Towards White

by Zena Shapter

  “I’m not. Doctor Emil says you must stay in bed today and rest.”

  “I want to come to the Litrúm-Hús, make my statement while everything’s fresh.”

  “Reykjavík wants to take your statement direct. Ólaf and Jón are being transported there tomorrow. Today you must rest but I thought I’d take Mark in the Eroder tomorrow for her, if his air tray fits in the back, then you can ride with us?”

  I like how Ari refers to Mark and him as ‘us’. “But why does Mark need to go to Reykjavík? He’s not evidence, is he?”

  “No!” Ari reassures me. “I am taking him to the airport for you.”

  “What about Anna’s funeral? I want to go.” Mark would want me to.

  “Her funeral won’t be for weeks, Becky. I need to search for her will, contact relatives in Canada. You need to go home. Take Mark. Be with your family. If you want, I’ll go to Anna’s funeral for you.”

  “What if no one else goes?”

  “She won’t care, Becky. She’s in heaven now.”

  Heaven. The word reminds me of something, something to do with heaven and hell. Something Anna said…

  “The auroras!” I remember. “I promised Anna I wouldn’t leave Iceland without seeing the auroras.” I tell him about the lookout she mentioned, east of town, and about her belief in the battlelights.

  “So,” Ari decides, “if you rest today I will take you to the lookout tonight. You do not need to stay for a funeral in a strange room that Anna might never have seen. I will pick you up at seven o’clock. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Gott,” he says with a sigh. He sounds tired.

  “What about you? Are you okay?”

  “I…” He clears his throat. “I regret a lot. With Ólaf.”

  “You weren’t to know.”

  “You did.”

  “Not because of anything obvious.” And someday I’ll have to figure that out. I made notes and used logic to join the dots. I also trusted my instincts, subconscious reasonings and gut feelings that told me to look for a man with something hidden, a secret relished with delusions like a cheater’s rationale. I listened to the watery ghost of my brother too. If I think about it, every culture on Earth believes in ghosts in some shape or form. I never did, until now. Still… “I should have said something sooner.”

  “Nei, I should have listened when you tried to tell me. If I had, Anna might still be alive.”

  “I could say the same. Nothing went to plan—no one did what they were supposed to do.”

  “Because you can’t control people, Becky.”

  Mark used to say the same.

  You can’t control people with notes or lists.

  “We’re lucky you realised at all,” Ari continues. “Without your notes I wouldn’t have come back to the Dómstóll when I did—you might have died also. Or Ólaf might have killed Jón and the truth with him. We might still be listening to Ólaf, believing every word, and he’d be supervising every Sannlitró-Völva in the world. Fact is: you did everything you could, you worked out who Ólaf was without even knowing him. That was my job. I should have known it was him.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Ari.” It’s not his fault. “Ólaf lied to you for years. He lied to everyone. I was simply an outsider looking at things with a fresh eye. You did your best. We all did our best,” I tell him; I tell myself. “That’s all we ever can do.”

  “Já,” he says, sighing again. “You’re right of course.”

  I am. So is he. So are Mum and Dad. I need to go home.

  So after we hang up, I text Mum and Dad to tell them Mark and I will be flying home tomorrow night. They text back, pleased. I am too. It will take Reykjavík months to prepare for the trial. Whereas I have family to be with, and a thesis to publish. I want Mark to be awarded his doctorate posthumously.

  My only problem now is that it won’t take me long to pack yet there are hours to stretch out before seven o’clock. I start organising myself anyway, taking my time. I wander downstairs, make a coffee, pick at yesterday’s breakfast leftovers Anna put in the fridge. When I go back upstairs to finish packing, I realise I kept no count of what I ate. Usually I’d panic, go back over everything and overestimate the calories. Today I’m too exhausted for panic, and it seems almost insulting to worry over something as trivial today. So I reassure myself that, as long as I’m sensible for the rest of the day, I won’t get fat. Not if I’m sensible.

  An hour or so later the doorbell rings.

  For a moment I’m tricked into believing time has vanished like a post-eruption geyser sucking at surface water—because of course it must be Ari at the door. But when I check the sky outside light blue gleams above the guesthouse; the sun shines white highlights through its crispness. It’s the middle of the day.

  I go downstairs, and open Anna’s front door to a man I really don’t want to see.

  “Góðan dag, Miss Dales.”

  “Director Úlfar. What can I do for you?”

  “I have come to check you’re okay, of course.” He grins but I don’t like it. I especially don’t like how he doesn’t wait for me to answer; just walks straight into Anna’s kitchen. After clicking on the kettle, he perches on a stool, interlaces his fingers and leans forward on the kitchen island. His creaseless white sash strains over his thickened middle. “I also want to tell you what I have decided to do.”

  “About what?” I grab two mugs and sit opposite him. “Couldn’t you have just called?”

  He chuckles, ignoring my comment. “You remember I told you Höfkállur is an experiment, já? It is not finished.”

  “Even though the Tourist Board advertises it as perfect.”

  He pulls a tedious expression. “Every country in the world promises its tourists perfection. But we do not name Höfkállur in our films, I checked. And after we learn from these minor teething problems, I want…”

  “Minor teething problems?”

  “Já. It probably doesn’t feel that way to you right now, but all new movements experience difficulties like this, until they become a systematic part of society. Think about the violence that accompanied women’s rights, equal rights, gay rights, race riots… The important thing is to keep reviewing procedures until the implementation of the Heimspeki is perfect.”

  “Will any amount of reviewing help? Some people will never be able to help themselves.” And I hate that Ólaf agrees with me in that.

  “You are right.” He gets up, places his hand on the kettle, then stops. “Some people will always think they have more to gain from acting negatively, which is why Höfkállur will re-commission a small police force.” His fingers drum the kettle’s handle. “I will provide them with LitróGuns to detect lies. That will act as a better deterrent. And we need more security. All of this will begin today.”

  It’s the way he says today that makes me catch my breath. Today is Friday.

  “I will,” Director Úlfar continues, “do everything in my power to ensure the world only sees the potential of the Sannlitró-Völva. Ordinary lie-detector machines are not reliable—they record negative results whether you lie, or your heart rate increases because you’re angry or nervous, or because you’re excited. The Sannlitró-Völva is more.” His voice rises slightly. “We must not allow the sceptics to win—they never understand until they see it,” his eyes bore into me as if I’m the exact type of sceptic, “but they must! All those hundreds of years of war over what God’s word actually is, ha! God is us and we are God. It’s time for the nonsense to end. God is now, not thousands of years ago, and his words were always ours, are ours, all of ours. The Sannlitró-Völva proves that. You agree, já?”

  I don’t know what he wants to hear. “It proves our actions and our energy are…very closely linked,” I concede. “But, as you said yourself, there are still problems to iron out. You wouldn’t want the He
imspeki to go into the world on the back of a flawed technology,” I quote Anna, “would you?”

  “Nei.” He places the boiled kettle between us on the kitchen island. “I…we have an obligation to ensure its message is delivered in the best possible light.” He locks eyes with me. “So what do you say?”

  Water bubbling in the kettle sounds like the Skepnasá. I listen, but no message accompanies the sound. “What do I say about what?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “About being a press ambassador for the Sannlitró-Völva.”

  “A press ambassador?”

  “Já,” he says as if his meaning is obvious, “like I said in Reykjavík.”

  “You never said in Reykjavík.”

  “I did. I said I wanted your help. Despite what’s happened, will you still consider it? We want to share the Sannlitró-Völva overseas. We have press ambassadors already for America, Canada, Brazil, France and Germany. You are Australian, and you work for Britain’s leading legal journal, so you could help with both countries?”

  “You never said ‘press ambassador’.”

  “Of course I did. We spoke about how you work for Dictum, remember? Every lawyer and legal decision-maker in the UK reads that journal.”

  So this is why he’s been giving me such special attention, why he’s been acting so strangely?

  He notices my scowl. “What’s wrong?”

  I shake my head, trying to remember everything he said in Reykjavík. “I, um…what’s so special about today?”

  “Today?”

  “Yes, you said you wanted me back in Reykjavík by Friday?”

  “Oh, oh, the Sannlitró-Völva’s patents were granted today. Yay!” He claps himself. “We were going to have a press conference to celebrate. Of course when Haraldur called the other night I had to cancel it.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me it was for a press conference?”

  He laughs. “The opposition period did not lapse until today, and you are a member of the press—we couldn’t risk any leaks inspiring last-minute opposition.” He scans the cupboards behind me. “Do you know where Anna keeps her coffee? Instant is okay, takk.”

  I fetch the coffee, some spoons and milk from the fridge while I think. Something still isn’t adding up. “But if you wanted me to be a press ambassador, why have me followed?”

  “I didn’t want an international enquiry! Especially at the moment. A brother and sister injured in the same week in the same place—it would not have looked good.”

  “But you’re the director of the MUR. Don’t you have an assistant who could have talked to me about all this?”

  “I, er, get a slight commission for any overseas sales of the Sannlitró-Völva—it’s no secret,” he adds, heaping coffee into our mugs. “And sharing our technology will benefit the world too…so it’s win-win.” He pours in the hot water and milk, then explains his proposal in more detail. As he talks, he begins to sound more like Mark than I care to admit. He’s as passionate about the country’s new energy theories, as hopeful for the future and for an end to the violence caused by religious differences. His words remind me I still don’t know what Mark’s postscript was about.

  “Director Úlfar,” I ask, “you mentioned God earlier, and people passionate about their religions. There seem to be plenty of people passionate about the Heimspeki, devoted to it even—almost like it’s a new religion in itself?”

  “Nei, of course it is not! It does not require you to ‘sign-up’ before you can enter heaven like other religions. There are no specific beliefs or codes you must follow. People do not even have to believe in it! It is science, a scientific equation, whether you believe in it or not, whether you use it to improve your life or not. It is simply what happens.”

  His answer gets me thinking. “That’s what people always think.” Over time, mankind has used laws, philosophies, religions, and now science in their quest to improve human nature. We’ve been certain about our theories and impressed them on each other. Yet, because mankind cannot change its inherent nature, each one of those systems has failed. “It never works.”

  In isolation.

  Mark wanted to put an end to the fighting, as does Director Úlfar. Also like Director Úlfar, Mark wanted to unite everyone under the banner of science. But if Ólaf’s actions and arguments are anything to go by science won’t succeed because there will always be those with an innate materialism so strong it blinds them to the consequences of indulging their greed, either that or a belief so embedded in their subconscious it blinds them to their ignorance, or a passion so powerful it blinds them to their own corruption. Such people will always do as they wish, with or without organised religion, law, military, science, or spirituality.

  In his thesis notes, Mark said he’d found the answer.

  ‘Energy. The numinous,’ he wrote. ‘It’s both, together. I told you anything was possible! We need both. We need to be various.’

  Various—that was his revelation.

  “No single system will ever unite mankind,” I mutter as Director Úlfar stirs his coffee.

  Human beings are so various, we need a variety of belief systems to make society work. The answer is inclusivity.

  I take a deep breath, certain now I know what Mark’s postscript was about, and why he believed it more important than the thesis itself—he no longer wanted the demise of organised religion. Sure, he wanted to reason with those overly righteous, who doesn’t? Sure, he saw the benefit in asking the world to believe in something scientifically grounded, rather than based on myth or legend. It would show evolutionary progress. But, after living in a pro-science community that based its laws, policing, politics and culture on that science, he must have realised his naivety in thinking our species would continue to thrive by maintaining only its pro-science beliefs. Science will never change mankind’s psychology, I doubt anything ever will. But, for argument’s sake, should we even want it to change—over a few generations, or at all?

  Whether it’s science, deities, spirits, visions of utopia, red hats or blue hats, whenever there’s only one belief system in a community, that community inevitably becomes fanatical about it. So maintaining a variety of belief systems is the only answer. Different people’s brains respond to the same stimuli differently—some more emotionally, some more practically. With a variety of belief systems in place, there’s at least a greater possibility that one of those systems will strike a chord with the people who just can’t help themselves, and make them strive for self-control. It’s our variety that makes us successful as a species.

  Watching Director Úlfar sip his coffee, I can almost hear Mark’s realisation in my head.

  “I should tell you,” he said when I was unconscious under the Skepnasá with him, “this is wonderful. Make sure you always wonder…”

  That’s it too!

  He wanted me to wonder, he wanted everyone to wonder. He said he wrote a whole section in this thesis about the importance of the numinous experience for mankind. He said in his notes that, whether it’s sensible for us to do so or not, there’s a part of us—an innate, natural part—that longs for every numinous experience we can find, a part that needs to wonder at the world, to not have all the answers, a part that yearns for unknown possibilities. It’s why our brains have often interpreted events creatively, rather than through rational explanation. Over time, science will probably expose all of mankind’s myths and theories, including the numinous experience.

  But should we want it to?

  My life, for one, has fizzled dimmer since I came to believe nothing waits for me after I die. I didn’t share that experience with Mark because I didn’t want his to fizzle dimmer too.

  Yes, I can see it now—the crux of his postscript. We need science, critical thinking, rationality and reason too. We also need wonderment—mystery and numina. Science and spirituality. Yin and yang.

&nbs
p; Energy. The numinous. It’s both, together.

  Like two sides of the same brain.

  I want to think more about it but, as Director Úlfar puts the milk away, he drops his next bombshell. “Oh, and I need you to come to the morgue with me, after we finish these.” He lifts up his mug. “Paperwork. And, while we’re at the hospital,” he winces, “Jón asks to see you. I think it is good idea also,” he adds.

  I stop stirring my coffee. The abrupt cessation of my spoon tink-tinking hangs in the air like the resonance of a burst balloon. The last time I saw Jón he was close to death, bloodied and unmoving. That’s how I’d prefer to remember him. He shouldn’t even have enough breath to make such a request.

  In the uncomfortable silence that follows, Director Úlfar shifts in his seat. As he moves, there’s a glint at his waistband. He has his gun with him. It taunts me. Yes, I once made a promise to myself, to value life. But that was when I lived in a different reality. Promises can be broken.

  “Okay,” I say, not caring anymore why Jón might want to see me. “We’ll go after our coffee.”

  Chapter 31

  Jón is awake when Director Úlfar leads me past an armed guard into his hospital room. Although dressed in a white hospital gown and attached to machines, Mark’s murderer is far from death. He springs to life when he sees me, grabbing his phone from a side table with the speed of an arctic hunter sensing ice cracking beneath him. He switches on its Word2Word translator and directs its speaker at me.

  “You can wait outside, Director.” The translator makes Jón’s voice sound staccato, grating, as it did that first time I heard it on the Austurleid SBS.

  “I’d prefer he stay.” I tell them both, noting Director Úlfar’s location. He’s on my left. He keeps his gun on his right-hand side. If I were to walk in front of him, my left hand would connect with the gun.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” Jón says.

  That’s okay, Jón, I want to say, thanks for helping me kill you.

  “I wanted to tell you,” he continues when I don’t reply, “in case I don’t see you again: Ólaf lied about your brother.”