by Zena Shapter
“People should not base-jump tall buildings,” Ari reminds me. “They do, even though it kills. This is the same. So if you and I cross today, you cannot tell anyone. If you do, I will lose my job. You still want to cross?”
“Yes.” I snap a photograph of the sign. Mum and Dad will want to see it. I turn to look Ari in the eye. “I need to get over there, see it for myself.”
“You are sure?” Ari tries one last time. “It is okay for me to risk my life. I do not want to be responsible for yours.”
“You’ve crossed this river since you were a kid, right? And none of your family ever died trying?”
“The people who die are tourists. The glacier melts at different speeds in different places, depending on the sun and season. The best place to cross changes from one minute to the next. You have to know the river to cross it.”
“Sounds like you know it well enough for me. Let’s go.”
“Okay, tough-girl.” He winds down the window for a better view. “We’ll drive some more. It will be easier to cross closer to the lake.”
“Who’s tough-girl?”
“You are.” He grins, though not for long. As he accelerates, his attention cements into a firm concentration that blocks out everything apart from the river and where best to cross it.
I’m glad because, despite everything I just said, looking at the frenetic water, at the beast of a river they call the Skepnasá, I also don’t feel like smiling anymore.
Chapter 14
Jagged grey pebbles invade the road as we drive into Jötunnsjökull’s valley, slowing our progress to a bumpy crawl. Wind still shakes the Eroder, although once deeper into the valley the air warms and, as we’re freed from the shade cast by the valley’s initial peaks, the temperature soars.
Ahead of us are two mountain ridges. The ridge on our right stops short of the riverbank, allowing plenty of room for the road. But the ridge along the opposite bank protrudes into the water. I can’t see beyond it.
Before we reach either ridge, the temperature becomes so stifling I have to take off every layer down to my lilac corset. My eyes are fixed on the view while Ari scans the surface ahead for sharp rocks—yet I sense him glimpse at me undress. In the past I’ve happily stripped down to my bikini, without hesitation, in front of dive guides I’ve only just met. That’s when I’m itching to get in the water. Ari’s attention makes me self-conscious.
“Nothing to see here,” I tell him, regretting going anywhere near that baguette. My stomach must be bloated to twice its usual size. I won’t let myself do that again.
“Only because you see it every day.”
“I…” I want to berate him further but the landscape is changing so fast it distracts me. Although the wheels of the Eroder are still scrambling over damp pebbles, grass stalks now sprout among them. Soon the stalks become clumps and the clumps multiply until, as we trundle around the corner of the roadside ridge, the valley opens up into a bushy meadow.
Dirty brown mountains with mossy olive bottoms surround this part of the valley, protecting it from the harsh winds and trapping in the heat. The road disappears under a blanket of grass where well-worn tyre tracks guide us. At the farthest end of the meadow are short stubby trees, their dwarfed yet full canopies furnished with leaves of emerald and jade. The thick smell of barbeque smoke pours through my open window and I spy a collection of wooden huts and tents hiding amid bushes, their roofs peek around the rich green foliage like children playing hide-and-seek.
“The best is to come,” Ari says. “Keep your eyes ahead.”
“Are you always this excited when you bring girls to Jötunnsjökull?”
“I’ve not yet managed to persuade one to come with me,” he says, scanning the ground ahead rather than make eye contact.
“Oh.” I feel sorry for him. “And the first time you do, it…it’s like this.”
“Yeah.” He laughs.
I laugh too, relieved he can see the funny side.
“Keep your eyes ahead now,” he says. “Or you will miss it.”
I wiggle in my seat and stare out the windscreen.
As we get closer to the riverside ridge, a white edge appears behind it. Shining like a bright white torch across the valley, the Jötunnsjökull glacier looms into view. Wedged between the valley’s two largest mountains, its top is covered in brilliant snow while its sun-sparkling ice face glistens. Its layers dim the further they stretch towards the valley floor, where a dark lake laps at its base. Huge silt-covered blocks of dark ice bob in its waters. Blocks floating too close to the river—roaring away from the lake’s far left—are immediately sucked into it.
“Mum loved this glacier,” Ari murmurs, gazing at my expression. “She would sit outside our tent, and every time she turned a page in her book, she’d look up at it with the same expression you have now. She died when I was fourteen. Dad has not been here since. I come every weekend, if I can.”
So that’s what he meant when he said he knew about loss.
“See those blocks?” he continues. “They make the Skepnasá strong, more strong in summer when there is more melting.” To our left, the Skepnasá River snakes hungrily around the side of the valley, its tempestuous banks more rugged and ravenous closer to the glacier. The ridge behind it alternates between jutting into the water and holding back, forming occasional banks of glistening grey pebbles. “And over there, is where I found Mark.”
I follow his eyes to a slim triangle of taupe land trapped between the glacier, the lake and the ridge that protrudes into the river. There doesn’t seem to be anything over there apart from an expanse of darker pebbles edged with silt. A few boulders line the lake and the river, but I can’t see anything that would make Ari risk his job to hike over there. Anna’s concerns about Ari flit into my head.
“So, um,” I try to sound casual, “what’s so special about hiking over there? I thought you said it was exceptional?”
“It is.” Ari studies my face. “Why,” he smirks innocently, “don’t you trust me?”
“Can you really trust anyone?”
“This is the lawyer in you.” He turns his attention back to scanning the river as we crawl alongside it.
“What do you mean?”
“Lawyers do not commit easy. You ask if they like spaghetti or pizza and they tell you they like both. They are afraid someone will remember if they choose and in the future will use it against them. They like to be ambiguous.”
“I’m not a lawyer anymore.”
He glances back at me. “Are you sure?”
“I’m not. I’m really not.”
“It is okay, Becky. I don’t mind. Habit is hard to change.” He peers ahead. “Ah, a little further.”
“But I’m happy to choose between pizza and spaghetti. I only became a lawyer because I hated…” It’s difficult for me to put into words. It’s lots of things.
“Because you hated…?” Ari asks.
“I…” I’m not even sure how to start explaining. I always thought it began when I was a little girl wearing my first pair of reading glasses to school—pink frames with rainbow hearts. I loved them. My ‘friends’ hid them under fresh grass clippings in the playground, giggled as I covered myself in fine green stems trying to find them. The boy wouldn’t let me play kiss-chase anymore and called me ‘four eyes’. I wished the teachers would notice and make it stop. They didn’t. When someone dared the tallest boy in class to kiss me, he was standing near the fishpond, his back to the water. Instead of offering him my cheek, I pushed him in. Of course the teachers punished me.
Emotions cloud clear thought.
Still the satisfaction of standing up for myself resonated with me, enough to influence my career path. Until, that is, I graduated from law school and discovered most lawyers were unhappy. In hindsight, I guess most of them were like Riley—they lacked the confidence
to pursue their real dreams, so either suffered their career choice in silence, or took their frustrations out on junior lawyers.
For me it was worse than being back at school. The senior lawyers made me feel bad about myself long before Riley even thought about cheating on me. In fact, that’s probably why he did. When I met him I was an eager law student, a nice smiley girl intent on protecting the underdog. Within months of starting work I was an underdog myself. My insatiable drive made me popular among clients. But my supposed colleagues just bullied me.
“Because you hated…?” Ari asks again, turning the Eroder to face the water.
“Look, I actually hated being a lawyer—I wish I’d never become one. I’m no good at confrontation…”
Ari scoffs, smirking at the same time to let me know he means it as a tease.
“I’m not! Not compared to the rest of them. My firm was full of uptight egos, all trying to prove something. It was horrible. I still hate dealing with lawyers. At least now they don’t work in my building and I don’t have to see them every day.” And I still get to stand up to unfairness and injustice—only now it’s through my articles and research. In them, I can thrive. “I have more control now.”
“Exactly.”
I’ve just proven his point. He’s probably right too. Staying in control means not needing to trust anyone, which means never again having to face the possibility of being let down. It’s my preferred discomfort.
Grinning at his win, Ari stops the car directly opposite one of the wider banks of pebbles and jumps out. The meadow graduates into a few metres of shingle before disappearing under rushing water, swirling so fast it roars like a lion warning off a rival. I climb down and hobble to the river’s edge.
“Gott,” Ari mutters to himself, inspecting the riverbed.
I can’t see anything good about it.
He dashes back to the car, presses something on the dashboard’s plasma touch-screen.
“Erode okay,” states a computerised voice.
Something clunks under the car. Ari leans down and unhooks what looks like a winch cable from under the front grill. A teethed snow anchor with a curved shaft hangs from its end. After measuring out a length of cable, he climbs onto a large flat-topped boulder jutting into the water, swings the anchor fast in a circle, then lobs it across the river. It lands with precision on the opposite bank, lodging in the sediment as water pulls at its wire.
“Get in!” Ari says.
“But,” I say, looking at the anchor, “it’s on the wrong bank. Didn’t you say you found Mark over there?” I point to the triangle of silt closer to the glacier.
“I did. But if we try to cross any closer to the lake the river will be too deep.”
“So, after we’ve crossed the river, how are we going to get over there?”
“Through that.” He points at the ridge. “Don’t worry, Becky. I said I will show you where I found your brother, and I will. Forget about control for once. Forget about facts and whatever else is in your head. I know what I am doing. Trust me, it will be okay.”
He climbs back inside the Eroder and presses more onscreen commands.
“Erode Vatn,” states a voice.
“Vatn means water” Ari explains, revving the engine and grinning. “Let’s erode it!”
As soon as I close my door he accelerates slowly forward.
At first water laps at the Eroder’s tall tyres. But, as Ari presses into the rapids, the water’s force battles against the driver’s side as if a giant troll is trying to tip us over. The wheels strain to keep their hold on the riverbed, the winch reels noisily beneath us, and I grow more and more concerned—not only for my safety.
Now I’m in the river, and can feel its lethal power striving against the Eroder, I really can’t believe Mark let himself get close enough to simply fall in. Yes, he was an adventurer who loved globetrotting. Yes, he had a curiosity that drove him to places I’ve never heard of and, sure, he never shrunk from the dark wrecks we used to swim around when diving at the bottom of the ocean. But cautious exploration is entirely different from this. This is thrill-seeking madness. This isn’t Mark.
“Today is a good day.” Ari sends me a look as confident as a general with higher ground, twice the troops and fire power. “We will be okay.”
True enough the Eroder moves like a tank. Still, my nails are soon white from gripping the edges of my seat. Mark wouldn’t have let himself get this close, I’m sure of it. So how did he end up in the river? He wasn’t supposed to go hiking either.
Fact: he had conclusions to share with me, important ones—more important than the thesis he’d spent years researching.
Fact: he’d been snooping around the Litrúm-Hús and taking photographs.
Fact: I’ve been getting death threats.
I’m not sure exactly what any of this means, but it’s not good. Irrespective of the fact that Mark’s bodily injuries perfectly reflect an accidental death in this river, as soon as I get back to Höfkállur I’m going straight to the nearest police station.
If I get back.
Watching the water reach the bottom of my window, I find the right button on the passenger door’s armrest and double-check my window is shut.
“It is deep today.” Ari says. He extends the rooftop exhaust pipe. “We will be going all the way under.”
“Great,” I murmur, unsure whether I’m being sarcastic or plain terrified of the water that’s swallowing the last few millimetres of my window. Devoid of sunlight and surrounded by murky water full of silty deposits and debris, the light inside the Eroder is instantly dimmed. If we were on a dive, and the visibility was this poor, we’d be called back to the boat.
I touch the windscreen and shudder at the unkind temperature radiating through. Narrowing my eyes, I search amid the gloom, though for what I don’t know. All I can see are speed-bubbles battling against the windows, showing the force with which the river is shooting along its course. They sound like a boiling kettle and mirror my mounting irritation. How could anyone think I’d believe my brother died here, in this, by accident!
“Let there be light.” Ari says, turning on the car’s roof lamps. With the lamps angled outwards, we can now see past the bubbles into the gushing torrent beyond. “Relax.”
“When we get to the other side I will.” When I get to where Mark died, take some photographs and get back to Höfkállur. “Can we go any faster?”
“It is better to drive slow, and careful. Don’t worry, it is a long time since…” He pauses, squinting into the bleakness.
I follow his gaze to a blurred spot of condensation on my window. At first I assume he’s simply looking past the spot to search the upstream current. But as we crawl towards the other side, the blurred spot travels across my window to the back seat window behind me.
“Condensation doesn’t do that,” I say. “What is it, Ari?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s mesmerised by the blur’s growing diameter. His index finger taps the steering wheel as if impatient for something to happen. “Sometimes there is debris, or a pebble,” he mumbles. “My old car had many knocks. It is probably just a…nú helvíti!” He jabs the ‘Erode—10mm’ button on the dashboard, then drums the steering wheel until the car’s computerised voice confirms the tyres’ rubber spikes have extended.
“Erode ten millimetre okay,” says the computer.
Ari slams his foot on the accelerator.
“What? What is it?”
“It is okay.”
He doesn’t sound okay. “What is it, Ari? What’s that blur?”
“Ice. It could be ice. It happened once before, when I was a teenager.”
“What happened?” I turn to study the frozen water crystals racing towards us, the tetrametric configuration of its molecules binding them into a sturdy ball of destruction—how big? From the ease with which
it hurtles down the river, not once touching the riverbed or its banks, it must be about the size of a beach ball. “If that hits us, could it break a window?”
“Um,” Ari hesitates, as if contemplating lying. “Maybe. Já.”
“If it breaks the glass, won’t we be flooded?”
Not wanting to alarm me, he revs the engine and leans into the acceleration, willing it to hurry. The winch strains and we inch closer to the opposite riverbank, though not as fast as we need to. Ari slaps the steering wheel in frustration and grits his teeth. “Come on!”
“Ari?” I tighten my grip on the seat. He said we’d be okay. I have to get back to Höfkállur. I have to get to the police. Yet we’re still in the ice ball’s path and it’s getting bigger. It isn’t the size of a beach ball. It’s much larger, and it’s right on target. “Ari, it’s going to hit us! Ari!”
“It is okay, it is okay.” He glances over his shoulder to rate our speed. Daylight gleams above us. It looks like we’re going to make it. Until the tyres skid on uneven rubble and Ari has to change function-mode again. “Drusla!” He punches ‘Erode—20mm’ into the dashboard.
“Erode twenty millimetre okay.”
He heels the accelerator and we push up the bank. The wheels’ spikes grip the incline…but it’s too late. The ice missile strikes the corner of the rear passenger window and ricochets off. It demolishes the riverbank behind us, then zigzags off down the river. As Ari’s beloved car loses its grip, the primordial part of my brain thinks only of generating a scream so loud I bury my head into Ari’s shoulder.
Beyond my cry, from somewhere deep in the Skepnasá, a triumphal cackle shrieks through the water and into our ears.
Chapter 15
I strain to hear the sound of spurting water through cracked glass. After a while I realise there is only the fizz of the Skepnasá’s speed-bubbles against the Eroder’s outsides. I expect Ari to leap into action, urge the Eroder up the riverbank before we’re flooded. Neither happens. Ari’s hand, which cradled my head when I buried it in his shoulder, is simply stroking my hair. He murmurs something in Icelandic. Why isn’t he panicking?