SEA OF STONE
Michael Ridpath spent eight years as a bond trader in the City before giving up his job to write full-time. He lives in north London with his wife and three children. Visit his website at www.michaelridpath.com.
Also by Michael Ridpath
Where the Shadows Lie
66° North
Meltwater
First published in trade paperback in 2014 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.
Copyright © Michael Ridpath, 2014
The moral right of Michael Ridpath to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Trade paperback ISBN: 978 1 78239 391 7
E-book ISBN: 978 1 78239 132 6
Printed in Great Britain.
Corvus
An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd
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www.corvus-books.co.uk
for Hilma
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Gunnar of Bjarnarhöfn
Jóhannes of Hraun
CHAPTER ONE
October 1988
BLESS.
Much later, when Óli was an American with an American name, that was the one Icelandic word that he would remember. Bless. Goodbye.
Bless, Mamma.
He followed his mother out of the church by his grandparents’ farm, trying desperately not to cry. Óli was ten and he was terrified. On one side of the tiny churchyard, right next to the turf wall that enclosed it, lurked an open hole. Óli had watched the men digging it two days before, struggling with the stone and the frost-hardened earth. The pallbearers carried his mother towards the hole.
The church was far too small to hold everyone who had come, but the priest’s booming voice had easily carried out to the gathering of the sad, the respectful and the curious who stood outside. The priest had a big beard, a big ruff around his neck, a big belly and a big rich voice of authority. He told everyone what a wonderful, beautiful and good person Óli’s mamma was. Óli knew all that to be true. But he was glad the priest didn’t mention the shouting, the falling, the slurring, the throwing up.
The crowd formed around the hole in the ground, Óli right at the front. He wanted to cry; he wanted so desperately to cry. He also wanted to pee; why hadn’t he gone to the toilet before? How had he been so stupid? He had wet his sheets for the previous two nights, as he knew he would. He couldn’t pee his pants at his own mother’s funeral, could he?
He reached for his big brother’s hand. Óli was too old to hold hands, but he didn’t care and, if he did it stealthily, Afi wouldn’t notice. Magnús gripped his brother’s fingers in his own. Óli looked up at him. Magnús was two years older and fifteen centimetres taller than Óli. He was standing straight, chin out, mouth firm, eyes dry.
Afi had told them not to cry and snivel. And Óli always, always, did what Afi said. Magnús disobeyed him sometimes and got beaten for it. Óli seemed to get beaten anyway.
The pallbearers, including Óli’s three uncles, were lining up his mother above the hole. A puffy black cloud rolled away from the sun, which shot pale beams onto the damp grass. A pair of eider sped low over the gathering, a duck and a drake, swerving and squawking in surprise at encountering so many humans in such an empty land. Óli glanced up at the farm, his home, his prison for the last four years, nestled against a steep snow-capped fell and a waterfall. The tiny wooden church lay between the farm and the sea, Breidafjördur – Broad Fjord – with its countless islands. And to the east lay the lava field, a kilometre wide. The fell, the fjord and the lava were the walls to Óli’s prison.
His mother was steady now, above the hole. The priest intoned some words. Óli glanced across at his afi. To Óli his grandfather was old – he was over sixty, after all – and his hair was thin and white. But the farmer stood up straight; he was sturdy and strong, as was his face, etched by the gales flung at him over decades by the Atlantic. The corners of his mouth pointed down and his flinty blue eyes stared at Óli’s mother.
Then Afi blinked, and Óli saw a tear, or half a tear, wriggle its way through the wrinkles on his grandfather’s cheek, and slink beneath his white shirt collar.
That was it; the tears flooded from the little boy’s eyes. But Óli stood straight. He sniffed, suppressed a sob, somehow managed to restrain himself from flinging his body on to the ground, or at his mother, or into the hole, from screaming, No, no, no!
Magnús squeezed Óli’s hand. His cheeks were still dry.
They lowered the coffin. The family threw handfuls of cold damp earth on top of Óli’s mother. Magnús stepped forward, but thankfully no one thought to force Óli to move. As Magnús returned to his position, Óli reached for his brother’s hand again, damp and gritty with the soil.
Magnús stiffened. He was facing the far side of the churchyard. There a man stood alone: a tall man with a fair beard.
‘It’s Pabbi!’ Magnús whispered.
Óli felt a surge of joy. He had noticed the man earlier, but he hadn’t recognized his own father. Óli hadn’t seen him for four years, since the age of six, when his father had disappeared to America, leaving his wife to the bottle and his sons to their grandparents. But in an instant the joy was replaced by fear. Afi would be cross. Afi would be furious.
‘Come on,’ Magnús said, tugging Óli’s hand.
Óli let Magnús go. He wasn’t that dumb.
Magnús walked over to the man, their father, and hugged him. The man’s face, which had been sombre, broke into a wide grin. The man’s glance turned up from his eldest son and searched out Óli. For a moment their eyes met, and Óli felt a warm feeling seep through him.
Then he turned away. The idiot! Didn’t Pabbi know what he was doing? There was going to be big trouble. Big, big trouble.
Sure enough, there was. Afi noticed Óli’s flinching. He spotted the stranger with his grandson. The lines by the side of Afi’s mouth plunged even further downwards, and his face set into a glare of pure hatred as he strode over to man and boy.
Óli sought out his biggest
uncle, Kolbeinn, and stood behind him, watching in dread.
Afi grabbed Magnús and tore him away. He then began haranguing his son-in-law. The crowd fell silent, straining to hear, but the breeze was blowing away from them and they could make out very little. Óli thought he heard the words ‘killed my daughter’. That wasn’t right, surely? His mother had driven herself into a rock while drunk. Then he heard his own name and that of Magnús.
The man, the stranger, his father, said little. He stood firm, listening, and then shrugged and turned, hopping over the turf wall to avoid pushing his way through the crowd by the white churchyard gate.
Óli watched his father walk away, wondering when, if ever, he would see him again.
As soon as he got back to the farm at Bjarnarhöfn from school the next afternoon, Óli went out to the chickens. They were allowed the run of the farmyard, but they sheltered in an old Eimskip shipping container, around the back of the farmhouse. He liked all the chickens, but his favourite was a small black hen called Indiana. Or at least Óli called her Indiana, after Indiana Jones whom Óli had watched agog on two occasions at the cinema in Stykkishólmur. Amma thought Indiana was a stupid name for a chicken, and called the hen something else, but Óli stuck with Indiana. Óli knew and the chicken knew it was her name.
He was worried about Indiana. She hadn’t laid anything for several weeks now, and Amma had a strict rule: if a hen didn’t lay, it wasn’t worth feeding. Óli had started switching eggs around, but he knew that ploy wouldn’t last for long. His grandmother was sharp-eyed when it came to chickens, even if she didn’t seem to notice what happened to Óli and Magnús in her own house. And once she realized that Óli had been deceiving her, Indiana’s days were over.
Óli had felt lousy at school all day. Not that there was anything wrong with school; he much preferred being there to being home. The other kids occasionally teased him, but Óli could usually deflect their taunts with submissive charm. It was the anti-climax after the funeral. The knowledge that he would never see his mother again. Nor, so he believed, his father.
Afi had kept his anger under control during the reception after the funeral at the farmhouse, but once everyone had left, he yelled at Óli and Magnús, ordering them to ignore their father if he ever made an attempt to contact them. Óli had quickly agreed, but Magnús had said nothing and received a couple of hard clips around the ear as a result.
That night, in their bedroom, Magnús and Óli had talked. Since the dreadful time when they had been moved up to Bjarnarhöfn from their little white house with its blue roof in Reykjavík, Magnús had been firm in his belief that their father would come and rescue them eventually. Óli had believed him for a year, and then another year, but then he gave up. Magnús was an optimist; Óli was a realist. You couldn’t fight Afi and the life they were now living at the farm; you just had to learn to live it as painlessly as possible.
Their mother had been an intermittent visitor over those four years. They had been told that she couldn’t look after them because she was ill. After a year or so, Magnús had figured out it was because she was drunk. Then, that summer, she had finally moved up to Bjarnarhöfn to join them. The boys had been overjoyed, and for moments they did seem to have their mother back. But only moments. When their grandfather had told them, with tears in his eyes, that she had had a terrible car accident, Óli was shocked, but not surprised. It was as if he had always known something dreadful was going to happen to her. He remembered her face when he had seen her lying serene in her coffin three days before. Calm, less puffy than usual. Sober in death.
Now Óli knew he and his brother were alone.
After seeing his father at the funeral, Magnús was full of hope. He believed he had been vindicated, that their father hadn’t forgotten them after all. But Óli knew that Afi had scared him away. No one stood up to Afi. No one.
It was dusk. The sun dithered over the horizon beyond Cumberland Bay, its rays skimming off the surface of the grey fjord and throwing long shadows across the farm. Óli climbed into the shipping container and picked out an egg from one of the other hens to place under Indiana, who was sitting in her straw clucking gently to herself. He eased his hand underneath her body and, to his great surprise, his fingers touched something warm and round.
‘Yes!’ He grinned. ‘Well done, Indiana, clever girl!’ He risked a quick kiss on her crest, and dodged the resulting peck. Indiana squawked and settled herself proudly over her egg. Óli felt a surge of happiness run through him. Indiana could rely on him to look after her.
As Óli returned to the farmhouse with his basket of eggs, including the prize from Indiana, he heard the sound of a car. It was getting dark now, and he scanned the lava field in the evening gloom until he spotted two headlights and the shape of a vehicle. The approach to Bjarnarhöfn was across several kilometres of congealed lava that had been spewed over the landscape a few thousand years before. The nearest neighbouring farm, Hraun, lay on the other side of the field, and so if you saw a car, you knew it was coming to Bjarnarhöfn.
Óli waited. He didn’t recognize the car. It was a large blue estate, a Ford probably, and it pulled up right outside the farmhouse. But he did recognize the man who climbed out.
‘Hi, Óli, how are you?’ his father called to him, with a smile.
Óli took a step back and didn’t respond. But his heart was pounding with a mixture of joy and fear, and that warm feeling that had seeped through him at the funeral.
The farmhouse door flung open, and Afi stormed out. ‘Ragnar! What the hell are you doing here? I told you never to come here again!’
‘I’ve come to collect my sons,’ said Óli’s father calmly.
‘And as I told you yesterday, I forbid it,’ Afi said. ‘Now get off my land, you murdering fucker!’
‘I didn’t kill her, Hallgrímur, you know that,’ Óli’s father replied quietly. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. ‘After you refused to let me speak to my children yesterday, I went to the magistrate in Stykkishólmur. I have an injunction here compelling you to let me take them.’ He handed over the paper.
Afi grabbed it and started to read, the paper dancing in his shaking hands. Óli knew he wouldn’t be able to make out the words without his glasses.
‘Svenni gave you this! I’ll have a word with him. He’ll soon change his mind.’
‘He can’t. The law is very clear, Hallgrímur. I am their sole surviving parent. I have a legal right to take them.’
‘Bullshit! Anyway, where are you going to take them? To America?’
‘That’s right,’ said Óli’s father. ‘They are coming to live with me in Boston. There are good schools there. They are ten and twelve; I can look after them.’
‘But they are good Icelandic children. You would be making them Americans! That must be illegal.’
‘It’s not. It’s what is going to happen, Hallgrímur. Now, can I see my sons?’
Óli ran into the farmhouse to find Magnús and tell him what he had heard. He couldn’t believe it. He was going to leave Bjarnarhöfn, to live with his father.
And he was going to stop being an Icelander. He was going to become an American!
CHAPTER TWO
Sunday, 18 April 2010
‘HE’S LATE, JOE.’ Ollie looked at his watch. ‘I said eleven-thirty and it’s eleven-forty now.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Ollie’s companion said. ‘Icelanders are always late.’
Ollie looked along the cliff path to the point where the road came to an end above the small natural harbour. They had picked a good spot. The path wound through black lava from the tiny village of Hellnar to Arnarstapi a couple of kilometres away, where he and Jóhannes had parked their car.
They were waiting behind a lava pinnacle, which reared up just above an undulation in the path. From there they had an excellent view of the approach, and could see without being seen. Except perhaps by the hundreds of sea birds that yelled and squawked all around them
.
‘I said hálftólf, right?’ Ollie said. ‘You heard me. Tólf means twelve. You told me that. And you’re sure hálftólf is half past eleven, not half past twelve?’
The conversation had been difficult. Ollie had forgotten all his Icelandic, and his grandfather spoke hardly any English. But with the help of prompting from Jóhannes, Ollie had eventually made himself understood on the phone.
‘It does,’ said Jóhannes. ‘I heard you. Eleven-thirty.’
‘You figure it’s an hour to here from Bjarnarhöfn?’
‘About that,’ said Jóhannes. ‘He’ll be here, Ólafur.’
Ollie was having second thoughts. Actually, they were more like third or fourth thoughts. His grandfather might be well into his eighties, but Ollie was still afraid of him. He hadn’t seen him for over twenty years, and he couldn’t rid from his mind the image of himself as a skinny ten-year-old, and his grandfather as a strong farmer. At thirty-two, Ollie was still skinny, but he must be stronger than his grandfather by now.
Ollie glanced at his companion. Jóhannes was probably in his fifties, but he was tall with a broad chest, and a powerful, determined jaw. Plus there was a tyre iron in the carrier bag he was carrying. And they would have the advantage of height and surprise from their hiding place above the cliff path.
He heard his phone beep in his pocket. An SMS. He checked it.
‘Hallgrímur?’ Jóhannes asked.
‘No,’ said Ollie, frowning. ‘Just someone from back home.’
‘You know Snaefellsjökull is up there in that cloud?’ Jóhannes said, pointing to the north. ‘Snow Fell Glacier. We could probably see it from here on a clear day.’
There was blue sky above them, and it was clear to the south over the gleaming sea. In the distance Ollie could make out the mountains they had passed on the drive up from Reykjavík, but to the north the ridge that formed the spine of the Snaefells Peninsula was shrouded in angry grey cloud.
‘The first settler round here in Viking times was a half-man half-troll called Bárdur,’ Jóhannes went on. ‘They say when it was time to die he walked into the glacier at Snow Fell. No one found him. But since then he has guarded the glacier with his magical powers.’
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