I didn’t move. Neither did Michael. There was no point in fighting. We had no spear. No strength. I straightened my spine and faced her. At least she’d see we came from a strong line of Icelanders.
Gunnvor was changing before our eyes. Five long claws grew out of her right hand. She raised it up slowly to strike us. Then she stopped, sniffed deeply, and sniffed again. She dropped her hand, pushed us apart, and strode by. “One of our kind,” she hissed, “one of our kind is behind this.” She ran from corner to corner, howling and growling, knocking against timbers so the whole building shook.
“Get out! Get out!” she yelled. “Stupid children. You bring bad luck. Little evil creatures. Get off our land. I’ll find your master and kill him.”
She picked up Onni, backed out of the doorway, and tramped through the thick snow towards her home. I let out a gasp. My body had been wound tight as a knot. The adrenaline in my system grew thinner. My head began to ache and my ankle tingled with pain.
“What was she talking about?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but I don’t want to stick around and quiz her.” Michael rushed over to Mordur. I paused to pull the spearhead out of the floor. There was only a handful of the shaft attached to the point. It took a bit of a tug to get it out. I stuffed it in one of my padded pockets.
We tried to revive Mordur, whispering his name and gently slapping his face. I felt his forehead and it was burning with fever. We lifted him under his shoulders and dragged him out of the barn and into the snow. Step by step, we plodded along. My ankle was starting to throb and I found it hard to put weight on it. I glanced towards Gunnvor’s house and thought I could see someone in the window.
“Hurry,” I whispered. We pulled Mordur down to the edge of the plateau. The air was chilly and clear.
“The lights look miles away,” Michael said, pointing at some glowing dots far below us.
I was so tired. Michael climbed to the bottom of a short rock wall. Between the two of us, we were barely able to lower Mordur down. Michael slipped and Mordur was jarred out of our grip, landing with his face partially buried by snow. We hurried over, pulled him out. I brushed snow off his cheeks.
“Sleeping Beauty didn’t feel a thing,” Michael said. “You need a rest yet?”
I answered by grabbing Mordur’s shoulder and pulling. Michael joined me and we continued on. My ankle was getting worse, and Mordur was growing heavier, as if with every step his bones and flesh were turning to stone. For a time we were able to drag him easily thanks to the slope of the plateau.
At the bottom of the path that had taken us to Gunnvor’s was another cliff wall, a drop of some six feet, too far to lower Mordur. We pulled Mordur along it for what seemed hours, but couldn’t find an easy way down. Finally, we gave up and collapsed with Mordur lying between us, looking like he was having a lovely sleep. For an absurd moment I thought it was funny.
“I can’t go any farther,” I admitted, “not without a good rest.”
“Me either. We must be off her land by now—she won’t chase us here will she?”
“I don’t know, but we’ll never be able to get Mordur home on our own. My ankle’s sprained. We need help.”
“Well, we can just wait, someone’s got to be looking for us by now. They’ll see our tracks.”
“What if they don’t? We can’t leave Mordur here.” I looked around. There was an overhang of rock that would protect us. “Help me move him over there; it should be warmer. You’ll have to go home and bring some help. Maybe the police have arrived. Uncle Thordy probably has a sled or a toboggan we could use.”
“I can’t just leave you here.”
“It makes the most sense. You’re the one who’s still got two good legs. Just help me move him.”
It seemed to take forever. We finally pushed Mordur into the corner. “Now go,” I said. “You can get help. Go!”
Michael gave me a quick hug, guarding his sore arm. “I’ll come back soon, I promise.”
I watched him disappear into the distance.
I sat cradling Mordur’s head on my lap. Carrying Mordur down the cliff had taken everything I had. Now that we’d stopped moving, I could tell how much I had sweated. Perspiration had gathered on my back, soaked my clothes, and was turning into ice. I began to shiver. I hugged myself to warm up, but it wasn’t enough. I kept moving my fingers in their gloves and my toes in their boots. As long as I could wiggle them, I figured they weren’t frostbitten.
I worked at keeping my eyes open. I’d heard stories about a group of cross-country skiers back home who’d gotten lost. They finally sighted the ski lodge, but sat down to rest and drifted off to sleep, convinced they would wake up soon and ski the rest of the way. Instead, covered by a blanket of snow, they froze to death.
The moon was high in the sky. Stars flickered and blinked. I felt small, staring up at lights that had been moving in their own secret ways and patterns for millions of years.
Then—for a moment I thought I was hallucinating—I heard a male voice say, “Michael must be long gone now.”