10-04-2018, 05:24 PM
A sad pup’s howl, cold and alone, filled his ears like the sound echoed inside his own mind. It was going to freeze to death. No large predators wandered the Icelandic wilds: bears and wolves absent. But others roamed closer to the ground. Fox and mink had jaws full of needles. The graceful arctic tern, while elegantly floating on sea breezes, turned ferocious upon any that disturbed their nesting grounds. Short of a polar bear floating to shore on the ice, predators were scarce. But the pup in his mind was not safe. No gun could scare away the weather. There was no hiding from the elements. The pup would die. Tristan shivered despite himself.
Reason and rationality warned him against following, but instinct said otherwise. A funny thing the dichotomy was. Grandfather (uncle) was his most trusted family in the world, yet betrayed his own blood. The gray woman, an invisible stranger, on the other hand was his guardian angel. He’d give her his life if he could so pledge it.
Tristan chewed up the bones of logic and cast the carcass aside. He trailed after the wolf. Pack? Family his mind conjured images of Christmas cards: hearths lit by roaring fires, twinkle lights and roast lamb, loved ones huddled together, gnawing on ears and rolling belly up. But the image was opaque. A fantasy. Christmas as a child was pleasant enough for what any orphan might want. Songs and special pies, tying great strands of red ribbon together.
“No pack,” he finally responded. With the falls of Skógafoss as their backdrop, a gray curtain always moving, Tristan peered longingly into the waters. He once traveled to a similar wonder of the Westfjords, recalled schools of fish darting beneath the surface as one large group. Fish and wolves, terns and seals. A pack that protected the young, taught them how to survive in the world. Úlfar, for all his faults, had done as much for Tristan. Siggi was departed. He'd never realized it before.
Maybe that what was the wolf suggested. As he thought of Úlfar, another image formed in his mind. Of eyes glowing ferocious. Raw anger unchecked. Then a burst of light and the solid stone pillar outside the house. The pillar that Tristan swore turned to look at him sometimes. Profiles of a nose and lips that were there one minute and gone the next. A chill crept up his spine. The scent of something burning curled his nostrils. He closed his eyes. Skógafoss’ crashing swarmed his ears until he was sure he was perched in its spillage.
Shift.
When he opened his eyes again, the crashing water now lapped below. Black sand smushed underfoot. The southern seashore whispered at his feet. But in the distance, great stacks of rock pierced the ocean. Basalt columns broke the curve of the earth like sentry guards of the whole island.
They were near the tiny village of Vik, on the dangerous shores of Reynisfjara beach, where sneaker waves built undisturbed for thousands of miles all the way to the opposite pole of the world. Such waves, even on a still day, were known to crash unexpectedly and sweep asunder any who stood too close. For some reason, such dangers did not concern Tristan.
It was something else that ripped at what was bound within. Bars on Tristan's heart rattled. The chains upon logic snapping. It was the petrified pillars that pulled growls from his lips. In the real world, he never noticed them before. But now, they stared defiant at them. "Trolls," he growled. Here, the shapes were obvious. Awake, the pillar of his grandfather's remains less so.
His foot dug into the sand, ready to pounce and snap at the eternal prisons of the twisted ones poised upon the sea. Claw and rip at their frozen forms. At his side, Thorn Paw approached.
Reason and rationality warned him against following, but instinct said otherwise. A funny thing the dichotomy was. Grandfather (uncle) was his most trusted family in the world, yet betrayed his own blood. The gray woman, an invisible stranger, on the other hand was his guardian angel. He’d give her his life if he could so pledge it.
Tristan chewed up the bones of logic and cast the carcass aside. He trailed after the wolf. Pack? Family his mind conjured images of Christmas cards: hearths lit by roaring fires, twinkle lights and roast lamb, loved ones huddled together, gnawing on ears and rolling belly up. But the image was opaque. A fantasy. Christmas as a child was pleasant enough for what any orphan might want. Songs and special pies, tying great strands of red ribbon together.
“No pack,” he finally responded. With the falls of Skógafoss as their backdrop, a gray curtain always moving, Tristan peered longingly into the waters. He once traveled to a similar wonder of the Westfjords, recalled schools of fish darting beneath the surface as one large group. Fish and wolves, terns and seals. A pack that protected the young, taught them how to survive in the world. Úlfar, for all his faults, had done as much for Tristan. Siggi was departed. He'd never realized it before.
Maybe that what was the wolf suggested. As he thought of Úlfar, another image formed in his mind. Of eyes glowing ferocious. Raw anger unchecked. Then a burst of light and the solid stone pillar outside the house. The pillar that Tristan swore turned to look at him sometimes. Profiles of a nose and lips that were there one minute and gone the next. A chill crept up his spine. The scent of something burning curled his nostrils. He closed his eyes. Skógafoss’ crashing swarmed his ears until he was sure he was perched in its spillage.
Shift.
When he opened his eyes again, the crashing water now lapped below. Black sand smushed underfoot. The southern seashore whispered at his feet. But in the distance, great stacks of rock pierced the ocean. Basalt columns broke the curve of the earth like sentry guards of the whole island.
They were near the tiny village of Vik, on the dangerous shores of Reynisfjara beach, where sneaker waves built undisturbed for thousands of miles all the way to the opposite pole of the world. Such waves, even on a still day, were known to crash unexpectedly and sweep asunder any who stood too close. For some reason, such dangers did not concern Tristan.
It was something else that ripped at what was bound within. Bars on Tristan's heart rattled. The chains upon logic snapping. It was the petrified pillars that pulled growls from his lips. In the real world, he never noticed them before. But now, they stared defiant at them. "Trolls," he growled. Here, the shapes were obvious. Awake, the pillar of his grandfather's remains less so.
His foot dug into the sand, ready to pounce and snap at the eternal prisons of the twisted ones poised upon the sea. Claw and rip at their frozen forms. At his side, Thorn Paw approached.