Never Fear (5 page)

At last, one of the branches caught
flame.

She heard a scream; she looked back.
The woman/child thing was changing again. She looked like an out of
sync holograph, becoming a child again, a woman, another
woman...

And Declan had stopped moving; he
stood there, paralyzed, staring.

Dakota squirted the contents of the
butane with great effort, running the flame of the lighter under
the branches of the tree with all her effort.

She looked back.
The
thing
was
then moving toward Declan. She wasn’t getting it to burn hard
enough or fast enough.

She remembered the diary.

“
Dear God in Heaven,
help!” she cried.

And then, she thought, there were
miracles. She saw Pastor Frank, first. He was running toward her
with something in his hands... a torch! A burning torch. And there
were others... the two missing officers from her own office, Mrs.
Villiers, who ran the local coffee shop, Jerry Tremaine, a teacher
at the high school...

They were all bringing fire! And they
were singing! They were singing Christmas carols at the top of
their lungs.

There was a host of people next to
her. And, at last, the tree was ablaze.

Burning in the night. The heat was
searing against her flesh. It was insane...

She turned. Pastor Frank took her into
his arms, blessing her. County people were suddenly flooding
around, too, trying to figure out what the hell had
happened.

And then, looking at her with
disbelief—as if she had dropped out of the skies from a shooting
star—was Declan. He was shocked at first. And then he was trembling
as he looked at her and said, “I told you that there were devils in
the woods. And somehow, you saved me. I always thought I had to be
here, to save others from the devils. But... you saved
me.”

*

There were times in the days that
followed that she wondered if she’d been crazy herself.

The town had remained a mess. Their
giant Christmas tree had gone up in the explosion with the
car.

People had been killed at the bar;
people who had been beloved.

The church was a mess...

And yet, in the days that followed,
the church was cleaned up. A new tree was obtained—as well as a new
Nativity scene.

The dead were buried and
mourned.

By order of the mayor, they waited
until county had done all that could be done to investigate the
murders, and then the roots of the hanging tree were dug up and
burned to cinders as well.

It was very strange.

The pastor said a lot of
prayers.

The murders never would be solved;
they would become part of the legend of the town.

That wouldn’t matter; she and Declan
wouldn’t be there.

It was on Christmas Day that he came
to her, knelt down before her, and told her that he had buried the
past. He’d like a future. He’d been given a nice offer over in St.
Augustine.

“
Does that mean you want
me to... come with you?” she asked.

And his smile gave her the answer she
realized she’d wanted. So, they would go together. Now, he could
leave the town. The next captain would not be so
plagued.

They stood with the town at ceremonies
at the church that night. They sang Christmas carols. Happy
ones.

And they watched the display of
fireworks over the square, fireworks that lighted up the
woods—plagued by devils no more.

A FAMILY CHRISTMAS
TERROR

CHAPTER 2

“
That was creepy,” Nick
said. “I think I need another doughnut.”

“
Like you wouldn’t have
had one anyway,” Jack added. “Garbage-can gut.”

“
Just wait till you’re
older and metabolism catches up to you.” Dan patted his slight
belly. “But these doughnuts are damn good. Is there more coffee?”
He raised his cup and motioned to his wife.

“
I’ll get it.” Judy stood
up and moved to the kitchen.

“
Hey, Mom?” Nancy called
out. “I think you should read this next story. It takes place in
Iceland. Didn’t you and Dad go there a few years ago for your
twentieth anniversary? And you’re always saying you’ve got Nordic
blood in you.”

Judy came back into the room, coffee
pot in hand. “But l have dinner to get started,” Judy
responded.

“
The turkey’s already
cooking and we’ll all help with everything else. Right guys?” Nancy
glared at her brothers.

“
Right, right,” the
brothers assured her.

“
Okay, but just this one
story.” She took the book from Nancy. “I did love Iceland.
Beautiful country. Beautiful people. Remember, Dan?”

“
Uh huh,” he said. “But
you know what the most beautiful thing I saw was?”

“
Me?” Judy asked
coquettishly.

“
Yup,” was his simple
response.

“
Ewwww!” the twins
chorused. Grandpa chuckled.

“
Enough reminiscing,
guys,” Jack said. “And I thought the doughnuts were
sweet.”

Everyone laughed. Then Judy said,
“Here we go. I hope there aren’t too many bad words.”

“
We’ve heard them before,
Mom,” Jack said.

She began,
“Christmas Terrors In Olde Iceland...”

CHRISTMAS TERRORS IN OLDE ICELAND

LANCE TAUBOLD

In ancient Iceland, Christmas began on
December 12 and ended on January 6.

Their Christmas has many legends.
These legends were told to the children throughout the years to
make them behave. There is one legend that says on Christmas Eve
the animals will be able to talk, but if they are heard by human
ears that person will go mad. Another says that if you do not wear
something new on Christmas, the evil Yuletide Cat will come for you
and eat you, for it means that you have been lazy and have not
earned enough money to purchase something new to wear.

The Cat is the pet of the hag Grýla
and her troll husband Leppalúdi. They also have thirteen
mischievous children, the Yuletide Lads, who have been known to
visit unsuspecting Icelanders, one each day, beginning December 12,
leading up to Christmas. They come at night, perform their
mischievous deeds, and leave. Their acts are mostly harmless, but
not so those of their mother, the hag Grýla. If she comes to visit,
it is for the most vile of purposes. It is said she will eat the
flesh of bad children and that crying babies are her favorite
delicacy.

Legends always have some basis in
fact, for where else would they come from? What is truth? What is
legend?

One Christmas in 13th century Iceland,
on a small farm in the wilderness, Berglind and her family learned
the truth of those legends.

*

“
Do not
eat that!” Berglind, the tall, blond woman said, waving her
flour-covered hand at her eight-year-old daughter. “They are for
later. You are such a bad child, Lilja. Grýla the hag will come and
eat
you
,
you naughty child. How many times must I tell you?”

“
No, Mama, please do not
say that.” Lilja’s eyes filled. “I will be good. I
promise.”

“
Remember what happened to
the neighbor boy, Gunnthór; all that was left were his
shoes.”

“
Did that really happen,
Mama? Leifur said it was wolves.” The girl made small trails with
her floured finger in the stone around the oven.

“
Your
brother is a bad child also… and a liar. Why are you
two
and
Magnús such bad children? Why do I try? I hate Christmas.
Only bad things happen.” She put the next batch of half-moon
cookies in the stone oven. “Where are your bad
brothers?”

“
They are out in the
pasture, Mama. It is the first day of Yule, and Stekkjastur, the
first of the Yuletide Lads, is coming and he will try to drink the
sheep’s milk.”

“
Yes,
Lilja, the nasty Yuletide Lads
may
be coming. I am hoping not. It
is good to prepare for them. Mayhap they will pass our farm this
year. We do not have so very many animals.” She checked the baking
cookies and breathed in their scent. “Go and get your brothers,”
she added, calling after the already departing girl, who was
donning her fur and boots. “But if those sheep are not hidden
safely away, they get no half-moon cookies!”

“
Yes, Mama, and I will
tell them to get the cows ready for tomorrow when Giljagaur will
try to skim the froth from the milk pails.”

“
Very good, Lilja. That is
the nice little girl I know. And perhaps your father will also be
home before Christmas Eve. He and your uncle said they would try to
bring a candle for us all. And if work was good, maybe two. That is
why they have been working so hard up in the north these past
months, Lilja, to bring you bad children the gift of light. You,
Lilja, I have hope for… But Leifur and Magnús I fear will never
learn.”

“
I will be good, Mama. I
helped you bake the half-moons. And Leifur and Magnús are not
always bad. Sometimes they are nice to me.”

“
Run along, Lilja, and
tell those boys to make haste.” She turned and pulled the cookies
from the oven. Perfect. “I have a bad feeling this Christmas,” she
said to the cooling cookies. “Snorri, please come home soon. I am
afraid for our children. They cause such mischief, but I love them.
Leifur and Magnús need their father. They cannot manage this farm
without you. Magnús is fourteen now, almost a man, but he still has
much to learn. Please come home soon.”

Berglind often spoke aloud to herself.
It gave her solace when she became worried. It made things not so
quiet. The winters in Iceland could be still as death, and at
Christmas time, death was always waiting at the
doorstep.

She walked over to the hearth and sat
on the wooden stool in front of it. “Oh please, I beg the gods to
spare us this year. We have had enough tragedy. That evil hag Grýla
ate my baby, Stenn, and her monstrous cat ate Snorri’s poor
brother, Torvild. We thought his boots were new, but he…” She began
to cry, as she always did when she revisited that awful time. She
did this only once during Yule, on the first day… remembered. Then
locked it away.

She keened over their loss, calling
out her baby’s name. It had been fifteen years, but she saw the
hag’s cruel countenance like it was yesterday. She could see Grýla
biting into her baby’s raw flesh while he screamed and cried. She
could hear the sounds of the flesh tearing loose, see the hag’s
mouth covered in her baby’s blood. And she and Snorri could do
nothing. The hag had frozen them in place with a spell. They were
forced to watch, horrified, as the evil beast ate their child
alive.

When she had finished
consuming their little Stenn, when the last finger bone had been
crunched up and swallowed, Grýla spoke, “Berglind and Snorri
you
will
have
more children.” She’d coughed and spat and picked at her teeth
before continuing her imprecation. “But if they prove not to be
good and decent children, I will come for them—no matter their age.
I will roast them on a spit, then my beloved husband, Leppalúdi,
and I will eat them. Heed my words. I will be watching. I am always
watching.” Then she’d laughed maniacally, her teeth bared, dripping
red gore—their baby’s gore. Then she’d waved at them with gnarled,
bloodied fingers and left.

It had been several minutes before
they could move, sobs wracked from both of them, their faces sodden
with tears.

Fifteen years ago. Berglind had
thought she would never recover. Stenn had been their first child,
and it proved to be many years later that Magnús was born and she
learned to love again. Two years later, Leifur, two years after
that, her Lilja. But the boys had been mischievous from the day
they could walk, and when Lilja came along, they included her in
their mischief. They terrorized the livestock, firing their
slingshots and hitting them with sticks. Berglind sometimes thought
she had spawned her own Yuletide Lads.

But they were her children. It would
not—could not—happen again. She must do something. She had to
protect her children from Grýla and her brood. Even if she had to
sacrifice some of the animals, she would protect her precious
family. “Oh why could I not have borne good and sweet children? Why
am I cursed? Snorri, please come home soon.”

She stored her memories back in her
head, dried her eyes, and went back to the cooking area to tend to
the lamb stew she had been preparing for their evening meal. The
children would be hungry.

She carved brown bread and brought it
to their small wooden table.