Towards White

by Zena Shapter

“She does?” She didn’t tell me that.

  He chuckles. “The examinations, the Sannlitró-Völva, everything. She even believes Mark was murdered!”

  “Murdered? As in purposely killed? Are you sure?”

  “Something about a head injury?”

  “Yes. We didn’t talk murder though. She thinks someone actually hurt my brother specifically.”

  “Which is ridiculous, I know—who’d ever want to hurt someone as lovely as your brother? It’s her grief talking.”

  “And she definitely used that word: murder?”

  “Oh, I can’t remember what she said exactly, something along the lines of Mark not having any reason to go hiking. As if a tourist needs a good reason to be a tourist,” he chuckles, “or do tourist things. Our country is very beautiful, why wouldn’t he want to explore it? Probably wanted to take some pictures to show his little sister, eh my dear? I wish Anna would stop reading into things so much. We should all stop worrying, get what we can from this life, enjoy it while it lasts. If there is another life, we can always make the best of that when we get there. Life is so precious, don’t you think? We should value every second of life, every cell in our bodies, every synapse in our brain.” His mouth twitches as he pulls it into a smile. “Try not to get caught up in her silliness. Don’t be like me.” He pauses. “Don’t wait until it’s too late.”

  “Too late for what?”

  “To not get involved, caught up in things that won’t lead anywhere.” He readjusts his glasses by wrinkling his nose. “I have no choice but to help her. I’m the only family she has left in Höfkállur, and she’s my only family too. My wife left me, you see.” He mumbles, trying to sound casual. It has the opposite effect. “Took my son to live with her and her fancy man in Norway.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. My son flies to Reykjavík once a month. It’s not enough of course, but what can I do? I am to move on with things. If only Anna could also. I thought it’d be easier if I showed her the Litrúm-Hús, proved there was nothing to worry about. Still she can’t let Pàll rest. I think she’s a little…unhinged.”

  He buzzes down his window. The sound of traffic roars through it like water bursting through a dam.

  See things not there, a voice whispers. My cheeks flush with heat like I’m sitting too close to a fire.

  Mark again.

  See things not there.

  It reminds me of his notes, the ones I was reading last night under the page titled ‘proof’, where it talked about people believing in things ‘not there’ for them as long as they were visible to others. It also reminds me of the pedagogical postscript he was supposed to be writing.

  Ah, that’s right! I was supposed to ask Anna if she knew anything about it.

  I glance at Ólaf. His portly cheeks are moving as if he’s just spoken. “Um, sorry, Ólaf, did you say something?”

  “I said, she sees things that aren’t there. It can be very frustrating.” He lets his emphasis take its full effect, then follows with a revelation. “Maybe you could talk to her? She’s asked me to show you around so must trust you. You could convince her to stay out of trouble?”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  He dips his chin and speaks like he’s choosing his words carefully. “If she keeps snooping around the Litrúm-Hús, or getting other people to do it for her,” he glances sideways at me, “she’ll upset someone sooner or later.”

  “Why, who else does she have snooping around?”

  He frowns. “Mark, of course.”

  I let the idea settle. Why would Mark have been snooping around the Litrúm-Hús? Surely only for his study, and he wouldn’t have been ‘snooping’. “What was he doing?”

  “I don’t know the full extent of things. I was away working with the Sannlitró-Völva last month.”

  “You’re its technician?” I remember Anna telling me last night as we climbed her fence. Ólaf used to be a technical consultant and computer programmer before he worked at the Litrúm-Hús. He consulted on some contracts in England and Europe before helping develop the scan pods. Now he works exclusively with the Sannlitró-Völva.

  “Já. So I go away a lot,” he explains. “But, as you know, Anna refuses to leave messages on phones and simply will not trust VoiP. So she didn’t tell me much about Mark. I…I didn’t even meet him until he came to the Litrúm-Hús last week.”

  “What was he doing when you saw him?”

  “I was hoping you’d be able to tell me that. But,” he pauses, “if Anna didn’t tell you what Mark was up to, why are you going to the Litrúm-Hús?”

  “She wants me to understand more about the Heimspeki and life-after-death, because of Pàll.” And because of what I’m hearing and seeing myself. “She didn’t mention anything about any corruption.”

  Ólaf’s frown deepens. “Well, all I know is what I saw: your brother was taking photos in an examination. I thought he was trying to steal the technology.” He tuts as if the consequences of that would be more than a little negativity. “When we spoke he was lovely of course, and I knew who he was straight away because of his accent—Anna had told me about the Australian staying with her. Still, photographs are not allowed. I didn’t report him of course, I knew it would get Anna into trouble, and that’s the last thing I want.”

  “Thank you.” I pause to take in everything he’s said. “Did my brother say anything about going to the glacier?”

  “Probably. Maybe that’s why the idea doesn’t sound strange to me.” He pauses as we pull into the Litrúm-Hús car park. “Actually, yes, now that I think of it, I’m sure he said something about going with some girl. To impress her?”

  “A girl? What girl?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs and rolls his lips as if rethinking. “Maybe it wasn’t a girl. Either way he…he was very interested in Jötunnsjökull, I remember now, and Anna’s idea about the auroras. He was an inquisitive person, right?”

  A memory of Mark and me on holiday with Mum and Dad flashes into my mind, him racing ahead to be the first around the next cold, dark corridor of Manly’s old Quarantine Station complex. He always liked being first. “More inquisitive than me, if that’s possible. But…Anna said Mark didn’t have any other friends in Höfkállur?”

  “Maybe he’d just met whoever it was and they didn’t want Anna going with them?” He shrugs. “Maybe he thought Anna would get in the way of, well, you know?”

  I doubt it. “I…okay.”

  “Please Becky, you’re young, you have so much to do yet in life, don’t be like Anna. Grief goes deep. It eats away at you and leaves nothing behind. Pàll died. It’s sad. It was also an accident—no one did it on purpose. Don’t get swept up in another person’s grief when you still have your own to process.” He parks the car and mutters. “Anna was the only one to benefit from Pàll’s passing.”

  “Anna?” I frown. “How?”

  “Oh nothing, forget I said it.” He opens his door and moves towards the Litrúm-Hús steps, shaking his head as if berating himself.

  I follow, clutching my thigh to catch up with him. “Go on, how did she benefit?” I try to keep the pain out of my voice. It’s impossible—I need my thigh muscles to haul me up the steps. “Ólaf?” I wince. “I need to know everything my brother was doing here these past few months, including why he was helping Anna.”

  Ólaf glances at my thigh and slows his pace. “Anna said you hurt your leg. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Why was Mark helping Anna?”

  “You already know, Becky, but you’re not seeing it. Anna never grieved the way most people do. After Pàll died she called every official in Iceland, was obsessive about searching for information on the Internet. Now she talks about dancing spirits and angels’ wings. She only dates Jón to find out if he’s somehow protecting the identity of the driver who killed Pàll.”
He shakes his head in disappointment. “Her guilt is driving her crazy. Pàll and her were struggling for money, his life insurance helped a lot. Did you know they argued that night? Pàll was supposedly walking off his temper when ‘the car’ hit him.”

  “Oh.”

  “Like I said, grief can eat away at you, so can guilt. I expect Mark was trying to do the same as me—prove there was nothing wrong with the Litrúm-Hús so she can get on with her life. It’s possible, yes?”

  “Anything is possible.”

  “Sometimes Anna says she wants to die too,” he continues, lowering his voice as we near the top of the steps. “Says life’s only worth living if you have love and when Pàll died all her love left with him. She says Pàll and her believed they’d be together ‘until the end’, whatever that means. You can’t feel that strongly about one person, then sleep with another—certainly not someone you’ve only known a few months! She’s not well. She believes the things she does with all her heart, but they’re simply not real. They’re only real to her. Grief does that to people.”

  “It does,” I mumble, rubbing at my ears. I’m beginning to see his point. “Maybe she needs professional help?” Maybe I do too?

  “Of course she does. But I’m her best friend, her only family—if I suggest it she’ll feel betrayed. And I couldn’t bear to see that beautiful face of hers upset with me. Why did she ever let that man near her, Becky?” He means Jón. “Why are women so blind to the faults of such men, and equally blind to what other men can offer—men they’ve known a lot longer than a few months?”

  “I wish I knew, Ólaf, I really do.”

  “Please help her. She liked your brother. She likes you. There’s every chance she’ll listen. She shouldn’t be with Jón. He’s not the man for her.”

  “I think I understand, Ólaf.” He’s in love with her. “I’ll do what I can.” Not that he has much of a chance at winning Anna’s heart in that way, I don’t think.

  “Thank you.” He gazes at me as if I’m his only hope, mouth twitching as he tries to smile. “After you,” he says when we reach the top step, gesturing towards a scan pod. He must pass through his pod quicker, though, because when I emerge from the other side he’s already speaking with a security guard. As they talk, Ólaf rubs his bald patch and tuts under his breath.

  I can’t understand what they’re saying, but am certain I hear the name Úlfar Finnsson.

  “We have to be quick,” Ólaf says as I approach. “Jón isn’t working today, he’s called in sick.”

  “Anna said he had a migraine last night.”

  “A migraine?” he grunts. “Well, thanks to him I’m in charge of the Litrúm Map Monitoring staff today, which is not good.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m the Sannlitró-Völva’s senior technician, my dear, so it falls to me if Jón’s not here.”

  “I meant, why isn’t it good?”

  “Because now I won’t have much time to show you the Sannlitró-Völva after this morning’s examination, not if I have to make sure everything’s in order before Director Úlfar arrives.” He starts walking.

  “Úlfar’s coming here, to Höfkállur?”

  “Lunchtime.” He dips his chin.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. He usually comes when he’s doing a review, but he did his quarterly review of the Litrúm-Hús last month. He’d better not be doing a review. If Jón’s sick, I will end up showing him around. Ugh, it’s going to be a busy day, Becky, and I do not like surprises.”

  “Neither do I, Ólaf,” I mutter, wondering why Director Úlfar hasn’t told me he’s coming here. “Neither do I.”

  Chapter 12

  Litrúm Dómstóll number nine is unlike any courtroom I’ve ever seen. Its asparagus carpets, bare pastel cream walls, and simple pinewood furniture differ starkly from London’s Royal Courts of Justice, where solid oak panelling and paintings of robed judges adorn every wall. As the Dómstóll’s administrators and the offender to be examined arrive, I notice that smartphones and portable netboards are still the norm, as I’d expect. Still, watching the administrators remote-access their microcomputers and organise their netboards makes me wonder what interest Mark could possibly have had in coming here. He’s never been interested in anything even remotely legal before.

  In front of my bench Ólaf sits at a portable workstation housing the Sannlitró-Völva, its metallic sides embossed with Heimspeki symbols. He angles it at the offender, a lanky man with thinning hair sat between us and the administrators’ top table, then taps a series of commands into its controls. After he’s recorded this examination, he’s going to tell me how the machine works.

  “I can’t tell you how it’s manufactured,” he said on our way to the Dómstólls, “but I do need to prove to you there’s nothing at the Litrúm-Hús Anna need worry about. Then maybe you can talk to her.”

  He makes one final onscreen tap before leaning back and folding his arms to wait for the machine to boot up. He bounces his head as it charges, his mouth moving silently to count the seconds it takes.

  I find myself counting too, watching for some movement in the machine’s liquid plasma screen, or in the four condensed coils of copper wire holding it. The magnetic power of those coils is reflected in the thick steel rods that connect them to a small electric generator housed in a glass box at the base of the machine. My eyes flick between the generator and the screen’s swirling mass of oil and water. The oil glints a random array of metallic rainbow colours as it glides over and through the water.

  When my counting reaches ten, a sound crackles inside the generator and something whirls. Gradually the crackling grows louder and there’s a flash. At least I think there’s a flash. My eyes glaze over as I hold them open.

  Then… Zap! My bones jump inside my skin—a slim bolt of electricity rings out and kisses the generator’s glass box before recoiling back like a scorpion’s tail. The generator’s transparent cage quivers, there’s a buzzing noise, then another thicker bolt zigzags out like a whip against the glass. And again.

  Soon a successive repetition of electric bolts finds a steady pace and the machine’s shaking and crackling dies down to drum a low hum into the corners of the Dómstóll. The inside of the box looks like a hundred spindly electric tentacles wafting in an ocean’s current. It’s so beautiful I gaze at it too long and miss seeing the swirling oil and water in the screen condense to form the outline of the offender sitting behind it. A watery background now shines in ordered light pastels while a cohesive oil silhouette of the offender’s torso glimmers with layered stripes of metallic colour. It’s incredible.

  While some colours are sucked back, others push forward, revealing the offender’s every thought and feeling to the entire room. It’s beautiful yet somehow terrifying. This machine can access the biological complexities of the human mind and reveal them in vibrant spectrums of colour.

  I put on my reading glasses and scan over the colour guide Ólaf has given me. He said that long-term emotions—deep-reaching emotions such as love, resentment, bitterness, guilt and grief—all affect the positive or negative charge of a person’s ions so fundamentally they determine the base colour of their energy. Whereas short-term superficial emotions—like comedy-inspired laughter, road rage or pre-speech nerves—merely change a person’s outer hue or tone.

  The prominent colour at the base of an offenders’ energy will therefore always be navy blue: the colour for guilt. It won’t change until that offender addresses their guilt through months of counselling, redemption, or closure.

  “If they’re happy for a moment,” Ólaf told me, “their navy base colour will develop an outer rim of canary yellow, but will stay navy at its base. If they lie, their energy will have an outer rim of electric blue, but will still be navy at its base. The colour guide is only a draft,” he added. “So if you see a colour during the examination tha
t’s not on it, use your common sense.”

  Looking at the colour guide, I see what he means. On the guide, anger and hate are crimsons while love is pastel pink and lust is deep pink. Jealously is electric green while power is royal purple. It all makes sense. For centuries, humans have drawn golden halos around holy people—on the list, truth and altruism are gold. Historically, we associated black with evil; good with white—on the list black is an absence of conscience; most shades of white indicate ethical contentment. Wisdom is deep brown. Curiosity is light brown. Greed and revenge are deep orange. Sad people often describe their mood as blue or grey—on the list, sadness is blue-grey.

  “Our bodies cannot help but reflect what we feel,” Ólaf explained. “People plod when sad, jump around when happy. When they’re nervous they feel sick, when they’re afraid they quiver. Some elderly even die from heartbreak and loneliness. Our cells and organs are acutely tuned into our subconscious, and by subconscious I mean mental activity not directly perceived by our consciousness. Memories, feelings and thoughts can all influence our behaviour without our realising it.”

  “You’ve said all that before, haven’t you?”

  “Once or twice. People use the term ‘subconscious’ in so many different contexts I like to be clear. The link between our subconscious and our bodies is extremely close, it’s no wonder our ions are directly affected by what we think and feel.”

  I try to memorise the colour guide while I wait.

  Without looking up from his laptop, an administrator eventually addresses Ólaf. “Is the machine ready?”

  I smile to myself. Höfkállur may have stopped using judges, but their administrators still have the same sense of self-importance.

  “Ég er tilbúinn,” Ólaf tells them, pushing his glasses up his nose. Ready.

  I flick my phone’s Word2Word to ‘record’. Mark’s postscript might have been about the machine, so I may want to revisit whatever’s about to happen. As the soft Icelandic tones lullabying my ears switch to the computerised staccato of my translator’s voice, the offender is asked a series of administrative questions.