“You understand the misunderstood, because I suppose we have to admit that you are as misunderstood as we are. Most people think of journalists as vultures of ill fortune, or as attention whores who feed on tragedy,” Heri explained. “But you, specifically, are not like that. When people hear that I come from the Faroe Islands they immediately hate me for killing innocent whales in bloody victory and drunken evil…but none of that is remotely correct. When people hear you are a journalist, they instantly brand you as a dirty carrier of twisted media bullshit out to make us look bad. In essence, you and I, we’re one and the same in such issues.”
“Maybe there’s no fountain of youth here to keep you good looking, my friend,” Sam chuckled, “but there must be a mead horn of wisdom around here.”
“Now you’re talking,” Heri laughed. “But I’ll not dismiss the lame references to my looks coming from you. I’ll take those compliments too, thank you very much!”
Chapter 11
Over the rolling ebb and flow of smooth, green grasslands, crowned by low-hanging clouds and dark gray skies, the journalist and the local fish farmer drove. It was late in the morning when they reached the first of the destinations on Sam’s itinerary — Akraberg.
“Pillboxes?” Heri asked the visiting journalist.
“Aye,” Sam said as they walked up to the former British station bunkers. “That’s what they called these bunkers during World War II.” He lifted his camera and froze in position before clicking off a few frames. Heri chewed on some of Johild’s ræstur fiskur while watching Sam move from side to side to cover different angles.
“Can I go inside or is it restricted?” Sam hollered from some obscure corner he was moving in behind. Heri nodded to him that it was okay to go in. Sam took pictures of the interior of the small bunkers and felt his skin crawl with awe. Through the moss-covered, crumbling, cement window, he could see his friend’s long blond hair lash in the strong breeze, like a flag from a pole. He was still curious as to the age of the man, although he did notice small creases around Heri’s eyes and on his forehead, which meant that he was not a boy anymore.
Inside the discolored and eroded walls Sam could feel a distinct presence. Not a firm believer in ghosts, he shrugged it off, but he could not deny that the age and authenticity of the structures impressed and influenced his demeanor. He could feel the company of the British soldiers in there with him, even with only the moaning gusts calling by the position of the corners and air holes.
Outside the stone and mortar structures were overgrown by weeds and virtually eaten by the foliage that had been hugging its sides for all these years. The sea air filled Sam’s nostrils as he crouched down for a good upward angle on the water-stained ceiling of the bunker. He could hear the sound of voices for a moment, an unexpected sound that startled him. Sam retreated against the wall of the pillbox he was in, camera at the ready for anything unusual to make its appearance. Again, he heard the rising and falling of voices in argument, but there was nothing in plain sight in front of him.
Then it dawned on him. The voices came from outside: one male and one female. Carefully Sam peeked around the edge of the window hole.
“Oh, great,” he moaned. It was the ever-bitchy Johild accosting her cousin again, probably about Sam’s presence there. He hadn’t yet had time to investigate her, which frustrated him even more every time she showed up. “May as well take the opportunity,” he whispered to himself as he took aim with his long lens.
Sam could not deny the photogenic prowess of the angry beauty and he wished he could only have one normal conversation with her without being hauled over hot coals for being an outsider. After he took enough shots of the two locals he exited the pillbox nonchalantly and strolled towards the two arguing in what seemed completely unintelligible gibberish.
“Hey, can you two fight in English, please?” Sam jested. “I can’t eavesdrop like this.”
They both stared at Sam with straight faces, not amused. He threw up his open hands in a gesture of surrender. “Alright, so the Scandinavians have a different sense of humor. Noted.”
“What are you looking for, Mr. Cleave?” Johild came right out. “Why are you really here? You said you were doing an exposé on the Grind, but then you start lurking around the historical sites, taking account of every single location.”
“Johild, control yourself,” Heri reprimanded, stepping forward just enough to wedge in between the two.
“No, Heri! I don’t trust this guy. Do you know who Sam Cleave is? Do you know what he usually gets involved with?” she fumed. “Espionage, subterfuge during sensitive political events, unearthing all kinds of Nazi catalysts and re-implementing their faculties for modern day warlords to use.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Sam shook his head as he stepped closer to her, forcing Heri to hold his breath and protectively put out his hands to both parties. “Where do you get this from, Johild? I’m no Nazi propagator, neither am I some bloody spy or whatever you think you know about me. If you have a problem with me, fine. But if you think I’m going to take your verbal abuse because of some fabricated ideas you have about me, think again!”
“Fabricated? Your own woman lost her life because of your recklessness in busting an arms ring!” she retorted.
“It was her story! I only went with her for…” he stopped, sobered and upset.
“For what? For what, Sam?” she insisted, poking at the tragedy Sam was still haunted by.
Heri looked in Sam’s eyes and gently pushed his cousin away from the journalist.
“Protection,” Sam admitted. “I didn’t want her to investigate on her own, to go to the rendezvous point by herself. What happened was not because of my recklessness. She was about to get her big break.”
“Enough,” Heri said. “Both of you. Enough. My God, why can’t we just talk this out? Play open cards, for fuck’s sake. If there is some miscommunication, badly reported reputation, whatever, we are grown people. Put it on the table and get this shit out of the way because it’s causing me way too much trouble.”
With the commotion the three acquired some unexpected company. Johild’s father and two other men came over the mounds surrounding the bunkers. The old man exclaimed, “What the hell is going on here? Good God, we can hear you screaming at each other all the way from Sumba!”
“It’s been sorted out, Uncle Gunnar,” Heri said, giving a look of warning at Johild. In turn, her light blue eyes pierced Sam’s dark pools where his furnace was still burning with anger.
“Doesn’t smell like it’s sorted out,” the old man remarked as he approached. “What are you doing here, Scotsman?”
“Just taking pictures of historical sites,” Sam replied. “Besides, I don’t have to report to any of you why I’m taking pictures while I’m on vacation, do I? I’m getting sick of this. Look, I get it that you are paranoid about journalists reporting on the whale issue, but for Christ’s sake, I’m taking pictures of British barracks and radio stations that I discovered while I was here. If you have something to hide, don’t make it my problem, please. Just leave me the hell alone.”
Sam turned and walked in the direction of Heri’s 4x4, but old Gunnar was not done with him. “You! Scotsman! Don’t think you can just walk away without explaining! We will not let you leave, if you’re not careful.”
Even Johild did not feel comfortable with that threat. She stood next to her cousin, worried for what her father was up to. “Papa,” she said softly, “don’t.”
“Hold your tongue!” her father snapped at her. “You can rip him from the seams but nobody else can?”