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and mythic beasts. A fake sword was hung on the wall, and a photograph was pinned to the corkboard: Gunnar and some male friends, dressed in costume. Long tunics, pants with leather straps crisscrossed around the ankles, spears and shields. I felt dimly embarrassed for him, though not sure why. His desk was overflowing with papers and dirty cups and glasses. I found the book he had mentioned, cleared a space on the sofa, and looked up "draugr." draugr (plural : draugar) The undead spirit of a drowning victim, often a fisherman, usually residing in a body of water. The draugr is bloated and discolored with contusions, his eyes shine faintly and he is often covered with algae and weeds. His goal is to drown others so that he may have them for company. A draugr can only be destroyed by cutting off his head.
    I read it a few times, turning the problem over in my mind. Where had I heard this before? I had no recollection of reading any Scandinavian folklore. Perhaps I had learned it in school, when we were told about the old gods and the days of the week, which were named for them.
    I returned the book, put back the key, and went to my own cabin. The sky was streaked with pink clouds and I needed to sleep.
    After a week of night shifts, Magnus considered me sufficiently trained in meteorology for the moment, and pulled me off forecasting to assist him with his climatology research. This was far more stimulating work, and his research about carbon sequestration in boreal forest climates was related to my own work for my thesis.
    One morning, a few days before they were all due to leave for the meteorology conference, he came to collect me to help him set up some recording instruments in the forest.
    "Good morning, Victoria. Did you sleep well?" he asked, as I locked my cabin door and pocketed the key.
    "Yes, thanks. I think I'm still catching up from the night shifts."
    "Ah, yes. It can be difficult for your body to return to its natural rhythm. Here." He handed me a rattling plastic box with a lid. It was heavy and he carried nothing. "Follow me." He led me into the trees for a few silent minutes. As Kirkja receded, he called to me over his shoulder,
    "What do you think of Maryanne?"
    "Maryanne? She's nice enough. She makes a wicked shepherd's pie."
    "But do you think she's pretty?"
    How utterly baffling. "Um…"
    He fell back so we were walking side by side. His expression was boyish. "Do you think she'd be a good match for a man like me?"
    I didn't know whether to be appalled or embarrassed. His frankness was almost charming, but the fact that he had waited until he was alone with me to ask was undeniably creepy. "I don't know how to answer that," I said, squirming, hoping he would leave it at that.
    "I think she likes me," he said confidently. "What do you think?" I considered the ravenous look in Maryanne's eyes every time she spoke with Magnus. "Um… maybe." Rain started to fall and he pulled his hood up. My hands were full, so I couldn't do the same.
    "I don't think we'd be good together, though," he continued. "I'm really a man who needs someone smarter. That was the problem with both my ex-wives. They were pretty enough, but not clever enough." I didn't point out that they were clever enough, in the end, to become ex-wives. I remained silent and hoped that it would encourage him to do the same.
    "There's a large clearing with a big anvil-shaped rock that I've marked out for an instrument field," he said. "We'll be stopping there."
    We trudged through the forest. The rain lightened to drizzle. Magnus broke a shoelace and stopped to fix it. I told him I'd meet him at the site, rather than wait with him and chance another uncomfortable conversation. I had just arrived at the clearing and was setting down the box when he ran up, panting, behind me.
    "Did Gunnar bring you here?" he asked.
    "Sorry?"
    "I didn't tell you where the clearing was."
    I must have stared at him for a full ten seconds without speaking.
    "Victoria? Is