The Fountain of Youth

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?”

“Can we just sit down and talk this out?” Heri bellowed for all to hear. “Christ! You’re all throwing threats around, using accusations to make feeble points. Do you all even know what exactly you are bitching about?”

“I don’t trust him because of his affiliations,” Johild said. “That’s my problem with him.”

Sam turned and looked at her. “I’m not associated with Nazis or their sick propaganda, Johild! Do you want to know why I’m taking pictures of the World War II ruins?” he asked, walking back to her and keeping his body language calm, just in case her family thought that he was being hostile. He stepped through the men to face her. “Because I have a friend who is a historian and she would love some portraits of these Allied stations. I also have another friend who loves to travel and explore, and he has a hard-on for religious relics. That’s why I’m taking pictures of your land.”

Sam’s dark eyebrows pulled apart as his frown disappeared, letting the cool midday light into his deep brown eyes. His long wild hair was black against the pale gray sky behind him, alive with the help of the wind as he lurched over her, waiting for her next attack. But Johild was close enough to see him — really see him. She had never been this close to him, where she could smell his cologne. Johild said nothing. Her face fell into a restful acceptance.

Behind them Sam could hear Heri sighing in relief, but for a long while none of them said anything. Uncle Gunnar, however, had more questions for the Scotsman. He was not so easily taken by a handsome pair of eyes or Scottish pheromones.

“Sam Cleave,” he said loudly in the hum of the breeze, “how were you involved with the Black Sun? I remember those Kraut swine-fuckers like it was yesterday, and any man close enough to them to have his name mentioned at the same time, needs some investigation, you see? So, since we’re all asking straight questions and giving straight answers, how about it?”

“In short, it started when I was asked to cover and record an expedition to Antarctica a few years ago, to find the infamous Ice Station Wolfenstein, mentioned in several historical accounts,” Sam briefed the old man out of sheer courtesy. To be associated with the Order of the Black Sun was not something he enjoyed. He wanted to set the record straight, if only to a bunch of farmers and fishermen.

“We were all hired to assist the famous explorer and inventor, David Purdue, in locating the elusive Nazi station that most academics and historians insisted was just a conspiracy theorist’s fabrication,” he continued. “That was the first time we got involved in the dark side of German history. Although we were almost killed by men affiliated with the arms ring Trish and I exposed, we soon became visible on the radar of the Order of the Black Sun. Regrettably, we’ve had several run-ins with them while trying to uncover Nazi relics used for nefarious purposes to inflict terror and assert dominance on the current world as we know it.”

“So you’re not in cahoots with the Black Sun? Not that you would admit it if you were,” Gunnar asked.

“Unfortunately I’m very familiar with the organization, sir. But I’m not at all connected to them as an ally,” Sam assured him. “Now it’s my turn to ask questions.”

On looking like Gunnar was about to protest, Heri gave him a chastising, but light-hearted “Tsk, tsk, tsk” and the old man was forced to let his honor swallow his objection promptly. “Alright, Scotsman. What do you want to know?”

“It’s simple,” Sam shrugged. “Why are you so vehemently opposed to my presence here on these sites — the sites of my ancestors, the Brits? What are you so threatened by? It feels as if I might discover something you’re trying to hide.”

The foreigner’s assumption was categorically accurate to them all, but the others thought it best to let the subject of the interrogator’s attention do the honors. After all, as one of the elders of the island of Suðuroy, it was only fitting that he took the stage on explaining what they all knew they were protecting.

“I don’t know how to answer that, Scotsman,” Gunnar replied. And he was quite sincere. He had no idea how to formulate the truth without spilling the secret they were keeping. To them it had not been a secret, not until someone had come prying in the early fifties. Then again, in 1969 and 1985 more came under the same wicked banner, teaching them that outsiders obsessed with their World War II remnants were pests, carrying a sickness. And all islanders knew that pests had to be exterminated.