Authors: Warren Dalzell
“Just how do you know all this?” Jocelyn asked. “How did you find out there are three stashes of Viking loot?”
Endicott’s eyes brightened. He broke into a very self-satisfied smile. “There are records here, records that are quite literally engraved in stone: stones with runic inscriptions that describe in exquisite detail who those people were, what they brought with them and how and where they hid it.
“Unfortunately I’ll be forced to destroy most of the runestones in order to conceal the origin of what I’m going to sell on the antiquities market. If the Greenlandic government ever found out where those artifacts came from, collectors would have to give them up. I can’t destroy the stones, however, until I’ve discovered the last of the treasure. I’m close; I know it. There are a few cryptic inscriptions that I need to decipher before I can pinpoint the location of the third cache. Then I’ll be able to leave this bloody place and return to a life of opulence. God knows I deserve it after what I’ve been through. I might be there now if it weren’t for interruptions from people like you and those two inquisitive busy-bodies from last year.”
“Those two researchers didn’t die in a rockslide did they?” said Jack. “That story you told us last night—that stuff about holding Karlsen’s hand while he died, and about Randrup and his bracelet—it was all a load of crap wasn’t it?”
The Doctor’s expression hardened. “It was their fault. If they hadn’t insisted upon exploring the interior, in much the same way you did, they would still be alive. I tried to stop them; I argued there was no point to climbing around in some bleak volcano, but once they learned of the lush ecosystem within,” he shrugged, “they both died in tragic falls.”
“Assisted by you, no doubt,” Jocelyn said contemptuously, “and for what? So you can make a few bucks selling some old Viking stuff?”
The question angered Endicott. He increased the pressure on the spear. The point dug into Jocelyn’s skin, drawing blood, and making it hard for her to breathe. “Just some old Viking stuff, eh?” He twisted the spear, making her grimace. “I suppose your ignorance can be excused; you’ve no idea of the magnitude of my discovery. It’s perhaps appropriate that, before you die, I should enlighten you both as to the importance of what’s at stake.”
Endicott’s face was right up against Jocelyn’s cheek. It wasn’t the sharp point of the spear or his pitiless grip of her hair that bothered her most: it was his smell. His body odor and his foul breath nauseated her. She felt as though she would suffocate. She couldn’t take it anymore. She was about to make a violent and probably suicidal attempt to surge and break free when he suddenly turned his head and began to speak in an almost conversational tone—another abrupt mood swing from this insane man.
“Our story begins with a strapping, hulk of a man named Thorvald Asvaldsson Joederen, who in 960 AD along what is now the coast of Norway, committed murder. As punishment, Thorvald was banished from his homeland, and so he and his family, which included his ten-year-old son Erik, relocated to Iceland.
“Young Erik grew to be an imposing figure. He was a big fellow, and strong, just like his father, and he possessed the same volatile temper. At the age of thirty-two, trouble found him when he killed two men over a property dispute. In the same way his father was sent into exile, Eric was forced to leave Iceland for at least three years. That, my friends, is what led Erik Thorvaldsson, now known to history as Erik the Red, to the shores of southern Greenland to establish the first Norse settlement on that great island. You see, the Earth was warmer back then; it underwent a period of glacial melting much like what we are experiencing today. The balmy weather was essential to the success of Erik’s settlement, and it was there, in Greenland, that one of Erik’s sons rose to prominence.
“His name was Leif, Leif Eriksson, and he was the famous explorer who established the first European settlement in North America. I’m often troubled by the insistence of historians, particularly those in the U.S., who attribute the European ‘discovery’ of North America to Spanish and Portuguese explorers of the fifteenth century. Leif Eriksson, we now know, walked the shores of Newfoundland some five hundred years before then.
“All of this is known to the world, but it is here my tale takes an unexpected turn. You see, Leif was an explorer, not a brawler or a killer like his father and grandfather. He sired two sons, one of whom, Thorkell, succeeded him as chieftain of his Greenland colonies. Thorkell oversaw the home front while Leif was sailing to parts unknown. Historical documents simply list him as Leif’s successor, but I now know that Thorkell did much, much more than just lead a group of herdsmen in their hardscrabble existence in southern Greenland.
“Thorkell, it seems, took his job as magistrate very seriously. Sailing from village to village along the coast, he ruled with a firm but benevolent hand. He shuttled meat and grain from his settlements to Iceland and there exchanged them for the trade goods his people needed. The taxes he collected more often than not made their way into his own pockets, and this added to his already considerable fortune. Most of his riches, however, came to him by way of inheritance. When you think about it, it makes perfect sense. How do you think Erik and Leif, or even Erik’s father, Thorvald, for that matter, financed their travels? Boats and boatmen cost money, as did the food and supplies they needed to survive on extended voyages, some of which took weeks if not months. All the endeavors of those great and powerful men were financed with Viking plunder.
“Thorkell made three trips to Eviskar Island. Each time he brought with him part of his family fortune, which he subsequently sequestered until such time as he might need it. The exploits of this vain man are documented on runestones, along with the cipher that links the three treasure troves to one another. I’ve not broken the entire code yet, but I have found two of the caches.”
Endicott spoke gleefully about his discoveries. He harbored a driving need to boast of his prowess, and this would likely be his only opportunity. The secrets of Eviskar Island had to remain lost to humanity for his monetary scheme to work, but there was no risk in revealing the details to his two young captives. They’d be dead within minutes, and his secrets would accompany them to their graves.
“The riches of Thorkell are nearly unimaginable. They include numerous gold figurines, necklaces, buttons, arm bands and bracelets. One cache contained several magnificent bronze castings, the hilts of numerous heavy swords and hundreds, if not thousands, of silver coins. As far as I can tell, the items originate from all over Europe, from the Hebrides to the Mediterranean. The value of the metal alone is in the millions, but the objects themselves are worth far more to wealthy collectors in Norway, Sweden and Denmark.”
During Endicott’s rant, several thoughts raced through Jocelyn’s mind. Snippets of what he was saying provided answers to questions that had been bugging her. It was obvious to her now why the victims they’d unearthed at the dig site had had their necks broken. Greed is a powerful, sometimes overwhelming motivational force, one that if allowed to grow unchecked can lead to horrific consequences. Loren Endicott and Thorkell Eriksson had both succumbed to its spell. The women in those graves, almost certainly along with others, were killed, executed, because of what they knew of Thorkell’s riches. A thousand years later, she and Jack would meet the same fate at the hands of Endicott—if neither of them could figure out a way to thwart the man’s plans.
Ever since the students had dined with Endicott in his island shelter, another thought had been troubling Jocelyn. She had been wondering if it was the coffee substitute the professor used, the one prepared from dried, roasted cycad seeds, that might be responsible for his erratic behavior, especially his sudden and intense mood swings. Her biology teacher, Mr. Powell, had mentioned that the seeds of the bread palm were toxic. Might Endicott be under the influence of some powerful psychoactive substance produced in the seeds of this primitive cycad relative? Was he really just a normal person who’s personality and actions, no matter how brutal and wrong, were simply the result of his unwitting ingestion of a powerful drug? No, she now concluded; that can’t be the case. Endicott’s revelation that he’d killed his colleagues at the start of his forced exile to the island’s interior dispelled the idea that his behavior was pharmaceutically induced. Only later, as he adapted to life in this primitive world, had he discovered the area’s culinary offerings. Nothing, therefore, could excuse what he’d done to Spencer and to his fellow researchers. The man was simply barbaric and evil, and that thought aroused a deeper and more primal hatred within her. She was now more determined than ever not to allow this vile man to inflict the same fate upon her and her friends as Thorkell Eriksson had done to those poor wretches back at the dig site.
XV.
The vision before Marcie was surreal. Out of the mist a solitary figure approached, thin, dark, sporting a bandana around his neck, wearing a small pack and carrying a staff of some sort. As he got closer, she recognized Spencer and drew in a sharp breath. At least she thought it was him. He looked markedly different than he had three days earlier, much older than his fifteen years. His eyes had a hard, vacant look and the left side of his face was swollen and puffy. Dried, crusted blood extended from one nostril and cuts adorned his thin torso. He looked like he’d been in a fight, and the object in his hand wasn’t a hiking staff, it was a small spear with a wicked-looking wooden blade.
“Spencer, my gosh, Spencer, what happened to you? Where’ve you been?” She regarded the spear, noted the materials from which it was made, and their eyes met.
“I don’t know where to begin, Marcie. How’s Debbie? We’ve got to get help or at least move her from here. We’re in real danger.”
They walked toward the shelter where Debbie lay. En route, Marcie peppered him with more questions. “You’ve been gone for three days, Spence. Please tell me where you went. And where are Jack and Jocelyn?”
The last question caused Spencer to stop. “I don’t want to alarm Debbie, but I don’t know exactly where Jocelyn and Jack are or what’s happened to them.” He paused to contemplate how to break the news of their friends’ peril, or their own, for that matter. “They’re being stalked, hunted, but they don’t know it. That’s why they’re in such great danger; the attack will come as a surprise. If they can get away, they should be here by nightfall. If not…we may never see them again.”
She was shocked by his last statement. He took note and put his hand on her shoulder. “There’s nothing we can do to help them. But that’s not all: if the man who’s trying to kill them succeeds…we’re next.”
When they got to the shelter, Spencer was impressed. Marcie had beefed up its construction. She’d lashed the tarp firmly to protrusions in the rock face. The structure was virtually indestructible, both rain-proof and wind-proof. Large rocks surrounded the perimeter of the lean-to, some of them seemingly too big for Marcie to have moved. She was obviously stronger than she looked. Inside it was much warmer than outside and somewhat claustrophobic; Marcie had closed off all drafts and transformed the structure into a lifeboat against the elements. Her’s and Debbie’s body heat, together with the better insulation, had kept them alive.
“Debbie?” Marcie asked gently as she put her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I’ve got great news. Look who’s back.”
Debbie opened her eyes slowly, but she was too weak to turn her head. “Morgan? Is it you, Morgan?”
“No, Morgan hasn’t come yet. It’s Spencer. Spencer’s come back to help us.” Debbie closed her eyes again. Marcie whispered to Spencer, “She’s been drifting in and out of consciousness most of today. I was hoping it’s stress related, you know; pain, cold, lack of sleep, lack of food, but it may be more complicated. Her ribs are bothering her. She’s having trouble breathing. I think she may have broken a rib and it punctured a lung. If she’s bleeding internally…” Her voice trailed off when Debbie uttered a low moan.
Spencer motioned for them to exit the tent. “Have you been able to send a distress message?” he asked half-heartedly. His lack of optimism was apparent.
She shook her head. “I tried a couple of times, but the battery died.” She poked her head into the shelter and retrieved the unit. “You can try if you like, but don’t get your hopes up.”
As a formality, Spencer pressed the power button. The screen glowed faintly then went black again. Sure enough, dead battery.
“The thing is supposed to work anywhere on earth,” Marcie lamented, “I don’t see why we haven’t been able to get through. Maybe it’s defective.”
Spencer scrutinized the unit. “This thing uses the Iridium system,” he said.
“Yeah, Jack mentioned that. He said something about the mountains interfering with reception because the satellites can be so low in the sky. I saw him walk way over there,” she pointed off into the mist, away from the cliff, “but he still couldn’t get through.”
Spencer was only half listening. He was examining the side of the instrument. An idea came to mind. “I bet it might work on the beach,” he said.
“But the battery’s dead.”
The young man grew excited. “I might be able to charge it. Look here, see that?” He pointed at the charging port. Removing his backpack he took out his cell phone. It had endured several stream dunkings in recent days, and it probably no longer worked, but it wasn’t his intent to turn it on. Instead, he held it beside the satellite communicator. “They both have micro USB ports for recharging. The charging cable for my cell is down at the beach.”
“So? In case you haven’t noticed, we don’t have too many outlets to plug it into. What good will it do?”
Spencer grinned. “It doesn’t need a wall charger. Mine plugs into the USB port on my tablet. ‘An my tablet is also in my overnight pack—the one down at the beach.”
“So, you’re saying we can hike to the beach, charge the communicator and send an SOS?” Marcie said excitedly.
Spencer put his hands on her shoulders. It was by far the most intimate gesture he’d ever proffered towards a member of the opposite sex, or, for that matter, to anyone other than his parents. “I’d better go alone,” he said quietly. When she started to protest, he shook his head. “It’s not just that Debbie needs care. I’m worried about the man who’s trying to kill us. At least one of us has to survive. Someone has to make it back to the dig ‘an tell the world what’s happened. Believe me, Marcie, Doc Endicott, that’s his name, is a real bastehd. After he comes here, he’ll head straight for the beach and whoever is there will be trapped. Your only hope is to take this spear ‘an hide. Don’t stay in the shelter wit Debbie; hide over there in the rocks. You won’t be able to defend Debbie if he shows up; he’s too strong ‘an he’s well-armed. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“You can’t just leave us here.”
The exasperation in her voice tugged at Spencer’s conscience. Was that what he was doing, leaving them to their doom while he got away? No. Deep down, he knew that he was right. Endicott knew about their boat; he knew about their supplies on the beach, and Spencer figured he had to get to them before Endicott did. Unless he could charge the communicator and send for help, he, Marcie and Debbie probably wouldn’t make it off the island alive.
Spencer made his way to where the climbing gear lay at the base of the cliff. He began to don a harness while Marcie continued to plead her case. “We need more supplies here, Spencer. Debbie and I have eaten two cans of beans in the last two days. Two cans. You’re gonna need help bringing extra food and clothing back here.”
Spencer buckled his harness, but before he roped in, he took off his pack. He’d forgotten about the food he was carrying. “Here,” he handed Marcie a slab of meat. It was wet from having been dunked in the river. “You should rinse it off first, but it’s good stuff.”
“What the heck is it?”
“A cynodont steak. Don’t worry, it’s fresh; we cooked it last night. ‘An here…” he pulled out a leather pouch that contained several cycad biscuits. These hadn’t survived their immersion in water the way the meat had; they were now soft, roughly the consistency of wet bread dough, or stiff mashed potatoes. “These are a kind’a carbo. They’re kinda mushy but I think they’re still good.” He shrugged, “I been eatin’ ‘em.”
A perplexed Marcie took the food and stared in wonder. Spencer had a lot of explaining to do when he got back. Reluctantly she nodded. He knew far more than she did about what else was happening on this island. She looked up at him and he smiled. “I know what you’re thinkin’. Just promise me one thing,” he added soberly, “you see a guy looks like a cave man: run! ‘An if you can’t get away, no matter what he says, don’t trust him.”
Spencer clipped into the self-belay device and began his ascent of the cliff.
“Be careful, Spencer. Don’t look down. Remember what happened before.”
She heard him chuckle. “Don’t worry. Last time I was on this cliff was a lifetime ago.”
With those final words, Spencer maneuvered up through the fissure and began the technical part of the climb. With grace and confidence the young man of Mohawk descent nimbly moved from one handhold to the next, pulling slack through the belay device, using his legs to propel his lithe form upward. Neither fear nor hesitation slowed him down. His grandfather, the high altitude iron worker, would have been proud. In minutes he’d scaled the precipice and was over the ridge, making his way quickly down the long boulder-strewn slope toward the beach. Time was of the essence.
Spencer’s conscience nagged at him the entire way. While his journey to send for help was of critical importance, it left Marcie alone and vulnerable. Endicott was on the move and had gotten a good head start when he’d left Spencer to die. Dealing with Jack and Jocelyn would slow him down, perhaps even stop him, but odds were that hadn’t happened. His friends were most likely dead; Endicott was coming soon.
Sending the distress call was of paramount importance. As soon as that was done, he had to quickly assemble what supplies he could carry and make the arduous trip back up the ridge. He was bone tired, exhausted by the trauma of that morning and the long hike that followed…and his foot was killing him. The slight deformity was generally little more than a nuisance, slowing him down, hampering his agility, but the long trek over difficult terrain made his shin, ankle and knee feel like they were on fire.
It was a combination of adrenaline and guilt that drove him onward. He had to accomplish the task at hand and then return to help defend Debbie and Marcie. To fail at that was unthinkable.
It took the better part of an hour to reach the overturned raft with its cache of supplies underneath. Thank goodness it was undisturbed. Endicott hadn’t yet paid an unwelcome visit here.
The raft was heavy. It had challenged both him and Jack to invert it and set it into place. Unable to lift it by himself, he gradually raised one corner by propping rocks beneath it. When it was high enough, he scrambled underneath and began hauling items out onto the beach: individual rucksacks, two coolers full of food, paddles, rope, stakes and the tent.
Spencer carried his own rucksack to a large boulder and quickly rifled through the side pockets and main compartment, extracting his tablet computer and his cell phone charger. The moment of truth had arrived. His hands shook from both nerves and fatigue as he fumbled to insert the small connector of the charging cable into the satellite communicator. “C’mon, baby…work,” he muttered. It fit. He breathed a huge sigh of relief. Now he had to hope that the power connector of the communicator was wired the same way as his cell. He crossed his fingers, plugged the USB end of the cable into his tablet and turned on the communicator.
Nothing.
Spencer groaned. All that effort—and for what? The letdown was emotionally excruciating. He instantly became acutely aware of the pain in his foot and his overwhelming fatigue. Worse, Marcie and Debbie were now at Endicott’s mercy and he, Spencer, wasn’t there to help.
Marcie. She was great. Her face came to mind with its winning smile and cute dimples. And he loved her marvelous, unbridled enthusiasm. Her eagerness to learn about everything they’d done on this trip, from the history of Iceland, to archeology, to rock climbing, had infected not just him but the other students with an added sense of awe and adventure. The summer had been much more enjoyable because of her. She’d been so outgoing and nice to him—and now look how he’d repaid her kindness and cheerful attitude. He’d deserted her when it mattered most.
Spencer hung his head. This recent failure was too much to bear. He rubbed his eyes and began to sob. Emotion poured forth as fatigue and the tumultuous events of the day began to take their toll. Feelings from deep within told him he wasn’t done, that he had to get back to Marcie, to do all he could to help her and Debbie even though hope was dwindling. But he couldn’t move. His sorrow had glued his butt to the rock on which he sat. A sense of futility overwhelmed him. “What’s the point?” he muttered. “I’m a freakin’ failure.”
“Holy crap!”
Spencer caught sight of a glow coming from the satellite communicator. It was lying in the sand where he’d dropped it in despair. He grabbed it and watched excitedly as the screen became brighter and brighter. A pulsing cursor appeared under the message “tracking satellites.” Soon, that message dissolved and was replaced by another: “Iridium link acquired, type message below.”
He realized the battery had been so low it had simply needed extra time to charge. Holding the unit in shaking hands, he fumbled with the buttons around the periphery of the screen. A small virtual keyboard popped into view and he discovered that he could move the cursor with a rocker key and enter letters one at a time into a tiny message box. Excitedly he composed what he wanted to say: “Send help, Debbie hurt.” He scrolled down a list of contacts until he got to “Morgan.” He hit ENTER and then pushed SEND. A blinking icon appeared for several seconds. A flood of relief washed through him when the words “message sent” filled the screen.