The worst place to put someone with a fear of heights is a window seat in a jet that’s about to climb 30,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean. Yet that’s the seat Grandpa Thursten gave me. “It’s better to face your fears,” he whispered, his lips curling into a knowing smile.
Easy for him to say. He fell asleep before we’d even left the tarmac at New York. He missed me digging my fingers into the armrests until I broke one of my nails. It would take a couple weeks to grow it back to the right length. I held my breath as the weight of the Boeing’s momentum crushed against my chest and we took to the air.
A hand gently touched my shoulder and I tensed up.
“Take a deep breath,” my cousin Sarah whispered from behind me. Grandpa’s seat was back and Sarah was able to squeeze her hand through the open space. I’d admitted to her earlier that I wasn’t looking forward to hurtling through the sky at hundreds of miles an hour. “Breathe in, then out. Everything will feel a lot better once you’ve got some air in your lungs.”
I heard Michael, Sarah’s twin brother, chuckle, and I felt a sudden anger. He was always being the smart aleck. I turned to tell him to shut up, but the jet engines kicked into overdrive, forcing me against the seat.
I eventually did take a breath. And another. And another. Until I thought I’d hyperventilate. I’d braided my hair because my mom said it would be easier to travel without it flapping all over the place—I was sure the braids had loosened and individual hairs were sticking up like porcupine quills. So much for looking sharp on my first trip to Iceland.
After several hours of flying I actually began to get comfortable, staring out the jet’s window into the early morning darkness, trying to spot land. We’d been served a meager breakfast of bagels and slightly warm scrambled eggs. I was surprised my stomach wasn’t upset. I had control of my breathing, my heartbeat had slowed, and I’d unclamped my hands. Maybe Grandpa was right; it was better to face your fears. At least I could look out at the wing and see that it was still attached.
“Have you had any more skull guests?” Grandfather asked.
Two seconds ago he was asleep in his seat, snoring softly. Now he was wide awake, his deep blue eyes staring into mine. He had a rather big, slightly crooked nose and he looked like each lesson he’d learned in his lifetime had given him a wrinkle—and there were lots of wrinkles. His thick white hair was styled like Einstein’s.
“Skull guests?”
“Dreams, I mean. They used to be called skull guests in the sagas, because they came and stayed—like bad guests. Did any more of them drop by?”
“No. Not since we talked on the phone. I don’t remember having any dreams at all last night.” And it was true. The big, bad wolf had left me alone, off loping through someone else’s nightmare, I’d supposed, looking for another Little Red-headed Riding Hood.
“Good. Perhaps they meant nothing, then.”
Perhaps? What did that mean?
“They did get me thinking, though,” Grandpa continued, “about Thorgeir Tree-Foot.”
“Who?” Michael asked. Grandpa’s seat was leaning far enough back that Michael and Sarah were able to peek at us, their blue eyes glittering, white-toothed grins splitting their thin faces. We were the same age, they were my best friends, and we had a lot in common, but I have to admit there was something a little odd about them. First, it kind of freaked me out how similar they were—dark hair, pale skin, with their heads absolutely crammed full of old Norse myths and legends. They weren’t identical twins, but every time I saw them they appeared more and more alike.
Despite that, I was happy to spend some quality time with them. They lived in Missouri and we hadn’t had much of a chance to talk in the last year or so.
Grandpa narrowed his bushy eyebrows. “So none of your parents has ever mentioned my dad, Thorgeir Tree-Foot?”
“Our great-grandfather was called Tree-Foot?” Michael asked, that typical smart-aleck tone in his voice. “So that’s why I’m always tripping over my own feet.”
“That’s from not being able to chew gum and walk at the same time,” Grandpa Thursten quipped. He waited for a comeback, received none, so he carried on. “Do you know how he got that name?”
This was starting to sound familiar to me. Mom had told me this story when I was younger, but I couldn’t remember any of the details. “No,” I admitted.
“Your great-granddad had dreams just like yours, Angie. Potent dreams. Every night for a fortnight he dreamed he was going to lose his leg. It would get caught in a trap. Or he’d be building a fence and his axe would slip and sever his leg below the knee. Or, and he always said this was the most terrifying dream, a great serpent came from beneath the water and bit it off, leaving him in the middle of the ocean, trying to swim home with only one leg. The outcome of the nightmares was always the same: he would awake covered with sweat and reach down to be sure his leg was still there.”
I shuddered. The passengers across the aisle—an old guy in a brown beret and his middle-aged wife—were glancing our way now, which inspired Grandpa to raise his voice even louder. He’d use the intercom if the stewardess would let him.
“One day my father had to take a trip from Bjarg to Hof, twenty miles or so across some of the most treacherous ravines in north-central Iceland. It’s not far from Thordy’s farm, where we’ll be staying.” Thordy was one of Grandpa’s nephews. I recalled Mom and Dad telling me some sad story about his wife dying, but I’d have to ask Grandpa about it later. He was too deep into this story already. “Make no mistake, the homeland is a place of beauty and death. One moment you’ll be admiring a breathtaking waterfall; the next you’ll be at the bottom of a cliff, watching the ravens descend to pick your bones. Your great-granddad was only nineteen at the time, unmarried, and searching for summer work. He’d heard that a sheep farmer was looking for help, so he hiked through the mountains, whispering the ancient rhymes his father had taught him, lines to ward away the specters and the mischievous little Huldu Folk. He had three shiny pebbles in his pocket to leave as an offering at any cairns he passed, because he believed every ghost in Iceland desires some kind of tribute.”
Grandpa was starting to really wind himself up now. He even glanced over at the couple across from us to be sure they were still listening. My heart started going a little faster in anticipation.
“But the journey was longer than my father thought it would be and it was getting close to nightfall. Soon he was alone on one of the passes, far from any crofts. All he heard was the tick tack of his walking stick on the path. A storm gathered overhead.
“Soft footsteps echoed off the rock walls. Then came a sound of sniffing and a low, unearthly moan that made the hairs on the back of my father’s neck stand up. He quickened his pace, knowing some evil thing was behind him. He muttered all the names of the undead in hopes of dispelling his pursuer. He wasn’t afraid of anyone who was alive, but he knew the ghosts of this pass and the Uppvakníngur—those who walk after death—were to be feared.”
I was holding my breath. I let it out between clenched teeth. Ever since I was a child, Grandpa had been telling us these stories about men who walk after death and monsters thirsting for blood. Every year I thought I’d outgrown them and every year I discovered I was wrong.
“A rock fell over behind him, the breathing became louder, and he began to run across the plateau, believing he was fleeing for his very life. The paths were hard to see in the darkness and he lost his way. His pursuer growled to one side of him, so Father went the opposite direction. A few minutes later he could hear someone scrambling over stones behind him. Father knew he was being herded like an animal to the slaughter. Finally the plateau narrowed and he was trapped, with a thin ledge as his only escape. He hugged close to the cliff, shuffling as quickly as he could along the path—his eyes set on freedom and safety ahead. Something was thrashing about on the plateau behind him, but he didn’t dare look back.
“When he was halfway across, there was a sudden rumble above. A small boulder hit him, then another, and finally a hail of rocks and debris knocked him off the path. He rolled and tumbled down, end over end, coming to a stop at the bottom of a ravine. A large boulder had crushed his right leg to the earth, pinning him below the knee.
“He looked around. Bleached skeletons of animals surrounded him, their bones broken in two as if a carnivore had been sucking on the marrow. Beside them were three human skulls, their brainpans cracked open.
“He heard a rustling sound followed by a heavy-throated roar. The noise came from the far end of the ravine. To his horror a black bear slouched towards him, slaver dripping from its huge jaws. He had never seen a bear before and he knew none had ever roamed Iceland. And yet here was one of the beasts. He tried to fend it off by throwing rocks but it descended without hesitation, clamping its teeth into his shoulder. Father beat at it with his hands, yelled with all his might But it snarled and shook him back and forth, playing with him as if he were nothing more than a doll.
“It wasn’t until the bear had dragged him partway out from under the rock that he was able to grab the nearest half of his walking stick. It was thick, and the broken end was as sharp as a stake. He used all of his strength to jab it into the side of his attacker, through the thick hide and between the ribs, aiming for the heart.
“The bear screamed, a noise that sounded almost human. For the rest of his life my father heard that cry echoing in his nightmares. The bear halted and glared down at him with raging eyes. It opened its massive jaws, took a step forward, then fell over to one side and lay still. It moaned, sucked in its last breath, then slowly turned into a man, a stick embedded in his chest.
“Your great-grandfather dragged himself out from under the rock and crawled to the end of the ravine and upwards. His right leg was useless. It took all of his will to climb higher, repeating an old saying over and over in his head to keep himself going: Cattle die, kinsmen die, I myself shall die, but there is one thing I know never dies: the reputation we leave behind at our death. He made it to a wider trail and was discovered a few hours later by a group of traders heading for a spring market in Reykir. When they brought him back home the doctor had to remove his leg. They replaced it with a wooden stump. And that was how your great-grandfather got the name Thorgeir Tree-Foot and how his nightmares about losing his leg came true.”
Grandpa settled back in his seat, a satisfied look on his face. Was this supposed to make me feel better about my own nightmares? I leaned back against my seat and tried to relax. The old man across the aisle was still gripping the armrest. I hoped Grandpa hadn’t given him a heart attack.
“What did that saying mean?” I asked. “It sounded kind of morbid.”
“My father had no desire to be known as the man who died alone in a chasm. He wanted people to remember him as someone who never gave up.”
“What did he think attacked him?” Sarah asked. I was surprised at the serious tone of her voice.
The jet hit some turbulence, rattled for a moment. Were we in trouble? Where was the life preserver? Under the seat? I tried to remember the stewardess’s emergency instructions.
Grandpa waited patiently until the shaking stopped and the plane was once again steady in the air.
“Your great-grandfather came from a different time than you or I. He believed the bear was really a shape-shifter, a son of Loki. My father had more superstitions than priests have prayers.”
“What’s a son of Loki?” Michael asked. “I haven’t heard about them.”
“Well, they were these—uh—mythical creatures who could make themselves look like you or me, or shift into an animal like a bear or a—” The pilot announced that we were about to land. “It’s a long story, it has to do with Loki and a giant’s curse and how Iceland was created. I’ll have to tell you later.”
The engine slowed and the Icelandair Boeing 767 began to descend. My stomach lurched. I hoped the pilot was still in control. I looked out at a hazy, silvery-misted darkness.
Below us, glittering white and black like an uncut diamond, was Iceland. The country of my ancestors.