The Puffin of Death (3 page)

“You will like our Icelandic foxes,” she said, no slur detectible in her voice. “Sigurd and Freya come from different litters and both are less than a year old. Playful and smart, so be prepared for sneaky business. When winter comes in California, their coats will turn white, like they do here, then dark gray again in the spring. And the two puffins you will be taking with you? Loki has a broken wing which keeps him from flying. He was brought to the zoo a few months ago by the little girl who found him. Ilsa, the female, another rescue, was already here. She, too, has a problem. Part of one wing is missing, not enough that you can see it, but enough that she can no longer fly. She might have been bitten by a fox. But her story ends happily, because when Loki met her it was love at first sight. Puffins mate for life, you understand, so when we told Miss Gunn about their love, she said she would be pleased to take both.”

When I expressed surprise, she laughed. “This being Iceland, we can always get more puffins. There's a puffin rookery near Vik, the largest in the world. That is where we're going horseback riding tomorrow so you can see how beautiful our country really is. Iceland is not all lava fields, bookstores, and bars. But we have to go to Vik tomorrow, because within the next few days, two film crews will be setting up there.”

“I'm looking forward to…”

The sound of breaking glass cut me off. It was followed by a curse word. An American curse word. Then I heard chairs scraping back, sounds of grappling, more curse words.

“Ah, a fight,” Bryndis said, sounding delighted. “Excellent! Fight at night, fair sailing on the morrow.”

An old Viking proverb, no doubt. “Maybe we should leave.” From my old college days, I knew barroom fights had a nasty habit of spreading.

She gave me a quizzical look. “You do not enjoy a good fight?”

“I go out of my way to avoid them.”

She shook her head in disappointment. “Then sit here in peace while I go see who is doing what to whom. That may be Ragnar who is slapping the man with the Elvis sideburns. Ragnar and I used to be, as you Americans say, an item. We still are, when he is not busy with someone else. Or I am.”

Elvis sideburns? It couldn't be. But when I stood up and peered over an upturned table, I saw that the man in question was indeed Drunk Elvis, the birder who'd almost gotten my flight diverted to Manitoba.

Drunk Elvis' huge blond adversary had him down on the ground and was slapping the holy hell out of him while a crowd of Icelanders cheered him on. The tourists, alarmed by the physicality, huddled against the far wall.

“Hi, Ragnar,” Bryndis said, leaning toward the big blond slapper. “Are you going to Arni's opening tonight?”

Ragnar nodded. Without missing a slap, he said with a slight accent, “I have been looking forward to it all week. He will be exhibiting twelve oils and four sculptures. The Njalsdottir Trio is performing, I hear. And the buffet includes hakari. Will you be there?” Still slapping.

“Too much paperwork to do. By the way, I believe you have punished that man enough.”

“You think? Well, here is what he said to her.” Ragnar growled something in Icelandic.

I couldn't understand a word, but Ragnar's words appeared to horrify Bryndis.

“He actually
said
that? To a woman?” she replied in English.

Ragnar switched back to English, too. “And much worse. But perhaps you are right. He has learned his lesson. See? He cries now, the big baby.”

The blond giant stood up, hauling Drunk Elvis with him. With a consideration that seemed odd under the circumstances, Ragnar swept pieces of broken glass off his victim, bloodying his hand in the process. He didn't notice. “There, sir. All good now. But it would be best if you return to your hotel and never visit the Viking Tavern again. I am not the only Icelander in here who heard you say such things to that poor woman. Consider yourself a lucky man. If you had said such things to an Icelandic woman, you would be dead now, killed by her own hand.”

We watched as Drunk Elvis, still sniveling, staggered out of the bar with a middle-aged woman trailing behind him. Her hair, obviously dyed, was almost the color of my burgundy wine. It wasn't flattering.

After giving Ragnar a kiss on the cheek, Bryndis steered me back to our table. “That was fun. Say, Ragnar has a brother who is even more handsome than he is. Would you like me to arrange a date? He could show you a good time for the rest of your days in Iceland.” She winked. “A very good time.”

I sputtered for a moment, then managed, “I'm engaged.”

“That is a problem?”

“In the way you mean, yes. At least it is in the U.S.”

She shrugged. “That is all right then, I guess, as long as your fiancé shows you a good time, too.”

***

There were no more fights at the Viking Tavern, but Bryndis wanted to get us to the stables in Vik first thing in the morning so we left at eleven. Given the time difference between Iceland and California, it was somewhere around three the previous afternoon there, the perfect time to call my fiancé. After clearing a space for my laptop on the minuscule desk in the living room, Bryndis toddled off to bed, and due to the miracles of modern electronics, my call went straight through to the San Sebastian County Sheriff's Office.

“How cold is it?” Joe asked, as soon as he picked up.

“It's August, even in Iceland, and it hit seventy today. Since I was wearing ski gear more appropriate for Switzerland in December, I almost had a heat stroke at the airport. But now that the sun's down the temperature's dropping, and it would sure be nice to have you here to cuddle with.” I made kissy-kissy noises.

“Sending you an imaginary cuddle.” He returned my kissy-kissy noises.

This was one of the things I loved about Joe. To meet Joe Reyes, he looked like your basic rough, tough county sheriff, albeit handsomer than most, but when you got to know him you realized he was sloppily romantic. At least once a week he had delivered a single red rose to the
Merilee
. And then there were those biceps, that chest…

“Is the bear as cute as you expected, or haven't you met him yet?”

I put away my X-rated fantasies and replied, “Met him already, and he's even cuter. They've named him Magnus. How're things on the criminal front in San Sebastian County?”

“No more bank robberies since you left or Circle K holdups, only a couple of domestic disturbances, none of them violent, and a few speeders. You know, the usual. Speaking of Switzerland, have you decided where you want to go on our honeymoon?”

“Hawaii. Rome. Paris. Mexico City. Whatever's fine with you.”

More kissy noises. “You're so easy.”

“That's what all my fiancés say.”

Joe also had a good sense of humor, so he got a laugh out of that one. But then, with regret in his voice, he said, “Listen, it's wonderful talking to you, and even though you've only been gone a couple of days, I already miss you like crazy. But I promised to drop by and see Rogers at the hospital. If I don't get out of here now, I never will. The paperwork's about to hit the fan on the First National.”

Just before I'd left, Sam Rogers, the newest and youngest deputy on the San Sebastian force, had broken his pelvis when his squad car experienced a blowout and rolled during the high-speed chase of two Nevada men who hours earlier had robbed the San Sebastian First National Bank. Like most good sheriffs, Joe was supportive of his deputies, especially when they were injured on the job.

“Go, go. Spread the solace and put off the red tape as long as possible.”

Another laugh, another rash of phone kisses, and we hung up.

Despite my daytime nap, I slept well that night, awakening only once when, during an X-rated dream of Joe, I opened my eyes and discovered that he'd morphed into Drunk Elvis.

“Are we having fun yet?” he leered.

Chapter Three

At four in the morning, a few minutes before Iceland's summer sunrise, Bryndis and I left Reykjavik for Hótel Brattholt—Icelandic for “steep hill,” my fellow zookeeper informed me. Brattholt was a combined hotel and farm near Vik, a tiny seaside community southeast of Reykjavik where she and Ragnar boarded their horses. When not slapping Drunk Elvis around, Ragnar was the soul of generosity, and had graciously offered to lend me his gelding so that I could enjoy a day in the saddle.

“Pretty isn't it?” Bryndis said, pulling her Volvo to the right to avoid hitting a sheep walking down the center line of the highway.

“The sheep?”

She laughed. “No, Teddy, the scenery.”

Unlike the barren lava fields I'd seen during yesterday's drive from the airport to Reykjavik, the scenery along this part of Iceland's Ring Road, which looped around the entire country, was gorgeous. As the sun rose, I saw glacier-topped mountains to our left, and lush, emerald-green pastures to our right. Herds of shaggy Icelandic horses grazed peacefully in those pastures, careful to make wide berths around the steaming hot springs the country was famous for. Every now and then a shooting geyser erupted from one of the hot springs, splattering the area around it with scalding water. It didn't faze the horses, which were known for their steady temperament.

At one point during our drive, Bryndis parked on the side for a few minutes and drew my attention to a seemingly peaceful-looking mountain capped by a glacier.

“That's Eyjafjallajökull,” she said. “Remember back in 2010 when one of our volcanoes erupted and disrupted air travel all across Europe? There is the villain.”

“You mean there's a volcano underneath all that snow?”

“That is true of most of our volcanoes—we have more than a hundred—which is why Iceland is called ‘the land of fire and ice.' But only around thirty keep erupting, which does cause some inconvenience from time to time. When Eyjafjallajökull blew, a few hundred people had to be evacuated.”

I tried pronouncing the unpronounceable. “Eya…Eyafah-alla…what?” My American tongue made it sound like a Middle Eastern culinary dish.

“AY-uh-fyat-luh-YOE-kuutl-uh,” she said slowly. “
Eyja
means ‘island' and
fjall
means ‘mountain.' When you put them all together and add
jökull
,
Eyjafjallajökull
literally means ‘the glacier on top of the mountains you can see the islands from.' Not so hard when you break it down, eh?”

“If you say so.”

She laughed. “As bad as Eyjafjallajökull was to us, do you see that big hump several miles to the south?”

From here, that “big hump” was a snow-covered slope that looked perfect for skiing.

“That is not snow, Teddy,” Bryndis said, as if reading my mind. “It is another glacier, and underneath all the ice lies Katla, an even bigger volcano than Eyjafjallajökull. Much, much bigger! In legend, Katla was a cruel witch who was chased out of a village because of her evil ways, and every now and then, she takes her revenge. Our scientists say she is long overdue for an eruption and that when she blows, we may have to take to the boats. I will bet you hope you are back safe in California when that happens, eh?”

I'd once been in Hawaii when Kilauea erupted, wiping out several homes, so I wasn't eager to see anything like that again. Compared to Eyjafjallajökull or even Kilauea, Katla appeared as gentle as the lambs grazing on the side of the Ring Road. In the early morning light, soft clouds hovered above its peaceful slopes.

Bryndis read my mind again. “No worries! We always get earthquakes before an eruption, and other than a couple of bumps in the past few days, nothing has happened.”

“Bumps?”

“You did not notice the one last night? Iceland averages several quakes a week, all perfectly safe. But you being from California, you must be used to them, right?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued, “Now take a look at the pretty green hill in front of Eyjafjallajökull. That is part of a lava flow created by the volcano more than a thousand years ago. See the buildings caved into the rock? Those are ancient dwellings our ancestors used to live in. Now they are used for storage, and during especially bad weather, as shelter for farm animals.”

“You're telling me Vikings used to live in caves?”

She grinned. “The heat came in handy during the winter, I hear.”

We reached the Hótel Brattholt three hours after leaving Reykjavik, having made a couple of stops along the way. The hotel, with its nearby stables, was popular with all sorts of outdoors-loving tourists. It sat atop a steep hill, a mile back from the famous black sand beach of Vik.

A no-frills structure, the hotel's steeply pitched metal roof must have come in handy during the area's rugged winters. So would its corrugated iron siding, erected to withstand any insult the weather threw at it. The sides of the hotel were painted a creamy yellow with bright green trim, and looked welcoming. The interior was even cozier than the exterior. The combined lobby/dining hall was filled with comfy sofas, booths, and chairs arranged in an arc around the huge stone fireplace. Despite the early hour, several visitors had already staked out the seats closest to its warmth.

As I waited, Bryndis went in to speak to the hotelier, a muscular man of about forty, whose name tag said ULFUR. Like everyone I'd met so far, he spoke fluent English, and was kind enough to caution us about the weather.

“A light rain is forecast for later today, so rain slickers might be a good idea. If you do not have any, you can borrow some from us.” He motioned to a collection of jackets and slickers hanging from a pegged shelf on the wall behind the counter.

“We are fine, but thanks,” Bryndis told him. To me, she said, “The food is good here, so let us have lunch after our ride.”

“My treat,” I insisted. Aster Edwina, my usually-stingy boss, had loaned me the zoo's platinum Visa, and I planned to take advantage of it.

Weather in Iceland is changeable. When we went back outside, a front of dark clouds had already sped inland from the North Atlantic, lending accuracy to Ulfur's warning. But having folded a slicker into my fanny pack before we left her apartment, I was prepared for whatever the weather threw at me.

To my surprise, the horses weren't stabled. They ran loose in a large pasture behind the hotel, but catching them proved no problem. As friendly as dogs, they ran toward us at the sound of Bryndis' whistle, so within minutes of our arrival, we were saddled up, Bryndis on her sorrel mare Freya, me on Ragnar's black gelding, Einnar. The horses appeared eager to get some exercise, and we were glad to oblige.

The riding trail led down a steep incline from the hotel toward the Ring Road. Freya's hooves flew as she sped along, trusting my Einnar to catch up. I'd ridden most of my life, but was unused to the Icelandic horses' unusual gaits—especially the fast
tolt
, a rapid gait bearing no resemblance to an American horse's gallop. As Einnar raced in pursuit of Freya I clutched amateurishly at the pommel of my saddle. My horse, speedy despite his gentleness, caught up with Freya as we reached the highway.

No cars were coming, so we crossed safely to where the riding trail continued on the other side.

Bryndis grinned as I reined up alongside her. “How do you like our Icelandic horses?”

“Mag” puff “ifi” puff “cent,” I puffed, hoping she understood me, what with all those puffs.

“Our horses, they are different than those you are used to?”

“Night” puff “and” puff “day.”

As if trying to figure out what the heck I was talking about, Einnar turned his great head to look at me, snorted, then bobbed his head at Freya. When she nickered back, I was convinced the two were sharing a joke at my expense.

“Caught your breath yet?” Bryndis asked, pityingly.

“I'm good for a few more miles.” Puff, puff.

From the highway, it was only a quarter-mile further to the black sand beach, which I found terrifying in its beauty. To the east, a steep volcanic cliff almost two hundred feet high fronted the beach, hiding it from the highway. With that reminder of civilization out of sight, the seaside landscape looked almost alien, which, Bryndis explained, was why it remained such a popular film location, from historical epics like
Noah
and
Beowulf
to sci-fi flicks like
Prometheus
. On the cliff walls, giant columns of gray basalt, thrust up by volcanic eruptions, framed a series of caverns formed by lava flumes. Several yards off shore, three sea stacks rose as sentinels in the turbulent North Atlantic.

“That looks like rough surf,” I yelled to Bryndis as we
tolted
along the beach. I was becoming used to my horse's gait, and could speak without turning blue.

“Angry trolls keep the water riled up.”

I wasn't certain I heard her right. “Trolls, did you say?”

“Legend says that those big columns in the water are the remains of three fishing vessels the trolls tried to pull out to sea. They could not quite manage it, so to spite other fishermen, they made the water so rough no one has been able to boat near here. Or swim. So whatever you do, do not fall in the water!”

“I'll try to remember that.”

While we rode along, flocks of seagulls, grebes, and fat-bodied puffins cawed and shrieked against the rising wind. Our horses weren't bothered by the racket. They were unflappable, and
tolted
across the black sand as if the sea and the sky had remained motionless.

Casting a look at the darkening day, Bryndis shouted back at me, “If we want to see the puffin rookery, we must hurry. Once the rain begins, the trail up will be too slippery for safety.” She pointed to the top of the cliff, from which the parrot-beaked birds peered down at us.

Surely she didn't mean for our horses to scale the cliff! I would have shared my concern, but she had already urged her horse forward, and we sped along the black sand at such speed it was startling. A few minutes later we rounded the jutting southern end of the cliff and entered a low, lava-and-grass-speckled marsh at the harbor's mouth. In the distance I saw the picturesque village of Vik, its green, yellow, and red corrugated iron homes bright against the darkening sky. Unlike the sheer rock wall ahead of us, they looked welcoming.

As we grew closer to the base of the cliff, I could see a narrow trail leading up to the top, but it appeared dangerously steep, eased only by a series of switchbacks. One misstep and we would wind up in the churning North Atlantic, food for hungry trolls.

I urged my horse forward until he caught up with Bryndis. Trying to disguise my concern, I said, “You said that the rookery is a popular spot for birders, but most birders I've known aren't mountain-climbers, so how…?”

She reined Freya to a halt and pointed inland, where I saw that the cliff wall was actually the abrupt end of a land bridge that began in the inland hills to the north. Sitting atop the highest was the Hótel Brattholt. We had ridden in a long semi-circle and come out on the other side.

“From the hotel, it is an easy hike along the footpath to the rookery, but nowhere near as scenic as the way we've ridden. If you look hard, you can see the footpath and the pedestrian footbridge that crosses over the road.”

Squinting, I saw a serpentine scar winding from the inn to the cliff's plateau. I was about to suggest that we return to the hotel and pick our way along the footpath, a much easier journey, but Bryndis and Freya had already started up the steep incline on the side of the cliff. Without asking my opinion, Einnar followed suit.

The ride proved as unsettling as I'd feared, and a couple of times I had to shut my eyes against the steep drop to the beach, trusting Einnar to make his way along the narrow track without my guidance. Braver and more surefooted than I, he did, and after a climb that felt like hours but by my watch was only minutes, we arrived at the summit, a windswept expanse of flat land interrupted here and there by eerie lava formations. Some of them were vaguely human-shaped, which Bryndis told me might have given rise to the still-prevalent Icelandic belief in gnome-like creatures called the “hidden people.”

“Be careful or one might grab you,” Bryndis teased, dismounting on the same spot where the footpath from the hotel came to an end. “The hidden people love redheads.”

Only half-convinced she was kidding—I'd read somewhere that as many as two-thirds of Icelanders still believed in gnomes and trolls—I watched my step.

By now the wind was blowing in earnest, and the first drops of rain had begun to fall. The North Atlantic roared far below us, the surf's noise eclipsed by the squawking and cawing of innumerable nesting puffins. White-and-black heads adorned with vivid red, yellow, and blue-black beaks stuck their heads out of their underground burrows, shrieking their displeasure at our trespass. Sympathetic to their distress, I dismounted and led my horse toward what appeared to be solid ground, but before I'd traveled more than a few yards, a nesting puffin poked its head out of a nearby burrow and squawked a warning.

“Sorry,” I muttered, seeing a downy chick hunkered beside it.

Mama Puffin was in no mood to accept my apology. Believing I meant harm to her baby, she squawked again, then hopped out of the burrow to deliver a swift series of pecks to my boot. Her garish beak must have been stronger than it looked, because I could feel her assault through the thick leather. I stepped further away, continuing my apologies. Not that Mama Puffin cared.

“Avoid the nesting females,” Bryndis advised. “They are protective of their young. The males, too, come to think of it. Uh oh. Here comes Papa Puffin now.”

A larger puffin swept by me, several small, silver-colored fish dangling from its bill. Once the bird landed at the mouth of the burrow, it ignored me until it had finished stuffing breakfast into its chick's craw, but as soon as that had been accomplished, it fixed me with an evil eye and growled. Yes,
growled
.