One week before my trip to Iceland, I died in my sleep.
Not a real death, of course. Very few healthy, fifteen-year-old girls pass away in their beds. No, I died inside one of my own nightmares. In the dream I fell from a great height—a cliff or a tower—and every bone in my body shattered when I landed on a pile of pointed stones. I awoke immediately, lying in a chilling pool of my own sweat. I didn’t sleep again for hours.
The next night I drowned in a wild ocean, the undertow pulling me down until water filled my lungs. Or was it the undertow? Did something—a giant sea serpent perhaps—have a grip on me? The last thing I saw before waking was the surface getting farther and farther away.
On the third night the worst nightmare—the very worst—invaded my mind. I was running barefoot through a deserted town in a strange country, the Northern Lights drifting through the sky. Soon the town disappeared and I sprinted across a rocky plateau, gasping for breath, my long red hair flowing in the air. Loping behind me was a gigantic wolf, its jaws snapping together and tearing off pieces of my flesh. There was no blood. No pain. But bit by bit he swallowed chunks of my body until nothing of Angela Laxness remained.
I awakened, sweating and cold. I had somehow knocked over my night table, breaking my lamp. The noise was enough to bring my mother to my bedside. I couldn’t explain to her what had frightened me. In fact I could barely speak; I was too busy trying to catch my breath. She held me like she used to when I was a kid, whispering, “It’s going to be alright, Angie. It’s just a nightmare. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
I dreamed of the giant wolf the next three nights in a row. My parents believed these nightmares were happening because I was worried about my upcoming trip to Iceland. Though I’ve traveled to Canada and to a few of the states near our acreage in North Dakota, I’ve never been across the ocean. “It’s just your subconscious working through the new experience,” my father said. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’ll be safe. You’ll be with your grandfather and your cousins. You’ll get to see the farm our family came from.”
I nodded and said, “Yes, you’re right, I’ll be safe.”
My parents weren’t going along because this trip was Grandpa’s Christmas gift to the grandchildren and he wanted to show us the sights on his own. I’m sure Mom and Dad had considered calling the whole thing off in the last few days. I didn’t know if I’d be that upset about missing it.
You see, I’d had nightmares like this a few weeks after my younger brother, Andrew, died in a car accident. He was traveling with our neighbors to a hockey game and they were rear-ended by a large truck. It was a miracle anyone survived. Our neighbors did. My brother didn’t.
It all happened five years ago, when I was ten. I had a recurring nightmare where the sides of a car were closing in on me until I couldn’t breathe. Nothing anyone said or did could make the nightmares go away. Then one night Andrew appeared in my room, looking the same as he had in life, medium-length blonde hair, a warm smile. Except he was . . . ethereal. I think that’s the right word. He touched my shoulder and whispered, “Just let it go, Angie. There was nothing you could do. Let it all go.” Then he was gone. I haven’t had a nightmare since.
Until the wolf came loping into my dreams.
My parents told my grandfather all about this phantom wolf. Grandpa Thursten is my mother’s father and he’s Icelandic to the core. He lives in Canada just outside Gimli, Manitoba, the site of the largest Icelandic settlement in North America. He knows every story about ghosts, dreams, Norse gods, and wolves.
The night before we were supposed to leave on our trip, Grandpa phoned and quietly grilled me with questions: Do you remember the very start of the dream? Describe the wolf. Was it gray? Why were you barefoot? Were there stars or a moon in the sky? I answered everything with as much detail as I could. Then he was quiet.
“What are they about, Afi?” I said into the receiver. Afi is Icelandic for grandfather. We grandchildren rarely use it—only when we want to let him know that we’re serious.
“You’ll be alright,” he said, “I promise. You will be alright.”