‘It wasn’t an accident,’ said Harpa. ‘I attacked him.’
‘The whole thing happened because Sindri and that kid egged you on. They were the ones who made you call him up and get him to come out and meet you. What we both did wrong was to go along with them. Look at me, Harpa. You’re not a bad person.’
But Harpa didn’t look at him. She pressed herself into Björn’s leather-clad chest. She wanted to believe him. She wanted so desperately to believe him.
CHAPTER TEN
November 1934
HALLGRÍMUR LOOKED OUT over the snow as he made his way to the barn where the sheep were huddled together for the winter. He had to check on the hay.
It was ten o’clock and just getting light. The snow, which had fallen a few days before, glowed a luminescent blue, except at the top of the far mountains where the rising sun painted it red. He could still see the dark shapes of the twisted rocky waves of the Berserkjahraun. The warmth of the lava stone meant that the snow always melted there first.
A cold wind whipped in from the fjord. Hallgrímur saw a small figure tramping his way across the snow towards the little church. Benni.
Hallgrímur hadn’t seen much of his friend over the past few weeks, but he felt sorry for him. Benedikt’s father’s disappearance had taken everyone by surprise. His mother had not the faintest clue where her husband might have gone. Search parties went out everywhere: over the Bjarnarhöfn Fell in case he had been looking for a lost sheep, along the shore in case he had fallen into the sea, over the Berserkjahraun, into the towns of Stykkishólmur and Grundarfjördur. When nothing turned up, the search went further afield: over the mountains to the south and the Kerlingin Pass, along the coast to Ólafsvík, the sheriff down in Borgarnes was informed.
There was no sign of him anywhere.
Hallgrímur had joined in the search parties, sticking closely to his father wherever he went. He was amazed and impressed by his father’s determination to help, the long hours he spent on the fells looking for a body he knew lay at the bottom of a lake only a few kilometres away.
The atmosphere at Bjarnarhöfn was awful. His father and mother didn’t talk. The hatred was palpable. Hallgrímur’s brother and sisters assumed it was grief and shock. Only Hallgrímur knew the real reason.
The boy hated his mother for what she had done with Benni’s father. And, although he knew it was wrong, he couldn’t help admiring his father for doing something about it.
Of course things were much worse at Hraun. Benni’s mother had been demented with worry, but she was a strong woman and she didn’t let the farm slip. Neighbours were eager to help.
Where had Benedikt’s father gone? The theories became more and more wild. The two wildest were that he had emigrated to America with a woman, and that the Kerlingin troll had got him.
More sober heads assumed he had somehow fallen into Breidafjördur and been swept away into the ocean.
Hallgrímur walked over the snow-covered home meadow down to the church. It was little more than a hut, with black painted wooden walls and a red metal roof. There was no spire, just a white cross above the entrance. It was surrounded by a low wall of stone and turf, and a graveyard of a mixture of old grey headstones and newer white wooden crosses. Hallgrímur’s ancestors lay there. One day, in the far off future, perhaps in the twenty-first century if he was lucky, Hallgrímur would join them.
There was no pastor of Bjarnarhöfn. The pastor at Helgafell, the small bump in the distance near the town of Stykkishólmur, held services there once a month.
Hallgrímur opened the door. Benni was sitting in the front pew, staring at the altar. He had a book on his lap. Hallgrímur recognized it, it was Benedikt’s copy of the Saga of the People of Eyri.
‘Hello,’ said Hallgrímur, joining him. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I am trying to pray,’ said Benedikt.
‘What for?’ said Hallgrímur. ‘They won’t find him.’
‘For his soul.’
‘Ah,’ said Hallgrímur. He had never quite got to grips with the concept of soul. ‘Are you all right, Benni?’
‘No. I feel so bad for my mother. She has no idea what happened to Dad and she will never find out. Unless I tell her.’
‘You can’t do that,’ said Hallgrímur.
‘Why not?’ said Benedikt. ‘I think about it all the time.’
‘It will get us into trouble.’
‘Not very much trouble,’ said Benedikt. ‘We didn’t kill him.’
Hallgrímur frowned. ‘It would get my father into a lot of trouble.’
‘Perhaps he deserves it.’ Benedikt glared at Hallgrímur.
‘And your father, too. I know he’s dead, but everyone thinks he’s a hero. They won’t think that if they know what he did.’
‘Maybe.’
The two boys stared at the altar and its simple cross.
‘Benni?’
‘Yes?’
‘If you do tell anyone, I will kill you.’ Hallgrímur didn’t know why he made the threat: it just came out of nowhere. But he knew he meant it. And the fact that he had uttered it in the church gave it greater meaning.
Benedikt didn’t answer.
‘Tell me a story from in there, Benni,’ Hallgrímur said, tapping the book on Benedikt’s lap.
‘All right,’ said Benedikt. He was still staring ahead at the altar, not looking at Hallgrímur. ‘Do you remember Björn of Breidavík?’ Benedikt didn’t need to open the book: he knew all the stories.
‘The one who went to America and became a chieftain?’
‘Yes. Do you want to know why he went there?’
‘Why?’
‘There was a beautiful woman called Thurídur who lived at Fródá. It’s near Ólafsvík.’
‘I know.’
‘Even though she was someone else’s wife, Björn kept on going to see her. He loved her.’
‘Oh.’ Hallgrímur wasn’t sure he liked the sound of this story.
‘Thurídur’s brother was a great chieftain called Snorri who lived at Helgafell.’
‘Yes, you have told me about him.’
‘Well, Snorri was angry with Björn and had him outlawed so he had to leave Iceland.’
‘That was then,’ Hallgrímur said. ‘My father couldn’t have got your father outlawed. That doesn’t happen any more.’
Benedikt ignored him. ‘A few years later Björn returned to Breidavík and went back to seeing Thurídur. This time Snorri sent a slave to kill Björn, but Björn caught the slave and had him killed instead. There was a big battle between the families of Björn and Snorri on the ice below Helgafell. In the end Björn left Iceland of his own accord. He ended up in America with the Skraelings.’
‘Perhaps your father should have gone to America,’ said Hallgrímur.
Benedikt turned away from the altar to look straight at Hallgrímur. ‘Perhaps Björn should have killed Snorri.’
Friday, 18 September 2009
Magnus carried the two cups of coffee from the counter and sat down opposite Sigurbjörg. They were in a café on Borgartún. He had called her early, catching her just as she arrived in her office, and she had agreed to see him for a few minutes before the working day began in earnest.
He had woken up at four-thirty thinking about what Sigurbjörg had told him back in April, and had been unable to get back to sleep. Denial wasn’t going to work. He had heard what he had heard and he was going to have to make sense of it. The sooner the better.
The café was busy with office workers loading up on caffeine, mostly to go, so there were a few seats available.
‘I’m glad you called,’ said Sibba in English. ‘I didn’t think you would.’
‘Neither did I,’ said Magnus. ‘It was kinda weird seeing you yesterday.’
‘OBG is a good client of our firm’s, as you can imagine. Do you want to ask me about Óskar Gunnarsson? That might be tricky.’