But now, seeing the River Fródá, the scene of that other seduction so many centuries ago, it had returned.
He felt apprehensive as he began to climb the path up the edge of Búland’s Head. The sunshine was behind him now, and the base of the cloud only a few metres above.
He remembered the first time he had ridden that path around Búland’s Head. It had been with his father, the summer before he died, and they had been visiting his aunt’s family in Ólafsvík. Benedikt had been scared to death. There were all kinds of stories that drifted around Búland’s Head. Trolls who threw travellers into the sea. Criminals who were hanged there, witches who were stoned. But what was really scary wasn’t the stories, but the path itself, an impossibly narrow ledge cut into the side of the mountain, hundreds of metres above the sea.
There was a story about a father and son, who lived on either side of the head, who had argued and become bitter enemies. One day they both met while riding around the headland. Neither gave way and each passed the other at a trot; miraculously neither one slipped. Afterwards, they discovered that the silver buttons that each wore at the side of their trousers had been torn off.
There was a stone on the other side that Benedikt had tapped for luck on his way out. He wished there was one on this side that he could tap on the way back.
The path wound higher and higher. Mist swirled all around them, pressing in on horse and boy in a clammy, silent grip. He was now so high up that he could no longer hear the surf on the rocks below. Just the clopping of hoofs on stone, and the trickle of water on rock all around him. He hoped to God he didn’t come across someone approaching from the other direction.
There was nothing much he could do, apart from concentrating on keeping his balance. It was all up to Skjona, and she had picked her way over this route several times before.
The path rose inexorably. They came to a section where it had completely worn away. Skjona’s hoof loosened a stone that clattered down to the sea below. The mare paused, snorting, planning her route.
And then Benedikt heard a sound. Hoofs. A boulder jutted out about ten metres ahead and in a moment a horse and rider appeared.
‘Hello, there!’ the rider called.
Benedikt recognized the voice. Gunnar.
‘Is that Benni?’
‘Yes, it is.’
Gunnar kicked on his horse who picked his way through what remained of the path and paused a couple of metres in front of Skjona.
‘What are you doing here?’ Gunnar asked, his voice friendly.
‘I’ve just been to my cousin’s confirmation in Ólafsvík.’
‘Ah, yes, your mother told me about that. Thorgils, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘All right, son,’ Gunnar said. ‘This is going to be a bit tricky.’
Benedikt winced. He hated it when Gunnar called him ‘son’. Fear fed his anger.
‘Get Skjona to go backwards. It’s not far. Just a few metres and we will be able to pass.’
‘But she won’t be able to see,’ Benedikt protested. ‘She’ll fall.’
‘No she won’t. She’ll be fine. Just take it slowly. Don’t scare her.’
But Benedikt was paralysed with fear. ‘I can’t. You’ll have to go back yourself.’
‘That won’t work,’ said Gunnar. ‘I have much further to go than you. Come on. It’s only five metres. If we try to pass right here, one of us will fall.’
Suddenly, Benedikt knew what he had to do. He summoned up his courage and tugged gently at the reins. Skjona pinned back her ears, but shuffled backwards. Another stone rattled loose down the cliff until it was lost in the cloud.
‘That’s it,’ said Gunnar, his voice calm, encouraging. ‘That’s it, Benni. She’s doing fine. You’re nearly there.’
And indeed Skjona and Benedikt were back on the path proper. It was just wide enough for two horses to pass.
‘All right, hold still,’ said Gunnar. Gently he urged his own horse on. Slowly he passed Benedikt on the outside.
For a moment Benedikt hesitated. He knew what he did or didn’t do in the next two or three seconds would change his life.
He freed his left foot from his stirrup. Placed it gently on the flank of Gunnar’s horse.
And pushed.
Saturday, 19 September 2009
He parked the vehicle at the foot of the hill, lifted the shapeless canvas bag off the front seat next to him, and set off up the side of the fell along a sheep track.
He was three kilometres from the nearest minor road, four kilometres from the nearest farm, neither of which he could see. He was a long way from any human being, out of sight, out of earshot.
He looked up the lush green flank of the fell. It was still dark, but the edges of the clouds gathering around its upper slopes were tinged with a bluish shade of grey. There was a breeze, but it wasn’t as strong as the day before. He hoped it would be calmer where he was going, and that he would be able to see.
Ten minutes later he was in the cloud. A further twenty minutes and he was out of it again. He was scrambling downhill into a valley, with steep sides but a flat strip of marsh grass running along next to a stream. Isolated. Quiet. And sheltered from the wind. Perfect.
It was definitely dawn now, although the sun was hidden by layers of roiling cloud. He paused and slid the bag off his shoulder. An unseen golden plover emitted a series of peeps nearby.
He unzipped the bag and lifted out the rifle, a bolt-action Remington 700. It was three years since he had fired it, and he was out of practice. He spotted a patch of dryish grass next to a stone, and laid the rifle to rest there. Then he took the empty petrol container out of the bag and paced out one hundred and twenty-five metres along the side of the stream. The elevation had dropped a few metres that far downstream, so he looked for a likely boulder on which to place the container so that it would be at about the same height as the stone. Then he returned to the rifle.
Tomorrow, he would only get one chance. He would be using a similar rifle, the same model, but not the same weapon. The ammunition was the same, he had checked that, 7 mm Remington. They had examined Google Earth to estimate the range, somewhere between one hundred and one hundred and fifty metres. At two hundred metres the bullet should go pretty much where he aimed it. At one hundred and twenty-five, there would be about a six centimetre rise, meaning he would have to aim a little low, only a little. Six centimetres was not much when compared to the size of a man’s chest.
Since he would be firing an unfamiliar rifle with no time to check that it was zeroed in correctly, he had decided not to use a scope. Plus a scope could get banged about and knocked off zero while the weapon was being concealed. So, open sights. Keep it simple, fewer things to go wrong.
It had been easy with the handgun, even though he had never fired one before that evening. At two metres he couldn’t miss the banker. Everything had been prepared perfectly then: the plan, the weapon, the motorbike. He hoped the preparation would work out as well this time. There was no reason to believe it shouldn’t.
He lay down on the grass, rested the rifle on the stone, and aimed at the petrol container. Then he lowered the barrel a touch to allow for the rise, and gently squeezed the trigger. He felt the familiar kick in his shoulder, heard the shot echo around the little valley, but saw rock splinter just below the container. A pair of golden plovers took to the air, complaining loudly.
He cursed. He had overcompensated for the rise. He operated the bolt mechanism. Aimed. Fired again. This time the container leapt backwards off the boulder on to the ground beneath. He aimed, fired again. Again the container jumped. And again. And again.
He smiled. He could do this.
‘That was quite a night,’ said Sharon. Magnus and she were sitting in the conference room nursing cups of strong black coffee. She looked like death. ‘It’s a while since I’ve had a night like that.’