O Death, I have watched you in silence,
I have watched as you ravage and steal.
But now, foolish Death, I will fight you,
My prayers and sword you will feel.
Leave me, dark angel! Touch not my home!
Take with you the fear in my heart!
Touch not this cradle, touch not my kin,
Or a much greater war you will start.
Death seems to laugh as it circles,
Surrounding my home as for war.
I stand my ground yet undaunted;
With God, I’ve fought Death off before.
“Shh—you hear that? It’s probably a ghost.”
Tarin looked in the direction the rustling noise had come from. “Lukas says that ghosts aren’t real,” he said. He wasn’t entirely convinced of the point—the eerie woods around him, damp and grey and dripping with moss and mist, lent themselves entirely to the existence of the paranormal. But if Lukas said something, it had to be true.
Brett, Tarin’s companion, let out a derisive chuckle. “So what? Lukas says you can tell if someone’s dying by looking at their pee. He can’t be right about everything. Besides, everyone knows that this island is haunted. They say that, forty years ago, the chief’s daughter was eaten by a water-draugr.”
“Sure, and it was fairies that ate the last piece of cheese out of the cupboard last week,” Tarin said.
“Go ask Leif—ask anyone you like. It’s true. Her name was Ragnhild. She was six years old.”
Tarin shivered. Brett was eighteen, an adult in the loosest sense of the term, and certainly old enough for thirteen-year-old Tarin to trust and admire. But Brett also had a habit of teasing his younger classmate, and Tarin was never quite sure when he was serious. Part of him wanted to go home. But there was a party at home—the worst sort of party, where grown-ups talked too much and the smell of food drove you mad because Mum wouldn’t let you eat any of it until dinnertime. So he trudged forward into the woods, wiping away a drip of condensed mist that had fallen off a pine bough and onto his freckled face.
“What’s a draugr, anyway?” Tarin asked. “Some sort of ghost?”
“They happen when people aren’t buried properly,” said Brett. “Their corpse turns black with rot and reeks of death, but they’re still able to run around and attack people. They tear them apart with their teeth and claws, then they eat them. This one’s a water-draugr, so it’s a man who drowned in the stream between here and the village.”
“I’ve never seen it,” said Tarin.
“You’ve never seen God, either. Doesn’t mean He’s not real.”
The pair continued on in silence. Tarin kept his eyes open, nervously scanning the forest for anything that looked like a half-rotted corpse. Something touched the back of his neck; it felt like cold phantom fingernails. Tarin jumped and whirled around, only to see Brett laughing, holding a stick. Tarin squared his shoulders and shoved him. His spindly arms were powerless against Brett’s bear-like frame, but his intentions were loud and clear.
“You know somethin’, Brett? ‘Tis a maggot you are. A horse-eatin’, addlepated maggot!”
“You’re a goat-eyed fool,” Brett shot back.
Tarin’s eyes gleamed; this time, he knew Brett was teasing. “You’re a fat gomey with a chicken’s brain!”
“You’re nothing but a—”
Brett’s voice trailed off, and he stopped walking. One hand shot out and grabbed Tarin’s narrow shoulder. There was another rustling in the woods. Tarin froze to listen to it; it sounded like footsteps, and then a thud, as if something had fallen. And then there was silence. No matter how hard Tarin listened, the only thing he could hear was the whispering of the wind in the pine boughs and the eldritch hum of the mists.
“It’s the ghost,” said Brett. “It’s probably a huldra. It’s a forest spirit that looks like a pretty girl with a cow’s tail. If she kisses you, you’re her slave for the rest of your life.”
“I’ll bet ‘tis a merrow,” said Tarin. “We’re fierce close to the ocean.”
“Or it might be the same draugr that ate the chief’s daughter.”
Tarin grabbed the stick out of Brett’s hand. “Let’s go find out,” he said.
“You’re mad! You’ll get eaten!”
Tarin whirled around to face his friend. “Devil mend it, Brett! It was just last week that you prayed Mum would find her tablet weaving shuttle, and you’d hardly said ‘amen’ before it showed up. Don’t you think we can take on a ghost?”
Sighing, Brett made his way towards the source of the noise, and Tarin followed him with a mixture of caution and excitement. Brett’s enormous height and broad build were more suited for a wrestling contest than a silent trek through the woods. He had to stop every two paces to duck under a twig or turn sideways to get between two close-growing trees. Tarin’s curiosity was overwhelming his patience. When Brett got tangled in the underbrush, Tarin nimbly darted ahead of him, finally reaching the spot the noise had originated from.
There it was.
Tarin froze. Whatever it was, it didn’t look human. Its limbs were too long, and they stuck out at odd angles. It moved like a spider, slowly, limb by limb into the underbrush. Tarin took a small step away from it. By the time Brett caught up, brushing twigs out of his beard, the creature had all but disappeared. The only thing Tarin could see was a hand—or at least something that looked like a hand—with fingers that clutched at the dirt as if in pain.
“What is it?” Brett whispered.
“I don’t know.”
“Did it see you?”
“I think so. ‘Tis trying to run away.”
“Then it’s harmless,” said Brett. Grabbing his stick back, he took a few steps further into the woods. “In Jesus’ name, come out!”
Tarin flinched. There was a noise—a guttural, instinctual cry, like that of a wounded animal or a dying infant. Brett lashed out with his stick. The creature moved—there was a flash of something sickly white, mottled with dirt and fresh blood and dried scabs. Then Brett gave a cry of his own and came crashing back towards the path.
“It bit me,” he said. Blood reddened the torn edges of his sleeve. Tarin’s heart skipped a beat as he tried to see if the creature was following them. It wasn’t. Or if it was, Tarin couldn’t see it.
Without another word, the boys turned and ran.