by Justin Go
I take The Icelandic Sagas from my bag and page to the introduction.
The world of the Icelandic Sagas is complex and multi-layered, with the same agents alternately acting as forces for good or evil. The writing style tends towards the terse and impersonal, with little explanation of why events occur. Things happen; fate is rarely questioned. Personalities are shown through action, seldom through analysis. Relationships between individuals are complex, defined by friendship, blood, marriage, and immediate geography.
Certain themes define the Sagas, particularly the contending forces of character, honor, and luck. These devices compete to determine the outcome of the story. Characters must often and at great disadvantage overcome fantastic enemies. Life is short and uncertain; men’s worth is determined by glory in arms. Any slight to one’s honor or that of one’s family must be avenged, whether by blood or money. Men are easily goaded to fatal violence over a perceived insult.
The supernatural plays a major role as well. Oneiric elements are often featured, frequently in the guise of prophetic dreams. The concept of luck is simple, particularly as portrayed in Njál’s Saga: one is born with a certain store of luck. When that luck runs out, one is doomed.
However subtly it may be posed, a critical question faces the protagonists of the Sagas. Do they have the character to surmount their difficulties, or do they succumb to the vices of avarice, jealousy, pride or cowardice?
The bus approaches the end of the route, the remaining passengers exiting at the final stops until I’m alone. The driver eyes me through his rearview mirror. The bus makes a series of sharp turns and halts in a parking lot. All the doors swing open.
I walk off in the direction where I hope to find the ring road, the main highway that circles the whole island, running along the north coast to the Eastfjords and curving back along the south. I take out my free tourist map of Reykjavík and examine the city’s northern periphery, orienting the sheet with my antique compass. The part of the ring road I’m trying to reach is covered by an ad for glacier tours of Vatnajökull.
—You couldn’t even call this hopeless, I whisper.
I fold up the map and search for the highway by instinct. An hour of wandering brings me to a long entrance ramp; I choose a spot at the base where I’m visible for some distance and there’s a wide shoulder to pull over. I stand up straight and extend my thumb, thinking of my haggard appearance: an army-surplus parka, worn brown pants and muddy sneakers, an enormous backpack. I’ve never hitchhiked before.
The cars speed by at forty miles an hour, punching gusts of wind at me. I don’t look at the faces of the drivers. A sedan passes and its brake lights go red. I swing my bag over my shoulder and sprint up the road.
The first man who picks me up is tall and gangly, his cropped hair graying at the edges. He says he is a troubadour, a traditional entertainer in Icelandic song, and he bellows a few bars as proof of this. His voice is deep and impressive.
—Do you believe me now?
—I do.
The troubadour repairs credit card readers on gas station pumps throughout the country. He is from the Vestmannaeyjar, an archipelago off the southern coast.
We drive through green and rolling hills. The road twists and climbs to higher ground where the moss and dirt have been dusted in soft new snow. There are few other cars.
—The first snow of the year, he murmurs.
The troubadour sings folk songs to pass the time, his huge hands gripping the steering wheel. He tells me the grim tale of a serial killer who picked up hitchhikers.
—Maybe you’re the killer, he says, winking at me. But maybe I am.
We stop at a service station straddling the junction of two roads. The troubadour is going the other way. We go into the convenience store and he offers to buy me a hot dog three times before he accepts that I don’t want one. His generosity makes me embarrassed about how sorry I’ve been feeling for myself. He asks the man behind the counter for a piece of paper and writes down his phone number. He slides the paper toward me, patting a huge hand on my back.
—You should be able to get another ride here. Call me if you get into trouble.
The town of Akureyri lies on the north coast of Iceland about halfway between Reykjavík and the Eastfjords. I get there after nightfall, riding in a young woman’s station wagon along a narrow inlet of dark water, the dim lights of the town reflected below. The woman drops me off at the youth hostel. I’d like to keep going, but I doubt anyone picks up hitchhikers at night.
Akureyri has six thousand inhabitants and feels even smaller than that. The bearded clerk at the youth hostel sits behind the counter turning the knob on an ancient color television. I put my passport on the counter and ask for a hostel bed.
—Took the bus up here?
—I hitchhiked.
The clerk raises his eyebrows, tossing a room key on the counter.
—You’re the only one here.
I ask if I can make a collect call. The clerk passes an old rotary phone across the desk. He interrupts his television viewing to stare at me as I ask the operator if I can be connected to England. The secretary at Twyning and Hooper recognizes my voice at once. I’m transferred to Prichard.
—The elusive Mr. Campbell, Prichard says. You’re quite the enigma here. Even Geoffrey can’t explain what you’re doing in Iceland.
—She was here. I know she was here.
—If you’ll excuse me, Prichard sighs, you don’t know that for certain. This brooch of yours proves nothing. Have you found any other evidence?
—Nothing watertight—
—Mr. Campbell, you’ve only two days left. And I cannot see how this brooch, or anything in Iceland for that matter, will lead to evidence that connects you to Ms. Soames-Andersson.
—It’s all part of the same problem. And it’s all I’ve got to follow.
—No doubt it is, but you won’t solve all this by Thursday. In view of that, we’ve prepared certain arrangements. You recall that I’m forbidden to give details of the Walsingham trust except as necessary. But I can reveal to you now that the standard of evidence required for distribution of the estate is more—flexible, shall we say, than you may believe. In short, we may be able to get somewhere with what you’ve already found.
—I thought none of my evidence was usable.
—It wouldn’t pass muster in court. But the Walsingham fortune is governed by a trust, not a will. It was set up in what we call a ‘half-secret trust.’ Because a will is essentially a matter of public record, these half-secret trusts were fairly common in Mr. Walsingham’s day. A man who wished to leave money to a mistress or illegitimate children would direct in his will that the money be given to a trustee, who would then distribute the estate in accordance with a secret trust, be it oral or written. In this case, Mr. Walsingham bequeathed most of his assets to Twyning as trustee, with instructions for the estate to be distributed according to a secret trust document. That was the document that mentioned Ms. Soames-Andersson. It was out of the question that she be put in the will. We call it half-secret because everyone knows there is a trust, but no one knows what the trust says.
—I don’t understand.
—What this means for you is quite simple. The admissibility of evidence is determined by the trustees, not a probate court. And I’ve spoken with the other trustees—
—Who are they? How could they still be alive?
—I’m afraid I can’t tell you who they are. But I can say that the trust document allows for the selection of successors, just as I was successor to Peter Twyning. The point is that provided you return to London tomorrow, the trustees have agreed to evaluate the evidence you’ve gathered and make a decision from there.
—All the evidence that you said wasn’t good enough. Now you’re saying it is?
—What I’m saying, Prichard corrects, is that certain allowances might be made.
My voice rises. —Then why didn’t you say that at the beginning? This whole time you
’ve been telling me I’m doing everything wrong. But you were the one who told me to follow Eleanor’s letter. Well this is where it led me. For two months you’ve been saying I’m off track, then suddenly—
—Mr. Campbell, Prichard interrupts, I told you all I was permitted to reveal at the time. As for the standard of evidence, I never represented that any specific standard existed. I only encouraged you to seek evidence the trustees might find persuasive. You never found it. The fact that the trustees are prepared to consider your case has more to do with the calendar than any particular evidence you’ve gathered. They’re simply reluctant to pass on the estate so long as a potential heir exists. They’re being charitable, and I think you ought to be grateful.
Prichard takes a breath. His voice softens.
—What is far more relevant is what I say to you now. You must return to London. We can arrange your travel and schedule a meeting. I can’t promise any result. But I can promise that if you’re still out in Iceland on Thursday, the estate will pass on and you’ll never see a penny.
There is a long silence. Across the counter the hostel clerk turns the knob on the television. I run my hand across my face, speaking almost in a whisper.
—I don’t care.
—Pardon?
—I don’t care about the money.
—You don’t care, Prichard repeats slowly. Are you sure of that? Have you any idea how you’ll feel in ten years, or in forty? Frankly, I don’t know that you’re mature enough to make such a decision. I don’t mean to patronize you, Mr. Campbell. But you’re twenty-three years old and you wish to throw away—
—What does it matter to you who gets the money? You’re just the lawyer.
—I daresay it does matter. It’s not a question of money. Look at the facts.
Prichard exhales sharply. His voice is getting louder.
—Fact one. Ashley Walsingham died alone on Mount Everest at the age of twenty-nine. Fact two. Mr. Walsingham left nearly his whole fortune to Ms. Soames-Andersson, a woman he hadn’t seen in seven years. Fact three. Ms. Soames-Andersson never collected the estate. Fact four. Your grandmother never collected the estate, nor did your own mother. Fact five. This law firm learned of a letter connecting you to Ms. Soames-Andersson less than three months before the eighty-year trust expires. What does all this mean to you?
—It’s crazy. It doesn’t mean anything.
—You’re wrong, Mr. Campbell. It means everything. Do you imagine I’m not troubled by the improbabilities of all this? Of course I am, and Geoffrey is, and anyone who ever touched the Walsingham case. But that’s precisely why it matters. Perhaps I’ve grown deranged in my old age, but the meaning is clear enough to me—
—It’s just random. It’s chaos.
—It is not, Prichard counters. All these signs point to you. The more I’ve learned, the more certain I’ve become. Perhaps it’s too much to say that Ashley Walsingham died for the money, or that it kept him and Ms. Soames-Andersson apart, or that it hurt your grandmother or your mother. But it seems to me they all suffered something, and only you stand to gain from it. Sentimental old fool that I am, I can’t bear to see you throw it away simply to satisfy some mad theory at the extremity of Europe. It isn’t fair to you. And it certainly isn’t fair to them.
I shake my head, winding the telephone cord around my fingers.
—I can’t turn back. I’m getting close—
—You may be close to something, Prichard says. But I doubt it’s what you think it is.
No one speaks. Finally Prichard says that Khan will expect to hear from me by tomorrow morning at the latest. I give the phone back to the clerk.
—How far is it to the Eastfjords from here?
—The Eastfjords? Why do you want to go there?
—To go swimming.
The clerk doesn’t smile.
—Two hundred and sixty kilometers to Egilsstaðir.
Night falls as I cook dinner in the hostel kitchen, boiling spaghetti with my scarf doubled around my neck to keep warm. I eat alone at the dining table, twirling the pasta onto a fork and looking out the window into the darkness.
Does Prichard know everything, even the things I haven’t found out yet? Could he have designed it all? Because I don’t know anyone else with the means to have faked all this, even if I can’t imagine a reason why Prichard would do it. Who else would have been a part of the deception—Mireille, Desmarais, Karin, everyone I’ve met in Europe? Did Ashley and Imogen ever exist? Surely it is beyond all notions of luck to have found those letters. Or is the past always there, only waiting for the person who truly wants to find it?
I have to decide tonight. Akureyri has a small airport and if the law firm paid for my travel I could get a flight to Reykjavík and then on to London. Otherwise I could continue east tomorrow and reach the Eastfjords within a few hours. But even if I found more evidence, by then it would be too late to reach London before the estate passes on.
I grab my coat and camera and walk into the town center, following sidewalks among shuttered businesses. I think of the small towns in Picardie, how the shops and cafés were closed but Mireille would describe what they looked like inside. I’d say how cold and lonely these towns were and Mireille would throw her cigarette in the gutter.
This is what you came here for. Not the lights of the boulevard Saint-Germain. This is what you wanted.
Is it?
Everyone gets Paris. But this is just for you and me.
I reach the center of Akureyri, standing in the middle of an empty road. Over the drizzling rain I catch an echo of distant music and I follow the noise to a small bar whose single window is fogged with condensation. I snap a few pictures from the sidewalk, but I don’t go in. On the way back to the hostel the lights are in the eastern sky again, swaying like a band of satin in a breeze, the blue-green now frigid with red, the forms changing faster.
My hostel room is cold and empty. The radiator’s dial is set to zero. If I cranked the plastic knob, the room would be warm in ten minutes. But I don’t turn the knob. I zip into my sleeping bag and switch on my headlamp, lying back with one of Imogen’s letters. Past the corner of the pages I can see a little starlight.
6 June 1924
Camp VI, 26,800 feet
Mount Everest, Tibet
There was neither beginning nor end to the night. The light seemed to have vanished days before. The two climbers are not outside to see the last rays of sunset; they huddle in a tiny Meade tent at Camp VI, a heap of stones laboriously stacked to make a six-foot platform on the steep mountainside. At great cost the expedition established this camp within striking distance of the summit. Two days ago the colonel and Somervell tried to climb the mountain with bottled oxygen. They came within a thousand feet of the summit. Tomorrow morning Ashley and Price make their attempt without the gas.
Price forces down a supper of orange marmalade and condensed milk, stirring the mixture in their cooking pot. Unopened tins of meat lie in the corner of the tent, but the climbers cannot stomach anything but sweets. Price spoons the orange-white mixture past his cracked lips. He passes the pot to Ashley.
—You must eat, Price wheezes.
Ashley looks at the pot, the rim crusted with treacle and condensed milk. He shakes his head.
They light the Meta stove to brew tea, but the boiling point is too low and after thirty minutes the liquid is lukewarm and faintly golden. They drink it down anyway, but before they have drained their mugs the dregs at the bottom are frozen.
The climbers speak very little. They cocoon under double eiderdowns bags and massage their hands and feet, hoping to rub some semblance of blood and feeling into their flesh. It is time to sleep.
The tent floor is sloped and jagged. Price is wedged in the lower pocket of the tent wall, pushed flush against the snowy canvas. Ashley is above him. Whenever Ashley’s body relaxes he rolls onto the lower climber, collapsing upon Price with indifferent exhaustion. Price jabs his elbow into Ashley’s back. Ashle
y moans and slowly retreats upward. The cycle continues in grim repetition.
The canvas shrieks and flails in the wind, calming slightly before rising to fever pitch. The sound is deafening, a whole screaming sky. There is a stiff thumping against the tent wall and in his half-delirium Ashley imagines that some creature pounds upon the canvas. Price leans into Ashley and yells.
—It’s ice, Price bellows. Ice blown off some cornice.
The gusts increase. Each volley is worse than the last, the snow permeating the thin flapping canvas. With every blow further powder is loosed from the roof. Ashley lowers himself deep into his sleeping bag, but its collar is frozen stiff with condensation. At times there is a lull in the wind and Ashley fantasizes that it will calm, but the squall always rises again, only gathering toward a tormenting finale.
There is a wrenching and the canvas collapses upon them. A guyline has torn loose, crumpling the tent in the wind. Price presses his body into the icy canvas, using his weight to feebly anchor the shelter. Ashley gropes for his wind suit in the darkness. He must go outside and refasten the line. The frosted tent roof is draped over his face as he feels for the opening of the gabardine jacket, stiff and dusted with snow. It takes him several minutes to pull on the jacket and trousers, Price ballasting the tent all the while. Ashley thinks the tent might be carried off the slope, but in his dim and distant mind the thought is scarcely troubling.
Grasping in the darkness, Ashley claws the ice from his boots and wedges his feet inside. He sucks his breath in horror. The boots are frozen stiff. He tugs the laces into gangly knots, then struggles to unfasten the icy canvas tapes cinching the tent’s flap. He works the ties with cramped white fingers. Finally the flap opens, a jet of snow whirling into the tent. Ashley crawls out into the maelstrom.
The mountainside is howling. The wind shrieks and punches Ashley and he does not rise from all fours, crawling across a slope of icy scree under a purple-black sky. He follows the outline of the thrashing guyline to its source. The line had been rigged to a pair of huge stones weighing hundreds of pounds. The stones have shifted. Ashley clumsily refastens the cord and doubles it back around more stones, stamping his feet as he works with numb fingers. Twice he drops the line and has to fish it from the snow by feeling alone. His toes feel pressed against blocks of ice. The simple task drags on in slow agony.