Awakening

[Cmdr JFarrington 0]

Awakening

 

Winter nights came early in Norway, especially in the kingdom’s midsection where mountains spawned immense glaciers and cold born more of solitude than ice and snow settled over high pastures well before solstice.

 

It’s cold. So cold.

 

“Vi hjem nä,” said Farfar as he visually scanned first the glacier and then the path towards home. Though she didn’t want to leave, Jami knew his judgment was not to be questioned. Grandfather always knew how much light was left; it was an inbred trait, or so her father said. She gathered her satchel of geological samples, secured her pick in its holster, kissed her dad, and joined Farfar on the narrow path. Dad would follow ss soon as he had secured the dig. She knew he’d be safe enough. Midsummer’s Eve was the time to light bonfires against the trolls, not pre-solstice nights with biting cold.

 

Mormor and Farfar were not Jami’s grandparents, though she had always called them that. David and Marissa Farrington had moved to Norway before Jami and her brother Peter were born. As an anthropologist attached to the University of Oslo, David spent his summers excavating an area around Hardangerjøkulen Glacier in the mountains above Finse, about half way between Bergen and Oslo. A paloesociologist, Melissa had worked alongside him. When the children came – first Peter, then Jami – a local couple had assumed the role of grandparents. Jens and Astrid’s hutte, their mountain cabin, was close to David’s dig. That and a common interest in hiking, skiing, and strong black coffee had formed a bond that had strengthened considerably with the arrival of the two children.

 

This time of year, just when day brightened the barren landscape with a promise of warmth, the sun lost its resolve and sank wearily below the horizon. Farfar said the sun was overworked, drained from lighting the long summer’s days that gave a mere 30 minutes of twilight. “And in summer, even when Sól sets he shines, only napping before rising again. A hard worker is he, so the farmer can grow his crops, the sheep, cows, and goats can graze, the geitost and smør be made and laid up for winter.”

 

Farfar’s eyes twinkled and an appreciative smile stretched his wind-burned wrinkles smooth across his face. He always spoke Norwegian to Jami, though English came just as easily. She loved the sound as it rolled off his tongue, and when he sang she loved it even more. The syllables danced across the melody, its lilting phrases blending perfectly with the music.

 

Music. She heard music. Beautiful. Everywhere. Leading her somewhere.

 

Farfar, are you there?

 

Jami treasured her summers on the mountain. When winter’s blast hit they would retreat into the valley, to Finse, at least until Påske. During that holiday the hills would crawl with skiers looking for the ten meter poles that marked their hutte beneath the snow. They’d dig them out, each helping his neighbor, then ski and visit for the next ten days.

 

In the growing darkness Jami and Jens picked their way along the path that countless footsteps had worn into protruding bedrock from the time of the Viking hunters, according to Farfar. Now the sun had fully set and the only light came from hutte windows, left unshuttered to aid passersby on the often treacherous path. Just before the last turn one row of hutte -- their picture windows draped in lace curtains and their pine-paneled rooms glowing amber with firelight -- reminded Jami of doll houses or shadow boxes lined upon a mantle. There they paused so Jami could watch the families as they went about their evening duties. No one covered their windows. Light was too precious and no one had anything to hide.

 

Evening chill had turned to a biting cold that settled over the hills by the time their own hutte peeked over the ridge. Mom and Mormor had lit the lamps so their beams splayed as a beacon to follow as they trudged up the hillside.

 

Jami could already smell home. Her stomach rumbled with the smell of aftens – light ginger cookies, coffee, gietost – goat cheese – sweet and creamy, on thick slices of fresh-baked brød slathered with smør from the ice house. For aftens, Mom, Dad, Mormor, and Farfar would drink rich black coffee, but she and Peter would drink geitmelk still hot from the doe. Then they would snuggle into bed under thick dyne and drift off to the soft shush-shush-clunk, shush-shush-klunk of Mormor's weaving loom.

 

Sleep….

 

A sudden chill hit her. “Komme du,” said Farfar, reaching out to cover her hand with his when she shivered. His hand was warm, strong, and secure. It gave her a feeling of complete safety. Nothing, not even the trolls, could harm her now….

 

A hand, warm and strong slipped over Jami’s. It wasn’t Farfar’s, but she felt secure just the same. The smells of aftens changed to … something else, something vaguely familiar but not of Norway. The heavy mists that had swirled around her seemed to be parting, and the dark of night changed to the glaring lights of sickbay.

 

“Hey there, lazy bones, it’s about time you woke up.”

 

She knew the voice, but it was of a different time, a different place.

 

“Atragon?”

 

He seemed pale, worn beyond his years. She struggled to focus. His hand closed tighter when she spoke that name; it must be right.

 

“Atragon,” she said again, this time with more assurance. He couldn’t seem to answer, though he tried.

 

Then she smiled.

 

Norwegian – English translations:

 

aftens – supper, a light evening meal

brød – bread

dyne – down comforter

farfar – grandfather

geitmelk – goat’s milk

geitost – goat cheese

hutte – mountain cabin used in summer or as a ski lodge in winter

mormor – grandmother

Påske – Easter

smør – butter

Sól – the Nordic sun god