With that, the little funeral was over.
Erlendur glanced up, towards Hardskafi, then sent a long look back in the direction of Bakkasel where the ruined farm lay hidden in darkness.
Then he set off on foot for the slopes of the mountain.
60
He hears the child’s voice approaching from a great distance. The traveller has gone, taking with him all the feelings he stirred up, of dread and pain and cold, leaving only this little voice and the radiance that accompanies it.
It is a sunny morning and they are walking along the river together. The air is still, the sky a cloudless blue and the sun is making him hot. Bergur, who is in front, stops, dips a hand in the water and takes a drink. He senses the cool of the river on his hot face and watches his brother kneeling on the bank. He feels oddly light at heart.
‘Are you ready?’ asks his brother, standing up.
‘Yes,’ he says.
‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m here.’
‘I know.’
Behind them the house shimmers in the heat. Ahead is the welcoming moorland, with its scent of heather. He raises his eyes to the crags at Urdarklettur and the Hraevarskörd Pass, mild now and benign in their summer guise.
Then he takes Bergur’s hand in his and together they walk along the river into the bright morning.
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Document ID: fbd-5b437b-e521-0f4a-a0b9-22be-9e14-850f95
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Document creation date: 07.09.2013
Created using: calibre 1.1.0, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Arnaldur Indridason
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Strange Shores de-9 Page 25