The Viking Witch Cozy Mysteries Books 1-3

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

I don't know what was in the tea my grandmother had given me, but never in my life have I woken up so clear-headed and wide awake. I was super alert, and I hadn't even had any coffee yet. I reached up and pulled the bandage off my head then touched the normal contours of my temple.

It was like nothing had ever happened at all.

Except that someone named Lisa was probably still dead.

Then I remembered telling a room full of people that I had seen a Viking. I felt my cheeks flush just at the memory. That couldn't possibly have happened. What was more likely was that I had seen someone there, some hipster lumberjack type, and thinking back on it later, I had tainted the memory with the latent Norse myth imagery my brain always soaked in.

I mean, nearly everything I drew had a Viking in it somewhere. Even stuff for class assignments that wasn't supposed to. I would just slip a little Norse something hidden in a pattern like an Easter egg. It was a compulsion.

Yes, that made the most sense. My imagination had run away with me. Now that my head was clearer, I could see that.

I rolled over, but Mjolner was gone from my pillow. He usually was an earlier riser than I was. But then I looked past the indentation his body had left on the pillow, and I saw a little square window set in a deep window frame. And through that window, I could see the spindly tops of evergreen trees.

And beyond that, Lake Superior.

My secret window! Just looking through it was triggering another cascade of memories. I was back in the same built-in bed that had been mine all those years ago.

I sat up, throwing back the duvet and swinging my bare feet down to the wide planks of the wood floor. It was chilly, and I missed the wool slippers child-me had always put on straight away in the morning.

Mine was an attic room, the ceiling like an inverted V with no walls on two sides. The bed was built into the outer wall, the large rectangle that held the bed itself surrounded by cabinets of a dozen different sizes. The reddish-gold of the wood glowed in the morning light that cascaded down from the skylight that slanted above, and I ran my hand over the familiar shapes of all of the different handles and pulls on the cabinets. They were wrought iron that twisted in a variety of braids or animal shapes.

I peeked into a few, but they were all empty. Like they were waiting to be filled with everything I'd brought back from my other world. All of my stuff that was still in my car.

Stuff like clean underwear and clothes that hadn't been in a car wreck.

My grandmother had taken off my shoes and socks, but I was still wearing my jeans and sweater. I didn't seem to have any glass fragments on me, but I still felt very unclean. I wanted a shower, but I also wanted clean clothes to put on after that.

I was going to have to find my grandmother.

I stepped out of my room and out onto the balcony that overlooked the one room that was almost the entirety of my grandmother's cabin. From where I was standing, I could see the heavy timbers that supported the roof, row after row of beams carved in a twisting pattern of Nordic knotwork. I leaned over the railing to look down into the room below, but I didn't see my grandmother. The fireplace that dominated the far wall was devoid of fire, and the long table down the center of the room was bare, the benches on either side drawn neatly up beneath it.

I went down the narrow stairs that ran along the wall to my bedroom then took a left turn halfway down to hug the cabin wall. I took a turn back again, away from the main space, and into the kitchen tucked under my loft.

She wasn't there either. I could see the tea kettle sitting on the back burner, just like ours always did back home. We Torfa women like our tea. But when I touched a fingertip to its side, it was cold. So I hadn't just missed her.

I turned to look towards the fireplace again. I could see the door beside it, the one that led to my grandmother's room. Suddenly I was eight years old again, so intense was my feeling that I absolutely, positively must never open that door. Ever.

But I was a grownup now. Surely if I needed something, I could at least knock on that door?

I dithered, taking a few steps across the room but then a few steps back, not sure what to do. I had only made it halfway across the great room when the back door behind the kitchen opened with a bang, and I jumped.

"Mormor!" I said, rushing back to the kitchen as if afraid to be caught even that close to her bedroom door. My grandmother was in the mudroom shutting the door behind her, but she didn't step up into the kitchen. She was dressed like the night before, but in a different sweater and with a navy blue wool cap covering her hair.

"You're up," she said. "How's your head?"

"I feel fine," I said, touching the spot where the lump had been. "What was in that tea?"

"This and that," she said with a dismissive wave. "Your shoes and socks are right here. Put them on, and we'll go up to your car and see what you need that we can carry back down."

"Great," I said, sitting on the step between the kitchen and the mudroom to pull on my socks and sneakers. I had another rush of muscle memory from all the times I had done just this when I was a kid. "You know, I thought I had forgotten all about this place, but now that I see it again, I know that I didn't. I can show you drawings I've done that are clearly of this house. At the time, I thought I was making it up. Especially that fireplace."

My grandmother didn't answer, just glanced up at the fireplace that dominated the far side of her cabin as if trying to puzzle out what was so special about it.

"OK, ready," I said. She just nodded and stepped back outside.

The fog had turned to rain while I slept. The morning sky was clear now, but the ground was still wet. A series of flat rocks marked out a path from my grandmother's back door to the unpaved road, but the space between the rocks was moss and mud. I stepped carefully, not wanting to mess up my one good pair of sneakers. To judge by all the mud clinging to my grandmother's boots, this was bound to be a losing battle.

I expected us to turn back towards the path we had taken down the night before. I could see the bridge up there, although any sounds of traffic passing by were drowned out by the rush of the river just out of sight through a tangle of shrubs that ran alongside my grandmother's house. But she walked the other way instead, towards the lake, and I followed.

It's called the town of Runde, but "town" doesn't really describe it. If you counted up every building that made up that town, the vast majority of them would be fish houses. And those were all built right on the lakeshore, out of sight from the road. Of course, those fishermen lived in homes, but these were largely built under the cover of trees, their exteriors painted in dark colors that had a camouflaging effect. My grandmother's house next to the river was a rarity, standing rather close to the road. The bulk of its walls were also painted a dark brown, but the white trim around the doors and windows and its shutters - which were both cute and functional - made it look downright friendly.

There was only one building down here that wasn't a home or a fish house. That was the meeting hall, which was a little further up the river from my grandmother's cabin, just inland from the bridge high overhead. I remembered being there as a kid, but couldn't summon a specific image to my mind. But I had a hunch when I finally did see it, I would recognize it as yet more source material for my art.

"Good morning, Andrew," my grandmother said, and I saw the young man in question coming out of the trees between us and the lake, following a line of paving stones. His home must be back that way somewhere, but all I could see were layers of evergreen trees dotted with the occasional birch. Any house lurking in those depths was lost in the shadows.

"Good morning," Andrew said. He was wearing work coveralls like a mechanic would wear with a tan corduroy jacket over it, and a red watchman's cap pulled down over his ears. He looked me over carefully before smiling. "Good morning. You look surprisingly good."

"It's Ingrid," I said, thrusting out a hand. "I don't think I ever said last night."

"We knew who you were," he said, shaking my hand. His hand was a little rough, but strong and warm. He smelled shower-fresh but still woodsy. The dazed effect I experienced at that smell was back in full force. "So, you're feeling better?" He made a vague gesture around his own temple area.

"I am," I said. I could feel my cheeks heating but couldn't make myself stop blushing. Had he noticed me zone out just then? At least he thought it was maybe still part of the head injury. I hoped. "How's my car?"

"Truth?" he asked with a preemptory flinch as if in sympathy for a blow I hadn't even felt yet.

"Truth," I said and held my breath.

"It might cost more than it's worth to fix it," he said, "and I doubt it will ever run like before."

"I was afraid of that," I said. "I suppose it doesn't matter. Even if it were worth it to fix it, I couldn't afford it. I have no cash."

"Luckily, you won't need it while you're here," my grandmother said. "We can negotiate a deal with Andrew's father Jens to store it for now. No need to rush any decisions."

"Thanks," I said, but just the idea of being without a car was making me feel trapped. What if I needed something they didn't sell in the corner of Runde's meeting hall that functioned as a general store? What if I had an opportunity to do some work that required an in-person meeting?

What if I just wanted to leave?

My panic must have been showing on my face because Andrew was watching me with growing concern. But when he opened his mouth to say something, we were interrupted.

"Hey," Luke said as he walked up from behind me. "Ready, Andrew?"

"Yeah," Andrew said.

"Where are you two off to?" my grandmother asked, fixing them both with a stern look as if they were also her grandchildren.

"Luke and I were going up to the café to help Jessica shelve her stock," Andrew said, then glanced at his watch. "We promised to be there by eight. We better run."

"She promised us scones," Luke said.

"You're taking quite an interest in this newest commercial venture," my grandmother said to Luke.

"It could be interesting," he said with a careless shrug. "You know how I love meeting new people."

"Behave," my grandmother said, wagging a finger at him, but he just smirked.

"Always do," he said and made a swiping motion at Andrew's elbow.

"Bye," Andrew said over his shoulder to me as he was dragged away.

I had a lot of questions, but that stern look wasn't softening on my grandmother's face. It was probably safer to stay quiet and observe for a while. When I understood things better, I could start asking things. Like why everyone seemed to consider my grandmother some sort of boss around here. Was she the mayor or something?

We continued on down the road past the half-hidden homes of fishermen who had surely gone out on the water long before I had gotten myself out of bed. We occasionally saw a wife working in her yard or children too young for school playing under the trees. They would return my grandmother's waves of greeting, but they never moved closer to talk.

"I think I remember this," I said, and she gave me a quizzical look. "The aloofness."

"They aren't unfriendly here," she said. "They're just busy. Always busy. They keep to themselves and are generally quiet types, but when anyone needs anything at all, the whole community pulls together. You'll see."

"So, it doesn't bother them that the bridge is all the way up there?" I said, gesturing back over my shoulder at the bridge that was no longer in view. We had come further along the stony bluffs than I had realized. "It's up there, and the town is down here. Any hope for tourist dollars is just passing you by."

"They're fishermen, not... whoever takes money from tourists," my grandmother said.

"I didn't realize there were still independent fishermen working," I said. "I thought everything would be big corporations by now."

My grandmother shrugged, then said too quickly, as if eager to steer the conversation another way, "some of the young people think like you do about making money off the highway. Jens Swanson's grandfather built the service station decades ago, of course, and Michelle Larsen's mother Anna opened the restaurant next to it in the 80s. They do all right, being right on the highway. But Michelle has big ideas for what she wants to do when the restaurant is fully hers. After her mother retires. Modern ideas, I guess. And then there's Jessica with her new bookstore café."

"Things are changing, then?"

My grandmother just shrugged.

"Can I ask one more thing?" I asked.

"Ask anything you like," she said.

"You've been living here your whole life, right?" I asked. She nodded, but there was something guarded in her eyes. "So why do you call the people who live here 'they?' Shouldn't that be 'we?'"

Her eyes narrowed at first, but then she laughed out loud and gave a little nod. "Good catch."

"What's the answer?" I asked.

She laughed again. "I said you could ask all you like. I didn't say I'd answer." I just gaped at her, but that was too much of an invitation for the swarms of little bugs that drifted in clouds over the shady parts of the road. I shut my mouth. "Come on," my grandmother said, waving for me to follow her off the dirt road. "We're taking this path up to your precious highway. It's a little steeper than the other path, so watch your step. And don't dawdle; I'm late to get to the meeting hall already."

The minute she stepped off the road, she disappeared, as if the scarlet shrubbery had swallowed her up. Taking a deep breath, I plunged in after her.