Strange Shores

6

He is enveloped by cold and darkness, assailed by a flood of images of people and past events that he cannot hold back. There is no distinguishing time and place — he is everywhere and nowhere at once.

He lies in his room, a strange sense of serenity easing through his body after the injection. Although he tries to resist, it is futile; his blood has ceased to flow and a mist has shrouded his thoughts.

The doctor tells him what he is going to do but he can’t take it in, and continues to writhe and thrash his limbs until hands seize him and subdue him. The doctor consults his mother and she nods dully. He sees the syringe in the man’s hands, feels a sharp prick in his arm, then little by little the fight goes out of him.

His mother sits on the edge of the bed, stroking his forehead, her expression infinitely sad. He would give the world to change it.

‘Is there anything you can tell us about your brother?’ she whispers.

The minor patches of frostbite on his hands and feet do not trouble him unduly. He can remember nothing before waking up in the arms of a member of the search party, who was trying to pour hot milk down his throat. They took it in turns to carry him home from the moor, desperate to get him into the warmth as soon as possible. His mother took over for the final stretch and delivered him to the doctor, who examined him and tended to his frostbite. They told him that his father was safe. Why shouldn’t he be? he wondered. His mind was blank. He gazed around at the strangers who filled the house, the men milling around in the yard, armed with walkie-talkies and long poles. They stared back at him as if they had seen a ghost. Gradually he regained full consciousness and snatches of what had happened after they left home began to reassemble themselves in his mind, fragmentary at first, then merging to form a coherent picture. He gripped his mother’s arm.

‘Where’s Beggi?’

‘He wasn’t with you,’ she replied. ‘We’re searching the area where they found you.’

‘Hasn’t he come home?’

His mother shook her head.

It was then that he went berserk. Reared up and fought to get out of bed while she tried to hold him down. This only made him more determined and he succeeded in tearing himself from her grasp and running out into the passageway, straight into the doctor and the two men who had carried him down to Bakkasel. Despite his frenzied struggles they hung on to him, trying to talk sense into him, to calm him. His mother clasped him in her arms and explained that a large group was out looking for his brother Bergur; he would soon be found and all would be well. Ignoring her, he bit and scratched, straining to reach his boots and anorak. When they prevented him from going outside he lost his head completely. In the end the doctor had no choice but to sedate him.

‘Can you give us any clues about Beggi?’ his mother asks again as he lies in bed, too weak to resist any more. ‘It’s urgent, darling.’

‘I was holding Beggi’s hand,’ he whispers. ‘I held on to it as long as I could, then suddenly he wasn’t there any more. I was alone. I don’t know what happened.’

‘When? At what point?’

He senses the effort she is making to maintain her composure, in spite of the terrible strain. She has recovered two out of three alive from the storm but the thought that Beggi might be lost is unendurable.

‘I don’t know,’ he says.

‘Was it still light?’

‘Yes, I think so. I don’t know. I was so cold.’

‘Have you any idea which way you were heading? Were you going uphill or down?’

‘No, none. I kept falling over and everything was white and I couldn’t see. I remember Dad saying we must turn back at once. Then he vanished.’

‘That was more than twenty-four hours ago,’ his mother tells him. ‘I’m going back up to the moors, dear. They could do with more helpers. You rest. It’ll be all right — we’ll find Beggi. Try not to worry too much.’

The drug is taking effect and his mother’s words soothe him a little. He falls asleep and for several hours is dead to the world. When he stirs again it is strangely quiet; a sinister silence has fallen on the house. He feels as if he is waking from a long, harrowing nightmare but understands at once that this is wrong; he has a sudden vivid memory of the events of the last thirty-six hours. Still groggy from the sedative, he climbs out of bed and staggers into the passage. The door to his parents’ room is shut. When he opens it, he finds his father alone on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t see the boy but sits motionless, his head sunk on his chest, hands in his lap. Perhaps he is asleep. The room is dark. He doesn’t know of his father’s terrifying ordeal; how he crawled the last few metres to Bakkasel on hands and knees, frostbitten, hatless and almost out of his mind after his battle with the elements.

‘Aren’t you out looking?’ he asks.

His father doesn’t answer, just stares down at his lifeless hands. Moving closer, he puts a hand on his father’s knee and repeats his question. His father seems to have aged many years: the lines in his face have deepened, the light in his eyes has been extinguished, leaving them cold, remote and indifferent. He has never seen his father so far gone before, so desolate and alone, as there in that shadowy room. He stands before him, filled with dread and horror, and offers up the feeblest excuse of all:

‘I couldn’t help it,’ he whispers. ‘I couldn’t help it.’