what that meant. Sarah was kind enough to change the topic. “Did you see much of Gunnvor when you were a kid?” she asked Grandpa.
“A few times. And she looked exactly the same as she does now, the poor woman. It’s like she doesn’t age—or she was born old.” He lowered the cup of coffee, resting it on his knee. “She once came down and gave my father what-for because his goats were bleating too loud.”
“Isn’t she a little too old for children?” I asked.
“I’m not sure whose son he is,” Uncle Thordy said. “Or even where he came from. Maybe she adopted him. Mr. Gunnvor died years ago—before I was born. At least no one’s seen him since around that time.”
“So how old is she, then?” I asked.
Grandpa exchanged looks with Uncle Thordy, who shrugged. “I’d guess she’s in her nineties,” Grandpa finally answered, but he sounded uncertain.
“And she gets around like that?” Michael said in disbelief. “She cut through two feet of snow like it was nothing.”
“I don’t know how she does it,” Grandpa said. “I should have asked her though. I need a little of her energy now.”
I could have used some too, if only to keep track of my thoughts. One suddenly occurred to me: What did my hair look like? I bit my tongue to keep from laughing at myself.
Uncle Thordy cleared his throat as if he were about to speak. We all looked at him, but he just stared back, then shook his head. His face appeared even more tired and depressed, like someone had let all the air out of him. He stood, went into the kitchen, and returned with the same cheeses we had seen at breakfast and some dried, smoked cod.
I devoured everything I could get my hands on. Michael and Sarah dug in too. Even Mordur took a handful.
“I think I’m starting to like this food,” I whispered to Sarah.
“It does grow on you. Maybe we’re getting tougher.”
“So what was wrong with that boy?” Michael asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Grandpa said. “I’d bet he suffers from some sort of intellectual disability.”
“He was covered with blood, though.” I helped myself to a chunk of cheese. “What was that from?”
“Maybe he was attacked by the same thing that attacked you,” Grandpa suggested.
“No. He would be . . .” Mordur crossed his arms, shivered. “A child would be torn in two.”
“There has to be a connection,” Grandpa said. “Odd that he would show up here on the same night. And naked. How did he make it through all that snow?”
Uncle Thordy cleared his throat again. His face had become stony. “Actually, it would be easy. He . . . he was in a different form when he walked through the blizzard. His wolf form.” Uncle Thordy’s voice was solemn, each word said without emotion.
“He what?” Grandpa Thursten asked.
“He’s an úlfr-madr. A shape-shifter who can become a wolf. Just like the one who killed Kristjanna. That’s why he was naked. That’s why he’s covered with blood. He’s the one who attacked you kids at the croft house.”
I leaned back into my chair. I didn’t like the certainty in Uncle Thordy’s voice. I glanced at Grandpa, expecting him to refute this wild claim, but he was wearing his best poker face. He watched Uncle Thordy with curious eyes.
“You think I’m wrong, don’t you?” Uncle Thordy accused, jabbing a figure towards Grandpa. “You think it’s all in my messed-up head. But you weren’t there in that cave. You didn’t hold your dead wife in your arms. One of Loki’s offspring poked a hole behind her ear and killed her, like it was a game. Maybe it was even little Onni.” Uncle Thordy had clenched his hand into a fist and was squeezing so tight it shook. “And now he’s got Gunnvor acting as his mother. How do you think she’s lived so long? He’s shared some of his blood with her. Taken over her mind so she looks after him while he sleeps between kills.” Angry red splotches appeared on Uncle Thordy’s face. “They don’t age like we do. He’s probably fifty years old and he looks ten. Who knows where his real parents are.”
He lowered his fist, glanced back and forth between all of us. His eyes burned momentarily into mine, daring me to speak out against him. He blinked.
“We all know how much you miss Kristjanna,” Grandpa said softly.
Tears began to trickle down Uncle Thordy’s cheeks. He gritted his teeth, wiped at his eyes. “Excuse me,” he said, quietly. “Forgive me. Forgive me. I am not a good host today.” He lifted his bulky body from the chair and trudged down the hall to his room, the scent of his aftershave lingering for a minute. The door closed.
“Uncle Thordy is not feeling well,” Grandpa Thursten said, “and I don’t know if he’ll be better any time soon. It’s never easy to get over the death of a loved one.”
I remembered standing on the basement stairs at home, watching my father cry so hard that he shook. This was years after Andrew’s death. Dad clutched one of Andrew’s hockey sweaters in his large hands and cried and cried. I backed slowly up the stairs and left him to his sorrow. Then I went to my own room, closed the door, and bawled into my pillow. Grandpa was right. It wasn’t easy to get over the death of someone you loved.
“Grief has been bad to Thordy,” Mordur whispered. “My father said when the search party found him they could see big change—he already had ugly bags under his eyes and his hair had turned more gray. Even our dog barked when he came near. Tyr did not know him anymore.” Mordur hesitated for a moment, then added, “But I am believing Thordy is right.”