The Church

Hallgrimskirkja, Reykjavik's Most Famous Church | Magazine

           

With an increasing number of visitors drawn by the stunning scenery, lively nightlife, friendly locals, and fascinating history, Iceland really has become the coolest place on the planet and one of the hottest tourist destinations.

Iceland: Only Planet travel guide

Chapter 31: The Church

Eddy and Fenja emerged from the snake-hole on to a rubble-strewn street in Reykjavik. It was night and the light of a near-full moon shone through the cloud like a skull through water. The capital was nearly unrecognisable – the smouldering wrecks of cars and buses were blown on their sides, buildings were gaping ruins with jagged, blackened walls licked by flames. Massive craters smashed up sections of the street, making any kind of progress torturous. Flurries of snow, whipped up by biting wind, settled on tangled piles of corpses.

Eddy killed the engine and they scanned the dismal scene. A cold fist in his stomach: ‘Are we too late?’

Fenja’s eyes flamed in the dark. ‘No. Listen.’

Eddy took off his helmet and strained to sift the sounds carried on the wind – a fire raging somewhere, the fall of rubble, the eerie humanless silence. There. A gunshot. Another. The tell-tale roar of a bike.

‘The Wild Hunt.’

‘Go!’ Fenja commanded; Eddy already revving the engine.

They made their way to the sounds of the skirmish. In a sidestreet they came across three Wild Hunt bikers cornered by a white-clad Ice Force unit, faces hidden behind all-terrain deathmasks and Gogglestm  . Their bumpstock attack rifles were making short work of them. Two already lay on the ground in a bloody heap, bikes crumpled against the wall.

Eddy could feel Fenja tense behind him, her hands closing in fists. She told him to pull over. He swung the snowmobile to a stop.

‘Hey, boys,’ she called out, leaping from the ride cat-like onto the blood-smeared snow.

As a dozen laser-sights turned to fix upon her, she slit the air before her open with a raking of her fingers. The walls of the street reverberated with the volley of fire, swallowed by the portal.

Silence suddenly fell, as the firing ceased, signalled by a curt gesture of the Ice Force officer.

‘Shot your load too soon, boys?’ Fenja stood there, and stretched luxuriously, yawning.

Out of the portal slits reached massive arms, which snatched the screaming men and dragged them back into the blue glow, rifles ejaculating a spray of bullets, or dropping crumpled to the ground. Only the officer remained, fending off the gigantic assailants with shock-grenades and blasts of his rifle, until two arms reached out and tore him apart, tossing the separated torso against the walls with a bloody smack and a smear of offal.

The portals closed with a sound like an inbreath.

The bikers looked at Fenja with terror, until they realised who she was. One of them was Cruz – leathers covered in dust and ash, snow and blood. She pulled up next to them on the battered superbike and gazed in wonder.

‘Fenja? And is that you, Red?’

They hugged.

‘We were out looking for supplies when they ambushed us. They’ve got patrols combing the city so stay sharp. Come! We need to get to church!’

Eddy followed Cruz and the other two bikers along the narrow street, which emerged onto a wider avenue, luminous in the moonlight. It felt open and exposed, but they had no choice – it led direct towards the ‘church’, as Cruz called it. At the end of the avenue could be glimpsed a massive pale cathedral, its featured rendered in moonlight. Before it, a square dominated by a statue. The whole area was surrounded by Ice Force operatives, who had lined up their heavy artillery at the famous landmark.

‘Why aren’t they attacking?’ asked Eddy.

‘Look!’ shouted Fenja, over the roar of the bikes.

Eddy could see a rainbow-like effect pass in front of the church. It was as though the whole square was sheathed in its own Aurora Borealis.

‘Rig’s work, no doubt.’ Fenja observed. ‘It looks like his power has grown!’

As they approached, they drew the attention of the look-outs. Heavy guns clanked and turned on them.

‘We’re going to get blown to pieces!’ cried Eddy.

‘Stay close!’ called back Cruz, who accelerated straight towards the enemy line.

The shellfire started to explode ahead and to the side of them. Test shots. Any second and they would be in the bullseye.

The bulbous prismatic membrane extended like an octopus shooting out a tentacle, and they rode into its protective sheath just as the shelling reached them. The ordnance exploded around them – angry burning eyes raging impotently against Rig’s shieldwall.

And they were in.

The entourage skidded to a halt at the foot of a bronze statue of a Viking. Eddy looked up and a wave of déjà vu hit him.

‘It’s Leif Eriksson,’ called Fenja.

‘I know…’

They saw Rig standing on the plinth of the statue. He stood rigid with effort, arms stretched out. Beads of sweat trickled down his face. He nodded briefly at them.

They walked towards the cathedral, designed like volcanic columns or organ piping.

One-handed Tear, besmirched with battle, scanned the surrounding forces from the entrance.  When he saw Eddy and Fenja he gave them a curt nod. ‘So you made it back, Redcrow.’

Eddy got off the snow-mobile, and gave Cruz a hug. ‘Yes.’

‘I hope, for your own sake, you brought the Runestone.’

‘Eddy is a man of his word. Let us speak to One Eye.’ Fenja demanded.

Tear sneered, but stepped to one side.

The interior of Hallgrimskirkja was high-roofed and austere. It had the pungent atmosphere of a temporary camp. Huddled within it was the Wild Hunt and a selection of the population, settled on and between the pews in small groups.

At the far end, facing the altar, sat One Eye and his two closest warriors, the brothers Will and Way, who watched them approach, rifles held loosely before them. The leader gazed up at the figure on the cross.

‘A man sacrifices himself for his people, hanging on a wooden cross … The end of the world is foretold in the sacred book. A new world will arise …’

Finally, One Eye noticed them. He seemed distant to Eddy, his tone fatalistic. ‘You have returned, Eddy Redcrow…’

‘Yes, I have …’

‘How was your journey?’ Still, he did not turn to meet his eye.

‘Long and hard. If not for Fen…’

‘Good, good. Journeys should be long and hard, otherwise, what is the point of them?’

Fenja grew impatient. ‘Snap out of it, you old fart! You have world to save!’

‘Ah, Bergrisar. I have missed you. But what world do you speak of? Midgard? This is not our world. We do not belong here. You, Jötunheim. Myself, I long to return to Asgard. There are many warriors there, waiting to feast with me.’

Fenja protested: ‘But what of the billions of lives on this world? Many of whom believe in you…’

‘Not so many these days, alas. There are people on that “Facebook” who have more followers than me.’

‘But still, you owe those who do. You cannot let Loki win!’ implored Fenja.

One Eye finally turned to them. ‘Nobody will win Ragnarok. Besides, what do you care, Frost-giant’s daughter?’

Fenja took Eddy’s hand. ‘I care for this man. He has shown me that humans have spirit. Some have great courage; great strength. But more than anything, they can teach us about love. Even you, One Eye, once felt it. Remember? Somewhere in your heart, there is a spark. We have all lost, all suffered. Do not let the lives of the fallen be in vain.’

One Eye got up and suddenly seemed to tower over them both. His brows furrowed and his gaze was terrible to behold – lightning coalesced in his eyes and the very building seemed to shake. ‘You are right, Fenja Bergrisar. You have found love at the end of the world. Perhaps that alone makes it worth saving…’ His gaze softened a little; his grim visage broke into a half-smile.  His one eye glittered. ‘I suspect you two have a part to play in the story after the story… Now, where’s this stone?’

Eddy presented it to him.

One Eye scrutinised it, hands pouring over it. ‘Ah, good… Yes. Well done, Eddy Redcrow. My faith in you has been repaid. You are a true warrior of the Red and the White, and your part in this is not over. This runestone must be read out at Law Rock, Thingvollr. There we will make an end of it…’ He handed the tablet back. ‘Keep it safe.’ He called out to his gang members. ‘Let us draw the enemy fire away from these people. The Wild Hunt shall ride out one last time!’

***

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

Jötunheim

Then home the goats to the hall were driven,
They wrenched at the halters, swift were they to run;
The mountains burst, earth burned with fire,
And Othin’s son sought Jötunheim.

                                                       The Lay of Thrym

Chapter 30: Jötunheim

The world turned inside out. Eddy felt like a rubber glove pulled off the hand, his soul now on the outside. The encroaching darkness and violent chaos of the streets of Gimli was replaced a stern, silent world of intense light, which made him shield his eyes at first. It was an icy landscape, but turned up to eleven, he thought. The very ice beneath them seemed to glow with its own effulgence, reminding Eddy of the ultra-violet lights in the bars he’d played in. But here the neon was replaced with stalactites and stalagmites of fierce intensity – the fangs of a leviathan into whose mouth they were devoured. Cliffs of black glass, waterfalls of frozen prisms, rose upwards vertiginously, disappearing into the pulsing brainscape of the clouds, flickering with synaptic lightning. They rode along a precipitous path hewn from the side of a gorge that dropped into miles of mist below. Sometimes it was little more than a cornice or arête, sculpted by the glacial wind that howled down the chasm. An ice-bridge took them over to the other side, where the path hugged the cliffs like a snake. Blood pounded in Eddy’s ears, blending with the sound of a horn. Each fresh vista seemed to shout out in glory.

Eddy stopped the snow-mobile. He got off and retched; gulped down the icy air. Hand against the smooth obsidian cliff. The trembling finally eased.

‘What is this place?’ called out Eddy to his passenger.

‘Home!’ Fenja shouted with joy, holding out her bare arms, relishing the freezing air on her face. ‘Jötunheim, the realm of my father. We use the snake-hole to take a shortcut across the nine worlds.’

 ‘How do you know how to navigate it? Do you have a map?’

‘In my head,’ Fenja smiled. ‘My mother explored many of them – she had a wanderlust that did not let her go, even after she had me. Wrapped snug next to her body I would travel with her. I was weaned on her wanderings as much as her milk.’ Her gaze glistened as she scanned the distance.

‘What happened to her?’

Fenja’s mouth tightened. ‘One day she walked into a snake-hole and never came back… I like to think she’s still out there somewhere; that one day I will find her again. I thought I picked up her trail in Pompeii, but it was a dead-end – until I met you… I am sure she would not have left me on purpose. She is trying to get home, I’m convinced of it.’

Eddy slumped onto the snow-mobile, stroked the handlebars. Tears welled as he noticed the little bumps, scratches and quirks on the chassis.

Fenja slipped her arm into his. ‘What is it?’

‘My grandfather …’

She nodded. Closed her eyes. Smiled. ‘There are many afterlives … Some intersect. We merely change worlds…’

Eddy’s eyes widened. ‘How…?’

Fenja traced the two-dimensional chandelier of a frozen cobweb. ‘Our webs are connected now. I feel the filaments stretching … across time and space. Your grandfather is travelling the way of ghosts. His spirit is strong. But, I sense he does not want to journey to the Isles of the Blessed yet. He is worried about you, about the family. He watches over you with eyes of the eagle.’

Eddy brushed the tears from his face. ‘Thank you.’

‘We’d better get going. Time is different here, but in your world, the Wild Hunt is running out of it.’

The journey through the realm of the frost-giants was a dreamlike experience. They rode over ice-formations that resembled giant sculpted figures. It was often hard to tell whether the profiles were optical illusions or actual slumbering Jötun. To pass the time, Fenja described the origins of her homeworld: ‘At the beginning of all things there was a giant of giants formed from the abyss, Ymir. He was Grandfather Hrim-Thurs, the first ice-giant. He awoke starving and, groping about, found a giant cow Audhumla, formed like himself from the steam and frost. He was nourished by The Nourisher, from her four streams of milk. As she licked an ice-block for salt, the head of a god emerged, Buri. Feeling sated, Ymir slept, and from the sweat of his armpits – don’t laugh! – a son and daughter were born, and from his feet, a six-headed giant, Thrudgelmir, who begat Bergelmir – the father of all my father’s kin. These frost-giants were the natural enemy of Buri and his sons. The war waged for an aeon until Borr, son of Buri, married a giantess, who bore him three sons, Odin, Vili and Ve. You may have heard of them! They joined their father in fighting the frost-giants, and together they managed to slay Ymir, from whose vast body Midgard was formed. From his wounds gushed so much blood it created a deluge which destroyed all of his race except Bergelmir. Escaping in a boat with his wife – just like a proto-Noah and his wife – they finally found sanctuary in a remote, bleak place. Here they made their home, calling it, you’ve guessed it, Jötunheim. They set to breeding a new race of frost-giants, who grew up with an antipathy to the gods. It continues to this day, but … my father married a human – as once his ancestor had wedded a god – and he dotes on me, his daughter. Midgard was formed from the sacred bones of Ymir, after all. We are connected more than you think. And so, after much work, I finally managed to persuade Thrym, my father, to help save Earth rather than destroy it … Love really is the only thing that saves us.’

Eddy wanted to hug her there and then, but now was not the time.

They rode over bridges of ice so transparent it was as though they rode over solid air. Far down below Eddy glimpsed flower-starred meadows irrigated by tumbling cataracts, the turrets of noble dwellings surrounded by thick forests, lakes of shimmering beauty, and wildlife of magnificent grandeur – everything on a larger scale.

They finally paused for refreshment at a glittering spring, which gurgled from the cliff-hugging roots of a vast yew tree, the branches of which formed pathways across the chasm. Sitting in the bend of one of these, they held one another, and admired the view.

‘The popular idea of Jötunheim being gloomy is mainly thanks to the propaganda of the gods and those ne’er-do-well storytellers. They make us out to be oafish barbarians, easily fooled by the cheap tricks of the wily Aesir. Hah! Well, now you know the truth behind all those tales of the “cross-dressing” Thunder God! The gods aren’t what they seem, and neither are my people. Like most creatures of the nine worlds, they want to be able to live and thrive in peace.’

Fenja turned to him, a strange light in her eyes. ‘They want to be able to raise their offspring.’

It was hard to tell if it was the enervating spring water, or Fenja’s words that made him shiver with delight, but before he could pursue that thought, she grabbed his hand.

‘Come! The Wild Hunt! One more ride and we should make it there.’

‘Back to Reykjavik?’

‘No. The battle has moved inland, to the Plain of Vigrid.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘The crack in the world, where the final reckoning will transpire.’

***

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) 2020

Showdown

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‘Today is a good day to die.’

Little, Big Man

Chapter 29: Showdown

Eddy and his grandfather rode their snow-mobiles back along the tracks they had made towards Gimli. The geometric skyline of the settlement emerged from the white landscape, like paper shapes cut out of the sky. The light, what little of it there was, drained rapidly from the coastline as the Earth rolled inevitably into the dark. The eastern side of the lake was already overwhelmed by the penumbra. Like a wave of dark rain, it swept towards the western shore.

‘We’re losing light!’ hollered Running Bear. ‘Step on the gas!’

The grandfather revved ahead, leaping over the ramp of a snow-drift with a grunt.

They raced down towards the outskirts of the rural municipality, but instead of turning off for the Redcrow homestead, the grandfather led them straight to the recreation hall. The journey to the shack and back, the talking … it had taken longer than they’d thought. The precious light had slipped away.

They turned down the main avenue. Only a couple of blocks and they’ll be there.

A murder of crows lifted from the rooftops, making Eddy turn his head just as something hissed past.

Another missile hit the side of the snow-mobile, bouncing off.

‘Ambush!’ cried his grandfather, steering his ride in an erratic pattern.

Eddy checked his mirrors and saw the night-cloaked riders emerge from the gathering shadows, the eyes, nostrils and mouths of their steeds burning hungry fire.

Eddy copied his Running Bear’s crazy dance – just like in the powwow.  He’d once seen his grandfather light as a kicking foal, lifting up his legs to the thunder of the drums. Now Death held the beater and made them both dance.

The runestone was heavy on Eddy’s back, slipped into a knapsack. He prayed it would not get struck by a stray bolt. It was too precious to lose. So much was riding on it.

Suddenly, he heard his grandfather cry out and slump onto his controls. The bike swerved and ditched in a snow-drift.

‘No!’

Eddy raced to him. Three crossbow bolts stuck out of his back like porcupine quills. The old man coughed blood. ‘Go! Leave me!’

‘Never!’ roared Eddy. He lifted his grandfather onto his bike as the hooves of the horses pounded closer, bolts hissing into the drift.

The deadweight of his grandfather slumped forward onto him, Eddy hit the revs and the snow-mobile blasted away just as the riders reached them. The snow churned up in their faces provided him with temporary cover.

Accelerating down the avenue, he knew he had lost the precious gap between them and it was only a matter of time before a bolt found his own back.

Up ahead was the turning for the recreation centre and, for a second he thought about drawing the raiders away, but he knew that would be a suicide mission, and he had to get his grandfather to the doctor.

He swung the bike right, and gunned it towards the hall, the raiders hot on his tail. ‘Hold on grandfather! I’m gonna get you some help!’

Bolts hissed closer and closer, clanging against the chassis. As one reloaded another fired in a single swift movement.

Suddenly the report of a firearm bounced off the walls of the surrounding buildings and one of the raiders fell as his horse toppled beneath him.

Ahead, the sheriff was providing covering fire.

Eddy skidded onto the forecourt. ‘He needs help!’

Rivet nodded to a couple of the men as she kept blasting. ‘Get him inside!’

They lifted him from the snowmobile, but the old man protested.

‘Leave me be…’ Running Bear made a weak gesture, shooed them away. Back against the wall, he slumped. Blood trickled from his mouth.

‘No! The doctor…’

‘It’s too late, Eddy. But don’t worry… Death is merely a change of worlds.’ Running Bear smiled, and then was seized with pain. ‘Stay on the Red Road, grandson. Save Gimli, save the wo…’

‘Grandfather!’ Eddy screamed, grabbing Running Bear as he toppled forward.

His world turned to black ice; shattered into a million pieces.

Rivet cried out, staggering back, clutching her arm – a crossbow bolt skewering it. Gritting her teeth, she aimed and fired back. But it was hopeless.

The Raiders swept by in a hail of bolts. At least seven of them survived and they had all night.

The wound made Rivet weaker. ‘Eddy, get inside. Lock the door…’

He shook his head. Took up his grandfather’s rifle and stood by her side. ‘Not a chance, sheriff. I’m gonna take some of those fuckers down with me.’

Together, they stood side-by-side and fired at the encroaching enemy.

The raiders circled, their cloaks enlarging their silhouette against the snow and making it harder to strike a vital organ.

‘They’re mocking us…’ said Rivet, wincing and holding her arm to her side.

Both of them were wounded in different ways. Eddy could not believe that his grandfather had been taken. The anger kept him going, but inside, he was turning to stone.

Gunshots snapped them both back. Gunfire coming from the surrounding buildings. The raiders reacted swiftly, returning fire into the darkness.

‘Who?’

‘Must be BZ and his gang,’ Rivet spat through gritted teeth. ‘They’ve come back.’

For a moment, Eddy’s heart leapt. Back-up!

The door to the hall opened and Siggy came running out. ‘Grandfather!’ Magnus lingered on the threshold. ‘Siggy! Come back here! It’s not safe!’

Eddy turned to her. ‘He … didn’t make it.’ His words were like pebbles in his mouth. ‘I’m sorry …’

His sister cradled the limp body of their grandfather, shaking with grief.

‘Come, let’s carry him inside…’ Magnus gently helped her up, and together they lifted the body with some effort.

Magnus looked at Eddy. ‘Do you best.’

They carried the body inside and closed the door.

Out of the darkness came screams. The gunfire fell silent. Shapes moved in the shadows.

‘What the hell?’ breathed Eddy.

Six of the raiders remained and now there seemed to be something else out there, prowling on all fours.

One of the creatures savaged a gang member, who blasted away at it.

Then the screaming stopped, and a savage howl split the night, joined by a feral chorus carrying across the rooftops.

Eddy and Rivet gave each other a look – the whites of their eyes standing out in the gloom.

Suddenly the horses of the raiders whickered, turning nervously. Something was coming down the avenue. They could feel it approach – the vibration of each slow step.

‘What next? A buffalo stampede?’ spat Rivet.

Around the corner, stark against the snow, came a giant figure, snapping off a stop light as its massive bulk brushed past.

‘Oh no…’ said Eddy.

‘What the …?’ whispered Rivet.

The first frost giant was joined by two more. They towered over the rooftops, the phone lines and lamp-posts.

Eddy recognised the three giants from the ice.

‘Oh fuck…’ His hands shook as he tried to take aim with the rifle. Then he noticed the woman walking in front, dressed in a strange tunic, arms bare, spiky blonde hair like a flame.

‘Fen…?’

The Jötun towered before the raiders. For a moment they stood – a strange mythic encounter on the streets of Gimli. The leader of the raiders trotted forward, crossbow raised. He spoke some harsh, piercing language – they sounded like nails scraped over broken glass.

The first of the giants suddenly raised its massive foot and brought it down on the raider.

The other raiders retaliated – sending a hail of bolts at the assailant, who brushed them off like midge bites. The other two Jötun waded in.

While the raiders and the giants were engaged Fenja ran forward. ‘Eddy! Quickly! You must come with me! I’ve negotiated a truce with my kind – but who knows how long it will last. Do you have the runestone?’

‘Yes.’

Eddy stepped forward. ‘Tell my family I love them!’

‘Where are you going?’ Rivet called.

‘To end this. Where it began!’ he shouted back.

‘Eddy! The snow-mobile!’ Fenja commanded.

He leapt on and fired it up.

‘Any chance of a ride?’ Fenja smiled.

‘Hop on.’

They rode between the legs of the giants as the battle raged around them.

Fenja reached out a hand and scratched the air with a long fingernail.

Ahead, a slit in the dark street appeared – a tear in reality. It made Eddy’s head hurt to look at it. Beyond glowed a cold blue light.

‘Go! Now! Before it seals!’ Fenja called, and Eddy rode the snowmobile into the closing portal.

***

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

The Runestone

How To Survive Winter in Canada: Tips & Packing List

From the Rock of Law sing me loud
Undo the doom of Ragnarok.
Gods may fall and Midgard may freeze,
but life shall stir across the seas.

Chapter 28: The Runestone

The thin light of the dawn lime-washed the rooftops of Gimli. The day was overcast – the same iron grey cover of cloud – but it was day. Eddy rubbed his eyes and yawned. It had been a long night. He must have fallen asleep – his body was wrapped up in the blanket, stiff from lying on the floor. He tried to move and got cramp.

‘Got your beauty sleep?’

His grandfather lent by the window, bins trained on the street below, rifle propped up next to him.

‘Yowch!’ Eddy moved his leg and regretted it. Cramp! He tried to rub some life back into it. ‘When did I fall asleep?’

‘A couple of hours ago. Good job I didn’t. Guess you would claim it was your crossing. Still wiped out from it…’ The old man reached down and tossed him the flask. ‘Not surprised. Here. There’s still a swig left.’

Eddy smiled. Perhaps the old man was thawing out a little. He had spent a good hour relating his adventures. Running Bear had been sceptical and full of questions and sarcastic remarks, but eventually got caught up in the narrative. Hearing how his grandson had endured the long ride, he even sounded mildly impressed by the end. Something in him had shifted over night. He looked at Eddy properly for the first time, as the daylight flooded the lighthouse.

‘Perhaps you’re not such a waste of space after all.’

Eddy gulped down the dregs of the coffee with a grimace. It had gone cold.

‘Come on. We need to get that doc to the health centre. You were on a mission, remember!’

Running Bear took his rifle and headed down the staircase.

Eddy struggled to his feet and followed.

‘Well, well. Up with the larks. I don’t think I’ve ever known you to get up this early!’ marvelled his sister, who was up and about, pulling on her coat. ‘Unless you had been on an all-nighter and were staggering in I normally don’t see you until midday.’

‘Good morning to you, sis!’

‘How’s doc?’ asked Running Bear.

‘I’ll live,’ groaned the doctor, stretching as he pulled himself up out of the chair. ‘But what about you? How’s that rib?’

‘As tender as a Comodo special, but I’m walking.’

‘We’ll get you some painkillers at the centre.’

Running Bear tried the door, leaking light into the reception.

‘Do you think it’s safe, grandfather?’ asked Siggy.

‘Safer than night-time. This is our best shot. Are you coming?’

‘I bet they’ll have some kind of breakfast going, back at the hall…’ mused Eddy, dreamily.

‘You’ve talked me into it!’ laughed Siggy. ‘An army marches on its stomach! Lead on, granf!’

They made their way through the lifeless, snow-bound streets. The compacted snow, frozen over night, had been churned up by hooves, and was stained with what looked like oil.

‘Least we know they can bleed,’ said Eddy.

‘Doesn’t look like any blood I know,’ observed the doctor, kneeling down to inspect it. He touched a bit with his gloved finger and it stuck and stretched like tar.

‘What are we going to do about this fella?’ called Running Bear, standing over the mauled body of the man on the stretcher.

‘Cover him over with snow for now. We’ll have to come back. Our immediate priority is to the living,’ said the doctor, breathing a cloud.

Running Bear started kicking snow over the body. Eddy helped and Siggy cast about for a marker. She returned with a broom handle from the smashed in store. They stuck it in the ground and stood in silence for a moment.

‘Come on. Got to keep moving!’

Running Bear led them up to the Fifth Avenue. They covered the bodies of the other two patches, marking them with a roadwork sign, then turned left, heading to the Health Centre.

It was eerie, walking along the usually busy avenue – the only sound, crunching snow and their breathing. A lone bird cried out over head and they all froze.

‘Albatross. Had to be.’ Running Bear grunted, carrying on. Every now and then he held his side, but his pace was relentless.

‘Hey, look!’ Siggy knelt down and picked up a slipper.

‘Mrs Clutterbuck…’ observed the doctor remotely, subdued with the shock of it all.

‘Looks like they got her too…’ said Eddy.

They scanned the street but could see no body.

They made it to the health centre and the doctor fumbled with his keys. The doors were half-frozen shut and they had to force them open.

Inside the temperature was almost normal. They opened up their jackets. Siggy gave the doctor a hand, loading up a trolley. Eddy became interested in the vending machine. He tried a coin but nothing happened.

‘Damn!’ he kicked the front of it and made the candy bars rattle on their hooks.

‘Here.’ Running Bear produced his hunting knife and slid it down the side of the machine. With a yank he jimmied it open. ‘Load up. I’m sure the folks back at the hall will appreciate the extra supplies.’

Eddy found a laundry bag. Emptied out the sheets and filled it full of the snacks and bottles.

Siggy and the Doc returned with the trolley. The doctor carried his case too. ‘We’ve got all the essentials. Hey, have you been stealing candy, young man?’

‘Got a sweet tooth, doc.’

The doctor grumbled, but led them out of the building, locking it behind him.

With Siggy pushing the trolley carefully over the uneven frozen snow and Eddy lugging the sack they made their way to the hall.

Running Bear walked briefly with Eddy. ‘Once we’ve delivered this lot, there’s a place I want to take you.’

The reaction when they made it back to the sports hall was mixed. It clearly had not been an easy night and tempers were frayed. The initial relief at their return – laden down with supplies – was somewhat muted when folk realised not all of them had made it.

‘Where are my bloods?’ demanded BZ.

‘I’m sorry. We couldn’t save them. The raiders…’ said the doctor.

‘They went down guns blazing, Wendigo,’ offered Eddy.

BZ lifted him up by his lapels. ‘What the fuck? You were meant to be saving my man. The others were just riding shotgun. How do I know you didn’t just kill them yourself?’ he fumed in Eddy’s face.

A safety catch being flipped made him flick his eyes – his head prevented from turning from the rifle barrel placed against it. ‘Let go of my grandson.’

BZ dropped Eddy, back away, hands up. ‘Easy, grandpa.’   

‘Your men died bravely. The raiders ran them down on the junction of Five and Central. They headed to the sea – which was lucky for them. I was holed up in the Lighthouse. Saw ’em coming. Was able to pick off a couple and scare the rest away. Your bloods bought them time. If not for them you wouldn’t have the doc here, with his meds and know-how.’

BZ cricked his neck. ‘Where are their bodies…?’ he asked, voice low.

‘In the snow, on Central. We marked them. As good as any deep freeze, for now.’

‘What about foxes and shit?’

‘Nothing’s moving out there, son,’ said the doctor. ‘But if you want to take a burial party out, be my guest.’

‘Just be back before nightfall,’ added Running Bear. ‘Those raiders will be back, and we need all the firepower we can muster.’

BZ spat on the floor. ‘Me and my crew will run by the clubhouse. We’ll be back before dark.’ He nodded to his remaining men.

They watched them go, and the tension in the hall eased a little.

‘Thank you, grandfather.’

The old man shrugged. ‘Get some breakfast in you. It’s a long walk ahead.’ 

As Eddy followed his grandfather away from the hall, he couldn’t help but smile, thinking back to his sister’s comment as he queued up for the scratch breakfast. ‘So you and grandpa – broken the ice at last?’ she asked, as she loaded up her tray with the random selection.

Eddy shrugged. ‘Looks like it. Nothing like life and death situations to make you re-evaluate your priorities. Perhaps he’s realised life’s too short and I’m not such a waster after all.’

‘I must admit, even I’m a little bit impressed with you lately – but don’t let it go to your head. You’ve got a long way to go to get to grandfather’s level.’

‘Hell, I’m not even going to try! That man is a legend! See how he dealt with the raiders! Clint Eastwood, eat your heart out!’

`Eat up!’ Running Bear growled. ‘We need to get the snowbikes.’

‘Where we going?’

The old man nodded inland. ‘To my shack.’

Eddy had known about his grandfather’s hunting hut for a long while but hadn’t been invited to it since he was a boy. He had fond memories of going there on long trips out into the back-country – fishing, birding. Learning skills. Running Bear had so much knowledge but no one to pass it onto. He’d given his daughter a healthy grounding in wilderness skills, which had manifested in her lifetime study of herbal lore; but Eddy sensed he’d always wanted a son to share the hunting trips with. When Eddy discovered booze, weed, girls and rock’n’roll he lost interest, and his grandfather’s respect.

Only now, fourteen years later, was he finally joining his grandfather again.

He had strayed from the Red Road a long time… Nothing can bring back those lost years, he reflected. There is only now.  What we choose to do. How we act.

He resolved: time to make it count.

They made their way back to the house, and together forced open the garage doors. The two snow-mobiles took some warming up, but they were soon on their way.

The cabin was set back discreetly in its own little cove – overlooking the lake, but high enough above the shoreline not to be pestered by the midges. Hidden by pine trees, it would be almost impossible to spot from the water, or from the surrounding open country, until you were almost on top of it. When they pulled into the clearing in front of it, they discovered it half buried under snow, and spent a good hour clearing a way to the door, clearing the chimney stack and windows, before even opening the front door.

The cabin was dark inside, and chilly. But with a pot of coffee on the brew and the log-burner crackly away, it soon cheered up. 

Eddy sat down in the rickety old chair opposite his grandfather’s rocking chair with a sigh. It had been too long. The smell of place alone was enough to stir memories – herbs drying from the rafters, a cured ham, gun oil, damp clothes drying out, boots stuffed with newspaper and tubs of bait, mingled with the smell of the coffee.   

Running Bear rummaged about the seemingly random piles of kit, digging his way to a set of drawers buried beneath.

He pulled these to one side, and jimmied up a floorboard. With a groan of effort and pain he extricated something from underneath wrapped in an oilcloth.

‘Damn rib!’ Out of breath, he placed it between them on the rug before the fire, poured them both a tin mug of Joe. Handing one to his grandson, he finally sat down.   

For a while he sat watching the flames in the log burner, sipping his coffee.

Eddy knew better than to poke, so he just sat and waited.

The old man loaded up a couple more logs, and shut the door of the burner. ‘There was this explorer … a French Canadian fella named, let’s get this right: Pierre Gaultier de Varennes et de La Vérendrye. In the seventeen thirties he was out busy exploring west of the Great Lakes when he discovered an old stone carved with runes. He brought it back with him, but it was, ahem, mysteriously lost before it was transcribed. For centuries scholars have been speculating about it. Was it real? A hoax? The consequence of a marsh fever? An infection to the brain?’ He took a sip of coffee. ‘Hmm. Let them think what they want. I know different. It was ‘found’ by my ancestors – who took exception to this Frenchie taking what wasn’t his – kept it in their tribe for generations, passing it down from father to son, mother to daughter, until eventually old Running Bear here received it. And now, grandson, it’s time to pass it to you – a descendant of my line, but also of the New Icelanders.  Eddy Leif Redcrow, the so-called Vérendrye Runestone belongs to you now. Time for it to fulfil its destiny.’

Running Bear nodded to the oilcloth.

Eddy put down his mug, and nervously lifted back the flaps, to reveal the stone, its runic inscription catching the firelight. Looking closer he could make out strange drawings to, which he traced lightly with his index finger.

‘Do you know what it all means, grandfather?’

‘That’s for your friends to figure out. But see that warrior with the hammer fighting the serpent? Another battling with a wolf, losing a hand? The boat made of bones? I suspect it has something to do with what’s happening at the moment.’

Eddy’s eyes glistened. ‘Thank you, grandfather…’ He climbed over to him and gave the old man a hug.

‘Enough! We need to start back soon before we lose the light. I’ll just sort out my hunting kit – some of it may come in handy. We’ll head off in one hour, tops. Keep it safe, grandson. I’ve got a feeling it’s got an important role to play. It has travelled a long way through time and now its hour is fast approaching.’

***

Extract of Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

The Lighthouse

The Gimli Harbour Master's building and lighthouse, constructed in 1910, rebuilt 1974.

We are the Weavers and we weave the thread,

measuring the span of the quick, the dead.
Urd on her spindle, Verdandi, her rule,

And Skuld with the scissors to cut them all.

Chapter 27: The Lighthouse

The small group made their way through the freezing mist – the only sound, the breathing of Eddy and Siggy’s exertion, carrying the makeshift stretcher, and the occasional grunt of pain from their charge. The doctor walked on in front, stopping frequently to orientate himself in the defamiliarised streets – lit by sparse pools of sodium, the shadows between more of a presence than an absence. Flanking them, the two patches, irons poised, scanning the white silence for any hostile signals.

Eddy grunted with the effort, still weak from his epic ride. ‘How far is this med-centre again?’

‘It’s two, three blocks, tops,’ replied his sister, her speech manifesting as a cloud. ‘Keep you’re end up!’

‘That is, if ole Doc Halliday here can remember the way…’

The old physician had paused once again at a crossroads – the stop-light blinking its idiot signals to the snow-bound main street. A side-wind hit them, sending up flurries from the drifts.

‘Jeezus, come on doc, we’re freezing our butts off out here!’ said one of the patches, who was clutching his side.

‘Gonna fuckin’ bleed to death too!’ groaned the figure on the stretcher.

‘Gimme a moment. It all looks so strange like this…’

‘What? and you haven’t seen Gimli under snow before! How long have you lived here?’ complained the other.

‘Hey guys! Give him some space!’ said Siggy. ‘But do hurry up before my arms drop off!’

A trash can was knocked over, bottles spilling onto each other. Everyone froze. The patches raised their weapons in the same direction.

‘It’s gotta be a fox or something…’ said Eddy, teeth chattering.

‘Shhh!’ hissed his sister.

Out of the mist came a figure, walking in a haphazard way.

The old woman, dressed in a thick bath robe and once fluffy slippers, had restless, darting eyes and long, unruly hair. Her skin was like Egyptian parchment.

The doctor stepped forward. ‘Ah, Mrs Clutterbuck! You gave us all a fright! What are you doing out in this infernal weather? You’re not really dressed for it, are you?’

The patches relaxed, one cursing, the other spitting into the snow.

‘I heard horses…’ She scanned the blank printout of the mist. ‘Is there a parade today? I do love parades.’

‘Not today, Mrs Clutterbuck. Now, come along with us. You’ll catch your death like that. Let’s get you to the med-centre.’

‘Catch your death … the med-centre,’ she muttered, about turning and walking confidently off. 

‘Come on!’ said the doctor. ‘She knows the way, even in her sleep!’

‘Great! Now it’s the mad leading the blind!’ whispered Eddy.

Siggy shushed him, but smiled.

The group followed the woman as she walked down the street.

‘Hey, I recognise where we are now!’ puffed Siggy. ‘This is Highway 9. Look! That’s the Husky over there!’

On their right the gas station emerged, a couple of station wagons drifted over in the forecourt.

‘I can’t feel my arms anymore!’ moaned Eddy.

‘You big baby! Look at this guy. He’ll die if we don’t get him to the Health Centre!’

‘Hey! If I die, your dead, you hear! Dead fucking meat!’

Eddy looked down at the wounded gang member, tattooed face in profile.

‘Weren’t these guys just about to shoot the sheriff and take over the town?’

‘That’s by the by, now,’ said Siggy. ‘They’re part of our community, and they helped defend it. We owe them.’

Eddy thought of his old high school friend, Junkie Jon, as everyone called him. Got into the hard stuff. Hell, everyone tried everything back then – but Jon … he didn’t know when to stop. He’d never forget finding him in the shack, passed out. He thought he was dead. It had been close. But Eddy had managed to call an ambulance just in time. Jon’s life had been on the skids since dropping out of school. Eddy had tried to keep in touch, but it was hard. He was moving on, trying to make something of himself – admittedly not much – but he held down a job, even if it was in the local garage, and he had his band. Jon … all he had was Madame Heroin. The odd bit of folklore came back to him then, from a friend who had travelled to Thailand. They believed tobacco originated from the breasts of an old woman who died, and from her grave grew the plant where her nipples used to be. And from between her legs grew opium. It was the ultimate death trip.

He hoped he was okay.

Eddy was ripped back from his morbid reverie by his sister abruptly stopped, making him nearly drop the stretcher.

‘What gives, sis?’

‘Listen!’

Eddy strained to hear. Just the stifling silence of the mist. Their breathing. But then he felt it through his feet. Horses!

‘The raiders! They’re coming this way!’ whispered Siggy. ‘We need to get off this road! Mrs Clutterbuck! Mrs Clutterbuck!’

The old lady carried on shuffling along the avenue, oblivious.

‘There’s nothing we can do. Come on!’ Eddy insisted, dragging his sister away.

Reaching the junction of Centre Street, they swung left, and hurried down the sidewalk,  hugging the walls close.

‘That doorway!’ the doctor pointed to the covered entrance to a store.

They just made cover when the riders appeared – dark silhouettes with cloaks and crossbows.

‘Who the fuck are they? The Nazgul?’ Eddy breathed.

The riders galloped straight past, heading south.

For a heartbeat they thought they had got away with it; but then the thunder of hooves stopped, and resumed, getting closer again.

‘Fuck!’ whispered Siggy.

The riders appeared at the junction, and turned their snorting steeds towards them. They wore what looked like black skull masks beneath hoods. The eyes and mouths of the horses glowed with fire.

‘Run!’ screamed Siggy.

The patches covered their flight, firing at the approaching riders, who appeared and disappeared in the mist.

Eddy didn’t see what became of them, just heard their screams.

They struggled on, but with the man on the stretcher it was pointless. It would only be a matter of seconds before the riders caught them up. The cars strewn across the road broke their gallop and bought them some time, but not much. Their pursuers took to the sidewalk. There must have been a dozen of them. One took aim, and a crossbow bolt whizzed by Eddy’s head, shattering a shop window.

‘Go! Leave me!’ muttered the wounded man.

‘We can’t!’ cried the doctor, gasping for breath.

‘I owe these bastards. I’ve got some bullets left.’

Eddy nodded, and Siggy reluctantly lowered the stretcher.

They ran on, helping the doctor, who was beside himself with fear. Behind, they heard the gunshots. A horse whinnied; then, a scream.

They made it past Fifth Avenue, Fourth, before the riders appeared again.

Eddy felt a stitch starting to develop. Siggy was faster, and helped the doctor. He wished he had a gun, something!

They pushed on past Third, but by Second the riders had caught them up; were upon them. Crossbow bolts whistled by their ears. One struck the doctor in the leg and he howled in pain, toppled over, taking Siggy with him.

‘Sizzers!’

Eddy crumpled by her side, shielding her protectively with his body.

The riders formed a half-circle around them, their steeds snorting fire. Taking their time, they reloaded their crossbows, then, as one they raised their weapons.

The scene around them took on a surreal vividness. Here they were, right on the main drag: first avenue. A sign read ‘Welcome to Gimli: your place in the sun’. A signpost pointed to the ‘historic’ Harbour Masters Building and Lighthouse, and the Lake Winnipeg Visitor Centre beyond. Had he come all this way, endure so much, on to die here, on this crummy Centre Street?

‘Fenja…’ was his last thought.

Then there was the deafening report of a rifle and a rider went down, blasted off the back of his horse, which reared up, panicked the others. The formation broke, and another rider went down.

It took a moment for Eddy to work out what was going on.

‘I know the sound of that rifle!’ shouted Siggy. ‘The lighthouse, now!’

Lifting up the doctor, they frogmarched him towards the Harbour Masters Office, where the tell-tale flash of a rifle could be glimpsed from the lighthouse.

They scrambled inside and collapsed.

A man in a winter hunting gear appeared at the foot of the stairs wielding a rifle. He made his way to the door and checked the street, before closing it, and pushing a chair against it.

‘Think we’re safe for now. I’ve given ’em something to think about.’ The man pulled back his hood and yanked off the balaclava from his face.

‘Grandfather! I knew it was you!’ Siggy leapt up and gave the old man a hug.

‘Ow! Steady now, you’ll break me in two!’ he chuckled, wincing in pain.

‘Are you hurt?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ Running Bear pushed her away. ‘Quit your fussing. Worst than the wife, Great Mystery protect her.’

‘Here, let me have a look.’ The doctor got shakily to his feet. He looked done in, thought Eddy. Still in shock.

Nevertheless, his professional concern took over. ‘Take off your jacket; open your shirt. Sit down, don’t move.’

‘One sec there, doc. Here, can you use this thing?’ Running Bear offered Eddy the rifle.

Eddy was surprised. His grandfather had barely spoken to him since he’d got back. ‘You used to take me hunting, remember?’

‘Oh? I’d forgotten! Thought you weren’t interested in that stuff anymore! Just motorbikes, guitars and girls.’

‘Well, they have their appeal…’ Eddy smiled, but took the rifle with a nod.

‘Keep your eyes peeled. From the tower. Best spot.’ The old man finally settled and let himself be poked and tested.

Siggy nodded. ‘He’ll be fine with me. Do what he says!’

Eddy knew better than protest. He made his way up the lighthouse and sat in the eye, keeping watch down the street. He found a blanket and a pair of binoculars, plus a spare round of ammo.

Dropping down wearily, he settled in for the vigil. There wasn’t anything moving out there. He could just make out the Chinese, and the Art Club, the flats with the Robin beneath, and the quayside parking. Adrenalin alone kept him alert. That was a close call!

Eddy had nearly nodded off, when his grandfather appeared at the top of the stairs, carrying a flask of coffee. ‘You’re not sleeping on the job, are you?’

‘What? No, gramps. I’ve been awake the whole time.’

‘Move over, give me that. Here, this’ll help.’

Running Bear exchanged the gun for the flask. He checked the barrel and the sights, and scanned the street.

‘I thought you were meant to be resting?’ Eddy smiled, filling the cup. ‘Do you want any?’

‘No thanks. Can’t sleep. Doc patched me up, said I had a broken rib. I had to climb over a fence when I first ran into the raiders. Landed badly. Ain’t as nimble as I used to be!’

‘Grandpa, you’re amazing! You have saved practically the whole of Gimli from the raiders, single-handedly! You’re a hero!’

Running Bear snorted at that. Watched the street.

‘How’s Siggy?’

‘She’s resting. Tough one, that grand-daughter of mine. You could do with some of her grit, boy.’

Eddy sipped his coffee, smirking.

His grandfather turned. ‘I can hear you smiling. What’s so funny?’

‘Oh, just thinking about how I’ve fought with armed biker gangs, giants, a monstrous serpent, and I rode across the Atlantic ocean… I guess that doesn’t count as grit?’

Running Bear gave him a hard look. ‘Grit is about being reliable when the chips are down, about digging in and making it count. Not going off, having fairy tale adventures!’ He coughed, and winced.

‘Take it easy, gramps. I guess you set the bar high when it comes to grit.’

The old man stared out at the misty vista. ‘It’s a hard, hard world out there. You need to be tough to survive, boy.’

‘I’m doing my best.’

‘You need to do better. You need to be the strong one, when I’m gone. Someone has to look after the family. ‘ Another coughing fit.

Eddy took a long sip of coffee. This was a prospect he wasn’t anticipating.

‘Gramps, we need to get to the health centre, get supplies, head back to the sports hall with the doc. People may need us.’

‘We ain’t going nowhere till sun up. The raiders … I’ve got a feeling they’re nocturnal. We’ve got a good three hours till first light. Drink up that coffee. And tell me about your trip. It’s going to be a long night…’

***

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

The Meeting

Announcement on Gimli XYZ (broadcast every 15 minutes)

There will be an emergency public meeting today in the Sports Centre at 11am, where all concerns will be addressed. Attendance is highly recommended. Hot drinks and essential supplies will be available.

Chapter 26: The Meeting

The sports hall was ‘rammed to the gunnels’ as Eddy heard an old fisherman comment, muttering to his equally salty looking mate, both shaking the snow from their sou’westers.

‘Must be half of Gimli here!’ observed Magnus, pushing his way in.

Eddy, Siggy, and Sitting Cloud followed in his wake. The running joke in the family was ‘Dad’s a good icebreaker’, which the old man always took as a compliment.

Magnus waved to some folks they couldn’t see, and waved them over. In one corner of the hall, at the far end of the seats, there was an enclave of their father’s drinking cronies – a grab-bag of New Icelanders, First Nation and Métis, all north of fifty and proudly sporting bellies like walruses. Some sported the whiskers too, beneath their baseball caps and beanies. Everywhere the snow melted from hats and coats and boots and formed little puddles on the wooden floor.

Magnus squeezed in with his buddies, but Eddy and Siggy had to stand. The atmosphere was one of anxious excitement. Neighbours exchanged stories animatedly about snow-drifts, power-outs, dwindling supplies, mishaps, and strange sights.

‘This freak winter has been the most exciting thing to happen to Gimli since, well, the Ice Age,’ observed Siggy, rolling her eyes, then yawning. ‘Anyhow, how’s Scott of the Antarctic doing?’

Eddy shrugged. ‘Still feel like I’ve done ten rounds with the Polar Pounder.’

‘It’s going to take a while to get back to your usual lazy self. All that exertion has caused an allergic reaction.’

‘Hey!’

Before Eddy could get his sister back, there were ‘shushes’ as the Mayor tapped the mike.

They both looked at him with contempt. Sonny Thornson smoothed down his ridiculous wig, which looked like a bird nesting on his head. He wore an open necked shirt under his orange quilted jacket, trying his best to look like a ‘regular Joe’ who didn’t get chauffeured around. His shoes didn’t even have snow on them.

‘Good morning, citizens of Gimli! Thank you for coming down to our makeshift civic hall. Sorry we couldn’t put the heating on. Save costs, save oil, save the planet, y’know. Ha ha.’ The groans made him shift uneasily, clear his throat.  ‘Guess that’s why we’re all here! Unusual times, my friends, unusual times. But … the true grit of Gimli shines through! We’ve endured bad winters before, and we can get through this one together! Community spirit and all that. We realise some of you are struggling out there, so I figured let’s get everyone together and we can join the dots. Find out how your neighbours are doing, especially the elderly and infirm. If they need a hand. Some groceries or some wood splitting. Those who can help those who can’t. It’s as simple as that.’

‘Figured you needed some help, then Sonny? Is that it?’ someone heckled, and folk laughed.

‘Ha, ha. Well, it’s true I’m not the most practical men. But we all have skills.’

‘What’s your’s? Bullshitting?’

Thornson’s smile dropped and he leant over to his aide, whispered something. Then the smile returned. ‘Anyhow, there’s a board over the coffee. Post its and pens. Two lists – ‘Needs’ and ‘Offers’. Write up what you’re in need of, or what you can offer your fellow citizens. Teamwork, folks. Meantime, the mike is here for any who have something to say – but play nice! First up though, I’d like to welcome up Sheriff Rivet.’

There was a mild ripple of applause – so half-hearted it was hard to tell if it was for the Mayor’s underwhelming performance or a polite gesture to the next speaker.

Ava Rivet nodded curtly to the mayor and took the mike. She was a strong-nosed, long-boned kind of woman, with grey eyes that never missed a trick. She scanned the crowd professionally. Tapped the mike. ‘Okay, citizens. Listen up. I’m not going to sprinkle hundreds and thousands on it. We’ve got a serious situation here.’ She gave the audience a sober look. Everyone knew Rivet, some personally. Eddy had even spotted her at bars in town, before she got hitched. She had enjoyed karaoke, and could fix a mean cocktail. But since walking the aisle with Sten, and having a couple of kids, she had settled down some. Had worked her way up from community police officer, working the reservations. As a Métis, she had been able to negotiate some of the complexities of tribal politics better than most. Eddy had respect for her, even though he had found himself in the back of her wagon a few too many times. Normally, she had driven him home, gave him a good ticking off, and told him to straighten up. She liked the Runestones too much to throw him in jail for more than a night. It was this sense of fairness and common sense that had won her over most of the population of Gimli, although there were inevitable enemies too. Thornson and his cronies had never warmed to her. Too decent, Eddy thought. And then there was the bad bunch in the corner, B.Z. or ‘Wendigo’, as he tagged himself these days, and his bloods – the ones everyone gave a wide berth too. Surprised to see them here, he pondered, but maybe they scented a weakening herd. What better way to identify the weak ones? Simply read the ‘needs’ list; or even the ‘offers’. It must be like a sweet-shop for them. He shuddered, returned his attention to Rivet, who seemed to be the only one talking sense around here.

‘You’re probably aware of most of what I’m going to tell you, but just so everyone is tuned into the same channel here. All roads are blocked, and even the snowploughs are snowed in. So, the trucks … they ain’t getting through. The same for surrounding settlements, so snow-mobiles aren’t going to help you much unless you’re good at hunting. The stores are running low, so stockpile and ration your supplies carefully. We lost contact with the State office several days ago, and all internet and satellite-based comms are down. All we have is the shortwave radio – and the network of radio hams sharing whatever they know. It sounds pretty grim out there. I think we have to assume we’ve got to rely upon ourselves here. But we’re Manitobans. I know we can do that. Keep your family close. Stay safe. Look out for each other. Check in on your neighbours. We’ll keep this hall open as a central meeting point, info-hub, and as an emergency shelter. Donations of sleeping bags, mats, camp-beds, tins of food, bottled water, blankets, and so on, most welcome. We’ve requisitioned back up supplies, but please spare what you can.’ She gave Thornson a look. ‘Thank you.’

Rivet stepped away from the mike. A muted silence lingered in the wake of her announcement, as folk digested what she had said. It was one thing, fearing the worst, but another thing knowing it.

‘Cool! It’s like one of those survival movies!’

‘Don’t be an idiot, Eddy. This is serious stuff. Folk are going to suffer!’ Siggy as ever, was the sensible one.

‘Maybe I can offer a song?’ he said, lamely.

‘I think they’re going to need more than a singalong to get through this.’

Somebody had taken the mike and they looked up. They both groaned. ‘Oh no! Old Snorey’s got the mike!’

It was Snorri, a spry New Icelander in his late seventies. An old friend of their late grandfather, they had grown up, hearing his stories – sagas that seemed to go on for days. He was a long-distance runner, but seemed to forget his audience didn’t share his stamina.

‘My friends, I am sorry to also be the bearer of bad news. I am no Ratatosk. Old Snorri speaks the truth. This really does seem like Ragnarok…’

Groans and moans from the crowd.

‘But Ragnarok,’ he stubbornly continued, ‘is the twilight of the Gods! Not us. Old Snorri, he still gets out and about. I see folk, see their strength. Us Gimlungar are tough old cookies.’ This got a few cheers. ‘This winter … it’s hard, I know. Real hard.’ He looked around, his eyes moist as he surveyed the drawn faces. ‘But maybe it is also a tabula rasa, a blank slate. A chance for the world to stop, take stock. Try it a different way, maybe. We are forging a new myth everyd—’

‘Get off!’ someone shouted. A half cup of coffee was thrown.

‘Step into your legend!’ he shouted defiantly.

‘Change the record, old man!’ heckled another.

‘Rise to your greatness! Giants may walk the land … but we can be the true giants! I believe in you, Gimlungar!’

Cheers drowned out the heckles,  but Rivet coaxed Snorri away.

She banged on the mike until there was silence. ‘Hey! Everyone gets a chance to speak! That’s the deal! Any more of that and you’re spending the night in a concrete cell!’

The crowd settled down.

Snorri sat back down, getting a few pats on the back and words of appreciation.

Next up, came a group of middle-aged women in shawls and scarves.

‘Oh no. Now it’s the weavers!’ Eddy groaned, but Siggy nudged him.

‘Sshhh! Let the sisters speak. Talk more sense than most idiot men!’

The women were a mixture of New Icelander, First Nation and Métis. There was about a dozen of them, ranging in age from fourteen to eighty. Ostensibly a weaving circle, they always freaked Eddy out a bit. He joked they were probably a coven of witches, but his sister told him they just shared ‘women’s stuff’ and he was just threatened by that, being a knuckle-headed male.

‘We see how things are unravelling,’ spoke one, silver haired in black.

‘Though things were pretty threadbare to begin with!’ added another, in purple.

‘That president has certainly lost the thread!’ quipped a third, in pink, which got a laugh.

‘In these unstrung times,’ continued the first, ‘it is more important than ever to stick together. The ties of the community will be tested. They are strong here, but the weakest may snap. We must be prepared to pick up the slack. Stitch things back together.’

‘We see the pattern – the warp and weft of things. Danger is coming. Mark our words!’

‘More loonies!’ shouted someone.

‘Mother Earth is weeping!’ cried a young member of their circle. ‘Her bones are frozen, her skin cracked. The fracking made her bleed. They tear out her hair; pluck her children from her breast…’

The weavers started to keen, making the atmosphere in the room even icier.

‘Her very life-blood – the ocean – is solid ice! When will Man learn to mend his ways? To honour the Mother? To—’

Before anyone could stop him, the gang leader, BZ, grabbed the mike, his bloods pushing back the women. ‘Enough of this apocalypse shit. We know what’s going down. It’s every man for himself, people. Only the strong will survive. We’ve got the firepower to defend our turf.’ BZ pulled back his jacket to reveal the iron stuffed in his pants. ‘No fuckers gonna starve on my watch, while they pay me respect.’

‘Yeah!’ hollered his bloods.

‘Wendigo will look after you!’ he boasted, pulling out his gun and pointing it to the ceiling.

‘Wendigo! Wendigo!’ chanted the gang.

‘Drop that weapon, now!’ shouted Rivet, her pistol pointing at the leader.

‘Hey, cool, bitch! I’m just talking, as is my right! Everyone gets a turn, yeah?’ BZ smiled, revealing gold teeth.

‘I’m going to count to three and if that gun isn’t on the floor you will be,’ spoke Rivet slowly, calmly.

The bloods all pulled their weapons on her.

A couple of Rivet’s officers levelled up to them with their own standard issue firearms. It was three against fifteen.

‘She is outnumbered! They’ll gun her down in cold blood!’ whispered Siggy, grabbing Eddy as she trembled.

Eddy wished some of the Wild Hunt were here to teach those punks the meaning of respect.

The crowd tensed, watching the standoff.

‘One … two …’

Suddenly, everyone’s attention was distracted by a figure staggering in, covered in blood. Screams reverberated around the hall, as he fell limply to the ground – his back with a crossbow bolt sticking out of it.

‘What the hell…?’ said Eddy.

Rivet lifted up her weapon, and backed away from BZ. She made her way over the man. Leaned in close to hear him splutter something with his dying breath.

She pointed to her deputies. ‘Lock those doors, now!’ she bellowed.

‘Hey, Rivet – what gives?’ asked BZ.

The sheriff stood up, checked her weapon. ‘There is some kind of gang of raiders out there. We need to defend our people. That means you and your gang. Now, are you with us, or against us?’

The citizens watched for his reaction.

Feeling their eyes burn into him, BZ cricked his neck. ‘If there’s fighting involved…’ he raised his arms, ‘I’m your man. Bloods!’ He whistled and his gang members stepped forward. ‘Remember this people – Wendigo saved your asses.’

Rivet signalled to her deputies. ‘You two – stay here. We need some firepower on the inside, just in case. If you don’t hear my voice, don’t let anybody in, you hear? No one!’

She joined BZ and his gang and, guns pointing forward, walked into blizzard raging outside.

Emil and Wichiwa slammed the door behind them, and locked it, pushing chairs under the handles.

‘Stay calm people. Just keep away from the doors and windows,’ commanded Wichiwa, who was short but had a big voice on her.

Magnus, and some of the others, started to gather folk together into huddles – for mutual reassurance as much as anything. The more able-bodied stood in the perimeter of the circles of lesser-abled men, women, children and elderly. Eddy was one of them, standing guard by his mother and her friends. Nobody is getting near my family, he snarled inside. He just wished he had a weapon on him.

Eddy looked at disgust at the mayor cowering amid a group of women.

The crowd visibly flinched when gun shots split through the night, flashes lighting up the windows. Fortunately, these were high up. Out of reach.

‘Firefight,’ said Siggy, looking gaunt.

‘Whose winning?’ asked Sitting Cloud, visibly shaken.

‘Guess we’ll find out in a minute,’ observed Magnus, thumbing a wadge of tobacco into his pipe.

The gunfire abruptly stopped, filling the hall with the sound of breathing overlaying the outer sound of the blizzard buffeting against the roof and doors.

A bang on the main doors made everyone jump.

‘It’s Rivet. Let us in.’

The two deputies hesitated.

‘Get on with it, boneheads! We’re dying out here!’

Emil and Wichiwa kicked away the chairs, and stood back, weapons raised.

The doors were barged open and Rivet came in, carrying one of the wounded gang members. BZ, slick in blood, brought up the rear with seven others, two limping.

‘The doors! Tables! And the doc!’

Rivet laid her load onto one of the tables quickly pulled over. The gang member – a young Dakotan – was in a bad way, clutching a gut wound. While he was seen to by the elderly doctor who came forward, Rivet addressed the crowd.

‘We’ve seen them off for now.’ She slumped onto a chair. Somebody handed her a hipflask. ‘They seemed to be riding horses and firing crossbows, for crying out loud!’ She took a sip, and then offered it to BZ.

The gang leader had a bloodied towel around his neck, with which he had wiped the worst from his face. He seemed unhurt. He nodded and accepted. ‘They took down six of my bloods! But we got ‘em back! Kicked their butt, and sent ‘em running for now, the medieval muvvafukkas.’ His hand shook as he took a swig.

‘Not just us,’ added Rivet, accepting it back. ‘Someone out there with a hunting rifle drew them away.’ She raised the hipflask in toast. ‘Whoever they are, we thank you!’

‘Who are they?’ demanded the mayor, trying to assume authority again.

Everyone ignored him, focused on tending to the wounded.

‘Who is attacking us? Why?’ he asked, to no one in particular.

Snorri paced about, twitching at every blast of the blizzard rattling the doors. ‘The Sons of Muspel, as the Edda predicts.’

Angry citizens harangued him, ‘Quit you’re fool-talk, old man!’

‘Whoever they are,’ interjected Rivet, ‘they are going to be back and we need to be ready for them.’

‘Here, we’re sitting ducks!’ raged BZ. ‘We need to take the fight to them!’

‘In this weather?’ scoffed Rivet. ‘With what exactly?’

‘We know this land better than any outsider. We have the advantage. If I can get to our clubhouse … we could sort them out, no sweat.’

Rivet rolled her firing shoulder. ‘Safety in numbers. As soon as we split up, we’re vulnerable. They’ll pick us off, one by one.’

‘I’m not talking about everyone going, like it’s some kind of fucking Pumpkin Ride, Rivet! Just my bloods. It’ll draw them away.’

The sheriff shook her head. ‘We need you guys here. You’re the only defence we have against those things. Stay. BZ, these people need you.’

‘Hear that boys, I’m a fucking hero! Maybe folk will start to give me and my crew the respect we is due!’ His gang cheered. ‘Okay, sheriff. We’ll play it your way, for now.’

Rivet nodded to him.

 ‘We need to get the wounded to the med centre,’ spoke the doctor. ‘If they’re going to survive the night. And we will need medical supplies, by the looks of things.’

‘I’m not sure…’ said Rivet.

‘I’ll go with them,’ spoke Eddy, surprising at himself.

‘Me too,’ said Siggy.

‘But you have no protection!’ said Rivet.

‘I think I know who is out there, and if anyone will have our back, he will,’ said Eddy.

Siggy smiled. They both knew.

‘Okay,’ Rivet agreed. ‘Make a stretcher for this fella. Take the other two walking wounded with you. They have their own guns. We can’t spare anymore. Good luck, and hurry back!’

Eddy looked to his mother and father, who held each other close. ‘I promise,’ he said.

***

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

Home

Ten things to do in Gimli, Manitoba: the heart of New Iceland

GIMLI XYZ: breaking news

Remember everybody’s favourite rocker, Eddy Redcrow, lead singer and guitarist of good old Gimli boys, The Runestone Cowboys? He was on a vacation in Europe when the Icelandic volcano went up and has been missing ever since. Well, would you know it, he turned up in a snowdrift a couple of days ago – nearly dead with hypothermia, but I’m assured he is back home and thawing out. Some of ma’s broth will do the trick! We send him our best wishes for a speedy recovery, and hope to hear his rock’n’roll again soon.

Chapter 25: Home

A bed. He was lying in a soft bed. With clean-smelling sheets, a thick duvet, a heavy blanket or two thrown on top. That was the first thing he became aware of. His eyes were still shut; he couldn’t bear to open them … yet. His body ached all over and it was only in the snug pockets of sleep that he could find refuge. He burrowed into its hollows, trying to grab the tail of his last dream. Something about soaking in a geothermal pool with Fenja – his poor old bones absorbing the heat, slowly thawing out. Now and then Fenja would kiss him with her ice-cold lips, sending shivers up his spine. This would alternate with the bubbles of heat from the water. And he would swing between the two almost unbearable extremes – freezing and scolding. But then the sulphurous reek of the water was displaced by a waft of freshly brewing coffee. The muted sound of talking on a radio blending with voices in the room. Familiar voices.

He opened his eyes.

Mom! Dad! He’s awake!’ It was the voice of his sister, Siggy. She was holding his hand and weeping.

‘Sizzers…’ he croaked.

Wiping the tears away with the cuff of her thick sweater, she gave him a soft punch. ‘You’re late, you bastard!’

‘Ow!’

‘Don’t kill him, dear. Though he deserves it.’ His mother, Sitting Cloud, walked slowly into the room. Always a big woman, she seemed even rounder than usual. ‘Come here, you!’ She came up to him and buried his face in the mound of her belly. He breathed in the familiar smell – warm wool, baking. He felt the hot tears rise within him.

‘So you’re not dead then.’ It was the gruff voice of his father, Magnus.

Eddy pulled back and saw his father standing there, arm round his wife. Still, a mountain of a man, glacial eyes staring out from the crag of his face, he nevertheless looked shockingly older, frailer, than the last time Eddy had seen him. It had only been three months, but it looked like they had taken their toll.

Eddy tried to sit up, and winced.      

‘Hey! Don’t move, idiot!’ Siggy punched him again.

‘Why, so I can be your punchbag?’ he grinned.

Her frown melted briefly and she folded her arms – her long dark hair was wild and it looked like she hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep, but it warmed his heart to see her, to see them all.

‘You’re one lucky son of a bitch, son.’ His father pulled out his pipe and started filling it, despite the glare from his wife. ‘Sheriff Rivet and her deputy found you in a snowdrift. If they hadn’t been riding by at that time, you would have been dead in a couple of hours. They lugged your frozen ass to the med-centre, where they kept you in overnight. We came and got you the next day and you’ve been asleep for the last couple of days. Lazy, as ever.’ He flicked his Zippo and drew the flame into the wodge of tobacco. The familiar reek wafted towards him.

‘Get that pipe out of here! You know better, husband!’

Magnus held up his hands in surrender. ‘We’ll jaw later, son.’ Pipe clenched in teeth, hands thrust in the pockets of his baggy jeans, he sauntered off.

His mother tested his brow. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Like I’ve done ten rounds with a grizzly.’

They all laughed at that, his sister on one side, his mother opposite. He felt held by their love.

‘I can’t believe I’m back!’ he said, wincing as he tried to move.

‘We thought …’ his mother stopped, choked with tears.

‘What happened to you, asshole! Last we heard you were chasing tail at some bikerfest!’ She went to punch him again, but her mother froze her with a stare.

‘Hey, sizzers, I’m the invalid here! You need to work on your bedside manner, sis!’

‘Siggy deserves an explanation, son. We all do.’

His sister gave him a furious glare.

He sighed. Where should he start? ‘It’s a long story…’ was all he could manage for now.

‘Well, we’re not going anywhere,’ said his mother. ‘This freak winter has set in. Gimli’s cut off! Things are bad, real bad.’

‘Where did you come from, bro? How did you get here? They found a bike with … Nazi shit all over it … A fricking bike!’

Eddy coughed violently, body wrenched forward as he gasped for breath, until he flopped back on the pillows. The chill was still inside him. He felt all wrung out.

‘We should let him rest. The story can wait.’

His sister gave him a sly pinch. ‘It’d better be a good one.’

Eddy looked out at the backyard, transformed, in the sharp morning light, into a miniature snowscape – familiar details rendered unfamiliar, grotesque, misshapen. This had been no ordinary snowfall. The drifts nearly reached the first floor. Magnus and Siggy had done their best to keep the front and back doors clear, but it was an endless task. The house was well-heated and the cupboards and freezer well-provisioned. They were used to serious winters, after all. But their little bubble of warmth felt vulnerable. Only Eddy seemed to know how vulnerable. His family talked of the weather, and President Koil being even more of an asshole than usual, but nothing else. Satellites were down and they only had the local radio to rely on news – which was restricted to the area around Lake Manitoba. Sure, there had been some weird shit on the internet before that went south, but that was nothing unusual. You can’t believe everything you see on there, as his father was fond to point out.

Eddy took a sip of his coffee and shuddered.

He still felt weak, but he was not going to die. The spark inside him was still alight. He thought of Fenja – her gift to him – and he sent a quiet prayer of gratitude out to her. If she hadn’t appeared when she had done … he would have been giant pizza.

Eddy shook his head as he thought of all he had seen and endured. How could he begin to describe what he had experienced?  The sky was as lively as ever – great movements of clouds swept across it. While they sheltered in their little community, gods and monsters duked it out for the fate of humankind.

And he still had a part to play in it.

He had to find the runestone. The only person who would know would be his grandpa.

Running Bear was fussing about outside, packing away his kit. He had just returned from a hunting trip, but instead of coming in to meet him, the old man had prioritised his packdown, his kills – lugging the deer he had shot into the shed and butchering it while it was fresh. The blood trickled out onto the virgin snow, forming a crimson question mark. Eddy waved to him from the porch, huddled in a blanket, but Running Bear just plain ignored him, absorbed in his task, or doing his best to cold shoulder him.

His sister came out and huddled next to him.

‘Have I offended him in some way?’

‘Don’t mind him. You know what he’s like. He’s missed you as much as the rest of us, perhaps even more. But he doesn’t like to show it. Maybe he is mad too. He’s always mad about something these days. Fracking. Federal taxes. The league results. The latest tweet from that dick Koil or propaganda from Patriot News. Give him time.’

Eddy watched the old bear shamble about, lugging another box from the back of his snow-mobile, face hidden by his fur-trimmed hat and hood, goggles and scarf.

‘Come inside, before you catch your death! Mom’s made some brownies.’

When they went inside their mother told them to ‘go on through’ and she’ll bring them in. Eddy and Siggy walked through to the sitting room, where Magnus was watching his favourite DVD, Nashville Lives, which featured country and western artistes performing sentimental ballads. The air was thick with pipe smoke.

‘Hey, Dad, how’s it going?’ asked Eddy, speculatively, sitting down on the end of the sofa nearest to his father.

‘How’s it going, son?’ Magnus blew out a cloud. ‘Not good. Not good at all. We’ve got enough fuel to last another month, if this keeps up; and with an extra mouth to feed, food to last a fortnight. The roads are impassable. We can reach the nearest communities on snowmobile, but they’re all in the same boat. No supplies are getting through. We’re left to fend for ourselves, as usual. Rely upon our own resources. Just like the old days.’

‘Oh, come on, Dad! The government aren’t just gonna let us starve, surely?’

Magnus gave his daughter a look. ‘You wanna bet? We haven’t heard anything from the State Department since this started. I reckon they’re in the same boat as us. Everyone’s probably been sent home. Every man, woman or pencil-dick for themselves.’

‘Same old story,’ said Sitting Cloud, carrying in a tray of brownies. ‘Good job the womenfolk are around to help everyone but themselves. Here tuck in. They’re the last batch I can muster.’

Eddy and Siggy both reached for them at the same time, squabbling playfully.

‘Is there any fresh coffee in there?’ asked Magnus.

‘Get off your butt, beloved, and go and find out! I’m sitting down! Been on my feet all morning! As usual!’ Sitting Cloud flumped into the armchair opposite her husband.

Magnus moaned, and got to his feet, shuffling off to the kitchen.

Sitting Cloud quickly reached for the remote and turned down the music, giving them a wink.

A contented silence descended, as the siblings tucked in.

‘Mmm, Mom. You’re brownies are the best. Boy, have I missed them! I can’t let my sister eat them all, otherwise she’ll turn into a fat squaw that nobody would want to marry!’

‘You!’ Siggy whacked him with her spare hand. ‘And nobody would want to marry you, jerk off! Dumped by your girlfriend in Italy! Well, that was a surprise! What number is that now? I’ve lost count! By the way, your exes send their love … not! What a loser!’

Eddy finished his brownie, licking the crumbs from his fingers. ‘Well, as it happens, this “loser” has a new girlfriend now! Sounds like you found her…’

Siggy and Sitting Cloud exchanged looks. ‘Okay, cat-who-got-the-cream. Do tell.’

‘She’s Nordic. Her name is Fenja Bergrisar. I picked her up while riding back across Europe. She was heading to a biker gathering in the Isle of Man – a small island in the centre of the British Isles. She was the reason I didn’t get on that flight. I just had to find her again.’

‘She must be quite something…’ said his mother.

‘She is. Like … nothing on Earth.’

Siggy frowned. ‘A brainless bimbo, to end up with a dead-end like you!’

‘Hey! take that back! She is not a “brainless bimbo”! She helped me get home.’

‘How did she do that, son?’ Magnus stood in the doorway, mug of steaming coffee in his hand.

They all looked at Eddy, curious, expectant.

‘She … pulled some strings.’

‘I can smell bullshit,’ said Magnus, sitting back down. ‘Hey, who turned my music down?’

‘Fen is … well connected. She really saved my ass, out there.’

‘Out there?’ asked Siggy.

He gestured widely. ‘On the ice. I rode home. Across the ocean.’

‘You what?’ Siggy shook her head in disbelief. ‘Oh boy, you’ve really lost it this time, baby brother!’

‘It’s true. The Lake is frozen, right? You can see that with your own eyes. Wondered why no ships have got through? The whole fucking ocean is frozen! I rode from Britain to Iceland to here…’

They all started speaking at once, but a cough from the doorway made them stop. Grandfather Running Bear stood there, slightly steaming as his damp clothing started to dry out.

‘It is true, what he says. I have seen the ocean. It is frozen. The Earth is frozen.’

‘Grandfather!’ Eddy went to get to his feet, to hug him, but the old man brushed past him and sat by the window.

Siggy placed a consoling hand on Eddy’s knee, and went to her grandfather with the tray of brownies. The old man nodded and ate it in silence. They waited for him to finish.

‘My grandson has ridden the White Road…’

‘But Grandfather! It was the Red Road that saved me. All that you taught me. It helped me stay alive on the ice.’

The old man brushed the crumbs from his plaid shirt. ‘You turned your back on the Red Road a long time ago, grandson. You play in that joke band, the “Runestone Cowboys”. You hang out with bikers. You date a Nordic girl.’

Eddy hit the sofa with his fist. ‘I have travelled thousands of miles, enduring all kinds of dangers, to make it back here, grandfather! Because I care for you all! I was worried about you all. I wanted to be back with my people, more than anything in the world!’ He shook with anger.

Sitting Cloud shuffled over to him and held her son to her breast.

‘Actually, if you really did all those things … that’s pretty impressive, brother! Even for you.’

‘The Dakota in you is strong, grandson, I do not doubt that. It is you who has denied it all these years, with your drink and drugs, your bikes and rock music. All along I have invited you to walk the good Red Road with me. All along you have chosen to walk the other way. I can only hold the gate open for so long. Your grandfather will not be here forever. Who will pass on the traditions then? Who will remember the old ways?’ Tears streamed from his eyes.

Siggy got to her feet and hugged Running Bear.

Magnus looked at them all. ‘What is this? An episode of Jerry Springer? And what is wrong with the “White Road”, anyway? What about my ancestors, my traditions? Isn’t anyone interested in those?’

The rest of them ignored him.

‘I’m actually glad to hear my son has been showing interest in the Nordic side of things. I would like to meet this Fenja. She sounds like a nice girl.’

‘Oh, shut up!’ Siggy, Sitting Cloud and Running Bear cried as one; but Eddy caught his eye and saw Magnus wink back at him.

***

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

Coastguard

Praise day at even, a wife when dead,
a weapon when tried, a maid when married,
ice when ’tis crossed, and ale when ’tis drunk.

                                                              Hávamál

Harley winter Stock Photos, Royalty Free Harley winter Images |  Depositphotos®

Chapter 24: Coastguard


Eddy rode on. That is all he did, for that was all he knew. He was close to getting frozen to his bike. Man and machine in perfect harmony – yeah, right. Eddy felt as clapped out as his ride, which rattled in an alarming fashion. It had taken a battering back there, as had he. Lucky to get out of that Coastguard tub alive. When he thought of those frozen corpses… At least he had a bag of food and a can of gas, but how long was that going to last him, realistically? A couple of days before he ran out of fuel, a couple of more before the food went. He’d been on the ‘road’ now, if you could call it that, for at least four, maybe five days now. He should be there, going by Rig’s estimates, but that wasn’t factoring in the extreme conditions, the giants and abysses, zombie coast-guards and leviathans. It was turning into a salty seadog tale in his imagination already – rime of the ancient fucking mariner. His stubble was frosted with frozen brine, so he had the look right. With his mix of First Nation and Icelandic blood, he’d never been able to grow a full beard, just ‘bum-fluff’ as his sister liked to call it. But he felt grizzled enough – an Arctic explorer. Well, it was in his blood, if Grandpa Gunnar was to be believed: descended from Leif Ericsson himself. How that squared up, he didn’t know, as he thought the Icelanders of Gimli were all descended from Mormons who had come over in the eighteen hundreds. But Gunnar had been insistent. Some of Leif’s men had settled. Had there not been archaeological remains on Greenland? Other possible sites on the north-east coast of America? As always, Eddy’s grandfather mixed up real history with his own personal mythologizing. But then most Icelanders seemed to claim descent from Thor or one of the Aesir…

He smiled at this, thinking fondly of The Hammer and the rest of the Wild Hunt. Maybe there was something in that claim after all, for the gods lived – lesser than before, yes, but here at the end of the world, duking it out with the bad guys one last time. And Eddy was playing his part, however small. If he didn’t die on this interminable ice first, that is.

Stopping for a snack and a stretch – he’d been riding for a couple of hours – he pulled out the sunstone. It glowed in the perpetually overcast gloom and was deliciously warm in his hand, which started to soften from its cramped death-grip position. It made the frost-bitten tips of his fingers burn, but he gritted his teeth and waited. After a moment, he felt a distinctive tug in one direction. The sunstone shifted on his now fully open palm, fixing on one direction: magnetic north.

Figuring he had passed the southern tip of Greenland now, he knew he had to head due west, striking out along the sixtieth parallel (he could picture it in his mind’s eye, having pored over atlases in his community school). Crossing the frozen Labrador Sea, he would, if all went well, reach the Canadian coast. He had to make for the Hudson Strait, into Hudson Bay, to Churchill, on Manitoba’s eastern coast, approximately two thousand miles. From there he could follow the railroad to north of Lake Manitoba, then take the Winnipeg Road down to Gimli – another mere six hundred miles or so. Simple! Except he’d need at least ten refuelling stops on his Buell Ulysses. Not many gas stations between here and Churchill. He couldn’t rely upon finding ships and after the last experience he wasn’t sure he wanted to. It was insane, and he had a snowball in hell’s chance of making it, without extra-ordinary luck. But that was exactly what Fenja had gifted him.

And he had the sunstone too.

And, according to his grandpa Gunnar, his own orlog. He had struggled to understand what had been meant by that at the time – ‘Your luck, your will, your destiny…’ Gunnar had elaborated, vaguely, pounding his chest. Between the hamingja of a frost giant’s daughter, the sun stone of Sol, and his own orlog, Eddy hoped that he had the ghost of a chance at least.

At the end of the day, he brooded as he looked across the endless ice, being alive is a risky business and all we have to peg our hopes upon are the blessings of our beliefs.

Eddy rarely prayed, but he felt the extremity of the circumstances called for it. So, feeling a little foolish, he raised his arms and called out his hopes, his voice sounding strange on the still air: ‘May the gods of the red and the white, ancestors of my people, and spirits of the sea, land and sky, bless this journey. Help me, Great Mystery, to get home.’

Remembering the bearing, he put away the sun stone, and got back on the bike, heading across the ice into the west.

Eddy’s bike had a range of two hundred and forty miles, and a couple of tanks worth of gas would get him about half way across the Labrador Sea. And then what…? He tried not to think about it. ‘Denial is not a river in Egypt,’ he could hear his sister saying. Just keep riding, Eddy, just keep riding…

Ice, ice, more fucking ice. The world had turned into a snowball. Maybe this was it. The. End. Eddy brooded. Maybe there was no point in fighting it. There had been ice ages before – he remembered that much from school. Mass extinction events. Maybe humanity’s time was up? Hell, the world would be better off. Mother Earth could have a breather. Mend herself. Start afresh, once she’d recovered from her abusive relationship with Man. Many of the species would be okay. Sure, some would die off, but others would cope, or adapt. The polar bears and snow leopards would flourish again. The Inuits and the other polar tribes might scrape by, but they would continue as they had done, on the fringes, in the minority – leading low impact lives. Maybe his people would too, better suited to the extreme cold, the Canadian winters. But … what about the rest of the human race? Didn’t they stand a chance? If he had a role in trying to save them, however minor, then Eddy didn’t want six billion lives on his conscience. That was too much bad blood for anyone to handle! Besides, he couldn’t let bastards like Koil and his cronies win – sitting out the Fimbul-Winter in their cosy bunkers, fiddling while the world freezes. The anger at the thought drove Eddy onwards, giving him a new surge of energy.

He never realised, he thought distantly, there were so many shades of white. The vista was like some abstract impressionist painting, a large canvas thickly painted with coagulated oils – ivory white, lead white, titanium white … Look closer and you would start to discern other colours tangled up in the viscous brush-strokes, or glimpsed beneath. Spectral ghosts. The memory of colour.

            Eddy was numb from tip to toe, but felt a strange serene acceptance.

            Everything fades to white in the end, he thought. Why resist?

            The deathly scene filled him with peace.

            Life was … an effort … he didn’t want to make anymore.

Then the bike cut out, rolling to a stop.

He laughed bitterly. That was that, then.

Eddy threw his helmet off as he climbed off the Buell and kicked it across the ice. ‘Aargghhh!!!’

Game over.

He fell to his knees. Still hundreds of miles from the coast, thousands from home. Who was he fucking kidding? It was getting dark again. No shelter. He’d freeze to death on the ice without it – the sunstone would only keep him alive for so long.

As he knelt there in despair, he suddenly felt a vibrated in the ice, which made him get to his feet. He scanned the bleak vista. Nothing, but the light, such as it was, was fading – just a thin red band towards the west. Then he felt another shudder. This time his eyes were drawn to the bloody afterlight of the setting sun. Another boom, and he was able to locate the source. There.

Eddy rubbed his eyes, looked again.

Silhouetted against the blood-stained sky was the figure of a man, but the scale was all wrong. He was miles away.

But with each slow step the ice shuddered again.

Then the dread realisation hit him.    

A giant.

And he was coming closer.

And then Eddy saw two others join him.      

Here he was: no gas, a sitting duck. There was no point in running.

Time to meet your maker, Eddy Redcrow.

He just sat there, leaning against his bike, singing ‘The End’ by The Doors, as he watched the giants approach. They were the height of a five-storey building, and wore long cloaks of whale-skin, encrusted with barnacles and trimmed with polar bear fur. They wielded spears made of single trunks of the tallest pines, spear-heads the size of anchors. Their faces seemed hewn from a wave-blasted sea-cliff, eyes the hue of glaciers. Towering over Eddy, they looked down upon him as though he were a plaything.

‘Oh, look, what prize the ice has brought us, brothers!’ roared the first one, with a shovel shaped beard orca black with a single streak of white.

‘An intruder, trying to sneak into Kong Koil’s kingdom. Not many come this way. It is a good day,’ said the second, with a beard as ragged and grey as an Arctic peninsula.

‘We must tear him limb from limb,’ rumbled the third, whose spiky beard was as white as icicles.

‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’ they said in unison.

The three giants reached down with fingernails like narwhale tusks.

He waited for the first blow to fall.

‘You will do no such thing, if you value your lives!’

Eddy turned in surprise to see a familiar figure standing next to him.

‘Fen!’

He couldn’t believe his eyes. There she was. Not a vision, but really there!

‘I am the daughter of Thrym, your king! This human is under my protection! Find prey elsewhere, frost-giant kin! No feast of hot blood for you here today! Go!’

The giants sighed with disappointment, but stood upright and turned slowly, walking away with a booming gait.

Eddy embraced her. ‘Fen! You’re here! I can’t believe it! How…?’

‘The snakeholes…’

He looked non-plussed.

‘I can open portals between the nine worlds. The serpent-paths are there if you know how to find them. I merely turn the key.’

Eddy blinked through the tears. ‘Why … didn’t you use this … gift … to get across Europe?’

She shrugged. ‘Time of the month.’

He snorted.

‘I’m serious! The magic is like my moon-blood. It waxes and wanes. Sometimes stepping through is easier. The snakeholes just … open wide.’

He shook his head, laughing in disbelief, in relief. ‘Oh, I don’t care. It’s just … so good to see you!’

Fenja pushed him back. ‘I cannot stay. Time is of the essence. Only I can persuade my father not to destroy humankind. I must return to his realm.’

‘But Fen! I’m shafted here … If the frost giants don’t get me, the cold will. I’m out of gas and out of luck!’

‘You have some of my hamingja, remember? It doesn’t run out so easily. But here, let me leave you with this parting gift…’

Smiling, Fenja placed her hands upon the tank of the Buell. From her fingertips emitted an aureole of blue light like a kirilian photograph. ‘There, that should get you home.’

‘What have you done?’ Eddy wondered.

‘Just get on your bike and ride. Find that runestone Eddy Redcrow. Much depends upon it. Farewell, for now!’

Fenja stretched out a long nail and a tearing sound cut him to the quick.

A split in the night opened like a tear in satin. From it radiated a cold light and icy blast even fiercer than the one on the frozen sea. Fenja stepped through and the gash sealed up behind her.

Eddy was left alone on the ice. He tried the engine and it started straight away. The fuel gauge needle suddenly leapt to full. Smiling, Eddy rode on.

Now, where did that helmet go?

Retrieving his helmet, Eddy roared westwards. No matter how long he rode, the fuel gauge did not go down. Whatever Fenja had done, it had worked. Hell, that gal could solve the world fuel crisis!

He rode through the night and on into the grey light of the next day. His heart leapt when he saw the coast of Canada. As he reached the Hudson Strait, he stopped to have something to eat and drink. He dropped the sunstone in his mug of coffee, and it heated it in seconds. Feeling a little more revived, he pushed on, following the northern coastline of Quebec around into the Hudson Bay.

Though it was vast enough to feel like a sea, Eddy was heartened to enter it, knowing it was surrounded by Canadian soil.

All day long and all the next he traversed it, heading southwest until he saw the sight he’d been longing for for days. The coast of Manitoba, and Cape Churchill.

Riding up onto the shore line he got off his bike and kissed the land, thanking the gods, ancestors and spirits.

He made his way to the lonely railway terminal and onto the tracks, which, beneath the snow, provided a little more grip and stability than the surrounding landscape, and they were mercifully level. Beyond exhausted, he now rode on, possessed by a growing excitement.    

But the miles carried on and on, seemingly forever, and his food supplies ran out. Weak with hunger and deep fatigue, he stopped to waver. Some kind of muscle memory kept him upright, kept him moving forward.

Mercifully, he didn’t have to think about the route. Just follow the tracks until it hit the road at Ponton, then follow that down to Gimli.

The bike seemed to know what to do. Had Fenja’s magic touch done more than fill the tank with perpetually renewing petrol?

Eddy was never to find out.

After several more weary hours, Eddy finally passed out and the bike skidded into a snow-drift.

Just over its ridge, the sign for Gimli protruded.

***

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

Belly of the Whale

Öxnadal, Iceland

Chapter 23: Belly of the Whale

‘Well, Snorri, you old fox. Even you did not expect to see this! The Fimbul-Winter is truly here!’

Having lived alone for most of his adult life, Snorri was used to talking to himself. He did not see it as odd. ‘It’s the only way I can have an intelligent conversation around here!’ he would joke. In truth, he’d had plenty of company over the years – hundreds of Gimli’s brightest hopes, scratching out there sentences in his classroom while he tried to kindle in them a love of history and literature, geography and art; and then, after he retired, the various audiences he shared his considerable repertoire of tales with. He had been working on an oral history of Gimli for decades, painstakingly collecting family histories, anecdotes, songs, folk tales, jokes, folklore … anything. He took perfunctory notes, sometimes audio recordings, but most were stored in his carpet-bag of memory. He felt it his duty to keep the material alive, in circulation, fearing it would die out if it was locked in written form. Whenever he heard a tale, he would exchange it for one of his own. A joke for a joke, a song for a song, and so on. It seemed fair barter. The fact he was as good a listener as speaker, made him welcome around most people’s hearths. Many found themselves opening their hearts to him, and sharing things they hadn’t talked about in years. Secrets and ghosts, and tears of joy and sorrow.

Yes, he had plenty of company. Returning to his small place he would reflect upon what his snares and traps of smiles and handshakes had brought him. He never went hungry.

His bright, canny gaze swept over the flatland, scanning left until it alighted upon the cluster of buildings he knew as home – so frail and vulnerable looking against the might of this freak winter.

‘Ah, good citizens of Gimli. May Heimdal protect you!’

He replaced his goggles and hood, and, taking up his poles, skied along the lakeshore down towards the scattered homes on its fringes. 

As he skied, he sang a Dakota tune to himself about the return of the Thunder Bird, which heralded the Spring.

The first house he came to was the Redcrow’s place. He’d heard how they were fearing the worst for their son, young Eddy, and so Snorri decided to call in on them, to be neighbourly.

He placed his skis against the porch, and stamping his boots free of snow, he knocked on the door.

Sitting Cloud answered, looking flustered in an apron. Good smells were coming from inside, as well as cussing from her husband, yelling from her daughter, and snoring from her father.

‘Well, well, look who rolled down the hill!’

‘I was passing by. Thought I’d check in on you.’

‘What, are you the district nurse now?’ She laughed. ‘Better come inside then, dry your boots. Quick, before we lose the heat!’ Sitting Cloud bustled him inside. She noted the brace of conies. ‘Look at you, the great white hunter!’

Snorri carefully put down his rifle, and lifted the rabbits off. ‘Figured I needed something for my pot, but here – have one! A gift!’

‘Oh, Snorri…’

‘Go on. No point in being backwards in coming forwards. We all know how hard it is to keep bellies fed at the moment, with the roads blocked, and the stores running low.’

Sitting Cloud accepted it, giving him a peck on the cheek and a hug.

‘What’s this? I turn my back for five minutes and you’re having an affair with a senior citizen!’ It was Magnus, standing in the doorway, a bear of a man in an Icelandic sweater.

‘Well, he’s in good shape, husband – unlike you!’ Sitting Cloud laughed, slapping his sizeable belly.

‘Keep feeding us your infernal pulses and beans and we’ll all end up like him! A streak of piss in the snow!’ He roared, and gave their visitor a bear-hug. ‘How are you, you old fox!’

‘Trying to breathe!’ Snorri gasped.

‘Come in! Have a shot of something warming…’ Magnus started to clatter around the drinks cupboard and finally found two unused glasses, which he dusted with the bottom of his sweater.

‘Look! He’s brought us a rabbit!’

‘Then you are thrice-welcome, Snorri! Sit. Warm your bones. Tell us your news. We’re all in the dark here now the internet has gone down. According to my blessed daughter that really signifies the end of the world!’ he yelled across the room.

‘Keep it down, you oaf. Father is trying to sleep!’ said Sitting Cloud, clearing a chair for their guest.

‘That’s all he does these days!’ rumbled Magnus.

‘So would you, if you’d hunted down a mankiller!’ she hissed.

‘Yeah, yeah. How grandfather saved Gimli. We’ll never hear the end of that one!’

Snorri was already very familiar with how the Sheriff and Running Bear tackled the Wendigo. The details had been kept away from the press, but the ‘Gimli grapevine’ soon had worked it up into legend. He still needed to talk to Ava and the old man about it – but the heavy snow had caught them all off-guard, and most folk had been snowed in for days now.

‘Here!’ Magnus presented Snorri with a shot glass of vodka and clinked it with his own. ‘Skol!’

Snorri waited for his host to settle, sipping his vodka slowly. ‘Ah, how I’ve missed your antifreeze, Magnus!’ They watched the log-burner for a while, while Sitting Cloud fussed in the kitchen. Custom dictated they offered him chocolates and coffee, but they were running low. ‘How are you all … bearing up?’

Magnus downed his vodka, leaned in close and spoke low: ‘Siggy is taking it the worst. She won’t give up. Believes he’s still out there somewhere. Surviving – in this!’

‘What about …?’ Snorri nodded to the kitchen.

Magnus blew out his cheeks. ‘Well, a mother, y’know. He was the apple of her eye. She’s coping by going into overdrive. Says we need to keep his room ready, the place warm and broth on the go, as though he was going to walk through the door at any minute!’ He shook his head, staring at the empty glass.

‘Eddy is a chip off the old block. If he’s anything like you two stubborn old mules he’ll be out there somewhere, making a go of it. I just know it.’

‘See! See! What did I tell you!’ It was Siggy, standing in the door from the bedrooms, looking wild-haired and dressed in a Rocky and Bullwinkle onesy and dressing gown, with one slipper.

‘Siggy, please!’ groaned Magnus.

‘Sit down, love. Have something to eat…’ implored Sitting Cloud.

‘Hey, Siggy’s right. It’s a tough old world out there at the moment, but we can’t give up hope.’

‘I can hear a story coming on…’ Magnus smiled.

‘Only if you want one…?’

‘Please, go on.’ Sitting Cloud sat down and gestured to her daughter, who curled up onto her.

‘You may well know this tale but I find with the good ones you can tell them again and again – like drinking a glass of water. Always hits the spot when you’re thirsty!’

‘Get on with it then!’ said Magnus, pouring them both another shot.

‘Rabbit lived with his grandma in their snug old lodge. Every day he went a-hunting. But you know what? No matter how early he got up, someone always beat him too his traps, leaving them empty. “Darn it!” said Rabbit. The only clue who it was – a very long foot print. “I’m gonna get up super early tomorrow, and catch that varmint red-handed!” So, back he went to his lodge, and tried to get an early night’s sleep, but he could hardly settled in anticipation. By the time he finally fell asleep rooster woke him up. He sprang out of bed. ‘The traps! The snares!’ He scarpered to them, but it was already too late. The long-footed thief had already been and got his breakfast, courtesy of his efforts. Rabbit hopped about in vexation. He returned to his grandma empty-handed again. He complained about his rival to his grandmother, who wondered what he had against him. She was wiser and perhaps knew the truth of it, and smiled at her grandson’s plans to stay awake all night to catch the culprit. He went back to the snares and traps and hid among the undergrowth. Using a strong bowstring, he set a snare by the tell-tale tracks, hoping to catch the secret hunter. He was tired from all his hard-work and lack of sleep from the night before, so he nodded off. When he awoke it was day. He panicked, but to his surprise, he found his trap had worked. He had caught the thief who was the Sun itself! Rabbit ran home and told his grandmother in great excitement. “I’ve caught him! I’ve caught him!” “Who have you caught, grandson?” “A very bright fellow. So bright in fact, it hurts me to look directly at him!” “Hmm,” pondered grandmother, looking at the grey sky and shivering. “I think you should go back and let him go and quick!” So, Rabbit ran back at top speed and sure enough, he found Sun caught in his trap, all tangled up with the bow-string. “Get me out of this mess this instant! I’ve got a busy day and you’re making me late!” blazed the Sun in his fury.  Rabbit felt the heat of his wrath, but did as he bid. He ducked and dived and, finally, with his good hunting knife – snick – cut Sun free. Immediately, Sun soared up into the sky and returned light and heat to the world, which was starting to get dark and chilly. Rabbit breathed a sigh of relief, but winced – for a patch of fur between his shoulders had been scorched yellow by the sun and remains so to this day, a constant reminder of when Rabbit caught the Sun.’

Snorri finished his tale, and was glad to see Magnus, Sitting Bear and Siggy all sitting there, gazing into the flames of the burner.

‘Well,’ he stretched. ‘I best be on my way. Thanks for the drink. And don’t worry about a bite to eat. I’ve got plenty to keep me going!’

He got up and hugged them one by one.

Magnus handed him his rifle; Sitting Cloud the remaining rabbits.

Putting on his skis, he waved to them as they stood in the doorway. ‘Don’t give up hope, the sun will come back!’ 

Snorri carried on his way, his load slightly lighter – he had six rabbits left – but his heart fuller. He hoped his story helped in some way. On a practical level the rabbit certainly would – providing a meal for a day. Stories, he found, provided food that lasted longer. Despite all the sophistication of modern life, or perhaps because of it folks needed nourishing stories to live by. For too long they had lived off the fast food kind of stories pumped out by the mass media. A healthy mind was like a healthy body – and he prided himself in keeping in shape – you needed to feed it well. A good diet; regular exercise. If you eat junk, you feel like junk, and your dreams become filled with junk. Here he was, in his seventies, and still running marathons and using his extensive memory every day. Use it, or lose it, as they say. Most folks relied upon ‘the Cloud’ or an external hard-drive to save things and no longer try to remember anything. Passwords and pins that’s all people remember these days, thought Snorri, pushing on through the snow. Passwords and pins!

He waved to the Sheriff and one of her deputies, doing the rounds on their snow-mobiles. Ava Rivet was a good woman, thought Snorri. Gimli was lucky to have her. Unlike that waste-of-space Mayor. Even as a pupil, Sonny Thornson had been a selfish bully, always picking on the other kids, stealing their snacks. Now as Mayor of Gimli he was even worse, making sure him and his cronies lined their pockets with local contracts and benefited from his position. In some ways, he was like Snorri – but he used his silver tongue to get his way, making people laugh, playing the buffoon, while he worked his way up the ladder. He was gunning for State Governor – plain as day – but for now, Gimli was his personal fiefdom. Running the department store hadn’t been enough for him. He was always hungry for more. Snorri suspected many of his appetites were on the wrong side of the law, but he didn’t want to poke that hornet’s nest!

With the freak winter all bets were off. Everyone’s priorities shifted to core needs. Survival. Though it didn’t have to be just the fittest who survived. More than ever we need to look out for each other, Snorri thought.

He came to the house of the local priest and saw a lonely light burning in the front room. Reverend Viktor Olafsson was an old chess-playing friend of Snorri’s, and so he called by. His friend was clearly ‘well lubricated’, even though it was not even midday. ‘Snorri! Come in! Come in!’

Olafsson flopped down heavily in his armchair. ‘Help yourself, old friend…’ the priest waved to the drinks table. ‘I’m afraid I’m not really in a state to play a game today…’ He picked up his tumbler. ‘Here’s mud in your eye,’ he toasted, swooshing the contents round his mouth, before swallowing it. ‘Ahh.’

‘Are you eating anything, Viktor?’

`Oh, peanuts … pretzels … There’s stuff in the cupboards, but I really can’t find the time …’

‘You’ve got to eat well in this weather, friend. And you need something to soak up the drink…’

‘You sound like my housekeeper… Always nagging me. I’ve told her she needs to look after her own. The journey is worth it. Nobody is going anywhere. Certainly nobody is coming to church… You know how many people I’ve gave my sermon to on Sunday? Three! And one of those was the organist!’

‘Don’t take it personally. It’s hard to get anywhere at the moment. Unless you have skis or a snowmobile, well, forget it.’

‘Not everybody is as nimble as you! I don’t know how you manage it, doing your crazy running! Anybody think you sold your soul to the Devil for a good pair of legs.’

‘Not quite. But here … have one of my rabbits. Make some broth.’

The priest accepted the gift, stroking the limp body like it was a pet. ‘Thank you.’

Snorri tried to work out what the strange sound was a realised Olafsson was crying. He got up and, awkwardly, put his arms round his old friend.

‘It’s all so … fucking pointless,’ spat the priest, snot and tears running down his face.

‘Here,’ Snorri offered his friend a tissue. He waited for Olafsson to compose himself. ‘Don’t give up, my friend. You know I’ve never been one of the faithful, but I do believe we all need stories to get us through this. We need something to believe in.’

‘That’s the problem… I’m not sure if I do any more.’ Olafsson stared at the facets of his tumbler. ‘All the people suffering … dying … because of this infernal winter. How can a God justify that? How can I explain it to my flock, when I don’t have an explanation for it? It feels like the light of the Father has left us. His children so appalled Him, He has decided to forsake us. It’s no less then we deserve.’

Snorri gave him a hard look. ‘You’re just experiencing the belly of the whale, my friend.’

‘I’m not alone in there! Welcome to Leviathan! Population eight billion and counting!’

‘Here, let me share a story…’ offered Snorri.

The priest shrugged. ‘Why not? Got time to kill. S’plenty of time at the end of time,’ he slurred.

Snorri frowned with concern, but took a deep breath and plunged in. ‘Once they was a hill that ate people. That’s right, a hill with one hell of an appetite. Rabbit’s grandma told him to stay away from it! “Don’t go near that hill, grandson – it has a mean cussedness to it. Will eat you soon as look at you! Even when it’s not peckish!” But Rabbit had a contrary nature. The more he was warned not to do something, the more he wanted to. And so he found himself nibbling closer and closer to that mean old hill and its cave-like crack of its mouth. He knew the name of that hill and feeling mischievous Rabbit called out: “Hey! Pahe-Wathahuni, open that big flap of your’s and eat me if you dare!” But the hill knew Rabbit and his tricks and so ignored him, pretending to sleep. But when a hunting party of two-leggeds came close Pahe-Wathahuni opened his big wide maw and swallowed them whole. Acting fast, Rabbit dashed in behind them just before the mouth closed. Rabbit burrowed deep into the hill’s belly, but this tickled the monster mound, who coughed him up like a hairball. Finding himself back outside, Rabbit waited and another hunting party came along. The same thing happened – the hunters were gobbled up whole – but this time Rabbit, disguised as a two-legged, went in with them. He slid all the way down into the bowels of the hill. There, entangled in the monster’s guts, were the bones of those that had been devoured, and the bodies of those half-digested, and some that were still alive. And then there was a gigantic juicy heart. “What a juicy heart!” called out Rabbit to Pahe-Wathahuni, who was surprised and disconcerted to hear the voice within him! “Why don’t you eat it?” cried Rabbit. “It looks so tasty!” Rabbit took his good hunting knife and went as if to eat it himself. The hill, feeling ‘something that he ate’ was violently disagreeing with him, set to howling. This didn’t stop Rabbit slicing the heart in two – chop! The hill shuddered and split asunder. All the folk still alive within its belly were disgorged and, boy, were they glad to see the blue sky again! They hailed Rabbit as their deliverer, for he had cut Pahe-Wathahuni’s heart in two! The two-legged wanted to make Rabbit chief, but he declined, saying all he wanted was the big heap of blubber and guts left by the dead hill – this would feed him and his grandmother for a very long time. And so he carried the whole lot back to his lodge, and sure enough, they had good eating for many moons after. The end.’

The priest was snoring loudly by this point. Snorri sighed and gently took the tumbler from his hand and placed it on the table. Bidding his friend a quiet goodbye, he put his kit back on and set off, once more, into the snow.

He only had five rabbits left now. Snorri figured he probably wouldn’t have any left by the time he got home, but that would okay. He had plenty of dried and tinned food, and his neighbours mattered more. They were ravenous for story, even if they fell asleep at the first taste! Stories were the best rabbit broth. But as he pushed on through the frozen town, Snorri realised he had to come up with a new story for its population – one they were all writing day-by-day: How the town of Gimli survived the Great Winter.

***

Extract of Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

NEXT CHAPTER

The Storyteller

DJ Foghorn on GIMLI XYZ:

‘Cockle-doodle-doo! It’s your favourite loudmouth here! How are you all doing out there, Gimli folks? Keeping your asses warm? Is it chilly enough for you? Burn some books, that’s what I say! It’s all on the web these days. Although that’s gone down too.  Hold up! [sound FX of a screeching brake] So maybe keep some books back. Cookbooks. DIY. Survival skills. Useful stuff. Not novels. That can all go in. Who needs made-up stories when you’re living in one?’

Polar Night, Finland

Chapter 22: The Storyteller

The man skied along, apparently alone in a vast, wintry landscape. A rifle was slung over his shoulder in its case, and a brace of rabbits balanced the other side. The figure was slight, but nimble – negotiating the bumps and bends of the snowscape with confident ease. Each deft push of the pole sent him hissing along on his well-waxed skis. He came to the edge of a cliff and stopped like an ice-skater. Sinking his poles in, he pulled back his hood and lifted up his goggles. It was a spry old man in his seventies with blue lagoon eyes and a wispy goatee that still had a trace of red to it. He looked out over the frozen surface of Lake Manitoba and clucked his tongue.

‘Well, Snorri, you old fox. Even you did not expect to see this! The Fimbul-Winter is truly here!’

Having lived alone for most of his adult life, Snorri was used to talking to himself. He did not see it as odd. ‘It’s the only way I can have an intelligent conversation around here!’ he would joke. In truth, he’d had plenty of company over the years – hundreds of Gimli’s brightest hopes, scratching out there sentences in his classroom while he tried to kindle in them a love of history and literature, geography and art; and then, after he retired, the various audiences he shared his considerable repertoire of tales with. He had been working on an oral history of Gimli for decades, painstakingly collecting family histories, anecdotes, songs, folk tales, jokes, folklore … anything. He took perfunctory notes, sometimes audio recordings, but most were stored in his carpet-bag of memory. He felt it his duty to keep the material alive, in circulation, fearing it would die out if it was locked in written form. Whenever he heard a tale, he would exchange it for one of his own. A joke for a joke, a song for a song, and so on. It seemed fair barter. The fact he was as good a listener as speaker, made him welcome around most people’s hearths. Many found themselves opening their hearts to him, and sharing things they hadn’t talked about in years. Secrets and ghosts, and tears of joy and sorrow.

Yes, he had plenty of company. Returning to his small place he would reflect upon what his snares and traps of smiles and handshakes had brought him. He never went hungry.

His bright, canny gaze swept over the flatland, scanning left until it alighted upon the cluster of buildings he knew as home – so frail and vulnerable looking against the might of this freak winter.

‘Ah, good citizens of Gimli. May Heimdal protect you!’

He replaced his goggles and hood, and, taking up his poles, skied along the lakeshore down towards the scattered homes on its fringes. 

As he skied, he sang a Dakota tune to himself about the return of the Thunder Bird, which heralded the Spring.

The first house he came to was the Redcrow’s place. He’d heard how they were fearing the worst for their son, young Eddy, and so Snorri decided to call in on them, to be neighbourly.

He placed his skis against the porch, and stamping his boots free of snow, he knocked on the door.

Sitting Cloud answered, looking flustered in an apron. Good smells were coming from inside, as well as cussing from her husband, yelling from her daughter, and snoring from her father.

‘Well, well, look who rolled down the hill!’

‘I was passing by. Thought I’d check in on you.’

‘What, are you the district nurse now?’ She laughed. ‘Better come inside then, dry your boots. Quick, before we lose the heat!’ Sitting Cloud bustled him inside. She noted the brace of conies. ‘Look at you, the great white hunter!’

Snorri carefully put down his rifle, and lifted the rabbits off. ‘Figured I needed something for my pot, but here – have one! A gift!’

‘Oh, Snorri…’

‘Go on. No point in being backwards in coming forwards. We all know how hard it is to keep bellies fed at the moment, with the roads blocked, and the stores running low.’

Sitting Cloud accepted it, giving him a peck on the cheek and a hug.

‘What’s this? I turn my back for five minutes and you’re having an affair with a senior citizen!’ It was Magnus, standing in the doorway, a bear of a man in an Icelandic sweater.

‘Well, he’s in good shape, husband – unlike you!’ Sitting Cloud laughed, slapping his sizeable belly.

‘Keep feeding us your infernal pulses and beans and we’ll all end up like him! A streak of piss in the snow!’ He roared, and gave their visitor a bear-hug. ‘How are you, you old fox!’

‘Trying to breathe!’ Snorri gasped.

‘Come in! Have a shot of something warming…’ Magnus started to clatter around the drinks cupboard and finally found two unused glasses, which he dusted with the bottom of his sweater.

‘Look! He’s brought us a rabbit!’

‘Then you are thrice-welcome, Snorri! Sit. Warm your bones. Tell us your news. We’re all in the dark here now the internet has gone down. According to my blessed daughter that really signifies the end of the world!’ he yelled across the room.

‘Keep it down, you oaf. Father is trying to sleep!’ said Sitting Cloud, clearing a chair for their guest.

‘That’s all he does these days!’ rumbled Magnus.

‘So would you, if you’d hunted down a mankiller!’ she hissed.

‘Yeah, yeah. How grandfather saved Gimli. We’ll never hear the end of that one!’

Snorri was already very familiar with how the Sheriff and Running Bear tackled the Wendigo. The details had been kept away from the press, but the ‘Gimli grapevine’ soon had worked it up into legend. He still needed to talk to Ava and the old man about it – but the heavy snow had caught them all off-guard, and most folk had been snowed in for days now.

‘Here!’ Magnus presented Snorri with a shot glass of vodka and clinked it with his own. ‘Skol!’

Snorri waited for his host to settle, sipping his vodka slowly. ‘Ah, how I’ve missed your antifreeze, Magnus!’ They watched the log-burner for a while, while Sitting Cloud fussed in the kitchen. Custom dictated they offered him chocolates and coffee, but they were running low. ‘How are you all … bearing up?’

Magnus downed his vodka, leaned in close and spoke low: ‘Siggy is taking it the worst. She won’t give up. Believes he’s still out there somewhere. Surviving – in this!’

‘What about …?’ Snorri nodded to the kitchen.

Magnus blew out his cheeks. ‘Well, a mother, y’know. He was the apple of her eye. She’s coping by going into overdrive. Says we need to keep his room ready, the place warm and broth on the go, as though he was going to walk through the door at any minute!’ He shook his head, staring at the empty glass.

‘Eddy is a chip off the old block. If he’s anything like you two stubborn old mules he’ll be out there somewhere, making a go of it. I just know it.’

‘See! See! What did I tell you!’ It was Siggy, standing in the door from the bedrooms, looking wild-haired and dressed in a Rocky and Bullwinkle onesy and dressing gown, with one slipper.

‘Siggy, please!’ groaned Magnus.

‘Sit down, love. Have something to eat…’ implored Sitting Cloud.

‘Hey, Siggy’s right. It’s a tough old world out there at the moment, but we can’t give up hope.’

‘I can hear a story coming on…’ Magnus smiled.

‘Only if you want one…?’

‘Please, go on.’ Sitting Cloud sat down and gestured to her daughter, who curled up onto her.

‘You may well know this tale but I find with the good ones you can tell them again and again – like drinking a glass of water. Always hits the spot when you’re thirsty!’

‘Get on with it then!’ said Magnus, pouring them both another shot.

‘Rabbit lived with his grandma in their snug old lodge. Every day he went a-hunting. But you know what? No matter how early he got up, someone always beat him too his traps, leaving them empty. “Darn it!” said Rabbit. The only clue who it was – a very long foot print. “I’m gonna get up super early tomorrow, and catch that varmint red-handed!” So, back he went to his lodge, and tried to get an early night’s sleep, but he could hardly settled in anticipation. By the time he finally fell asleep rooster woke him up. He sprang out of bed. ‘The traps! The snares!’ He scarpered to them, but it was already too late. The long-footed thief had already been and got his breakfast, courtesy of his efforts. Rabbit hopped about in vexation. He returned to his grandma empty-handed again. He complained about his rival to his grandmother, who wondered what he had against him. She was wiser and perhaps knew the truth of it, and smiled at her grandson’s plans to stay awake all night to catch the culprit. He went back to the snares and traps and hid among the undergrowth. Using a strong bowstring, he set a snare by the tell-tale tracks, hoping to catch the secret hunter. He was tired from all his hard-work and lack of sleep from the night before, so he nodded off. When he awoke it was day. He panicked, but to his surprise, he found his trap had worked. He had caught the thief who was the Sun itself! Rabbit ran home and told his grandmother in great excitement. “I’ve caught him! I’ve caught him!” “Who have you caught, grandson?” “A very bright fellow. So bright in fact, it hurts me to look directly at him!” “Hmm,” pondered grandmother, looking at the grey sky and shivering. “I think you should go back and let him go and quick!” So, Rabbit ran back at top speed and sure enough, he found Sun caught in his trap, all tangled up with the bow-string. “Get me out of this mess this instant! I’ve got a busy day and you’re making me late!” blazed the Sun in his fury.  Rabbit felt the heat of his wrath, but did as he bid. He ducked and dived and, finally, with his good hunting knife – snick – cut Sun free. Immediately, Sun soared up into the sky and returned light and heat to the world, which was starting to get dark and chilly. Rabbit breathed a sigh of relief, but winced – for a patch of fur between his shoulders had been scorched yellow by the sun and remains so to this day, a constant reminder of when Rabbit caught the Sun.’

Snorri finished his tale, and was glad to see Magnus, Sitting Bear and Siggy all sitting there, gazing into the flames of the burner.

‘Well,’ he stretched. ‘I best be on my way. Thanks for the drink. And don’t worry about a bite to eat. I’ve got plenty to keep me going!’

He got up and hugged them one by one.

Magnus handed him his rifle; Sitting Cloud the remaining rabbits.

Putting on his skis, he waved to them as they stood in the doorway. ‘Don’t give up hope, the sun will come back!’ 

Snorri carried on his way, his load slightly lighter – he had six rabbits left – but his heart fuller. He hoped his story helped in some way. On a practical level the rabbit certainly would – providing a meal for a day. Stories, he found, provided food that lasted longer. Despite all the sophistication of modern life, or perhaps because of it folks needed nourishing stories to live by. For too long they had lived off the fast food kind of stories pumped out by the mass media. A healthy mind was like a healthy body – and he prided himself in keeping in shape – you needed to feed it well. A good diet; regular exercise. If you eat junk, you feel like junk, and your dreams become filled with junk. Here he was, in his seventies, and still running marathons and using his extensive memory every day. Use it, or lose it, as they say. Most folks relied upon ‘the Cloud’ or an external hard-drive to save things and no longer try to remember anything. Passwords and pins that’s all people remember these days, thought Snorri, pushing on through the snow. Passwords and pins!

He waved to the Sheriff and one of her deputies, doing the rounds on their snow-mobiles. Ava Rivet was a good woman, thought Snorri. Gimli was lucky to have her. Unlike that waste-of-space Mayor. Even as a pupil, Sonny Thornson had been a selfish bully, always picking on the other kids, stealing their snacks. Now as Mayor of Gimli he was even worse, making sure him and his cronies lined their pockets with local contracts and benefited from his position. In some ways, he was like Snorri – but he used his silver tongue to get his way, making people laugh, playing the buffoon, while he worked his way up the ladder. He was gunning for State Governor – plain as day – but for now, Gimli was his personal fiefdom. Running the department store hadn’t been enough for him. He was always hungry for more. Snorri suspected many of his appetites were on the wrong side of the law, but he didn’t want to poke that hornet’s nest!

With the freak winter all bets were off. Everyone’s priorities shifted to core needs. Survival. Though it didn’t have to be just the fittest who survived. More than ever we need to look out for each other, Snorri thought.

He came to the house of the local priest and saw a lonely light burning in the front room. Reverend Viktor Olafsson was an old chess-playing friend of Snorri’s, and so he called by. His friend was clearly ‘well lubricated’, even though it was not even midday. ‘Snorri! Come in! Come in!’

Olafsson flopped down heavily in his armchair. ‘Help yourself, old friend…’ the priest waved to the drinks table. ‘I’m afraid I’m not really in a state to play a game today…’ He picked up his tumbler. ‘Here’s mud in your eye,’ he toasted, swooshing the contents round his mouth, before swallowing it. ‘Ahh.’

‘Are you eating anything, Viktor?’

`Oh, peanuts … pretzels … There’s stuff in the cupboards, but I really can’t find the time …’

‘You’ve got to eat well in this weather, friend. And you need something to soak up the drink…’

‘You sound like my housekeeper… Always nagging me. I’ve told her she needs to look after her own. The journey is worth it. Nobody is going anywhere. Certainly nobody is coming to church… You know how many people I’ve gave my sermon to on Sunday? Three! And one of those was the organist!’

‘Don’t take it personally. It’s hard to get anywhere at the moment. Unless you have skis or a snowmobile, well, forget it.’

‘Not everybody is as nimble as you! I don’t know how you manage it, doing your crazy running! Anybody think you sold your soul to the Devil for a good pair of legs.’

‘Not quite. But here … have one of my rabbits. Make some broth.’

The priest accepted the gift, stroking the limp body like it was a pet. ‘Thank you.’

Snorri tried to work out what the strange sound was a realised Olafsson was crying. He got up and, awkwardly, put his arms round his old friend.

‘It’s all so … fucking pointless,’ spat the priest, snot and tears running down his face.

‘Here,’ Snorri offered his friend a tissue. He waited for Olafsson to compose himself. ‘Don’t give up, my friend. You know I’ve never been one of the faithful, but I do believe we all need stories to get us through this. We need something to believe in.’

‘That’s the problem… I’m not sure if I do any more.’ Olafsson stared at the facets of his tumbler. ‘All the people suffering … dying … because of this infernal winter. How can a God justify that? How can I explain it to my flock, when I don’t have an explanation for it? It feels like the light of the Father has left us. His children so appalled Him, He has decided to forsake us. It’s no less then we deserve.’

Snorri gave him a hard look. ‘You’re just experiencing the belly of the whale, my friend.’

‘I’m not alone in there! Welcome to Leviathan! Population eight billion and counting!’

‘Here, let me share a story…’ offered Snorri.

The priest shrugged. ‘Why not? Got time to kill. S’plenty of time at the end of time,’ he slurred.

Snorri frowned with concern, but took a deep breath and plunged in. ‘Once they was a hill that ate people. That’s right, a hill with one hell of an appetite. Rabbit’s grandma told him to stay away from it! “Don’t go near that hill, grandson – it has a mean cussedness to it. Will eat you soon as look at you! Even when it’s not peckish!” But Rabbit had a contrary nature. The more he was warned not to do something, the more he wanted to. And so he found himself nibbling closer and closer to that mean old hill and its cave-like crack of its mouth. He knew the name of that hill and feeling mischievous Rabbit called out: “Hey! Pahe-Wathahuni, open that big flap of your’s and eat me if you dare!” But the hill knew Rabbit and his tricks and so ignored him, pretending to sleep. But when a hunting party of two-leggeds came close Pahe-Wathahuni opened his big wide maw and swallowed them whole. Acting fast, Rabbit dashed in behind them just before the mouth closed. Rabbit burrowed deep into the hill’s belly, but this tickled the monster mound, who coughed him up like a hairball. Finding himself back outside, Rabbit waited and another hunting party came along. The same thing happened – the hunters were gobbled up whole – but this time Rabbit, disguised as a two-legged, went in with them. He slid all the way down into the bowels of the hill. There, entangled in the monster’s guts, were the bones of those that had been devoured, and the bodies of those half-digested, and some that were still alive. And then there was a gigantic juicy heart. “What a juicy heart!” called out Rabbit to Pahe-Wathahuni, who was surprised and disconcerted to hear the voice within him! “Why don’t you eat it?” cried Rabbit. “It looks so tasty!” Rabbit took his good hunting knife and went as if to eat it himself. The hill, feeling ‘something that he ate’ was violently disagreeing with him, set to howling. This didn’t stop Rabbit slicing the heart in two – chop! The hill shuddered and split asunder. All the folk still alive within its belly were disgorged and, boy, were they glad to see the blue sky again! They hailed Rabbit as their deliverer, for he had cut Pahe-Wathahuni’s heart in two! The two-legged wanted to make Rabbit chief, but he declined, saying all he wanted was the big heap of blubber and guts left by the dead hill – this would feed him and his grandmother for a very long time. And so he carried the whole lot back to his lodge, and sure enough, they had good eating for many moons after. The end.’

The priest was snoring loudly by this point. Snorri sighed and gently took the tumbler from his hand and placed it on the table. Bidding his friend a quiet goodbye, he put his kit back on and set off, once more, into the snow.

He only had five rabbits left now. Snorri figured he probably wouldn’t have any left by the time he got home, but that would okay. He had plenty of dried and tinned food, and his neighbours mattered more. They were ravenous for story, even if they fell asleep at the first taste! Stories were the best rabbit broth. But as he pushed on through the frozen town, Snorri realised he had to come up with a new story for its population – one they were all writing day-by-day: How the town of Gimli survived the Great Winter.

***

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020