66 Degrees North

CHAPTER FOUR

October 1934

BENEDIKT HAD A really good idea for a game.

He had just finished the Saga of the People of Eyri and he had read that there was a chieftain called Björn from Breidavík on the other side of the Snaefells Peninsula, across the mountains from Hraun and Bjarnarhöfn, who had travelled all the way to a land far overseas that Benedikt guessed was America. Björn had become a chief there amongst the natives. What if Hallgrímur and Benedikt discovered America?

Hallgrímur wanted the berserkers to go too. They could fight the Skraelings, the name the Vikings had given to the Native Americans. Benedikt said that was all right.

But they would need to go on a long journey of exploration. Hallgrímur suggested that they go to Swine Lake, a lake formed by the congealed lava several kilometres to the south. Although Benedikt’s mother was happy for him to be out playing for long periods, Hallgrímur’s was much stricter. So he waited until his father had ridden off for the day to Stykkishólmur, the nearest town, and his mother had gone to visit the wife at a neigh-bouring farm.

It was hard slow going over the lava field, especially since the boys were careful to keep out of view. There was some sunshine, but it was cold, with a stiff breeze blowing in from the north-east. Snow had fallen on the mountains to the south the week before, and there was a dusting on the top of Bjarnarhöfn Fell. They paused to watch a motor car in the distance clatter down from the Kerlingin Pass on the high road from Borgarnes to Stykkishólmur. A horse neighed in fright.

‘A Buick,’ Benedikt said. He was knowledgeable about motor cars, or claimed to be, although Hallgrímur had his doubts. Every car seemed to be a Buick.

A pair of eider ducks flew low overhead, on their way back to the dwarf willows by the stream at Bjarnarhöfn.

They pressed on. Benedikt was getting tired, as was Hallgrímur. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all. But then the Vikings who discovered America had put up with much worse conditions than this. And Hallgrímur was a berserker. He certainly couldn’t give up.

‘Halli, let’s go back!’

‘Don’t whine, Benni.’

‘But I’m tired!’

Hallgrímur sighed. ‘All right. We’ll rest for a couple of minutes. But then we have to get on to America!’

They found a comfortable hollow and sat down. The lava protected them from the wind, and the sun warmed their cheeks. Hallgrímur looked up at the savage profile of the Kerlingin Pass, with its outlandish shapes along the ridge. From here he could just make out the silhouette of the Kerlingin troll herself, a giant woman walking along with a bag over her shoulder. The bag was full of naughty children from Stykkishólmur. The troll had been caught by the rising sun just before she had returned to her cave and was frozen there, on top of the pass, for evermore.

Could the berserkers beat the troll in a fair fight? Hallgrímur wondered. It would be tough. Maybe both of them together could.

He turned to ask Benedikt for his opinion when he heard voices, angry voices.

‘Do you think they will ever find him?’ It was Hallgrímur’s mother, and she was sobbing.

‘No chance.’ His father. They were coming closer. ‘He’s at the bottom of the lake and he will stay there. The fish will eat him. It’s what he deserves.’

‘You are a horrible vile man! I’m not going back with you!’

‘Do you want to join him, you whore? Well, do you?’

Hallgrímur heard his mother sobbing.

‘I thought not. I left the horse by the road. Now, come on!’

They were really close now. Hallgrímur and Benedikt could not risk being seen; Hallgrímur could only guess at how angry his parents would be if they discovered him. The boys pressed themselves tight against the ground, their faces buried in the moss. It was only after Hallgrímur was sure that his parents were long gone that he raised his head.

‘Benni? What were they talking about? What’s a whore?’

His friend didn’t answer. He was staring over the lava field towards Swine Lake, tears streaming down his face.

Thursday, 17 September 2009

It was still dark when Harpa walked along the Nordurströnd to the bakery. She had had the job for a couple of months. During the summer she had enjoyed the walk, with the lights of Reykjavík blinking sleepily as the town woke up in front of her, and the sun rising over the mountains to the east, beating a golden path towards her over the bay. But that morning the dawn was just a band of steel blue under the clouds on the horizon. A cold breeze clipped in from the sea. She looked forward to the warm comforting smell of bread from the bakery’s ovens.

When she had first been fired from Ódinsbanki, she had spent a couple of months in shock, cocooned in her house with her son. But eventually she realized she would have to get a job. She considered the bakery that she stopped in every day on her way to work. They liked her, she was sure they would be bound to hire her, but she could do better, she thought.

Well, it turned out that she couldn’t. So after a couple of months of fruitless search she presented herself to Dísa, the woman who ran the bakery. Dísa was kind but firm. There were no vacancies. It was only then that the truth hit Harpa. In the kreppa there were no jobs for someone like Harpa. None.

She tried everywhere; it was only at the end of June that Dísa eventually called her and said that a vacancy was opening up and Harpa could work for them. It was a good job: the people were friendly and it provided some flexibility for her to spend time with Markús. Her parents looked after their grandson in the early morning, and took him to the nursery. And she earned some money.

Not nearly enough to make the mortgage payments though.

She thought again about Óskar’s death. And Gabríel Örn. The familiar anxiety wriggled in her stomach. She stopped. Faced the breeze coming in from the sea. Took some deep breaths. And wept.

Björn. She needed to see Björn. He was always up early, looking for work on a fishing boat. She pulled out her phone and dialled his number.

He answered quickly. ‘Hi, Harpa, how are you?’

‘Not good.’ She could hear the sound of engines and waves in the background. Sometimes he could get reception on his mobile when he was out at sea. ‘Are you fishing?’

‘Just on our way out. What’s up?’

‘Did you see the news. About Óskar Gunnarsson?’

‘The banker? Yes. Did you know him?’

‘A bit.’

‘Wasn’t he one of the bastards who fired you?’

‘I suppose so, yes. But…’

‘But what?’

Harpa gulped. ‘But it just brings the whole Gabríel Örn thing back.’

‘Yeah.’ Björn’s voice was sympathetic. ‘Yeah. I can see that.’

‘Björn? I hate to ask you this, but can you come down to Reykjavík?’

‘That’s going to be a bit difficult. We’ll be back in harbour tonight, but I’m going out again for a couple of days tomorrow afternoon. Maybe on Sunday?’

‘Any chance you could come late tonight? I really need to see you.’ It was two and a half hours from Grundarfjördur, although Björn could do it considerably faster on his motorbike. Seltjarnarnes was still a long drive after a full day’s fishing.

‘Yes,’ Björn said. ‘Yes. I’ll be there. Late. But I’ll be there.’

‘Thank you, Björn.’ She could feel the tears coming again. ‘I really need you. You are the only one I can speak to about this.’

‘Hey, Harpa, I understand. Believe me, I understand. I’ll see you tonight. I’ll give you a call when I’m on my way.’

‘I love you,’ said Harpa.

‘I love you too.’