Asimov's SF, October-November 2011 (28 page)

Signy told him he was welcome.

He looked at the lights on the front of her house again. “I have been thinking about your groceries. Have you been making skyr for the demonstrators? They are pouring it on all kinds of respectable officials. Someone is making it, a lot of it, and in every possible color."

"No,” said Signy. “If you must know, I have been feeding the puffins."

"Milk and cookies?” Hrafn asked.

"I am eccentric."

"It might be interesting to eat a puffin that has been fed on milk and cookies,” Hrafn said thoughtfully. “If you decide to cook any of your guests, give me a call."

He walked around the boulder that had been Steinn. “I remember this from my last visit. It was new then."

"A gift from my stalker,” Signy said. “His last gift, before he vanished."

"How did he move it?” Hrafn wondered.

"I can't tell you."

"There's a story here,” Hrafn said. “If I had time, I would try to find it out. But I must defend respected officials from skyr."

He left and she went back to working on the story of the trolls. Another week passed. Then, one night there was a knock on her front door. She opened it. Hrauna stood there, blinking at the bright electric light.

"Hrauna!” Signy said with pleasure.

"I have another message from our queen. We are leaving in ten nights, and she would like you to come as a witness. I could take you there, but I will not be able to bring you back. Can you get to the Dark Canyon in your noisy metal machine?"

"Yes,” Signy said. There was a road, though she had not traveled it since the Jokulsa a Bru River stopped flowing through the canyon. She had gone to say farewell to the river, before the dam shut it off. A sad journey.

"Come in ten nights. There will be a moon, so you will be able to see. I will meet you at the canyon's edge. Don't worry about finding me. I will find you."

"I will come,” said Signy.

Hrauna left, and Signy went back to reading. She was going back over all the myths about the old gods, looking for a version of the story of Loki and the apple corer. So far she had not found it.

The night came, and she drove to the Dark Canyon. The sky was clear, except for a few clouds in the east over the ocean. The moon was three quarters full. She had no trouble along the way. When she reached the canyon, a lumpy figure stepped into the road and waved her down. It was Hrauna. “Stop your machine here,” the troll wife said. “I will lead you the rest of the way."

They walked over rough ground to the canyon's edge. She could not estimate the depth, since most of the canyon was hidden by shadow. But she knew it varied between 100 and 150 meters deep. Before the project, a turbulent river had filled the bottom. Now it was dry. She heard wind whispering and no other sound. Moonlight lit the far wall, maybe seventy-five meters away. She could see the sheer, bare, dark rock clearly.

"Now what?” she asked.

"Wait,” answered Hrauna.

She peered into the darkness. Clouds were blowing in, and the moonlight became less clear and steady. It moved over the canyon walls, growing dim, then bright, then dim again, as clouds flew past the moon.

"We hoped for this,” said Hrauna. “We did not want people to see us leaving."

"But you picked a moonlit night."

"For you."

Now she saw motion in the moving light. Large figures were climbing up the canyon walls.

"The trolls,” said Hrauna. “We had many settlements along the river. All are leaving."

The first figures reached the canyon rim, some on their side, though none close to them. Most were on the far side. They lowered ropes and pulled up packs. The packs were loaded on waiting trolls, who moved off, bent double by the weight of their loads.

More trolls arrived on the surface. Some were children, clinging to their mothers’ backs. Others seemed ancient and were brought up in rope slings. They all gathered packs or bags and moved inland.

More came, then more. There were hundreds.

Now she saw other figures among the trolls. They were smaller and slimmer and moved with far more grace.

"Who are those?” she asked.

"Elves. They are leaving too. This project is too big for them to stop."

When they reached the surface, the elves seemed to flicker, becoming impossible to see in the changing moonlight. Was that a person or a shadow moving over the bare rock among the trolls?

Still more figures climbed up, among the trolls and elves. These seemed both insubstantial and faintly luminous. They gleamed in the Dark Canyon like wisps of moonlit mist.

"And those?” asked Signy.

"Human ghosts. We are taking their bones with us, so they won't be left alone here."

A man climbed onto the rim not far from them. He was dressed like someone from the saga era. A sword hung at his side. His hair was blond, and he had a short, neatly trimmed blond beard. He turned and bent down, helping a woman onto the rim. She also appeared to come from the early days of Iceland. Two gold brooches gleamed on her shoulders. Her hair was long and very blond, more like silver than gold.

They paused a moment, hand in hand, then looked at Signy and Hrauna. The man's eyes were pale and piercing. His gaze seemed to go through Signy like a spear. What did he see? How did she appear to someone so old and so obviously heroic? It was like looking at Gunnar of Hlidarend or Grettir Asmundarson, though neither of them had died around here.

The woman nodded graciously, like a queen. Then the two of them turned, and Signy saw a great, dark splotch across the back of the man's shirt. “What is that?” she asked.

"I don't know for certain,” Hrauna said. “But I think it's blood from his death blow. He must have been struck from behind, maybe by someone he trusted."

The couple were moving away, heading inland. The woman looked unharmed, but she had died young.

"Who are they? What is their story?"

"Dead people from long ago,” said Hrauna. “I don't know otherwise."

The departure continued: trolls and elves and ghosts. More clouds covering the sky. The moonlight became a dim erratic glimmer, and Signy found it more and more difficult to see anything.

At last, Hrauna said, “I must go now. The queen wants you to describe this. It may not seem important to humans, but to us leaving a place where we have lived for so long matters."

"I will do it,” Signy said.

Hrauna walked away along the canyon's rim, following the two ghosts.

Only a few figures still climbed the canyon's walls. Signy exhaled. She was not sure what she was feeling, but it was something profound.

"That was a sight,” a voice said behind her,

She started. A hand grabbed her arm. “Careful, or you will fall in the canyon."

She turned. It was Hrafn, dressed in casual clothing, with binoculars around his neck.

"What are you doing here?"

"I followed you from your house with my lights out, then parked and crept as close as I dared. I didn't want to attract the troll's attention.

"I've been watching you when I have the time. Something was obviously going on. Either it had to do with the demonstrations, though I thought that was unlikely, or it had to do with trolls. That was the only reason I could imagine for the full spectrum lights on the front of your house, and that was the only explanation I could think of for your new boulder."

He grinned, looking happy. “It's lucky that I was near when you drove out tonight. I would have hated to miss this."

"What are you going to do?” Signy asked.

"Nothing. It's not illegal to consort with trolls."

"They are leaving. We have driven them out with the project."

"I realize that.” He glanced at the canyon. As far as Signy could tell, it was empty now. “I have read your articles. I know you don't like the project."

"Do you?"

"I haven't decided. It may prove to be too expensive. One of my cousins is an economist, and he worries about that. Iceland's economy is always fragile, Ingolfur says, and we have to be careful how we spend our money. Another cousin is a geologist, and he isn't sure the land here is entirely stable. What happens if there are earthquakes or volcanic activity? Will the dams and tunnels hold?

"But I grew up here, and I always wanted to return. I was lucky enough to find the job I have. But most of the people I grew up with are in Reykjavik. If the project brings work here, that is good, and if it helps the national economy, that also is good. So I haven't made up my mind.

"Why don't you drive home? I'll follow with my lights on and make sure you are safe."

She could think of no argument. So she drove back to her summer house, the headlights of his car behind her.

After they had both stopped, he got out and walked to her car. “There's a new restaurant in Reydarfjord that isn't bad. One of my cousins is a partner."

"The one who works in the market?” Signy asked.

"No. The economist. He isn't sure Karahnjukar is a good idea, but he thinks it will keep his restaurant in business. Would you join me for dinner there sometime? I owe you at least one dinner in return for the swan and the cod."

He was far more clever than she had thought at first, and he was the only person certain to believe her when she talked about trolls. She wanted to know how he'd kept track of her. Had he simply been watching with binoculars, or was he using some kind of electronic device? She'd like to know the answer to that question, and it might lead to an article. Are the Icelandic police like the F.B.I.? Has 9/11 led to the erosion of Icelandic liberty?

It was also true that she found him attractive. If he didn't turn out be a spy or criminal, like the police in America, she would like to get to know him better.

So she told him, “Yes."

He smiled and nodded, told her “good night,” and left.

She unlocked her door and went in, turning on the lights. Her little summer house looked strange and unfamiliar, after the sight of the trolls leaving the Dark Canyon. Who was she? And what was this land that she had thought she knew? She would have to rethink her novel, though she wasn't sure she wanted to include trolls. The ghosts, maybe.

Signy made coffee and set out some cookies. The troll children wouldn't be coming back to ask for them. She would have to eat them herself.

Then she sat down and opened a notebook.

And that was that.

Copyright © 2011 by Eleanor Arnason

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Derek Kunsken is a writer living in Gatineau, Québec. His fiction has sold to
On Spec, Black Gate, sub-Terrain,
and
Esli.
Although he trained as a molecular biologist, he left science to work with street children in Latin America, and eventually found a career in refugee issues. When not writing, he is invariably to be found with his six-year old son, playing with action figures, building forts, and reading comic books. His second story for
Asimov's
is a social satire about murderous monkeys and apes who tenuously co-exist in an outrageous, post-human world.

Murray slips the cool steel of the silencer into my palm. My hearing, augmented with somatic genetic modifications from bats, picks up the scrape of machined metal against thickened skin. I screw the silencer onto the muzzle, using my palm to muffle the rasp.

I'm Reggie and I'm a businessman.

Murray gives me the scope. I do a quick sighting, and then slide it onto the rifle.

I'm really good at what I do.

Murray passes me a clip of ceramic 7.62 rounds. I don't care how thick your force field is. It ain't stoppin’ these puppies.

What I do isn't exactly tea conversation. I kill old people. The older, richer, and droolier the better.

Me and Murray have swung high into a tree in the park overlooking the official residence of the Bonobo Embassy. Through the scope, I see my target. An ancient bonobo female, lanky, tangled hair hanging in patches around cheeks and chin. Gray tits sagging flat and wrinkly like broken balloons. The stained, white padding around her waist doesn't seem to be doing its job of holding in what needs holding, and flies buzz. She wheezes, staring out of the compound, searching the trees, looking for danger.

Sorry, old hag, but I've got you this time. I don't care whose mother you are. I'm the angel of death and I bring—

Something loud snaps behind me. Murray, and all my equipment, knock against my back. I hold onto the branch and don't make a sound, but dumb-ass, butterfingers Murray drops my GPS and a set of small screwdrivers. They tinkle down, hitting every goddamn branch. His furry orange face stares at me, lips forming a big O.

Alexandra the Bonobo, the ambassador's mother, jolts from her seat and stands straight. Her diaper gives out at the same time, and plops between her feet with a hypnotically sickening splash. The old hag points at me.

"You're a failure, you no-assed macaque afterbirth!” she shrieks. “You couldn't kill a blind, one-armed, no-legged spider-monkey! Go back to eating fruit, you mouth-breathing loser!"

That's a bit harsh. I like fruit. She follows it with a stream of racist epithets and froths at the mouth by the time she gets to “The only thing I hate worse than macaques are gibbons!” Racist bitch. I hate bonobos.

I'd love to yell back, but embassy security pours into the yard. They're carrying pistols with metal rounds. Won't get through their own force field, but I don't want to be here when their marksmen come out, or the Gibbon police get here. My visa status is dodgy enough as it is.

"Dumb-ass!” I yell. I smack Murray. I regret it immediately. I hit him hard enough to hurt myself on the carbon-nanotube-reinforced skin under his brown fur. I did the job myself and did it pretty good. Flexible enough to keep his skin looking real, but still hard enough to be damn near bulletproof. Problem is, my sidekick is clumsy and follows instructions like a Guatemalan pack burro. My hand still stings and security guys are pulling their binoculars. Alexandra the Bonobo fills the air with obscenities that would make a hooker blush.