Excerpt: Vardøger

He came here when he was young, vacationing each summer in the small village, spending days on end in the water or on the ski slopes. It was paradise. He could kayak down a fjord one day, and ski down telemarks the next, and he did from childhood through university. He spent time at the various farms, learning to milk cows and goats and to administer pills to animals. When he was here in the summer, he rode horses as if he’d been born on them.
As soon as he was accepted at the veterinary university, Kjetil knew this was where he wanted to practice. There was no vet in Skjolden; the closest was nearly 10 miles away. When a calf was laid wrong, that was 10 miles too many. So Kjetil had taken the inheritance from his parents and purchased a building in the town centre. On his own, he converted the building to a surgery and office for his small practice. He didn’t need to make a lot of money. He was wealthy enough off of what his parents had left him. He was a vet because he enjoyed it, and he practiced in Skjolden because it was his favorite place in Norway.
Stian woke Kjetil on the morning of the vet’s fifth anniversary in the village. The dog hopped onto the bed and attempted to lie down on his master’s chest. Kjetil pushed the hound off before he could get comfortable. “Off, hound,” Kjetil mumbled, sitting up. The dog jumped from the bed and sat on his haunches, waiting for Kjetil to come around.
It took a deep yawn and a long, cat-like stretch before the vet roused himself enough to take his five-minute shower and start his coffee pot. Stian was sitting by the back door when Kjetil came out of the bedroom in his uniform: jeans, a flannel shirt, his boots, and a jumper. Most mornings, it appeared that Stian was more excited to go to work than Kjetil. It usually took half a pot of coffee before Kjetil started feeling awake. The buhund, on the other hand, was bright and shiny as soon as he woke.
Kjetil opened his surgery every morning at eight. The farmers were always up hours earlier, and teased him about “opening late.” Kjetil always chuckled, since most of his colleagues didn’t open their offices till nine or 10 in the morning.
He refilled his coffee mug and held the door open for Stian. The dog shot outside and toward the street. He never went in the street; he was too smart for that. But he always got uncomfortably close. Kjetil whistled at him, and they began the walk into town. It was a brisk spring morning. There was still snow on the ground, and Stian happily bounded through it. Kjetil rolled his eyes, thinking about the gobs of ice he would have to remove from the dog’s legs once they reached the surgery.
They arrived at the town centre earlier than usual, and Kjetil took the opportunity to go inside the Fjordstova and get a coffee refill and some breakfast. The café had been open since six that morning, and the smell of potatoes filled the air. Kjetil ordered some lefse and butter for breakfast and bought a packet of doggie treats for Stian.
The surgery was only half a block from the Fjordstova. Stian ran ahead of his master and sat in front of the door. It was his usual habit with all doors – run ahead of Kjetil and sit and wait. Most of the villagers were used to seeing the little black buhund scooting down the streets between the surgery and Kjetil’s house on the outskirts of town. They all knew that if they saw Stian run by, the vet wasn’t far behind.
As he passed the hotel, Kjetil waved to the innkeeper. He was an elderly man, and his family had run the Skjolden Hotel for generations. When Kjetil’s family began coming here in the summer, the innkeeper was barely older than Kjetil’s parents. Kjetil’s parents had passed away two years ago, and both were in their 60s.
Stian was socializing with a knot of farmers who had arrived at the surgery before the vet had even woken up.
“Vet, where have you been?” asked Gunnar Estil. He was one of the older farmers around Skjolden, and like the innkeeper’s family, Gunnar’s had been at their profession for generations.
“I had to get breakfast, you know,” Kjetil retorted, holding up his little packet. He pointed down at his dog. “Isn’t Stian company enough for you, Gunnar?”
The old farmer laughed, his hands on his considerable belly. “Plenty, but I need some antibiotics for the calves.”
“Well, at least you’re early,” Kjetil joked as he unlocked the surgery doors.
The farmers crowded in around him, Stian running amongst their legs. He darted to a corner and hopped around, waiting for Kjetil to clean the ice off his legs.
Kjetil turned the lights on, then whistled to the little dog again. Stian slid over on the wet concrete floor, and Kjetil snapped his fingers. Stian sat and looked up at him. He chatted with the farmers as he cleaned off his buhund. The farmers had long given up complaining about the eccentricities of their animals; they had moved on to their fellow villagers just months after Kjetil had set up practice in Skjolden. This morning’s topic was their fellow farmers, including some of those present in the surgery. Their was always plenty of ribbing to go around amongst the farmers of Skjolden. Most had known each other as children, when their parents farmed next to each other. Only the names had changed in the last three generations of most of the Skjolden farms.
Once the dog was clean, Kjetil turned his attention to the rabble of farmers in his surgery. Only two had legitimate reasons for being at the surgery that morning. The others had simply followed from the Fjorstova after breakfast and a pint.
Kjetil handed out the antibiotics that were necessary and sent the group on their way. “You have farms to look after,” he reminded that as he shuttled them out the door. “Good morning, gentlemen!”
He was greeted with a chorus of, “Skoal!” and a few waves as they meandered their ways back to their farms. Stian ran out of the surgery as he said good-bye to the farmers, did some business, and returned. He was given a treat, and Kjetil turned to his diary to see if he had any appointments, even though he always remembered whenever he had appointments. It was habit, and Kjetil was not about to let it die.
Since there were no appointments that morning, Kjetil occupied himself by doing inventory. He did it once every six months since he started the practice, so it was only appropriate that he did it on his fifth anniversary. He kept his surgical and medicinal methods as up-to-date as he could. But when it came to bookkeeping, Kjetil was much more old-fashioned than many of his colleagues. He kept his accounts in one ledger, and his inventory in another. The weight of the papers and the books they were bound in – Kjetil felt a certain satisfaction whenever he started a new year for each ledger. If he put more than one year in each, he knew he would get confused. Besides, he told himself, it looks better to have more of each than fewer. Makes me look like I accomplished something.
A couple of the years in practice had seen enough inventory turnover to use more than one ledger. Those years had also filled their account ledgers all the way up by the end. He had quite a little library of ledgers growing on the shelves in his surgery.
The telephone rang while Kjetil was in the middle of counting bottles of saline. He made it to 20 before he jumped down from the stool to answer the call. It was nothing exciting, just an appointment scheduling, and Kjetil returned to work. Lunch time came and went before he had any other visitors that day.
His favorite customer, eight-year-old Sigrid Maurer, brought in her rabbit, Frode. He was suffering from his usual malady – too much heavy food. Kjetil cleaned his rump, fed him a carrot, and once again cautioned Sigrid on giving the rabbit anything more than veggies, timothy hay, and rabbit pellets.
“He isn't meant to eat lefse, Sigrid,” Kjetil admonished gently.
“I'm sorry, Mister Martin,” she cried as she ran from the surgery with the rabbit clutched to her breast.
Frode the rabbit was Kjetil's only patient on his fifth anniversary. When surgery hours were over at five, Kjetil cleaned up, put his ledgers away, and whistled to Stian. The dog did more business as Kjetil locked up, then followed his master to the Fjordstova for the second time that day.
Before they went home, Kjetil and Stian always made a stop at the Fjordstova. Kjetil worked out in the swimming pool as Stian hung about outside, greeting the villagers and the tourists alike with a wag of his curled tail. When Kjetil was dry from the pool, he went to the cafe and had a pint of beer. Then it was home to his small farm.
Stian followed Kjetil about as he fed the livestock. The dog always wanted to herd the animals, and he usually zipped underneath the fences to prance around the sheep and cows, but the would have none of it. They were not going to be herded, no matter what Stian did. Kjetil would usually have to yell at the dog to force him back out of the pens before he got trampled.
The livestock were fed by seven, and Kjetil and Stian returned to the house to settle in for the evening. Kjetil checked his cell phone. The battery was full, and he had decent coverage. It waxed and waned down in the Lustrafjord valley, and Kjetil and his customers relied on it in emergencies. Whenever he was home or out on a call, the phone was on his person. Kjetil was in the middle of a series of books, and he was intent on finishing the third one. He poured himself a glass of beer and sat down in his favorite chair. Stian curled up at his feet, and Kjetil soon heard the dog snoring.
Kjetil’s customers and their animals let him be that night. He woke up, as he often did during the week, sitting in his chair with his book open on his chest and his reading glasses askew. Stian hadn’t moved in the night, either. He was still curled up halfway on Kjetil’s feet. Kjetil stretched, gently pushing the dog awake and to his feet. Stian performed his own yoga routine and capped it off with a healthy yawn, then skittered toward the back door.
He was let out to do his business while Kjetil showered and prepared a pot of coffee. The routine then began again, with little deviation. When he got home that night, Kjetil decided to shake things up a little. He put on his hiking boots, slung his crampons over his shoulder, and grabbed his trekking poles. It was time for a hike. He picked up a dry-erase marker and left a note on his front door giving his whereabouts, in case his customers needed him, or he didn’t come back.
The ground was still partially frozen, so when Kjetil got outside of town, he sat on a stump and put his crampons on. Stian was already off down the trail before Kjetil got up to follow. He patted the shirt pocket with his cell phone on it; he was reachable.
Stian found a stick shortly after Kjetil caught up with him, and he waited patiently for his master to throw it. Once Stian had permission to chase it, he was off. Kjetil chucked it into the snow on the side of the trail, and the dog was more white than black when he came bounding out of the drifts with the stick in his mouth. Kjetil threw the stick again, and Stian disappeared.
Kjetil hiked and Stian fetched for half an hour before Kjetil decided it was time to turn around. He had taken a few pictures of the snow-melt as they hiked, and Stian was completely covered in icy bits of snow. He only added more to his collection on the walk from the hiking trail to the village.
The dog loped ahead easily, despite his burden of icy globs. Kjetil followed slowly through town and decided that a stop at the hotel wouldn’t be amiss. He whistled to Stian, and the dog came running after his master as Kjetil trudged up the little hill to the hotel. The pub inside was warm and bright and full of life. Stian was allowed in to warm himself by the roaring fire, and Kjetil ordered a pint of beer. Steam rose from him as he sidled as close to the fire as he could comfortably be.
Kjetil took a stool at the bar, between two farmers he knew, and sipped at his pint.
“Veterinary!” To his left was Gunnar Estil again. “How are we this evening?”
Kjetil nodded slightly. “I’m well, Gunnar, and you?”
The old farmer clapped Kjetil on the shoulder. “Just wonderful. Taught my grandson to milk cows this morning.”
“I remember my lessons,” Kjetil chuckled. They had been at the hands of Gunnar Estil’s own father, when Kjetil was only six. “Your father was the best milking teacher in Skjolden.”
Gunnar nodded. “He was indeed. I could never be that good.”
Kjetil grinned. Gunnar’s temper was too short to be as good a teacher as his father was, though Gunnar wouldn’t admit that was the reason. Many of the younger farmers in Skjolden had learned to milk from Far Estil. Kjetil was one of the lucky few who were deemed honorary children of Skjolden and got to learn to milk from Gunnar’s father.
The talk of the bar soon turned from the mundane to that of the lessons learned from Far Estil. He taught more than just milking to the men of Skjolden. Gunnar claimed it was out on the farm with his father that he first learned of the birds and bees. Kjetil was not surprised. The farmers told more stories than Kjetil had attention for, and when it was time to pay his bill, Gunnar fought with him over it.
The old man finally patted Kjetil on the cheek, leaving behind a nice hand print, and shouted, “I am your elder, veterinary, and if I want to pay your bill, I will!” He held up his glass of beer as he slapped 10 krone on the bar. “Skoal!”
Gunnar was in his cups and wouldn’t be defied, so Kjetil slapped the old man’s shoulder, shouted, “Skoal!” and left the pub, Stian on his heels. The village was quiet. Tourist season hadn’t fully swung into Skjolden yet, and there was no one else on the streets as Kjetil and Stian left the pub.
Stian trotted along with his nose in the snow and didn’t even look up when a cat crossed his path. It was a Siamese, one of Kjetil’s patients. He shook his head; the cat wasn’t supposed to be outside – it was de-clawed. He made a mental note to call the owner’s mother in the morning and reiterate the de-clawed-cats rules he’d laid out when he took the claws.
Just a few buildings down from the hotel, Kjetil heard someone turn a corner behind him. It was not unusual for other people to be out and about in the evenings in Skjolden. It was, after all, in the milder part of Norway and a tourist town. But the hotel itself was closed until the middle of May, and it was only the beginning of April. The bar at the hotel was always open for the locals, but during the off season, it rarely attracted visitors.
Kjetil looked forward to his buhund. Stian was intent on the scents on the ground and was paying no mind to the footsteps. Kjetil frowned. Footsteps usually brought Stian to attention – he always wanted to greet everyone. Was he too absorbed in his trail to hear the footsteps. Kjetil shook his head. That was impossible. Stian always heard everything – that was the great thing about having a dog. They always knew what was going on – they could hear it from a kilometer away. But the dog was making no signs that he heard the footsteps behind Kjetil. They sounded to the vet like the boots of a woman, and they began to clack along as though the wearer were walking on dry concrete and not snow.
Kjetil swiveled his torso and glanced behind him. He saw nothing but houses and shops. No one was behind him, but he could still hear the footsteps. He stopped, but the footsteps didn't. He frowned again as he heard them begin to wane. Just a yard in front of him, they went silent. His left brow shot up, and he felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to rise. A shiver racked his body despite the layers he wore, and he shook his head.
“Just my imagination,” he thought aloud, turning back toward home.