The pond, as Grandpa had called it, was really a small lake of water across the street, guarded by a few trees. A pint-sized tower sat on one bank. Buildings were reflected in the waves in the dim light. I wondered how this land would have looked when our ancestors first arrived on their Viking boats. Somehow they had built a city from nothing, making a place of safety and warmth.
A four-passenger plane buzzed above the water and over us, so near we ducked. “The airport’s right there,” Michael said, pointing at a landing strip behind the bus depot. “Man, they sure pack everything close together.”
A minute later Grandpa came out with a handful of tickets and led us to a red bus with white lines across its side. The name Nordurleid was on the front. It was about half the size of a normal bus. I set my backpack on top of the other luggage and lined up behind Michael and Sarah.
The driver was a long-armed man with a beard as thick as unraveled wool. He greeted us with two gruff words: “Gódan dag.” We all said hello back to him. He took our tickets, motioned to the bus, and began throwing our luggage in the storage compartment.
Inside, there were only about five other riders, though at least fifty seats. “Better settle in,” Grandpa said, “it’s a long way to Hvammstangi.” He paused, gave us a sly smile. “Hey, that could be a song.” He began to sing to the tune of “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.” “It’s a long, long way to Hvammstangi, but my heart’s right there.” Grandpa bowed, then sat next to a window.
We started on our way. The wind whistled through the spaces between the sliding windows; cold drafts of air ran across my bare neck like ghostly fingers. I pulled on the window, but it was shut as far as it could go. I huddled in my jacket, hugging myself.
About ten minutes later it dawned on me how quiet we all were—which wasn’t that strange for Sarah, but Michael’s mouth usually ran at 200 rpm. I glanced over at him. He was staring ahead, his eyes glazed over. “You on another planet, Michael?” I asked.
“No, I’m—”
“Dreaming of Fiona,” Sarah interjected.
“Shut your—” Michael began.
“What?” I cut him off. “You’re still writing to her? This must be serious. Is she your true love? Your one and only? Your reason for—”
“Please, stop this soap opera!” Grandpa shook his head. “This trip will be long enough without hearing about the heart-wrenching agony of teen romance. We’re about ten hours away from Hvammstangi.”
“What!” Michael exclaimed.
“I’m kidding. Couple more hours should do it.” Grandpa pointed out the window. “The coast is that way. In fact we’re not far from an outcropping that’s sometimes called Skrymir’s nose.”
“Is Angie’s side of the family descended from Skrymir?” Michael asked. “Is that why her nose is so big?”
“My nose isn’t big!” I shouted. And it wasn’t. It was petite. Maybe even too small, the Laxness nose I’d inherited from my father. “It’s nowhere near the size of the Asmundson nose.”
“Please, you two, stop squabbling!” Grandpa shook his head, feigning shame. “Just use those big ears you all inherited from me for listening. I’ll tell you who the sons of Loki are. It has to do with how Iceland was created, not by these so-called continental drifts, but by one of the gods.” He cleared his throat, a universal sign that he was about to start one of his stories. “You see, one day Loki, the trickster god, dared Thor to battle with the largest of the giants, Skrymir. He was a hundred times taller than Thor; his very shoulders held up the sky. Thor tracked him down, which wasn’t hard considering the size of his tracks. He challenged Skrymir to a fight, then began swinging his mighty hammer, Mjollnir, again and again at the giant. The battle raged across all nine worlds, over mountains and lakes and valleys. Villages were crushed by the giant’s feet, fissures torn in the ground by Thor’s hammer. Through it all Skrymir laughed, saying, ‘Shoo shoo pesky red-haired fly.’
“Loki hatched a plan to help Thor defeat the giant. The trickster god slyly asked Skrymir to prove his strength by catching a hundred whales. Skrymir waded into the ocean. Thor jumped aboard a boat and paddled after him. While Skrymir was under the water searching for whales, only his head was exposed above the waves. Thor leapt atop him, hammering at his skull. Wherever he struck, rocks and flame spewed forth. Then ice and snow. Rocks and flame, ice and snow. Finally Thor gave the giant such a powerful blow in the center of his skull that Skrymir’s entire body turned to stone.
“Skrymir’s final words before his lips froze in place forever were a curse on Loki, telling him that his children would be forced to live on this new island as outcasts. Many ages later Loki betrayed the gods and brought about the death of Baldur, the most loved and beautiful of all the gods. The gods hunted Loki and his shape-shifting children down and turned Vali, Loki’s favorite son, into a wolf. He killed his brother Narvi, whose entrails were used to bind Loki in a cave. Vali then fled, bounding away across the water to the land where the sun shines at midnight. To Iceland.”
Wow. Someone getting his guts torn out. Grandpa was reaching a new height in storytelling gore. I hated to think what he’d come up with next.
Grandpa opened his mouth to say something, then closed it and rubbed his chin. “And that was that,” he finished, quietly. “At least that’s all I can remember.”
The lights went out. I turned, looked through the window. We were in a tunnel.
“We’re just going under the fjord,” Grandpa explained. “No need to get all antsy.”
We eventually came out the other side, but the sky appeared much darker. Almost black.
“So is that how the myth ends?” Sarah asked. “With Vali coming to Iceland.”
“Oh no,” Grandpa said slowly, “. . . well . . . myths and folktales never really end. You should know that by now. They become part of other stories. The Irish monks were the first to land on Iceland. A few of their journals survived and they mention that they sometimes saw feral people in the shadows of the mountains. They called them lupinus and believed they were the spawn of the Devil and that they could shift their shape into wolves or bears or whatever creature they wanted, as long as it was about the same size as they were—though most seemed to like being wolves for reasons I can’t imagine. The creatures would even take the form of a familiar monk, just to lure other monks to their lair. The monks wore bells on their belts, which they rang to keep the evil ones away.”
“The Vikings who came and chased off the monks spoke of the úlfr-madr, the wolf men. Icelanders in the 1500s wrote about these shape-shifters building their own farms and taking human shapes to blend in.”
“Where did all these stories come from?” I asked. “What are they based on?”
“Human imagination. But your great-grandfather believed they were the sons of Loki. He saw one once. In fact that’s how he got his name, Thorgeir Tree-Foot. You see, it all started when he was taking a trip from Bjarg—”
“Repeat! Repeat! You told us this story on the plane,” Michael said, then seeing the confused look on Grandpa’s face, he softened his tone. “This morning, remember?”
Grandpa glanced back and forth between us. “I did, didn’t I? Right. It seems so long ago.” He drew in a breath. “Sorry about that. I usually only tell my stories once a day.” He crossed his arms and sat back. “I’ll try to think up some new ones,” he promised. Then, as if wanting to retreat from us, he closed his eyes.
Sarah gave me a worried look as if to say: What’s up with Grandpa? I shrugged my shoulders.
We traveled for some time in silence, the bus somehow managing to stay on the thin, snow-covered highway. Grandpa looked like he was asleep now. I studied his face, the wrinkles, and the white hair. He did appear older than last year. A lot older.
I shook my head. I didn’t want to think about him aging. He was in his late seventies, wasn’t he? That’s still young for an Icelander. But when he’d had that little dizzy spell in the airport, I’d thought, briefly, that something was seriously wrong.
I glanced at my watch. It was one thirty in the afternoon, Icelandic time, and the sky was already dark. It had been a lifetime since I’d rolled out of a New York hotel bed early in the morning to catch the flight. I needed a serious rest. I closed my eyes and slept fitfully. We stopped twice in small towns, but since Grandpa didn’t move I just closed my eyes again.
The sound of the engine slowing down woke me. We had turned into a gas station. Before I was even fully awake, we were standing outside, our luggage in our hands, watching the bus pull away.
“That’s strange,” Grandpa said, after surveying the area. “Thordy’s supposed to be here to meet us.” From where we stood, the whole town appeared empty. “I sent him a letter telling him exactly when we would arrive. Even called him a couple of days ago. We’ll head downtown. It isn’t far. Travels aren’t over until you’re safely indoors.”
Which apparently meant Let’s Start Marching.