NANOWRIMO DAY 15

So, I haven't been writing much lately. I'm way behind the projected word count, but since it's Sunday, I'm going to write while doing laundry. That way I can feel like I actually accomplished more than just bumming around writing. Enjoy the latest installment!

Kjetil performed two more small operations after the bone removal that day. He was exhausted by the time he closed the surgery. As he locked the surgery door behind him and the dog, Kjetil debated whether or not to go to the hotel for a drink. He had been left alone by herher voice had popped up at the Sturlssons’. He shook it off and decided he would just go home. over the weekend, and he thought it was likely due to the fact that he didn’t go to the hotel. He was still puzzled by how

His house was cold when he got home, and Kjetil started a fire in the great room. Stian curled into his round bed by the hearth and immediately fell asleep. Kjetil found a book other than a reference on Norse mythology and decided to read it. It was an American mystery novel Mads had recommended to him. It was historical fiction – not Kjetil’s favorite – but it was better than obsessing over her.

He fell asleep that night the same he usually did when he read by the fire – glasses akimbo on his nose and the book flopped open on his chest or belly. What woke him was Stian’s whining – which was rare. The buhund was not a whiner by nature. He was usually very easy-going. Kjetil woke almost immediately, and he jumped out of his chair, dropping the book to the floor and sending his glasses flying.

Stian was standing at the back door, scratching at it and whining. Kjetil jogged over to the door and threw it open. He looked out over the fresh snow fall, lit by the full moon. He saw no one or no thing. Just trees and snow. Stian, however, put his nose to the ground and began sniffing about.

Kjetil looked down and felt his heart jump into his throat. In the snow were fresh footprints made by something with a thin heel and pointy foot. They came from around the corner of the house, near the garage, and stopped right in front of his door. Kjetil tried to remember if it was Stian’s whining that woke him or someone knocking on the door. He pulled his rubbers on his bare feet and crept carefully around the house, following Stian’s nose. The dog took Kjetil all the way around the house, but the footprints had stopped near the garage. When they returned to the door, Kjetil’s heart was beating in his ear and he had gooseflesh – but not from the cold. He leaned against the door jamb and tried to make sense of it.

How did the footprints begin near his garage and wind their way around the side of the house to the back door, disappearing at both ends? It was impossible. And these were heeled prints. Her prints. He sighed. Time to make a cup of coffee.

Kjetil closed the door, pulled off his rubbers, and headed for the kitchen. Stian, who was still whining slightly, followed his master. Kjetil grabbed a small pot and began to boil some water. Glancing at the clock above his stove, he sighed. It was two in the morning, and he was wide awake. I won’t get back to sleep, there’s no way. He shook his head and pulled a mug out of a cabinet.

He grabbed his cloudberry tea, which was given to him as a Juleaften present by a customer. It was Kjetil's favorite tea, and the homemade concoction never failed to calm him nerves or soothe his throat. And he enjoyed brewing the tea because the sharp scent of the cloudberry would waft through the house.

Kjetil went upstairs as the tea was brewing and put on his pajamas. He hoped that if he actually took the tea to bed, he would fall back asleep, regardless of the footprints outside. He frowned as he changed his pants – Stian had never taken any notice of her before the footprints in the snow. He wondered why there had been a change. Was it because they were actually visible to both Kjetil and the dog? He shook his head. He wasn’t going to find any answers, so he decided not to dwell on it – if he couldn’t.

When he went back down to the kitchen, Kjetil was looking forward to the smell of cloudberry tea. Instead, he was greeted by the heady scent of vanilla. He could practically taste the sugar cookie. He frowned and took a deep breath. There was no hint of the cloudberry tea in the air at all. It was completely usurped by the other scents. He didn’t have cookies, let alone sugar cookies, in his house. Where would it come from? He tried to remember if an old girlfriend had left any of her things in his when he moved to Skjolden. Nothing came to mind. However, he did remember that his mother used to have a vanilla lotion. It wasn’t quite the same as this scent, but it led Kjetil to her. It was her lotion – he knew it. He felt his knees go weak, and he hurried to the dining table.

How was he going to stop this? Could he stop this? This was the first time she had ever invaded his private space. She had never come into his home before; it was always in town or on a call – for nearly a month. This is almost more than I can take. Kjetil hadn’t told anyone about her. How could he? He would be the laughingstock of Skjolden if someone ever knew he was hearing footsteps and voices. Not voices, he reminded himself. He was hearing one voice, herher footprints. voice. And now he was seeing

He sighed heavily and stood up. The vanilla scent was gone; now he smelled cloudberry, and his tea was getting cold. Kjetil poured the tea into a mug and warmed it up in the microwave, then climbed back up to his room.

Stian followed him. Usually, the dog wasn’t allowed to sleep on the bed with his master, but Kjetil was still reeling from the night’s oddities, and he didn’t want to be alone. Stian curled up next to Kjetil and promptly fell asleep. Kjetil, however, remained awake all night, regardless of the cloudberry tea.

He was able to sleep the next night, and the voice stopped pestering him with its presence. In fact, two whole weeks passed by before he had anymore contact with her. No footsteps, prints, no whispers, no smells; nothing for two weeks.

NANOWRIMO DAY 10

So, I'm still quite a bit behind in my word count, but it's only a matter of time before I catch up. I also did what I feel is a very good thing, and I made a donation to the Office of Letters and Light, the organization that puts together NaNoWriMo every year. This is my second year doing NaNoWriMo, but my first year donating. I feel good about it. I haven't given to a non-profit in a long time. Anyway, I have added the next bit of Vardoger for your enjoyment. Have a great day!

The road was partially covered in snow, but Kjetil’s Range Rover made short work of it, and he was at the farm in a matter of minutes. The little boy, presumably, ran out to greet him and Stian and lead them to the barn.

Henrik was struggling with the heifer, who was scornful of the fact that she couldn’t get her calf to come out. She was bawling, Henrik was shouting, and the little boy was crying.

Kjetil sent the boy inside for hot water and old blankets. “Henrik, go sit down,” he ordered the farmer. He was knackered from fighting with the heifer. The farmer did as he was told.

It took Kjetil most of the afternoon to get the heifer opened up and the calf out. It was a bull calf, and a gigantic one at that. It was no wonder his mother couldn’t push him out the way God had intended. She took to him, however, as soon as he was out. By the time Kjetil had sewn up her belly, the calf was nearly clean.

After he finished cleaning up, Henrik offered Kjetil a shot of akavit. He took it gladly, saying, “Skoal,” with the farmer. The liquid ran down Kjetil’s throat like fire and he cleared the throat. Its warmth was welcome after the effort of bringing the calf into the world.

“What will you name him?” asked Kjetil, pointing to his new patient.

The farmer shrugged. “I think I’ll like Frode name him.” He patted the little boy on the head. “He shed more tears over the animal than I did.”

Kjetil smiled. “Sounds like a good idea to me.”

Frode Sturlsson looked up at his father. “What if we name him after Mister Martin?” he suggested.

The two men chuckled. “I don’t know if that would be an honor or an insult to Mister Martin,” Henrik told his son.

“It would be an honor,” Kjetil assured Frode.

The little boy’s face lit up and he ran over to pet the calf, whispering to him.

“It’s nearly dinnertime, Kjetil,” mentioned Henrik. “Will you stay for the meal?”

Kjetil frowned slightly then smiled. “I’d love to, Henrik, thank you.” Kjetil hoped the shake up in his routine would get his mind off the footsteps.

When he entered Henrik’s house, though, his mind returned to the voice, as Henrik’s wife, Sigurn said, “Good afternoon!” He heard the whisper once again in his ear and started. Henrik’s wife then asked if Kjetil was all right.

“I’m just tired from the surgery,” he lied. “Thanks, Sigurn.”

She offered him a glass of beer, and Henrik made him sit down at the family table.

Frode was still outside with little Kjetil, Henrik explained to Sigurn.

“Little Kjetil?” she chuckled as she dished up a pot roast. “How do you feel about that, veterinary?” She winked at Kjetil.

“I’m honored,” he laughed. “It’s not the first time, but don’t tell Frode that.”

The boys’ parents shook their heads. “No, we won’t,” added Henrik.

Dinner was not a quiet affair for Kjetil, even though there was only one child. Henrik was happy that the cesarean birth of his bull calf had been a success, and Frode was excited to have a new pet. Henrik had half a bottle of akavit before Kjetil begged off to go home; it was nearly 11.

He didn’t bother dropping the Range Rover or his gear off at the surgery, but drove home, with Stian curled up asleep on the passenger seat. Kjetil had enough alcohol that night to go to sleep without thinking about them. But his fears started afresh as soon as he woke Wednesday morning.

Even though he had the truck and was saved the fear of hearing the footsteps, yesterday’s experience at the Sturlsson household had proved that the voice could be heard anywhere. He drove as quickly through town as he dared, worried about what would happen if the voice whispered at him while he was driving. Stian curled up in the passenger seat, looking up at his master with his eyes wide in fear.

The rest of Kjetil's week went slowly. He lived in – fear wasn't quite the right word to his mind. But he was uneasy every time he left the house. He was more tired than he had ever been – he slept little because he spent most of the evening reading, trying not to think about her, as he began to call the phenomenon. The footsteps joined him on his walk home from the hotel twice more that week, but he hadn't heard the voice whisper in his ear. Yet he waited on pins and needles for her to whisper something whenever he was out and about.

She left him alone over the weekend, but he didn't have anything to do, so he dwelt on the fact that he didn't hear footsteps or whispers in his ears. It made the weekend last longer than any weekend he'd experienced since becoming a vet. He went to the village library and checked out as many books on Norse history as he could find. The encyclopedia he had at work didn't help him – he was still only in the middle of the entries. He was looking for something on hauntings, but he wasn't having any luck finding anything that resembled his experiences. Over and over, he wished his mother was still alive so that he could consult with her. She would have at least been able to point him in the right direction for solving the mystery.

Yet nothing proved helpful in his quest to understand. The next week started off quietly for Kjetil. He hadn't had any calls over the weekend, so he stayed inside the whole time, reading and taking notes. Monday was a busy day at the surgery, however.

Gunnar was there waiting for him, as usual. He had two trussed-up chickens in his hand when Kjetil and Stian arrived. Stian jumped up to greet Gunnar and the dead chickens, but the old man held the poultry above his head, and even Stian couldn't reach.

“Good morning, Gunnar,” greeted Kjetil. “What happened to your chickens?”

The old man laughed. “These aren't my chickens, veterinary, they're yours.” Gunnar thrust the two of them at Kjetil. “From the wife.”

Kjetil nodded in thanks. “Tell her thank you for me,” he smiled. “Her chickens always make good dinners.” Kjetil had come from Oslo, where chicken was easy to find. Skjolden, however, was lacking in poultry of the chicken persuasion, and Kjetil liked chicken. He was always grateful when Mrs. Estil had extras, because she always made Gunnar bring them to Kjetil. They were never in lieu of payment, either. They were a gift, which made Kjetil all the more grateful.

“If you need eggs, veterinary, just come on up to the farm,” Gunnar added. “There's plenty to be had.” He waved at Kjetil. “Gotta be gettin' back.”

“Thank you, Gunnar, very much!” called Kjetil. “I might take you up on that!”

“You do that, veterinary.” The old man disappeared around the corner, and Kjetil unlocked his front door.

Stian curled up in the corner without bothering the dead chickens again. Kjetil stuck them in his office fridge and went to work doing more inventory. He never finished last week. He had gotten too busy and too distracted by her.

The phone rang while he was up on the stool again, but this time it was a bit of an emergency – a local dunker had swallowed a bone, and it lodged in his throat. Kjetil informed the owner she needed to get the dog to the surgery right away. When he hung up, he jumped down and prepared the room for the patient.