Eviskar Island

Eviskar Island

By

Warren Dalzell

“Eviskar Island” is dedicated to its readers, especially to those who possess a keen sense of adventure, and who can appreciate the occasional curve-ball Mother Nature throws our way.
WD  July 2015

             
This book is a work of fiction.  Any similarities of its characters and plot to real people and events are purely coincidental.

“I promise this summer will be one you’ll never forget,” Morgan Holloway informs his students as they prepare to participate in the excavation of an Old Norse settlement.  Morgan, his wife, and their four young colleagues are part of an international team of scientists determined to find out why Vikings and their descendants ventured to a small, nondescript island far off the coast of northeast Greenland.  Their trip to the island reinforces what an ordeal it must have been, a thousand years ago, for ancient mariners in wooden longboats to make their way through the treacherous waters of the far North Atlantic merely to access a volcanic rock in the middle of nowhere.

The students’ summer of research abruptly transforms into a harrowing fight for survival as the island reveals her amazing and dangerous secrets.  As the survivors attempt to return to civilization, they must also decide which of those secrets must remain hidden, and why.

Eviskar Island

By Warren Dalzell

I.

Shock and surprise registered with the man as he fell.  Tumbling through space he flailed his arms and legs trying to find purchase on solid ground his subconscious knew wasn’t there.  But the ground would be there soon.  In the horrifying seconds before impact he imagined what it was going to be like, what the exact consequences would be: the pain, the severity of his injuries.

              The rock-strewn ground came up to meet him with crushing violence.  Stabbing sensations shot through his body as he felt and heard his bones break: ankle, arm, ribs.  In an instant he stopped moving.  There was a brief moment when, knowing he’d been badly hurt, he maintained a certain clarity of mind, waiting for the overwhelming pain that would consume his senses.  He moved his head slightly to one side, facing back in the direction from which he’d fallen.  Tall, jagged snow-capped peaks ascended into a dense, impenetrable fog layer just below their summits.  The cold, inhospitable appearance of the mountains provided mocking contrast to the warmer, almost jungle-like conditions in which he lay.  What he’d seen and experienced in the last few hours had yet to register firmly in his psyche, but even in his present condition a fleeting thought flew by: What kind of world have I entered?”

              Was that one of his colleagues standing on the cliff above him?  A second glance showed no one there.  The pain was now excruciating; the mere act of breathing felt like someone was jabbing a dagger into his chest from within.  But the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the psychological.  There would be no rescue from this place.  It was far, far too remote.  Dr. Aage Randrup knew that if he were to survive it would be up to him and him alone, one man against this new, unpredictable and isolated valley.  Summoning his courage he attempted to move, to roll onto his side.  After a heroic effort he succeeded, but that simple act sent waves of pain through his body, reinforcing his awareness of the extent of his injuries.  Contemplating death, he closed his eyes and welcomed the quiet, pain-free oblivion of unconsciousness.

II.

              “Hallelujah!” Dr. Morgan Holloway exclaimed.  He pumped his fist and did a quick ‘moon walk’ before continuing to peruse the rest of the document, the one that had arrived in the morning mail.  It wasn’t quite what he’d hoped for, but he was still enormously relieved.  Morgan made his way through the kitchen and to the back door where his wife, Debbie, was dressing for an afternoon ski workout.

              On a day like today, most of the residents of their small town in northern Minnesota were contentedly ensconced in their homes, reading by the fire or otherwise engaged in indoor projects.  Only the hardiest of souls, like Debbie, dared to brave the single-digit cold that had descended from Canada following last night’s snowfall.  The additional eight inches of fresh powder beckoned as Debbie laced the insulated gaiters fitted around her cross-country boots.  Today’s route would take her on a beautiful six-mile loop out past Granite Lake.  An hour or so earlier she’d spied a group of skiers, probably students given their high fitness level, shushing behind their house, moving along the path she would take.  It was then she’d made the decision to follow in their tracks.  Not having to break trail would permit her to glide along at a comfortable pace and enjoy the sharp air and clear blue sky delivered by the cold front.

              “Would you like to know where we’ll be spending our summer?” Morgan asked as he approached.  The grin on his face spoke volumes.

              “I’d love to go back to Eviskar Island!” she replied with enthusiasm, “Did your Ash-Driscoll grant get approved?”

              “No, I haven’t heard back from them yet.  I don’t expect to either.  Marcus Friedman at Cal Fullerton told me that if they haven’t responded by now we haven’t got a prayer.  Today’s letter, surprisingly, came from our new best friends in the Federal Education Department.”

              “I don’t get it.  How can the country’s most prestigious organization for the support of archeological research ignore a small proposal to share in one of the most important digs in recent memory, while an education grant gets approved to send a bunch of high school kids to the middle of nowhere?”  She pulled a brightly colored woolen cap over her head and began to wrap a scarf around her neck.  “Heck, all that matters is that your research continues.  Congratulations, you archeological stud.”  She stood and kissed him, “So, how many kids are we going to chaperone?”

              Morgan flipped through the document.  “Let’s see.  They were kind enough to give me pretty much what I asked for.  The main cost the students add to the expedition is for transportation to and from the island.  I looked at air fares from New York to Reykjavik a while back and they’ve gone up since last year.”  He frowned, “They’ve set aside a specific amount for travel.”  After a quick mental calculation he remarked, “We can’t take more than half a dozen people besides ourselves.  It also stipulates on the very first page that we need a mix of ages—fourteen through eighteen years old.  Hah, that was something I injected into the proposal thinking that it sounded really pedagogical, something that might appeal to an educational bureaucrat.  Looks like it worked.  Well, if the downside of obtaining an education grant instead of a research grant is that we’ll have to babysit a bunch of snot-nosed kids, I can live with it.”

              Debbie smiled, “I think it will be wonderful having them along.  And your use of the moniker ‘snot-nosed’ is a bit condescending, don’t you think?  My hunch is that they’ll be extremely useful.  You’ll be eating your words come next fall.  Besides,” she purred, pressing her lithe spandex-clad form against him and putting her arms around his neck, “chaperoning these kids will be great practice for when we start our own family.”

              He hugged her.  “I suppose you’re right.  Now, you’re going to have to remind me again how this works.  What is it we have to do to make a baby?”

              “I tell you what.  When I get back from my ski, I’ll give you an extended lesson in baby making.  In fact it may take up the rest of the afternoon.”

              Before things got too steamy, Debbie hurried out the door to grab her skis and poles.  Morgan padded back to his study and examined, in more detail, the grant he’d just been awarded.

              Although it was late December and the archeological site wouldn’t be accessible until June, there wasn’t much time to plan.  How was he going to choose his students?  The grant offered no guidance on that issue.  He couldn’t just pay a visit to the local High School and Jr. High and post notice of the endeavor on their activities boards. Of that he was certain.  The selection process had to be geographically far-reaching.  Also, if he didn’t end up with a “proper” demographic mix, some politically correct knucklehead from the ACLU or some other watchdog organization would make his life miserable.  Morgan sat back in his desk chair and absentmindedly chewed the end of his pipe stem, a typical action whenever he was deep in thought.

              A smile crossed his lips as the idea came to him: an essay contest.  It made perfect sense.  A final group of perhaps fifty applicants would be selected solely on the basis of essay content.  That part would be based purely on merit.  Further culling could then be done through careful re-reading of the submissions in concert with consideration of the obligatory gender, race and ethnicity factors.  He had colleagues for whom a decision based upon anything other than merit would be morally reprehensible.  Morgan didn’t harbor such sentiments.  He was a pragmatist who accepted political correctness as a job requirement.  One’s morals sometimes had to be set aside when made necessary by life’s inescapable realities.

              Morgan was delighted with his selection process.  “So far, so good,” he thought with a sense of self-congratulation.  He jotted down the topic to be addressed by the applicants in their essays: “Why I would like to spend my summer in one of the world’s most remote locales unearthing evidence of an Old Norse settlement.”  Now all that remained was to spread the word about the contest, set an application deadline and take another look at the expenses for the expedition.

              After an hours’ worth of number crunching and web research, he arrived at a sobering conclusion.  He was going to have to limit the number of students to just four.  The Danish and Greenlandic archeologists who collaborated in the endeavor looked to him to provide substantial support for the project.  The unstated understanding on this dig was that he was an outsider who was graciously being allowed to participate in their undertaking.  Only shoestring support was being provided by the Danish government, and he was expected to carry more than his share of the expedition’s financial burden.  Last year the dig had been extended through mid-September thanks to Morgan’s heroic efforts to secure additional NSF funds.  Part of the generous travel allowance in this grant could be used to help offset the travel expenses of some of the other researchers—if he dropped the number of tag-along kids to four.  For political reasons it had to be done.  He hoped the Department of Education overseers would either not notice what he was doing or would let it slide, allowing him some discretion with trip logistics.  In any case, Morgan felt confident he could argue his way out of any resulting difficulty.

              With all the belt tightening going on at colleges throughout the country, money for research was taking a big hit, especially in areas such as archeology and anthropology.  It was so much easier, Morgan thought, if your research affected society in some dramatic way; a promising new treatment for a lethal cancer, cracking the genetic code for an inherited disease, or, he thought with amusement, making motor fuel from one’s own urine.  The latter idea had sprung from the mind of a colleague in the Chemistry Department at their school.  Of course the fellow hadn’t actually said he was turning piss into gasoline.  His research involved a compound normally found at trace levels in urine that could be incorporated into a catalyst for refining oil.  There were better and cheaper sources for the material, but the way in which the Chemistry professor, Dr. Loyd, had put the urine spin into his proposal was, in Morgan’s mind, a stroke of genius.  Attention from the press, not to mention the large award itself, had almost assuredly sprung from this clever association.

              Dr. Morgan Holloway loved his job.  Unlike many of his peers, it wasn’t so much the subject of his work that beckoned him, it was the aura of being a full professor, a distinguished member of academia.  He didn’t mind doing field work or helping to prepare manuscripts as long as generous recognition and accolades resulted.  These were like an aphrodisiac for him.  No one loved seeing his name in print as much as Morgan Holloway, PhD.

In his earliest years at the college, Morgan’s wardrobe portrayed him as a rough-and-tumble man of action, someone accustomed to sleeping with scorpions in the desert, piloting a canoe through dangerous rapids, or evading marauding cannibals.  Of course, his look also had to suggest that while he was flirting with danger, he’d also be unearthing the precious secrets of antiquity.  In short, he wanted to be viewed as a real life “Indiana Jones.”  Most days back then he sported an expensive custom-fit bomber jacket, safari pants held up by suspenders, and a wide-brimmed, faux-leather Australian bush hat.  The latter accoutrement not only served to enhance his swashbuckling appearance, it also provided him with a means to cover his fast-receding hairline, a gift of his father’s lineage.

Over time his image softened and his dress became decidedly less ostentatious, but he did retain what had become his signature feature, one that now defined him and, in his mind, made him stand out among his peers—his pipe.  In fact, Morgan had quite a collection of pipes.  Anti-smoking rules didn’t faze him much.  Sure, he enjoyed lighting up while at home in his study, but the majority of the time the pipe was just a prop, a device to enhance the distinguished aura he hoped to project.  For someone so blessed with a youthful appearance, he desperately wanted to appear older and refined, and the pipe was the key tool he used to achieve that goal.

Morgan bore the title of ‘professor’ as though he’d been bred for the job.  While many faculty members were bothered by the politics of the academic world, Morgan reveled in it.  He craved fundraisers and mixers.  He was adept at schmoozing with deans, administrators, benefactors—anyone of influence who could help to advance his career.  Disingenuous smiles and feigned interest in the work of others came naturally to him as he constantly worked to climb the University’s social ladder, seeking committee and departmental chairmanships and other, high-visibility positions.  But despite his prodigious interpersonal skills, he knew that the most important attribute leading to success in academia was, as the saying goes, "bringing home the bacon."  Money was power.  Everything else took a back seat to the acquisition of enough funding to pay his own salary and to swell the coffers of the institutional bureaucracy.  This was the reason behind the overwhelming relief Morgan felt when his back-up request came through, the one submitted on a whim through the educational sector.  Simply by mentoring a bunch of High School kids, he had solidified his standing at the University and guaranteed the production of more research papers bearing his name.

              At the back of the house a door slammed.  He could hear Debbie stomping the snow off of her ski boots.  Putting aside his mail, Morgan sighed contentedly and went to welcome his wife’s return.

Spencer Bowen

              Spencer Bowen rounded the corner to the street where he lived.  It was mid-March in Brooklyn, NY.  Patches of dirty snow remained along the street corners, remnants of piles left by plows throughout what had been a harsh winter.  He limped along, dodging potholes full of water from the aggressive melting currently in progress.  Although the sky was largely overcast, it was warm, mid-fifties, and Spencer’s foot hurt, a sure sign that the warming trend was about over.  More cold and snow were on the way.  Winter wasn’t yet through with the city.

              “Yo, Spence, they teach you anything in that ‘ol brick prison today?”  The owner/operator of "Charlie’s Dog Stand" always greeted the young man on his walk home from school.

              “Nah, that school’s a friggin waste of time, ya ask me,” Spencer replied, shifting his backpack to his right shoulder.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of bills, quickly figuring out what he could afford for dinner.  “Gimme a Coney doag wit extra onions,” he said, his speech laced with its heavy New York accent.  “’An hold the relish.”

              “You got it.  Anything else?”

              “Yeah, gimme extra mustud.  ‘An don’t get stingy wit' it.”

              “How’s about you put it on yourself, hotshot?  That way I don’t get accused of bein’ a cheapskate.”  Charlie flashed Spencer a half grin and handed him his hot dog.  “Mom’s workin’ late again?”

              Spencer nodded, “She hadda work the afternoon shift on accounta’ Mrs. Romanov called in sick.”  He took a large bite of his condiment-laden hot dog, chewed and swallowed.  “Got any root beah that’s cold?”  Charlie fished out a cold can of A&W and handed it to his charge.  Spencer nodded in thanks and then flashed a rare smile.  “When they both get home, I got big news for my mom and dad.”  Charlie raised a questioning eyebrow.  “Yeah, I’m not gonna be heah this summah.  I gotta job diggin’ up bones an’ stuff.”

              “Don’t say.  Where at?”

              “On an island off the coast of Greenland.”

              Charlie frowned and waited for Spencer to wolf down the rest of his meal.  “Greenland?  That’s pretty far away in’t it?  You sure your folks’ll let you go?”