Kerstin used to work for Sigurdur. Kerstin was out in the blizzard after my grandfather’s plane crashed. Sigurdur denied any knowledge of her to my grandfather, but had had a strong reaction to the sketches in my grandfather’s journal. Sigurdur had the weight of a secret on his mind, something that he had been about to show me, something that he had been trying to point out to me…
“I don’t know if that helps you at all, Rennie.” Geir said. “But it’s all I could find.”
“It’s great, thanks,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”
“It was nothing.” There was a pause. “But there is something you can do for me.”
“Name it.”
“When you asked me about Gudrun, it brought back a lot of memories. I went into storage and looked through her notebooks—the ones the police returned when they closed the case. I didn’t delve into it then. I guess I didn’t want to think about her ending her life like that. But I was wondering… you said you read French.”
“My father is from Quebec—he’s Francophone.”
“If I get the pages to you that are in French, can you tell me what they say?”
“Probably.”
We arranged that he would email scans of the pages to me. I promised to get back to him as soon as I could.
I dropped my phone back in my pocket, turned around—and got the start of a lifetime. Brynja was standing in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest, staring at me.
“What were you saying about my afi?” she asked.
“Nothing. Jeez, do you always eavesdrop on people?”
“I wasn’t eavesdropping. Just the opposite. I was trying not to eavesdrop.”
“By standing there listening to me?”
“I was going to my room. I saw you were on the phone and I didn’t want to disturb you, so I was waiting for you to finish.”
“And while you waited, you listened in?”
“I heard you say my grandfather’s name. Who were you talking to? What did they say about him?”
“Nothing. And anyway, it’s none of your business.”
“So you were talking about him?”
I did something then that surprised even me. Something I never in a million years thought I would do. I fixed her with the same steely look that I had seen in the Major’s eyes a million times and I said the same words I had heard the Major say a million times and in the exact same tone of voice.
I said, “I’m not discussing this with you. It doesn’t concern you.”
It worked on her the same as it always worked on me.
She glowered at me. She opened her mouth to argue but then said, “Fine. I’m out of here,” which is pretty much what I always said. The lines of communication had been broken. She yelled something to her father, who appeared almost instantly at the top of the stairs.
“When will you be back?” he said in English—I think for my benefit.
“Tomorrow evening. Johanna and I planned this ages ago, before you even knew he was coming.” She shot another killer look my way.
Einar came downstairs and said something to her in Icelandic. She kissed his cheek, grabbed a massive purse that was stuffed almost to bursting and marched out of the house. A moment later I heard a car engine. Headlights streamed through the living-room window for a few seconds before arcing away.
“She’s spending the night with some girlfriends,” Einar said to me. “You don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” I said. Talk about an understatement!
“I’ve had a long day. I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.
“Sure. Is it okay if I read down here or watch some TV or something?”
“No problem. There’s satellite.”
He disappeared up the stairs.
I planned to watch TV until I got sleepy enough to turn in. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what I planned to do. But Geir’s revelation kept turning over and over in my head. Why had Sigurdur seemed so uncomfortable when my grandfather asked him about the woman he had seen out in the interior? Why didn’t Sigurdur want me to show the journal to Brynja and her father? What had he wanted to show me (or my grandfather) desperately enough that he’d dragged his tired and sick body out of bed to do it? What had he been pointing at? What was out there?
I watched half a movie—don’t ask me what it was because I can’t remember. My eyes were staring at the screen, but they weren’t really looking at it. They were replaying the interior of that turf hut. There had to be something in there. It was the only thing he could have been pointing at.
I notched the volume down. There was no sound upstairs.
I waited another ten minutes. And another ten. Then another ten.
I left the TV on and tiptoed upstairs. The door to Einar’s bedroom was closed, and there was no light showing under the door. I crept down to my room and pulled my nearly empty duffel bag out from under the bed. I felt around inside until I found what I was looking for and then I crept back out into the hall, pausing at the top of the stairs to take another look at Einar’s door. It was still closed. There was still no light showing. I was pretty sure he was asleep.
But I waited another twenty minutes, just in case.
With the TV still on, I slipped on my jacket, tiptoed outside and closed the front door softly behind me. I didn’t think Einar would get up. But if he did, if he had to use the bathroom or something, he would hear the TV and assume I was still watching it. I was betting he wouldn’t check on me. He didn’t seem the type.
I stumbled down the front steps. Being out here was like being out in ranch country. When it was dark, it was dark. There was no ambient light—no streetlights, no electronic billboards, no office lights left on in big office towers. Nothing.
Still, I waited until I was well away from the house before I turned on the small but powerful flashlight that the Major had insisted I pack, “just in case.” I kept it pointed downward so I could see the way with an absolute minimum of light.
When I reached the turf hut, I held the flashlight between my teeth and I tugged on the door. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. Then I began to search. There had to be something in here. I went to the eating bowls first and opened them one by one, looking for…well, I wasn’t sure what I was looking for.
I searched behind the farm implements. I ran my fingers carefully over the beams. All I got for my trouble was a splinter. I stood in the middle of the little shed and shone my light over every inch of it, turning bit by bit until I had examined the whole beam-and-turf ceiling and every nook and cranny of the rough rocky walls.
Nothing.
This was ridiculous. Maybe I hadn’t found anything because there was nothing to find. Maybe there was no secret either. The old man had called me David. He’d been delusional. Maybe whatever he wanted to show me was just that too—a delusion. I swung around to leave when my flashlight fell on something I hadn’t noticed before. It was on the back wall of the hut, which was made of stone. From the outside, the hut looked like a long hill. When I’d first come in, I’d been surprised by how small it was and thought that maybe whoever had built the shed had dug only so far back into the hill. But my flashlight showed that there were tiny spaces between the rocks that made up the back of the hut. I had to duck down to get a closer look. I shone the flashlight through one of the little gaps. I was thinking it was probably just stones piled up in front of earth to make a strong wall.
But it wasn’t.
I had no idea what was behind the rocks, but whatever it was, it’s wasn’t just dirt. I shone my light over the surface of all the rocks until I found a gap that was a little bigger than the others. I knelt down, put the head of the flashlight up close and pressed my face against the rock to try to see what was on the other side.
That was when I heard something behind me. A sort of swishing sound. It’s also when I remembered the first time I had opened the wooden door to get into the shed.
Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw a man’s b
oot. Einar.
I started to turn around. My mind clicked through possible explanations I could offer for what I was doing: I couldn’t sleep, I have a keen interest in Icelandic history, I always wanted to examine the inside of a turf shed…No way. The truth looked like it was going to be my best option. Then the beam of my flashlight bounced off something on the other side of the wall. What was that? I was torn between wanting to take a second look and wanting to straighten up and start talking, fast.
The decision was made for me.
The last thing I remembered was something big and hard coming right at me—and making contact, I guess, because after that, it was lights-out.
FIFTEEN
I vaguely remember being picked up. I remember loud noise, like an engine. A helicopter engine? It’s the only way I figure I could have woken up in the middle of nowhere.
Yeah, I definitely want to get even.
Also, I don’t want to die, not like this, not out in the middle of nowhere.
I stumble through the snow until I’m exhausted. I have to rest, but I’m afraid that if I do, that will be the end of me.
My knees buckle.
I peer around. My eyes hurt, but I can’t tell if that’s because of the snow and the cold or if something happened to them when I was hit. I can’t see any place to take shelter. Everywhere I look, all I see is snow. Endless stretches of it. It’s like the North Pole out here, or, at least, what I imagine the North Pole looks like. The only things missing are polar bears and Inuit. Polar bears I can live without, but I’d be pretty glad to see an Inuit hunter right about now, someone who would know how to handle himself in a blizzard. He’d probably whip out a knife and start cutting snow blocks to make an igloo—assuming his grandfather had showed him how. Me? I don’t have a clue.
Not a clue.
But maybe there is something I can do.
I pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt down over my hands and start digging in the snow. I keep going until I’ve made a nice deep hole. I crawl into it. The wind whistles over my head, but at least it isn’t whistling all over me. I can’t say I’m exactly warm because I’m not. Not even close. But at least I’m out of the wind. I huddle in that position, my arms wrapped around my knees, my head and chest down over my arms, making myself into the smallest people-sicle I can. Somehow, even though I know it’s about the most dangerous thing I can do, I fall asleep.
I don’t know how long I sleep. All I know is that the wind has died down when I wake up. It’s still snowing, and my feet are numb. That scares me more than I’ve ever been scared in my life. What if they’re frozen solid? What if I end up with frostbite? What if they have to cut my feet off? I try to wriggle my toes, but I can’t tell if they’re moving.
I feel sick deep inside and the feeling grows and mutates, like an alien pathogen, a feeling of terror, despair, hopelessness, a feeling like I want to cry, and then I do. I feel the tears sting my cheeks, probably giving them frostbite too. Where am I? How did I end up here? Why didn’t I just keep my nose out of things? I’ve practically made a career out of that the past couple of years: telling people I don’t care, acting like I really and truly don’t care, not wanting to care because what’s the point if it can all vanish, just like that. Like my mom. Like this.
I’m going to die.
I’m numb all over. I feel like my body doesn’t exist anymore, it’s just me and my brain sending waves of panic through me, telling me it’s all over, I’m finished, I might as well just go back to sleep and let it happen. That’s supposed to be the thing about freezing to death. It’s supposed to be painless. You just lie down and go to sleep and never wake up again. Maybe I could dream about Mom. Maybe I could manage, for once, to picture her the way she used to be, the way she really was, not the way she ended up. That would be nice.
Do you really see your life flash before your eyes just before you die? If that turns out to be true, she’d be there. She’d be the biggest part of it. My mom and her smile. My mom and the flowery scent of her as she sat beside me at the kitchen table and patiently explained a math problem for the hundredth time. She was always patient. Always soft-spoken. She never yelled. She never said anything mean. She never made me feel stupid when I didn’t understand something or like a failure when I messed up. She just wanted to understand—what happened and what can we do to make it better? And when she said we, she really meant it. How can I help you, Rennie? Not like teachers or principals or vice-principals who said we when they meant you and never let an opportunity to express their disappointment go by. So there we were in the car, me being a total pain, bugging her to take a side trip she didn’t want to take so that I could buy some comics I didn’t really need to impress a kid at school I didn’t really like. I’d just wanted to show him up for once. I’d driven her crazy when all she wanted to do was get home to the Major, which I never understood; he was such a hard-ass.
And she’d caved.
I’d pumped the air, like I’d scored a game-winning touchdown.
The next thing I knew, we were driving down a twisting road blasted out of the Canadian Shield and seeing Danger: Falling Rock signs every 10 kilometers or so.
And then I’d seen something I’d never be able to forget.
Lie down, Rennie. Close your eyes. Imagine. Picture her. Remember how good it was. How good she was. Especially compared to the Major.
Mr. Two Choices.
That’s all it ever comes down to with him: two choices. Black and white. Do or don’t do. Succeed or fail. He’s like a military Yoda: “There is no try.” Don’t go crying back to him that you did your best. If you’d done your best, you would have passed that test, made that team, got that job. Do or don’t do. Make your choice.
Lie down or stand up.
Stay where you are or keep moving.
Quit or keep on slogging.
And that’s when that old revenge streak of mine kicks in again. I can either let whoever did this to me win, or I can make it out alive and kick their ass.
If I fail a math test, it’s no big deal. Who cares about math?
But if I let some bully take me out on the way home—that’s a different story. Nobody takes out Rennie Charbonneau, not without a fight.
Nobody’s going to kill me either. Not without a fight.
Keep walking, kid. Keep on slogging.
I have no idea how long I keep going. My watch is gone. My phone is gone.
I have no idea what direction I’m going in.
I just keep moving one foot in front of the other until I’m ready to collapse. Then I hunker down in another snow pit and do my best to stay awake and angry. When I’m angry enough, I get up and walk some more.
Eventually it stops snowing.
I keep walking.
It starts to rain, and I shake all over.
I keep walking.
While I walk, I think about the old man and what he’d wanted to show me. I think about the turf shed and what I had seen—well, almost seen—back behind that stone wall. I think about Freyja and Baldur and Barnafoss. I think about the woman’s face sketched in my grandfather’s journal.
I keep moving, right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot—even when I feel weak-kneed and feverish. I cup my hands and drink some rainwater. I remember that a person can go longer than they think without food but that water is a necessity. I’m sure in the right place for water—surrounded by snow and ice, glaciers, rain, geysers, waterfalls. Water is the one thing the Icelanders are never going to run out of. And whatever else happens to me, I’m not going to die of thirst.
I trudge.
I rest.
I drink.
I trudge some more.
The shaking gets worse. My teeth chatter. My clothes are soaked clear through to my skin.
Then the clouds thin and it starts to get warmer. But I’m shaking uncontrollably. The word hypothermia pops into my head. If a person’s body cools too much, it can cause death.
I wish the Major was here
with me. He’d know what to do.
When was the last time I wished that?
How about never?
I picture his face when they finally give him the news. We’re sorry to inform you, Major Charbonneau, but your son is missing in Iceland and is presumed dead. We’re sending out search parties, of course, but it’s been a few days now and we’re not hopeful…
He’ll be disappointed. That goes without saying. Maybe he’ll even be upset. But there will also be a part of him that will say, Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised. If it was anyone else’s son, yes. But my son? No, I’m not surprised at all.
My knees buckle. I fall to the ground and lie there, facedown, crying, blubbering like a baby, too tired to get up, too afraid. It’s getting dark again. This time I don’t care.
SIXTEEN
I raise my hand over my face to shield it from the glare. Is this what they mean when they say you see a light at the last moment? Is this the light I’m supposed to walk toward? Is it the light that will guide me to my mother?
I struggle to a sitting position and lower my hand, squinting into the brilliant sun. Everywhere is whiteness, the way I imagined heaven to be when I was a little kid. Except it isn’t the white of clouds. It’s the white of snow.
Mostly.
I stand up. The whiteness stops in the distance and becomes black. I see something move. It looks like…
I squint.
It is. It’s a horse. All by itself.
Correction, all by itself with a couple of other horses.
I try to take a step and crumple to my hands and knees. I stay in that position, panting, until my hands begin to freeze. I force myself to get up again. I try again to take a step. My feet are so heavy that the best I can do is shuffle. I keep my eyes on those horses in the distance, tiny as raisins, and shuffle toward them. I don’t remember thinking about anything. I don’t remember feeling anything. I just stare at those sturdy little Icelandic horses and stumble toward them like my life depends on it.
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