“Just toss your coats in the closet and throw your boots on the mat,” Uncle Thordy said, opening up the closet door. “Then get your bodies into the living room.”
I found a hanger and gingerly hung up my jacket. It had been expensive and I didn’t want it to get creased. As I went to close the door I noticed a big axe hanging on the closet wall, large enough to take out a good-sized tree with a few whacks. Why did Uncle Thordy need such a gigantic axe? Iceland wasn’t exactly the most wooded area in the world. I closed the door.
Uncle Thordy led us down the hall and past the kitchen. The smell I’d detected at the front door lingered more heavily in the air here, but the kitchen was tidy. Maybe that’s why Uncle Thordy hadn’t opened the door right away—he was too busy hiding the garbage. It crossed my mind that he might not be into bathing too much. Which I knew wasn’t the norm here—Icelanders spent every spare moment jumping into hot springs.
Uncle Thordy guided us into the cozy warmth of his living room. Actually, it was more like a library than a living room. Two large shelves sat on either wall, stuffed with books of all sizes. I was happy to see Uncle Thordy was a reader, just like the rest of the family. I’d have to sneak a peek at his collection; maybe there were some sagas I’d never seen before. Of course, it wouldn’t do me much good if they were all in Icelandic.
Next to one of the shelves was a scrawny Christmas tree, dotted with tiny versions of the Icelandic flag, a few scattered ornaments, two lines of lights, and a lopsided star that pointed at a corner of the ceiling. It looked frumpy, but it was good to see something similar to what we’d have at home. I guessed Uncle Thordy had given us his best shot at decorating.
I dropped my backpack and collapsed on a forest green couch, sitting as near to the brick fireplace as possible. A fire danced across two logs. I held out my hands, let the heat warm my fingertips.
“I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping later,” Uncle Thordy said, “but for now, tell me about your trip.”
“It was bumpy,” Michael said.
“And rough,” I added. “Did we mention it was bumpy?”
“A character-building experience,” Grandpa said. “Unfortunately these three weren’t starting with much character.” He winked at Uncle Thordy.
“We inherited all we got from you,” Michael quipped.
“Well . . . I—I don’t have a comeback. You got me that time, Michael. Guess I’m training you a little too well.”
Uncle Thordy grinned at the bantering, then furrowed his brows. “I am sorry I wasn’t at the petrol station to meet you. I lost track of time. It always happens in the midwinter. There are so many hours of darkness you start to wonder when to sleep and when you should be awake. Soon your waking life becomes a long, slow dream. I am so sorry.”
“You’re forgiven,” Grandpa said. “There’s only one thing that would make up for it: a big, hot cup of . . .”
“Coffee! It’s on its way.” Uncle Thordy leapt up and went to the kitchen. The living room only had a view of the kitchen table, but not the rest of the kitchen, so I couldn’t see what Uncle Thordy was up to, but with all the banging it sounded like he was conducting a symphony of pots and pans.
“Don’t be too hard on ol’ Thordy,” Grandpa whispered. “He hasn’t been the same since Kristjanna died. He even looks different, more tired, I guess. I hardly even recognized him.”
A few minutes later Uncle Thordy returned with a tray full of cups and a huge metal pot of coffee. He smiled and triumphantly lifted the blue pot. It looked like something straight out of the pioneer days, covered with dents. He poured us each a cup without asking whether we wanted one. “This’ll get your heart going,” he promised, handing me a cup. I saw the dark bags under his eyes, the lines on his face. The scars above his right eyebrow added to the impression that he’d had a hard time lately. I knew what a heavy weight grief could be; it must have taken years off his life.
The coffee was thick as oil and steaming hot. I glanced at Sarah and Michael, who were both staring at their own cups like they’d been given poison. I’d had coffee a few times before, but this was way different. Like the long lost ancestor of coffee. I took a sip and it tasted about half as good as it looked. It was hot enough to heat my innards, though, and I was thankful for that.
“This is what Icelanders drink?” Sarah whispered. “No wonder so many of them look grumpy.”
Uncle Thordy had slipped out and was back again with a plate heaped with flat, blackened pieces of bread along with strips of meat. He set it on the coffee table in front of us. “Hangikjöt and flatkökur,” he announced.
“That’s smoked lamb and hard bread to you,” Grandpa explained.
We dug in. The bread was hard as cement, but I was able to bite off a big enough chunk to discover that it was fairly tasty. And the lamb melted in my mouth. I was so famished I could’ve eaten a ton of it. We hadn’t had a bit of food since breakfast on the airplane. Uncle Thordy returned a third time with a plate of stuff called gravlax, which was made of salmon. It tasted salty.
“If I’d been more organized I’d have had a real meal prepared for you. Maybe even some svid.”
“Oh, you should save that for special occasions,” Grandpa said. “Plus it’d probably freak Michael out.”
“Freak me out, why?”
Grandfather brushed crumbs off his shirt. “It’s singed sheep’s head, sawn in two, boiled, and eaten fresh.”
Michael turned pale, along with me and Sarah. I was the first to voice our opinion. “Ewwww!”
“We never waste anything in Iceland,” Uncle Thordy began, “it’s part of—”
A knock on the door cut his sentence short. He shot out of his seat, spilling coffee on his hand. “I’m not expecting company,” he said, wiping the coffee on his pants. “Just wait here.” He walked down the short hall and out of sight. The front door creaked open, letting a gust of wind come into the living room. It settled at our feet and chilled my legs. I slid closer to the fire.
Uncle Thordy spoke in hushed tones and another voice answered. There was a soft clunk, then the door closed.
A moment later a man followed Uncle Thordy into the room. The stranger pulled back the hood of his jacket and a few flakes of snow fell to the floor. I was surprised to see a young guy about my age, his black hair slicked back. He had a thin, fine-boned face, dark skin, and his lips were curled into a friendly smile.
“This is Mordur, my hired helper. He saw my lights were on so he came by,” Uncle Thordy explained. Grandpa stood and reached out his hand. Mordur gave him an exuberant shake, saying, “Gott kvöld.” Grandpa winced slightly, like Mordur had squeezed too tight. Mordur shook everyone else’s hand, saying “Good evening” in English each time.
When he came to me, he held my hand for a few seconds longer than the others and stared at it like it was an interesting butterfly that had just landed on his palm. I was surprised how warm his hand was—burning hot. He looked me in the eyes, his were a swirling gray.
“Sugar,” he said.
“Wh-what?” I muttered. I started to blush.
“Sugar. I come by for sugar.” His English had a bit of an accent to it. He let go of my hand. He seemed—well—almost like he was struck with a sudden bout of shyness. “For my coffee. It makes it much . . . uh . . . more good tasting.” He turned to everyone. “Welcome to Iceland! Christmas is best time to be here. The best time, I mean. It is when you get all the good food.”
“Please, join us,” Uncle Thordy said. “The coffee’s hot.”
Mordur shook his head. “No thank you. I still have to finish dishes. Your family is here to celebrate the holiday. That is good. Have you warned them about the thirteen Santa Clauses?”
“Thirteen Santa Clauses!” I said, a little too loudly. Mordur looked my way, giving me a warm grin. His eyes strayed to the top of my head, then back. Was my hair a mess? “B-but there’s just one Santa Claus, isn’t there?”
“Not in Iceland. We do different things here. The thirteen Santa Clauses are the Jólasveinar. It means ‘Christmas lads.’ They are very small. Imps! I think that is the word you use. There is Stúfur, the itty bitty one, and Pottasleikir—he licks pots people leave out—Bjúgnakrækir, the sausage snatcher, and ten others. One comes every night for thirteen nights before Christmas and puts a gift in your shoe. Unless you are bad, of course. Then they do a bad thing. Like steal your sausages or hide your lipstick.”
“Only in Iceland would they have bad Santa Clauses,” Michael said, between bites of bread. “We’re a morbid people, we are. Thirteen brats handing out presents.”
“Careful,” Mordur warned, shaking his finger, “the Jólasveinar know when you talk bad about them. You will end up with a rotten potato in your shoe.”
“It’s all he deserves,” Sarah joked. Mordur smiled at her and I felt a sudden twinge of jealousy. She already had a boyfriend in Manitoba, why was she flirting with him?
“Tonight is the twenty-one of December, Gluggagægir’s night. He is the window peeper. And if you are really bad, Gryla, the old hag mother of the Jólasveinar, will go and eat you.”
“This is starting to sound more like Halloween,” I said. Mordur turned towards me again. “Tricks, treats, and monsters.”
Uncle Thordy set down his cup of coffee on the side table. “Don’t you three listen to Mordur. He’s inherited his father’s long-winded, storytelling genes. And don’t worry about being devoured by Gryla. The only old hag near this croft is Gunnvor and all she eats is regular food. As far as I know.”
Genuine surprise showed on Grandfather’s face. “You mean she’s still alive? She was ancient when I was a child. I thought she would’ve died years ago.”
Uncle Thordy rubbed his beard. “Oh, she’s alive alright. Alive and kicking. I can feel her beady eyes on my back every time I head out to the pasture. She puts the spook in the horses, too.”
“Then she hasn’t changed.” Grandpa Thursten shook his head in disbelief. “She used to come down to where we played by the marsh and threaten to break our bones and throw us in a cairn if we kept making a racket.”
“She may be Gryla in disguise,” Mordur said, laughing. “Anyway, I do need sugar, then I will depart with all your wonderful guests.” He slapped his forehead. “I mean leave you with all your guests. Sorry, my English is rusted. It has been months since I used it.” He shrugged.
“It’s okay,” I said, “your English is a thousand times better than my Icelandic.” I smiled, then wondered if I had salmon stuck in my teeth. My cheeks flashed with heat. For the millionth time I cursed my pale white complexion. I was probably as red as the nose on Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Mordur glanced at the top of my head again and I resisted the urge to pat down my hair. Sarah caught my eye and winked.
Mordur followed Uncle Thordy into the kitchen and came out with a small paper bag of sugar.
“It was good meeting you all,” Mordur said, then left. A moment later the door down the hall opened and banged shut.
“He’s young for a hired man,” Grandpa remarked.
Uncle Thordy nodded. “He is. Just sixteen. He’s the son of my previous hired man, Einar. Einar drowned last summer while fishing at sea. A terrible, tragic accident. He left Mordur with nothing but a few months’ savings and the clothes on his back. His mother lives in France and didn’t want anything to do with him.”
“How’d he learn English?” Sarah asked.
“Mordur isn’t much for school, but he’s smart as a whip. He picked up his English from tourists and other Icelanders. We all know pieces and bits of two or three different languages. He’s good at most everything he wants to be good at and the animals do what he says, so I decided to keep him around. Plus I felt a debt to his father. Einar was a dependable man.”
“It’s always a comfort to work with someone you trust.” Grandpa rubbed at his chest as if he had some sort of sharp pain. When he saw us all watching him, he grinned. “What are you staring at? Haven’t you seen an old man try to keep down a burp before?” He looked at Uncle Thordy. “Do you have any plans for us tomorrow?” he asked.
“To let you sleep as long as you want. None of the relatives arrive until tomorrow night.”
Grandpa nodded. “Sleeping in sounds like a great idea. Maybe in the afternoon I can drive you kids to Bjarg. It’s where Grettir the Strong grew up. We might even be able to take a trip to Drang Island, where Grettir died. Though I don’t think we’d want to climb around there this time of year.”
Grandpa always spoke as though it was just a couple of years ago that Grettir the Strong was alive, but in fact he lived sometime back in the 1100s, long before I set foot on this earth. According to my parents, Grettir spent most of his time fighting other Icelanders and the undead. I’ve always been glad our family let go of that tradition.
Grandpa reminded us we all had orders to phone home once we got to Uncle Thordy’s, no matter what time it was in the States. Michael and Sarah went first and talked to their parents for a few minutes. When it was my turn my mom picked up the phone on the third ring. It was so odd to hear her voice sounding crystal clear, even though she was thousands of miles away. She and Dad were just sitting down for a late supper of hamburgers and homemade French fries. She asked me questions about the trip and I answered them all in a daze. When it came time to say good-bye, all I could say was, “I miss you.”
“We miss you too, dear,” Mom said.
I joined everyone in the living room and we talked for another half hour. My eyes started to burn, my lids grew heavy. It had been a long, trying trip and jet lag seemed to have caught up with me. Uncle Thordy saw one of my yawns. “It doesn’t matter what country you’re in,” he said, “a yawn means the same thing. I’ll show you to your rooms.”
We grabbed our luggage and Uncle Thordy led us down a short hall, the walls white and bare. Sarah and I would share a room. Michael had to settle for a cot in Uncle Thordy’s tiny office. Grandpa took a room down the hall from us. We said good night to Uncle Thordy and Michael.
“I’m glad to have you girls along,” Grandpa said quietly to us. “I do feel lucky to have grandchildren like you two. And Michael, of course.”
“Have a good sleep, Afi,” Sarah said.
As he turned away I noticed a dark spot on the back of his shirt. “Grandpa, what’s that?”
He turned to me, then looked over his shoulder at where I was pointing. It was a red stain.
“Did you cut yourself?” Sarah asked.
“Not that I know of,” Grandpa answered. “I’ll check it out in the mirror. Guess I must have leaned on something sharp. Good night.” He closed the door.
Once we were in our room I dropped my backpack next to a cot. I went to the washroom and decided to have a quick bath. The water here got hot real fast. Maybe it came directly from a hot spring. My hair actually looked okay. I’m not sure why Mordur kept staring at it. A few minutes later I was clean and perfectly toasty.