Guardian: The Guardian Part 3

"Hej skat," hi darling, he says.

"Hi dad," I respond. "Did you have a good day?"

"Yes, very," he responds cheerfully. I lay down my pencils on the nook of my drawing table and turn towards him questioningly.

"Very, huh?"

"Yes very, I think I found us a house! You can still attend the creative arts gymnasium in Snderbirk, where we have been thinking of enrolling you, as there is a direct bus to take you there."

"Really?" I ask. But he is already fielding questions from his parents in rapid Danish, and it is a headache to follow the conversation.

After a while, they seem satisfied with his answers. I am happy too at dad's news. My grandparent's house is too small to house us all, and we are often in each other's way. It would be good to have our own place, and not have to compromise my TV preferences with those of ones over 50 years older.

"The owner's son said he could show us the house in about half an hour's time. So if you are ready princess, we could go check it out now."

"I am," I answer excitedly as I begin folding up my drawing board and packing my stuff to take them indoors.

"I am coming too," my grandfather adds as he raises himself off his leaning chair, still puffing at his pipe. "Are you coming too, Regitze?" He asks grandma.

"Of course, of course," she responds, getting up and putting away her reading. "Shall we not have a cup of tea first? Torben must be hungry!" We all burst out laughing. Grandma is obsessed with feeding people, eating dinners on time, and all matters related to food.

"Mother we have to leave now," dad says, but she soon erupts into a quick paced discussion about how dinner shall be delayed if we all go to see the house, and how a man of his body size needs to eat at regular intervals, and much more that I don't listen to as I return my art paraphernalia into my room.

Dad finally gives up on fighting his mother and grabs at an apple before we all squeeze ourselves into my grandparents' car. We drive along the road I had taken earlier this week, but when we get to the turn by the golf course, we keep proceeding further with the narrow winding road. I love being on the road, even now, cramped together like this into the little car, listening to Kim La.r.s.en and the adults' rumbling conversation.

Evidence of the beautiful Danish summer speeds past me; the tall ash and birch trees clamped together, the endlessly running short green gra.s.s, generously carpeting every square inch of ground, has begun fading at its tips to a pale brownish green.

I am quite surprised by myself. I love it for the same reason that I hate it. Quite a paradox. I hated it when I had to visit Denmark as a child, because of the small towns and the reserved people, which probably arose from the fact that the country had sheltered itself from the world and foreigners for far too long. I always felt out of place here, each time I walked into a supermarket or just left the house. Even my own cousins stared at me, during the few Christmases that we spent here. However, its beautiful untouched nature tugs at my heart, despite all my reservations, forcing me to fall in love with the country even more.

Truth be told, there grows a great longing in my heart as we drive on, wis.h.i.+ng that we were driving towards my beloved park. My heart longs for it, no, my soul sings for it. I long to go back, to get closer to the enriched air that had threatened to intoxicate me. I have longed for it all week. Even now, if I close my eyes, I can feel the air begin to thicken, just by thinking about it.

Is it my imagination, or are we nearing the park? We drive on further, the air thickening even more- embracing me, filling every inch of me, and I hunger for it like an addict and his poison. The others must not have noticed it, for they keep up their banter about something a politician had or had not said in the Folketinget, the Danish parliament.

My head begins to feel light and hazy, and the air starts to adopt a very pale lilac haze. I push my head back, as far back as it can go against the headrest behind me, and drop my what now feel to be very heavy eyelids, half closing my eyes. My skin feels unusually warm, and for a second I think I might just have purred - for it feels as though my bones and joints vibrate in synchrony and that I am producing a sound to acknowledge my state of bliss.

I, however, mustn't have made any noise, because grandfather and dad are still out-talking each other about the politician in question.

They seem so far away, a distant vision, and it is hard to believe that we are all cramped into the same small s.p.a.ce. The rich essence in the air now affects me much more than it had last time, much more. I take it in, in slow deep breaths, letting it flow deep inside me. With each intake, I hunger for even more. Something tells me that I ought to worry about this hunger, but my worries are quickly swept away by the intoxicating bliss that engulfs me.

I mustn't have noticed them at first, due to my heady intoxication, but my eyes fly open in shock when I notice what appear to be shadowy blobs with gaping holes for eyes peering into the car, and I involuntarily let out a sharp gasp.

Relax, relax! I tell myself over and over again as I try to still my racing heartbeat, and explain to my family's worried faces looking at me that I had gasped due to a painful stomach cramp. My grandmother besides me immediately turns into a ball of concern, pestering me with a hundred and one questions on the stomach cramp.

"Where does it hurt?" she asks looking up at me questioningly.

"Umh... Somewhere here," I say splaying my hand vaguely over my midsection. My grandmother narrows her eyes quizzically, pondering on what could be the matter. I immediately feel a pang of guilt at having worried her, so I opt to splash a fake smile on, trying to ignore the tingling caused by fear in my veins because the ghost like creatures are still peering at me from outside the car, their faces planted fast against the windows, winds.h.i.+eld and rear screen.

"I am okay, grandma. It feels completely fine now, maybe it had just been a spasm." I insist. She still looks at me quizzically. Dad's questioning face too examines me through the rear view mirror. I smile at him, fighting hard to ignore the enthralling air that is still pulling at my senses.

I look at one of the creatures that is pressed against the windscreen, staring right at me. I stare right back, hoping that it will a.s.sume my attention is on the road ahead, while resting my head against the very window against which more of those phantom faces are pressed from the outside.

My skin cringes at the act, but I know it is the best way to make it seem as though I do not see them, just like the rest of the human population does not.

The face staring at me from outside the windscreen is engrossing though, and as I stare ahead, I try to fathom its features - its un-humanistic features. Definitely not the regular ghosts I am used. Its features, that had at first just been a ma.s.s of jumbled shadows, keep getting impossibly defined, right in front of my eyes.

I could swear it hadn't had a nose before, but right now there is one pressed hard against the gla.s.s. Its mouth, that had been just a gaping hole a few seconds before, now smiles back at me rea.s.suringly, almost coaxing me to reciprocate the smile. Before he had just been a shadowy blob, but right in front of me is an unmistakably male figure with large dark chocolate wings floating above him, with the outermost tips of his wings tinted to a light yellow brown. His gray hazy shape slowly comes into focus to form a muscular torso, and powerful legs to match his upper body, clad in a tight dark bluish leather-like combat suit, with a long sword scabbard between his shoulder blades, its hilt reaching up to the back of his head.

I blink a little at the image forming before me, watching his skin darkening from the lifeless gray matter it had been before to a pale hue, an olive shade and finally a warm caramel color. His eyes were the most frightening of all, having previously been gaping holes, then s.h.i.+ny bright globes, transform right before my eyes into a crisp light blue; and then a darker shade of blue, to green, tangy orange, and finally to brown. Soft dark brown eyes like- I gasp in surprise, like my late grandfather's!

I know I have screwed up then, with my gasp, for he smiles, having noticed my reaction. He knows I can see him. I struggle to keep my face neutral, tightening my facial muscles so hard that a little spot by my left temple begins to throb. He flies some inches away from the windscreen, flying backwards in pace with the car, his wings barely making a flutter above his body. He then flicks his hand as though making a signal, his lips moving inaudibly, right before flying away from my view.

Spectacular! Is the first thought that runs through my mind when he leaves, once fear stops being the only emotion raging through my body.

I note with relief as I stare out the window, that I do not see any of the creepy creatures that had been pressed against its pane a short while ago.

I keep thinking that I must have imagined it all. None of it makes sense. How could he have disappeared so fast? Why had his, its features kept changing as I stared at him? What is going on? The vein at my temple now throbs even more painfully, and with greater intensity. I try to relax my facial muscles so as to ease it.

Dad starts slowing down the car as we drive through a cl.u.s.ter of 5 or so houses, and we pa.s.s a small wooden sign standing by the road, the single short word, R written on it. Two of the houses here look newer, 1920's newer, with the cla.s.sic Danish architecture of simple design, red bricks, and dark grey asphalt roofing. The other three houses however are old buildings. They must be between 150-200 years old, for they appear to be the traditional half-timbered houses, which must have been renovated countless times over the years. They are beautiful in their resilience, standing strong even after so many years. I hope one of them is ours.

To my disappointment however, dad drives on past the small cl.u.s.ter of houses. As we round the bend, I see another small 1750s cottage in the distance. Dad drives up its driveway, overgrown by sprawling gra.s.s and bushes, and parks behind a light gray Volkswagen golf. We pour out of the car hurriedly, tired of being cramped together in the car for the whole half hour's drive or so. I look around me, I guess I shall not be meeting any cute boys in the neighborhood. b.u.mmer!

A man walks up to us, his eyes briefly scouring my face before he shakes our hands. He then rumbles off talking and laughing with the others in rapid Danish, that I give up trying to follow. I instead begin walking around the house. I can still feel the enveloping rich air around me, and I am fighting its effects as hard as I can, not letting it enthrall me as it had during our trip.

The house is very small, as typical with the simple styles the Scandinavians often embraced in the past. It has a thatched roof, which is in dire need of replacement, and its paint job is in desperate need of a new coating too. It has a simple rectangular shape, and a sharp pitched roof.

I walk all around it, scrutinizing it, and I am soon back where I started. I catch some shadows, like the once I'd seen during the drive here, standing across the driveway staring at me. I do not dare look up again, not wanting to see them transform in shape like the one I had seen just a short while ago as we were driving.

I can hear voices from inside the slightly ajar door, and know my dad and his parents are in there talking with the owner's son about the house. I walk over and push open the door, letting myself in.

The windows are perfectly placed because it is bright inside, and the light gives it an illusion of s.p.a.ce. However that is the only positive thing about the little box of a house. As I walk from room to room, I instantly feel claustrophobic. The main door opens to a little entrance hall that leads directly ahead into a small sized kitchen. One door on the wall to the right of the kitchen opens up to a medium sized room of about 25m2. There is also another door on the kitchen's left wall that leads to a smaller room of about 12-15m2.

Another small door on the adjacent wall leads to a surprisingly s.p.a.cious bathroom. The facilities are old and stained, and from the smell coming from the room, serious work needs to be done with the plumbing. The walls in all the rooms have chipped painting and irregular protrusions. The floor is irregular, as though sinking in some instances. The windows hold fast, but appear to be very old, and could not possibly keep out the bitter drafts of winter. My father however seems pleased and keeps discussing happily with the other man about what could or could not be worked on.

Oh G.o.ds, he sounds like he wants to buy the dump!

"Dad," I interrupt him just as he starts asking the man another bunch of questions. "It has only one bedroom," I point out, speaking in English, ignoring the stranger.

"Don't worry, princess, we can easily divide the larger room on the other side into two rooms." He says heartily.

Oh no, I think again. Dad loves projects. He wants to buy this house and work on it to try save it, just as he did before when he had travelled to poverty ridden corners of the earth and war torn areas to live among the people and aid them with rebuilding. He probably looks at this house as a charity project that requires his attention, there is absolutely no way I can change his mind now.

"Dad, I don't like it," I whisper to him quietly, trying my luck again.

"Caroline when we restore it, you will love it," he says, hugging me with one arm against his chest, before proceeding to talk further with the others over my head. I struggle free against his well-toned arm and walk out of the house, whose stuffy air feels foul and murky.

When I am out again, I take in a large gulp of the rich heady air, shutting my eyes to let it seep deep into my lungs. I quickly jerk my eyes open, scrambling backwards when I feel the air warming up to temperatures I know not to expect here.

Right before me is one of the shapeless ghostlike figures, like the ones I had seen earlier in front of my grandparents' car, staring back at me with its hollow globes that could only be its eyes. I look down on the uneven ground, trying to calm my heart. However, from the even greater increase in temperature of the air around me, I know the creature has taken a step or more towards me.

I try to turn and run back into the house, but the creature reaches out a part of itself towards my face with what looks like a protozoan limb, that in a split second transforms into a human hand. In my hesitation, long fingers emerge from the limb and clutch my chin hard in place.

Chapter 7.

I almost scream out in shock, for I have never seen a ghost that could physically touch something. Well, I have also never seen a ghost that had no limbs grow a whole new set. The hand gripping my chin holds it unbelievably fast in place, not allowing me to turn my head or even open my mouth to scream. It forces me to stare at it as it slowly transforms before my eyes, into a tall lean but well-toned figure with cropped dark blonde hair and harsh cold blue eyes.

Unlike the creature in the dashboard before, his eyes maintained the first color they get and so does his skin. His skin is creamy pale, resembling that of the typical Nordic men, and contrasting the darker skin tone of the dashboard creature earlier. Just like the sculpted sun-prince from earlier, the Viking representation before me is too a picture of perfection. I gasp as powerful large silvery wings suddenly sprout out of his back with just the tiniest hints of light blue at the tips of his wings. Right behind his head, I can make out the hilt of a sword. He taps it lightly with his left hand, as though rea.s.suring himself that it exists, his right hand still holding my chin fast to look up at him. He too is dressed in the dark blue combat suit, just like the other one had on.

What is going on? Am I going crazy? These aren't ghosts! Ghosts cannot physically touch me! I think in panic, as my heartbeat almost quadruples at my fear. The creature seems to have heard it, and it squeezes my chin even harder until I think he will break my jaw. I look up at him in fear and pain, and the emotion must have registered for he immediately lets go.

I gasp in deep breaths of air, bending over, as I try to let the sharp pain on my chin recede. I look up to find the cruel G.o.d-like creature still looking at me, his face devoid of any emotion or regret at having hurt me.

Cruel a-hole! I think to myself.

I feel another surge of energy around me before a pair of tightly clad legs whose feet are tucked snugly in tough military boots, land gracefully and noiselessly beside me. I take a moment to slowly raise my head. The only other figure I know to be clad in that combat suit, is the creature from the dashboard. When I finally look up at the two faces before me, my suspicions are immediately confirmed.

The two creatures stand tall before me, in every way as similar as similar can be. They mirror each other in every aspect, the way they stand, the way they are dressed, their build, height, muscle tone and most probably even their body weights. However the emotions their faces convey are as different as two faces of a coin; one adorns a warm welcoming smile, while the other's lips form a hard line, his face devoid of any emotion. One has sharp icy cold eyes, while the other boasts warm welcoming eyes. Regardless, they both look like ruthless warriors, ghost warriors that could touch me, and therefore could harm me whenever they want to. Ghost warriors with long menacing swords and powerful wings. Every inch of my body screams at me to flee, run as fast as I can in the opposite direction. But where to? No way could dad and the others fend off an attack from these two because for starters, they cannot see them. Maybe they are just interested in me, so there is no need to involve the others in whatever is fated for me.

The sun-prince, as I call him, raises his hand to my face, distracting me with his welcoming smile and the warm eyes I feel I know so well. He rubs my chin gently, where it hurts from the second angel's touch. He then drops his hand, rapping rapidly in a foreign language.

The Viking-prince's touch replaces his. His touch unexpectedly burns my skin. I try turning my face away from his touch, but his hold is firm and commanding. Realizing just how futile my attempts are, I relax my tense muscles and allow the heat palpitating from his silken touch to seep into my skin.

I then notice something weird. As he touches my skin, I swear I could understand a word or two of whatever they are saying in the breathy light flatter of the foreign language they are engaged in.

"..Hurt her..."

"..Gentle..."

"..Maybe..."

The words do not make sense however, because he keeps brus.h.i.+ng my chin and letting go, and thereby interrupting me from understanding full sentences of whatever they are saying.

I get a crazy idea, and next time he swipes at my chin, I make as though to grab his hand and hold it in place. He however moves so fast, even though I have caught him by surprise, drawing his sword with one hand and wrapping his fingers around my neck with the other.

I am now so scared that I can taste blood in my mouth. No one is talking anymore. The sun-prince studies me with a steady unemotional stare, not moving a muscle; while the Viking-prince stares down at my face, cold mistrust etched clearly across his face.

Now I'll surely die, I think. I try opening my mouth slowly, swallowing to wet my suddenly dry tongue.

"What do we do with her?" The meaning of the unidentifiable words he says float into my mind, as his fingers remain wrapped around my neck. I doubt they would understand me when I speak, but there is definitely no harm in trying, considering how close that double edged sword is to slitting my throat.

"Spare me?" I croak out.

Their eyes drop to even colder depths when I say this. Please work, I think pleading to whoever is listening up there. Please if you exist - G.o.ds, spirits, anybody - make them understand me.

"Please spare me." I try again. They continue looking at me with steady unblinking gazes, their emotions unchanging.

"You understand Leshon Ha-Kodesh?" The Viking-prince asks coldly, in his foreign sing-song language, yet his words register meaning deep in my head, like a language I had learnt before but have long forgotten.

The sun-prince has not moved a muscle, his gaze staring me down. I momentarily panic, fearing that I might pee my pants, like I used to do whenever I got bullied on the school's playground in first grade.

"No, I don't know what language that is. But I can understand you somehow. When you touch me..." I say puzzled.

"Do you understand me?" I ask cautiously. None of them even blinks, so I have no positive response.

"If you understand, please stop hurting me. You are grabbing my neck too tightly." I direct this to the Viking-prince, and he immediately eases the hand on my neck, though he continues to hold me in the same fatal position.

I guess they do understand me too.

"What are you?"

"My name is Caroline," I say slowly. "Please don't hurt me."

"What are you, Caroline?" the Viking-prince mouths out, his sword moving even dangerously closer to my neck.

"A girl?" Is the stupid thing I manage to think of saying questioningly, fear flowing through every fiber of my being.

"Are you the portal's guardian?"

"I... I don't think so.. I am just Caroline," I stammer in answer to his bizarre question.

"Caroline?" My dad calls emerging from the door of the house.

Oh no! I think, please don't hurt him. In speeds definitely faster than light, for it wasn't even visible, except for the definite changes in the energy in the air, the two warriors must have run into the clumps of trees across the narrow road.

I almost stumble forward at the shock of the quick release of my neck.

"Yeah, dad," I say straightening up and forcing a smile his way.

"What do you think? Do you hate it that much?" He asks, unsure of himself. My heart is still beating fast from the adrenalin of the recent activities, but I concentrate on my father's face before me.

"It is cheap," he adds coaxingly. I know he needs this house, needs a project to work on, something to save, just to keep his sanity. So I smile up at him a.s.suredly.

"Let's take it," I say encouragingly, "just as long as you promise to soon make it livable." His face beams up at me.