The fire crackled loudly, and I almost jumped out of my seat. I was definitely getting too wound up. No more coffee for me.
“You know, I’d like to see what your father wrote on the calfskins,” Grandpa said suddenly. Mordur pulled them out of the wooden box and handed them to Grandpa, who unrolled one and held it up to his face. He squinted, lifted his glasses out of his pocket, and fumbled to put them on. “Je suis . . . uh, I am . . . uh . . . It keeps mentioning this name, Skoll, over and over again. And it mentions Kristjanna, too.”
“Uncle Thordy’s wife?” Michael said. “Why would it mention her?”
Grandpa shrugged. He rubbed at his temple like he was trying to ward off a headache.
“It has the words loup-garou,” I said. “We thought it might be a story.”
“A weird one, if it is.” Grandpa had opened the third scroll. “And there’s a drawing of the spearhead. It says it’s Jón Arason’s spear. I wonder if that’s Bishop Arason.”
“Who?” Sarah asked.
Grandpa wiped some sweat from his forehead. “Bishop Jón Arason was from the sixteenth century. He was sometimes called the last real Icelander because he stuck to his beliefs. In fact he was beheaded by his enemies for those beliefs. He was an historical figure, but, of course, this is Iceland—there were folktales about him, too.”
“And they had something to do with the spear?” Mordur asked.
“Yes. And an úlfr-madr. One of the stories is about a woman whose husband went missing and was later found torn to shreds. They called in the bishop and he told the local blacksmith to forge a spearhead much like the one Einar drew on the calfskin. The bishop dipped the spearhead in holy water and marched into the hills. Hours later, a great howling and screaming was heard. In the morning, Bishop Arason returned with a broken spear. The woman asked him if he had killed the creature and he said, ‘Speak of the Devil and you give him life.’ In other words, the deed was done, don’t give the Devil any more of your time.”
“Why would Mordur’s dad make the spearhead?” I asked.
“Either it was just a hobby or he believed an úlfr-madr was loose. And not just any shape-shifter, but a ‘pact-breaker’.”
“What do you mean?” Michael lifted up the last piece of cheese and bit into it.
Grandpa squeezed his temples. He was beginning to look even more pale. “Well, legend says that around the time Bishop Arason was alive, all of Loki’s children made a secret pact with the Icelandic leaders. They promised not to harm another human as long as the shifters were left alone. They took human shapes and lived among us. My father used to tell us tales about the shape-shifters who broke the pact; every hundred years or so, one would give in to the temptation of feeding on human flesh. Like the shifter who attacked him.”
Mordur was leaning in, an eager look on his face. “Does the calfskin say more?”
Grandpa stared a bit longer, his eyes scanning the lines, his brow furrowed. “I’m having trouble focusing. Would it . . . would it be okay if I borrowed these tonight? I—I’d like to take a look at them under better light. Maybe I can tell you something in the morning.”
“Oh . . . yes,” Mordur said, a little disappointed. “I will wait.”
“I had better go to bed, then,” Grandpa said and rubbed his eyes. “Either that or prop my peepers open with toothpicks.”
“Uh . . .” Sarah began. “Are we going to be safe here?”
“Of course,” Grandpa said. “If that boy really is a shape-shifter, he looked to be in no shape to return tonight.” He paused. A flicker of light came to his eyes. “No shape, to be a shape-shifter. Ha! That’s a good one.” He wheezed out a laugh as he tried to get up. Sometimes Grandpa was such a goof. I glanced over at Mordur and rolled my eyes in feigned embarrassment. He smiled and nodded. My heart skipped a beat.
Michael gave Grandpa a hand up. “Who knows,” Grandpa continued, “in the morning we may wake up and have a good chuckle at all our theories hatched in the middle of the night. Góda nótt.”
“Good night,” we replied.
“See ya in the morning,” Michael said to us as he guided Grandpa to his room.
Sarah looked across at me, then at Mordur. She yawned suddenly—a yawn that looked completely fake—and got up. “Well, I think I’ll hit the sack too. Nighty-night.” A second later, Mordur and I were alone.
The fire was dying, making the lights on the Christmas tree glow all the brighter. Mordur knelt down, grabbed a poker, and pushed the logs around so the flames grew higher. “This will burn down in a minute. I will stay until then.”
“Good,” I said, a little too quickly.
Mordur gave me a look. “Good? Why?”
“Uh . . . well . . .” I couldn’t get my words in any logical order. “I just don’t feel sleepy yet.”
Mordur hadn’t stopped looking at me. “Red hair is good luck.”
“What?” I nervously ran my hand through my hair.
“It was a saying my father said. He maybe made it up. He believed every time he met a woman with red hair it was a good-luck day.”
“Did he have a thing for redheads?”
Mordur nodded. “Yes. He and I had a lot in common.”
It took a while for this to sink in. “So am I good luck to you?”
“We will see,” he said. “I have not met too much girls from outside Iceland who know the old myths as well as you.”
“How many girls do you know from other countries?”
“Just you.” Mordur poked at the logs. Sparks flew up, but the flames were dying. “I wish this all was not happening right now,” he said, his voice turning serious. “I wish I knew what my father wrote on those calfskins.” He stared grimly at the embers.
“I’m sure Grandpa will figure out your dad’s letter,” I said softly. “And if he can’t, there must be someone in town who can read French.”
“I hope so.” Mordur didn’t sound hopeful. “This day has made me wonder about how my father died. He drowned while fishing. Just another Icelander stolen by the ocean, out trying to earn a couple kroners while work on the farm was slow. But there was something—how do you say?—spooky?—about it. Heim, another fisherman, said he saw a figure rise out of the water and pull my father down into the waves.”
“Really? What do you think it was?”
“He said it was like a man, but covered with hair. No one else spotted the thing. They just saw my father standing at the edge of the boat in a stormy sea. Then gone. I thought Heim was making up the story. Heim likes his bottle, he is a great big drunk kind of guy. But now I do not know. Maybe the story was true.”
We watched the flames die down until they were just red embers. Mordur poked at the logs again. One broke in half, burned brightly for a moment, then faded. “You know that female shape-shifter? My father spoke me about her just before he went to work on the fishing boat. He said he wanted me to think about the story. When he got back I was to tell him whether I thought it was true.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I did not know. I thought he was just having fun, he liked to make the jokes. Now I wonder if it was a test. If I said I believed the shape-shifter was real, he might have spoken me what he was writing about.”
Even though I wanted to be wide awake for this time with Mordur, my eyelids wouldn’t cooperate. I kept talking, hoping it would keep my energy up. “You know, it’s weird, but Grandpa told us that our great-grandfather killed a shape-shifter. Now we find out that Uncle Thordy’s dad killed one, too. It’s like this valley is cursed.”
“It is,” Mordur said softly. He got up onto his haunches, felt his side.
“How are your ribs?” I asked.
“Better. Just bruises. Nothing worth complaint.” The last ember grew dark. “I should go home.” Mordur checked that the chain-link curtain on the fireplace was closed tightly.
I went with him to the porch, flicked on the outside light. His house was only about fifty yards away, visible through a small window. It was calm out now, though it hadn’t stopped snowing.
“Will you be alright there? Your place looks so small.”
He smirked. “Are you worried for me, Angie?”
“Well . . . yes, of course.”
He scratched at his temple, like he was thinking real hard. “Does that mean you like me?”
“I . . . uh. Well . . .” My tongue was tied in triple knots. “I—I don’t really know you. But I like you.”
He grinned. “I know. And I hope all this bad time goes away, soon. Maybe even tomorrow. You are not here for long. It would be good to talk more. You could speak to me about what it is like to live in America.”
“That would be nice.” My heart had sped up and butterflies were fluttering inside my stomach. “Really nice.”
“Well, I go. And do not be worried about me.” He pulled the spearhead his father had made from his pocket. “This will protect me,” he joked. “Good night, Angie.”
He walked out into the fresh, thick snow. I watched until he disappeared into his house and the light came on.