Hell Fire

14

The walks with Shiba got shorter and shorter, and every time Eddie went to the mailbox he was worried that he might bump into Ansgar. He would always make some sarcastic remark and Eddie was painfully aware that people talked about him. The slow, fat boy who lived with his mom. Shiba went no farther than around the corner, and then she squatted on the snow to do what was expected of her. He couldn’t be bothered to pick up after her. He never did, and they gossiped about that too. He walked along the road hatching plans. He was always thinking about his dead father; in fact, he was always thinking about death, because it was such a great mystery to him. That one day all his thoughts would disappear, his body would be cold and white, and he would be buried in the ground. And that all the creepy-crawlies that lived underground would eat him. But clairvoyants can contact the dead, he thought. He decided that he would find one of those clairvoyants; he’d seen them on the television. He’d also heard stories about the dead visiting their nearest and dearest in the form of a voice or a gray light or a movement in the room. He hadn’t heard anything from his dad, which disappointed him. It was as though he’d meant nothing to him because he’d never bothered to show himself. Not even once.

“How was she?” Mass asked when he got back. She was worried about the dog.

“Not good,” Eddie replied. He was standing in the hall with his jacket on. His heavy boots were wet with snow. Mass had said he should get them waterproofed.

“I have to borrow the car,” he said with force.

Mass looked at her son, alarmed. He practically never asked for the car. He didn’t like driving; he had managed to pass his test, despite some hesitation, on the fourth attempt after fifty hours of driving lessons. And now he wanted to go out in the car, on the icy roads. Heavens above. She gave him the keys somewhat reluctantly and looked at him solemnly.

“You will take it easy now, won’t you?” she said. “Where are you going? Are you just going for a drive?”

“I’m going to the church,” Eddie declared. “Up at Haugane. I like going there.”

Mass couldn’t imagine what the point of that was, but then her son was a riddle that she only partially understood. “Don’t be too long. And only use the low gears.”

He slammed the door shut and struggled with the gate, which was heavy and creaked at the hinges. Mass had folded the side mirrors in as she always did to get more room, as the space was tight. He put the car into gear and reversed out. Before he turned onto the road, he looked at the two side mirrors. He couldn’t remember how to open them again, it was so long since he had last driven. He thought it was a button, maybe between the seats. After a bit of trial and error, he managed. He put on the left blinker and pulled out onto the road. Mass had had the snow tires put on, so he felt safe. Still he drove no faster than fifty and he was in control. It took him twenty minutes to get there. As he drove, he thought about his father, Anders, and how nice it would be if he were buried at Haugane. Then he could go to the grave every week with flowers and candles.

He parked outside the gate and sat for a while, staring out through the windshield. The church was quite small, a pretty whitewashed color with a modest spire. On the other side of the square stood a chapel with arched windows, and behind that, the parsonage with two large outbuildings and a big barn. The priest, Oscar Berg, whom he sometimes met in the store, lived in the parsonage, and was always friendly. He even remembered Shiba and always said to say hello to his mother. Eddie left the keys in the ignition. He had parked beside a Toyota, which he thought was familiar. On the wall beside the gate, he saw a green metal sign, “Commonwealth War Graves.” He went through the heavy wrought-iron gate and straight over to the ten military graves by the chapel. They were all pilots. He had often stood by their graves because there was something dramatic about their demise. He studied the white stones, each decorated with an eagle in flight and surrounded by a circle with a crown, and some words he couldn’t understand.

Per Ardua ad Astra. The pilots were British and had been killed on April 9, 1940, the start of the Nazi occupation. The oldest of them was thirty and the youngest only twenty-one, the same age as Eddie. Their planes had been shot down by the Germans. He thought about them coming here to save this little country in the far north. He walked from grave to grave, standing awhile in front of each stone, as though to honor them. I see you, he said quietly in his mind. Then he read the solemn words that were carved there.

Then he turned his back on them and went over to the church. This one had been built in 1851, but there had in fact been a church there since the Middle Ages, dedicated to Saint Hallvard and Saint Margaret. Eddie had learned that at school. He’d done all right there actually, simply because he had a good memory. He walked on to the big tree by the water spigot. The tree had stood there for a long time, but now it was dying. The dry, thick trunk was hollow and opened up to the sky. He couldn’t resist going inside; there was just enough room. He lifted his head and looked up, noticing heavy clouds that warned of more snow. As he stood there like this, musing, he heard footsteps crunching on the snow. A dark shadow appeared in front of the opening.

“Are you playing hide-and-seek, Eddie?” he heard.

Ansgar peered in at him with a mocking smile. Eddie pushed his way out, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. He didn’t know what to say and his neighbor was clearly expecting an answer.

“Do you know someone who’s buried here, Eddie?” he probed.

But Eddie didn’t. His father was buried in Copenhagen and his maternal grandparents were buried at Geirastadir Church. He went there on Christmas Eve with his mother to light candles and decorate the graves with a wreath of pine branches, baubles, and cones. In the springtime, she planted pansies and watered and weeded to keep it looking nice.

“I’ve got an old friend here,” he mumbled.

Ansgar nodded, satisfied. “I see,” he said. “Well, it’s good to have friends.”

Eddie wanted to get past him and away; he stepped down onto one of the well-trodden paths.

“How’s Shiba?” Ansgar called after him.

“Fine, thanks,” Eddie lied. He walked with long strides around to the back of the church. When he ventured out again a few minutes later, the Toyota was gone. Damn him. Sticking his nose into everything. Idiot. I’m going to kill that bastard.

The old gravestones were always the best, tall and beautifully decorated. He studied the dates of birth and death, and worked out in his head how old they’d been. There were kneeling angels on some stones and little birds on others. On one of them, it just said Martin and Helene, with no dates. The stone was shiny and black, like an arrow into heaven. Waldemar Enger, who was buried not far away, had a beautiful text. Peace be with your dust. I want something like that, Eddie thought, and walked on. He found the grave of a baby boy, only three months old. What a sad story, he thought, but I bet they had another baby. He certainly hoped so. Charles Østbye, the old priest, had a healthy juniper bush leaning over his grave.

He went back to the parking lot and stood for a long time looking at the high birch trees that edged the church and chapel. Fourteen in all. Now they only sported sharp, bare branches, but in spring they wore a delicate green. He looked at the path that led up to the church, lined by eight maple trees on each side. He sat quietly in the car for a few minutes. This is where I’m going to be buried, he thought, and fantasized again about what would be carved on his gravestone.

Yes, that was the best one yet. But who would sort out the stone? When Mass died, he would be on his own; he didn’t know another living soul. There was his aunt in Bergen, to be fair, but he never saw her. The thought of what lay ahead made him shudder.