by Karen Swan
‘I just love those lids, man,’ Lenny grinned, nodding at the deep turf roofs, their long grasses swaying and bending in the gentle breeze.
‘They are called torvtak,’ Anders said. ‘Turf laid over birch strips. The root system of the grasses keeps it warm and waterproof.’
‘How far up are we here?’ Bo asked nervously, beginning to turn around again, to see from where they’d come.
‘Two hundred and fifty metres.’
That was all? And it had taken them half an hour at least, to climb it.
‘Whoa!’ she said in surprise, as she looked back across the fjord. Directly opposite from where they stood was the Seven Sisters waterfall, as though it had been positioned there precisely for the enjoyment of the farmers who had lived here.
‘Jeez!’ Zac said, turning too.
‘Holy shit!’ Lenny cried.
The three of them stared, open-mouthed, at the view in complete silence. There were no words. There simply weren’t and Bo wasn’t sure there would be sufficient pictures either. Nothing could capture the majesty of this place. It was, in the truest sense, epic. To their right, Gerainger lay hidden behind the bend they had just travelled. To their left, another bend and several miles beyond it, the village of Hellesylt. It was rapidly getting dark now, and it was as though a fine black net was being cast over the sky, forcing the landscape into a negative of itself: toplighting the blue-white snow on the mountaintops, blackening the water.
‘These views are among the best I’ve ever seen – and I’m a climber, man,’ Zac said to Anders earnestly. ‘I’ve gone way higher than this and not had such a buzz.’
‘It is good,’ Anders replied in a neutral tone and Bo smiled, knowing Zac would be disappointed he hadn’t taken the bait and asked Zac about which other peaks he had climbed.
‘Hey, you guys . . .’ Lenny said, in that voice Bo knew meant he was pointing a camera at them.
Automatically, pushing her hood off, she threw her arms out wide and tossed her head back, letting her hair fly freely behind her, laughing as though giving thanks to the gods. Slowly she turned, hearing the camera clicks – this pose was always a favourite with the fans.
When she stopped, Anders was staring at her as though she was mad and she felt herself blush under his withering scrutiny; she knew it looked ridiculous to anyone who didn’t know about their following or understand about their online world. But the beast had to be fed.
She looked over at Zac. He had found a boulder in the grass and was standing on it, looking wistfully out across the fjord, making sure to give a good jaw angle. Lenny continued clicking, trying to make the most of the dramatic sky before the light gave out completely.
‘Follow me.’
Without either asking for an explanation or waiting for them, Anders began walking again, past the nearest building downhill on the slope and towards the one situated behind it, slightly higher up. Both cabins were long and rectangular with irregular blackened timbers. The small, pretty glazed windows were seemingly placed at random and didn’t sit quite square (clearly, how the facade looked hadn’t been a consideration when they were being built; symmetry mattered for naught against a Scandinavian winter). As they approached, Bo could see that both buildings were a patchwork of materials: from a distance, all she had processed were the tufty roofs and aged timbers, but up close, sections of newer, blonde wood stood out against the older, blackened wood with huge pale boulders used as foundations, the line of them curving upwards slightly, and she wondered how these ramshackle, flimsy-looking buildings had held up to one storm, much less a hundred years of winters of them.
From this downhill side, the buildings appeared to have three storeys, if the windowless stone basements were included. But following Anders around the corner of the hut to where it was nestled against the grassy bank of the mountainside, it seemed barely high enough for two floors, the tufted roof sweeping down in a catslide to her hip height, creating a sort of storm-shelter for the tiny door positioned there, out of the wind and away from the elements.
‘It’s like something from The Lord of the Rings. A little hobbit house!’ she smiled, charmed.
‘You know Tolkien took his inspiration from Norse folklore, yes?’ Anders asked her, more than a little sternly.
‘Oh yes, of course.’ The others joined them, making exactly the same comments and Bo wondered how often he had heard them from other . . . well, tourists.
He opened the door – it wasn’t locked; why would it be? – and ducking down slightly, stepped into a low-ceilinged room. It was as though the walls had been coated with honey, as the unpainted timber walls, floor and spindle furniture coalesced with two hanging paraffin lamps to create a golden glow of such warmth the tall black puffing stove in the far corner scarcely seemed required.
‘I will come back,’ he said, marching towards a door at the opposite end of the room.
They waited for the door to close again – and heard the sound of voices rise to their ear – before they started up themselves.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Zac grinned, looking both bemused and disbelieving. ‘It’s like stepping back in time a hundred years.’
He was right, Bo thought, taking in the sight in a single sweep. The room was modest and sparsely furnished – a red and white woven rug on the floor was as close to decoration as it got in here. But minimalism was the least of it – the hanging paraffin lamps were all the confirmation she needed that there was no electricity here, much less Wi-Fi; could they get mobile data here? She vaguely recalled it had been raised in one of their discussions, the tone suggesting it was a sweet oddity but now, faced with the reality . . . Zac and Lenny were going to have breakdowns; their notions of a Robinson Crusoe existence still somehow assimilated decent broadband width. And although they could charge their phones with the portable chargers, where would they then charge those? It was incredibly warm in there though – radiators weren’t required when the combination of the thick timber walls and that metal stove kept the space cosy.
She stepped further into the room, beginning to take in the details: cotton lace banners hung from metal poles in the lower halves of the windows, the cornflower-blue curtains to their side, limp but beautifully embroidered with yellow-eyed daisies. A square pine table was set alongside the window wall and draped with a spotless scalloped white cotton cloth; Bo could see that a bench was pushed under it below the window, and four chairs with gingham cushion-pads set around the remaining three sides.
There was a large dresser to the right of the door where she was standing, along the gable end, with plates and bowls set in an unbroken line along its racks. To her left was a black-painted cupboarded work bench, a butler sink and gas oven, all of which looked like they had been installed in the 1960s. A red whistling kettle sat on the hob, a pale blue enamel water pitcher on the worktop, some orange and brown patterned mugs hanging on hooks, an analogue radio; there was a hard duck-egg velvet settle to one side of the stove, a game of patience set out on a card table. A rocking chair was set in front of another window, positioned for the staggering view – for the roof of the cabin in front fell just below the eyeline here – the dandelion-embroidered cushion on it still indented from where someone had been sitting.
‘What’s this then, do you think?’ Zac asked, holding up a kitchen implement that looked like something a ninja would use.
Behind the closed door, the voices rose; the woman’s voice was impatient and although not loud, still somehow strong – a match for her terse grandson?
Suddenly the door opened and the three of them swung round to find an elderly woman slowly walking towards them. Wearing black sheepskin bootees, a calf-length black wool skirt, floral blouse and a lavender cardigan, she was stooped and absolutely tiny, leaning heavily on a walking cane as she slowly made her away across to them with a beady, enquiring gaze. Her brilliant white hair, cut close at the neck, was left longer and set in waves around the temples, giving the effect that her long hair was pinne
d up. Her hands were marled with liver-spots and the skin so translucent and paper-thin, her veins were like purple tattoos. She was the oldest person Bo had ever seen, and yet also, strangely, one of the most beautiful, with strong, still-dark eyebrows, a high forehead, a beak nose and almond-shaped eyes.
If someone had put a tiara on her and called her a duchess, Bo wouldn’t have been in the least bit surprised. What on earth was she doing in a primitive hut like this, miles from civilization with no electricity or help? What if she fell? Or there was a bad storm?
She walked up to their group in silence, openly assessing them like soldiers on parade, standing a whole foot shorter than Zac. Bo guessed she could barely be five foot tall.
‘You have been on holiday already?’ she asked Bo in accented English, stopping in front of her and scrutinizing her particularly, taking in her too blonde hair and too tanned skin.
‘We’ve just flown in from the South Pacific,’ Bo replied, feeling it would be better not to get into the specifics of their lifestyle choices. She didn’t think this woman would know much about blogging.
‘The where?’ the woman asked, sounding unimpressed.
‘Other side of the world, basically,’ Zac cut in, coming over with his famously smooth smile. ‘Hi, I’m Zac Austen.’
‘Zac Austen,’ the woman replied, the words sounding hollow in her accent. Her eyes slid back to Bo again questioningly.
‘And I’m Bo.’
‘Bo?’ the woman reiterated in the same tone. ‘Bo. And Zac. What are these names?’
‘Well, my name’s short for Zachariah and I’m a Kiwi. From New Zealand,’ Zac said, still smiling. ‘And Bo’s from England but her name’s actually Amy.’ He cast a glance at her, knowing she would be rolling her eyes. Which she was.
‘It’s on account of my hair,’ Bo explained. ‘My mother used to love curling it when I was little, whenever I went to a party, and my father used to joke it made me look like Little Bo Peep. So Bo sort of stuck.’
‘And I’m Lenny, short for Lenny,’ Lenny drawled, refusing to kowtow to the old woman but nonetheless flashing her his signature lazy smile. ‘I’m from Idaho in America. It was me who made the reservation with you.’
‘Yes. I remember that name,’ the lady nodded, looking not in the least bit charmed. ‘Well, Lenny, my grandson is very cross with me for doing business with you out of season. He has threatened to take away my iPhone.’ She arched an eyebrow ever so slightly and after a shocked pause, all three of them burst out laughing at the scenario.
‘– So you get coverage here then?’ Zac asked hopefully.
‘– You have an iPhone?’ Lenny asked in disbelief.
‘– Out of season?’ Bo queried.
They had all questioned her at the same time, and the old lady looked overwhelmed momentarily.
Anders stepped forward. ‘My grandmother rents out the farm through the summer months but only because we can get someone to stay out here with her to do the necessary chores. Clearly she is too old to do such things on her own now—’
His grandmother spoke across him suddenly, her voice a flurry of cross Norwegian.
He listened in silence and looked back at them all. ‘She is very independent, still, for her age,’ he said, looking between them and her; she nodded imperiously, satisfied. ‘But the fact remains that she should not have let out the farm at this time of year when we cannot get someone to stay here with you.’ He said the last bit looking directly at his grandmother again.
Bo looked across at Lenny. She clearly recalled his air punch when their request for the booking had finally been accepted. It was out of season but he had known – they all had – that it was perfect for the blog and so he had pushed hard, offering more money – no doubt because he knew Ridge Riders were picking up the tab. But their followers would love the rusticity, the isolation, the views and all the folksy, craftsy, self-sustainability hipster vibe. He wanted snow and marshmallow campfires and the Northern Lights – preferably all in the same shot – and this was the perfect place to supply it. It hadn’t crossed any of their minds that there might have been a very good reason for the owner pulling up the drawbridge once the weather turned, that she was an elderly lady ‘hosting’ on her own.
‘I would have told you all this and turned you away at my door,’ Anders said flatly. ‘Only it explains the brand-new skidoo my grandmother bought last month –’
Bo had to resist the urge to burst out laughing. She wasn’t just toting an iPhone, that little old lady had bought a skidoo? What next? A Porsche?
But Anders wasn’t laughing. In fact, he was looking more stern than ever.
‘– So, as she has already spent some of the money you have paid, and she cannot pay you back, you are entitled to stay here. But I hope you are well acquainted with using outhouses, water butts and making your own fires, because she will not be able to help you.’
‘Oh yeah, no worries mate,’ Zac shrugged.
‘And are you also prepared to check on my grandmother every day?’ Anders fastened them all with a hard stare. ‘I’m sure you understand—’
‘Of course,’ Bo said quickly. ‘I’ll check on her every morning before we go out, and in the evenings before we go to bed.’
‘Good. She retires early but I come up every other day anyway and she has a walkie-talkie if she needs me. Plus her iPhone.’
Bo nodded, sure he had fractionally rolled his eyes.
‘So then, the firewood is already chopped, although you will have to bring it in from the store yourselves. I suggest you do that every night before bed – it is not pleasant waking up to a cold house and having to go out to get the logs. Especially when more snow is forecast.’
‘Is it?’ Lenny asked brightly.
‘Yes. Towards the end of the week.’
‘And the Northern Lights?’
A wry look flashed through Anders’ eyes. ‘They’re hard to see when the snow clouds are overhead.’
‘Yeah, of course. Dammit,’ Lenny nodded. ‘Oh well, no worries. There’s plenty of time and this place will look killer in the snow.’
‘It is killer in the snow if you are not prepared,’ Anders said, no hint of a smile. ‘But you at least have the correct clothes.’
Lenny gave a sudden gasp. ‘Oh, shit – clothes.’
‘What?’ Bo asked.
‘Our clothes,’ he said, looking back at them, wide-eyed. ‘I left the bags in the car.’ He looked back at Anders. ‘And I left the car by the tourist centre. It said something about one-hour parking?’
‘Oh Jesus, Lenny!’ Zac cried, slapping his hand over his forehead and turning away.
Bo stared at Lenny in disbelief. ‘No way am I going back down there in the dark,’ she said hotly, her eyes falling to the windows that now framed the black outdoors. ‘It was all I could do to get up here in the first place.’
‘Well, it’s not just my fault!’ Lenny pushed back. ‘Did either of you remember? Well, did you?’
‘Lenny, I hate to point it out but it isn’t our jobs to remember that stuff,’ Zac scoffed. ‘You are paid to—’
Bo saw Anders and his grandmother watching them; they were both looking at them as though they were freaks with their too-tanned skin and hipster names and inability to remember something as basic as their actual clothes.
Anders caught her watching him and, for a second, they said nothing, as though they were both on the outside of the moment, looking in.
‘It is fine,’ he said. ‘I will bring them up in the morning. Give me your keys. I will move the car for you too. You will not be needing it here.’
He held his hand out and Lenny hesitated for a moment, deliberating as to whether or not this stranger could be trusted with them.
‘Or perhaps you do not trust me?’ Anders asked, looking almost bemused by the suggestion; it was all of the second emotion Bo had now seen him display.
‘Yeah, no, no, of course I do, man,’ Lenny said, dropping the keys in his palm. ‘It�
�s just . . . well, I thought there was a path from here back to the village?’
‘There is. Two to four hours depending on your fitness. But it is a hiking path. Not for cars. And tricky at this time of year.’ He shrugged. ‘The skidoo can get you so far but not all the way. The last bit is too steep and, anyway, at the moment there is not enough snow.’
Bo looked at his grandmother. How on earth, then, did she ever leave this place? Or didn’t she? Did her grandson bring her what she needed up here? There was categorically no way she would be able to hike from here to the water, that much was certain. She had to be in her early nineties, at least.
‘So is the skidoo available for us to use?’ Lenny asked hopefully.
Anders was quiet for a moment. ‘. . . It could be. For a price. Have you used one before?’
‘All the time, man. I told you – I’m from Idaho.’
Anders nodded. ‘Let me think about it.’
‘Come, I will show you your lodging,’ the old woman said, unhooking one of the lamps from the ceiling and walking slowly past them towards the door.
Anders said something in Norwegian again – presumably offering to take them himself, but she swatted the suggestion away without even turning round. Bo shot him a grateful look as they left him standing in the room and followed after her in a polite single file, like ducklings to their mother. But his look in return was reproachful and wary. It was clear that as far as he was concerned, they were guests who had already outstayed their welcome.
Chapter Six
Bo stood at the window, watching as Anders loped back down the sloping grass area – it was most definitely not, in any sense, a lawn – his arms swinging and his orange rubber suit catching the moonlight. He was wearing a headtorch now and she saw how the beam stayed dead ahead, no anxious glances left or right, even though the darkness enfolded him like a witch’s cape. He knew exactly where he was going, which step to place where, and in under a minute he had dropped out of sight again, en route back to the rib still bobbing on the water by the iron rungs. She didn’t want to think about how black the water must look right now.