They waited quietly in the drizzle.
‘Of course, you wouldn’t remember me,’ Bóas said after a while.
‘Should I?’ asked Erlendur, coughing.
‘No, it would be surprising if you did,’ said Bóas. ‘After all, you weren’t yourself at the time. And it’s not as if I knew your parents – we didn’t have any contact.’
‘When was this? How do you mean I wasn’t myself?’
‘During the search,’ Bóas said. ‘When you and your brother went missing.’
‘You were there?’
‘Yes, I joined the search party. Everybody did. I hear you come out here now and then. Roam the moors like a ghost and sleep in the old croft at Bakkasel. You still believe you can find him, don’t you?’
‘No, I don’t. Is that what people are saying?’
‘Us old folks like to reminisce about the past and someone happened to mention that you still go up on the moors. And to prove it, here you are.’
He didn’t want to have to explain his behaviour to a stranger or justify how he chose to live his life. This was his childhood home and he came back for a visit every so often when he felt the urge. He did a lot of walking in the area and preferred the ruined farmhouse to a hotel. Sometimes he pitched a tent, at other times he unrolled his sleeping mat on a dry patch in the house.
‘So you remember the search?’ he said.
‘I remember them finding you,’ Bóas replied, not taking his eyes off the bait. ‘I wasn’t with them but the news spread quickly and it came as a tremendous relief. After that we were convinced we’d find your brother too.’
‘He died.’
‘So it seems.’
Erlendur was silent.
‘He was younger than you,’ prompted Bóas.
‘Yes, two years younger. He was eight.’
They sat there, the minutes ticking by, until Bóas seemed to sense a subtle alteration in their surroundings. Erlendur could not detect it, though he thought it might have been related to the behaviour of the birds. It was some time before Bóas relaxed again and offered him more of the hard mutton pâté and rye bread, and another swig of the hip flask’s poisonous brew. The fog settled over them like a white eiderdown. From time to time the piping of a bird reached their ears; otherwise all was quiet.
He couldn’t remember any member of the search party in particular. When he came to, they were hurriedly carting him down from the moor, his body rigid as a block of ice. He remembered warm milk being trickled between his lips on the way, but after that he had lost consciousness and was aware of nothing until he found himself lying tucked up in bed with the doctor leaning over him. Hearing unfamiliar voices in the house, he knew instinctively that something bad had happened but couldn’t immediately recall what. Then his memory returned. His mother hugged him tight, telling him his father was alive – he had made it home against all the odds – but they were still out looking for his brother, though they were bound to find him soon. She asked if he could help at all, by telling the search party where to look. But all he could remember was the screaming, blinding whiteness that had battered him to his knees over and over again until he couldn’t take another step.
He saw Bóas’s knuckles whiten as the fox emerged without warning from the fog and picked her way warily towards the bait. She moved closer, sniffing the air, and before he could ask Bóas if it was really necessary to kill her, the hunter had fired and the vixen crumpled to the ground. Bóas rose and went to fetch the carcass.
‘Like some coffee?’ he asked as he brought his prey into the hide. He took a Thermos from his satchel and unscrewed the two lids that served as cups. One of these he passed to Erlendur, full of steaming liquid, and asked if he took milk. Erlendur declined, saying he drank it black.
‘You have to take milk, it’s unnatural not to!’ Bóas exclaimed, rooting around in the bag, unable to find what he was looking for. ‘Blast it! I’ve only gone and forgotten the bloody stuff.’
He took a mouthful of coffee and declared it undrinkable. Then, clearly agitated, he glanced around, slapping the pockets of his coat as if he might have secreted a carton of milk in one of them. Finally his gaze was arrested by the carcass.
‘Probably pointless,’ he remarked, seizing the animal and groping under her belly for her teats, only to discover that they were empty.
4
ERLENDUR WALKED SLOWLY up to the house in Reydarfjördur and observed a woman sitting by the window, facing in his direction. One might have thought she had been waiting there all day expressly for him, though he had given no warning of his visit and was still unsure if he was doing the right thing. In the end, however, curiosity had overcome his reservations.
As they descended from the moors, Erlendur asked Bóas about a story he had heard as a child, which had stayed with him ever since. His parents and most of their neighbours had known the tale back then, and it may well have been a motivating factor behind his decision to come out to the East Fjords this autumn.
‘So you joined the police?’ Bóas said. ‘What do you do down there? Direct the traffic?’
‘I was in the road division for a while, but that was years ago,’ he answered. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard but we have something called traffic lights these days.’
Bóas smiled at the jibe. He was carrying the vixen over his shoulder and his coat was dark with her blood. He had wiped it off his hands as best he could on the wet moss. Originally, his plan had been to spend the night on the moors but the hunt had gone better than anticipated, so he reckoned they would make it back to civilisation before dark.
‘You’ve lived in this part of the world all your life, haven’t you?’ said Erlendur.
‘Never dreamt of living anywhere else,’ replied the hunter. ‘You won’t find better people in Iceland.’
‘Then you must have heard the story of the woman who set out to cross the Hraevarskörd Pass and never came back.’
‘Sounds familiar,’ said Bóas.
‘Her name was Matthildur,’ said Erlendur. ‘She made the trip alone.’
‘Oh, I know her name all right.’ Bóas stopped and looked at Erlendur. ‘What did you say you did in the police?’
‘I investigate cases.’
‘What kind?’
‘All kinds: serious crime, murder, violent incidents.’
‘The seamy side of life?’
‘If you like.’
‘And missing persons?’
‘Those too.’
‘Do you get many?’
‘Not really.’
‘Once my generation’s gone, there’ll be no one left to remember Matthildur’s story,’ said Bóas.
‘I first heard it from my parents,’ Erlendur told him. ‘My mother knew her slightly and I’ve always found it . . .’ He groped for the right word.
‘Mysterious?’ suggested Bóas.
‘Interesting,’ said Erlendur.
Bóas put down his burden, straightened his back and peered down through the gloom to the village nestling by the sea. They were nearly back at Urdarklettur; it was growing chilly and the light was fading. Bóas shouldered the fox again. Erlendur had offered to carry it but the farmer had declined, saying there was no call to muck up his clothes too.
‘Of course, you would be interested in that kind of thing,’ Bóas commented, his mind still running on missing persons. He spoke more to himself than to Erlendur and looked thoughtful for a while, then resumed his journey downhill over the screes and heathery slopes. ‘Then you’ll know the story of the British soldiers who got caught in a storm out here on the moors during the war? Members of the occupation force, stationed in Reydarfjördur.’
Erlendur said he had heard about the incident as a boy and later read up on the circumstances, but this did not prevent Bóas from rehashing the story. His question had been rhetorical; he was not about to be denied the pleasure of telling a good tale.
A group of about sixty young British servicemen had planned a hiking
expedition from Reydarfjördur to Eskifjördur via the Hraevarskörd Pass, but had got into serious difficulties on the way. The route over the pass had turned out to be too dangerous due to icy conditions, but instead of going back the way they came, they had headed further inland, along the Tungudalur Valley, then down over Eskifjördur Moor. It was late January; the weather had deteriorated drastically during the day and the skies had turned black, thwarting their original aim of reaching their destination while it was still light.
That evening the farmer from Veturhús at the head of Eskifjördur Fjord had been battling his way through the gale to his stable when he stumbled across one of the soldiers, overcome with exhaustion and cold. In spite of his weakened state, the man was able to communicate to him that there were more people in danger, and the labourers from the farm had gone out with oil lamps to search for them. Almost immediately, they found two other soldiers at the foot of the home field, and one by one their comrades had trickled down from the moor until forty-eight were safely accounted for. It transpired that torrential rain had swelled the rivers that flowed between their party and the village, blocking the route. Some of the men, who had made it across while the water was low, were now trapped on the other side, and their cries for help could be heard from the farm. Four died of exposure, but a handful of their companions made it all the way down to the village, arriving in a desperate state. When morning brought a slight improvement in the conditions, the farmer went up the Eskifjördur Valley with the corporal and recovered still more of the soldiers, some alive, others dead, including their captain. One body was found in the sea: the man was believed to have fallen into the Eskifjördur River and been washed down to the fjord. One way or another all the British turned up in the end. The disaster was discussed at great length locally, where it was generally agreed that things would have turned out much worse had it not been for the courageous and timely efforts of the Veturhús folk.
‘Plenty of people have heard of the British soldiers but not many remember Matthildur nowadays,’ said Bóas, walking ahead of Erlendur with the fox nodding over his shoulder. ‘She disappeared in the same storm. According to her husband, she was planning to hike over to Reydarfjördur on the same path as the soldiers, via the pass. It was a route she’d taken before. But when they asked the British if they’d seen her, they swore they hadn’t.’
‘Shouldn’t they have run into each other?’ asked Erlendur.
‘They were in the same area at the same time, caught up in the same storm. And they were approaching from opposite directions, so by rights they should have met. Then again they were busy fighting for their lives, so maybe they missed her. The soldiers were all accounted for in the end but no trace of Matthildur was ever found. A search party was sent out when they discovered she hadn’t arrived in Reydarfjördur. But that was later.’
‘What did her husband have to say?’
‘Just that her mother lived in Reydarfjördur and Matthildur had decided to visit her by a path she reckoned she knew. He said he’d tried to dissuade her but she’d been adamant. The way he described it, you’d have thought she was fated to go.’
‘Why didn’t he go with her?’
‘I don’t know. But he told people where she was headed before the news broke about the British soldiers. He wasn’t aware they were in the same area.’
‘Did he say she’d gone missing?’
‘No, just that she’d set out on the journey.’
‘Is that significant?’
‘Like I said, you’d have expected the soldiers to have run into her or at least seen her, though of course visibility may have been too poor. But when people asked her family in Reydarfjördur if they’d been expecting her, they had no idea she was planning a visit, either then or at any other time.’
‘Why didn’t she go by boat or car?’ asked Erlendur. ‘There was a perfectly good road between Eskifjördur and Reydarfjördur by then.’
‘She wanted to walk. Apparently she’d been talking for some time about making the trip. The British too; they were bored and the expedition was meant to liven things up during a quiet period. They didn’t have any particular business in Eskifjördur, but it’s a beautiful walk in good weather, as you’ll know. And there was nothing to suggest a storm was brewing.’
‘So she’d mentioned her plans to her husband?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did she discuss it with anyone else?’
‘I don’t know. I doubt it.’
They gazed down at the village slumbering by the peaceful fjord.
‘What do you think happened then?’ asked Erlendur.
‘Search me,’ said Bóas. ‘I haven’t the foggiest.’
After Erlendur had knocked several times and waited in vain for the woman in the window to answer, he opened the door and walked in uninvited. He didn’t know why she had failed to respond but it occurred to him that she might be incapacitated somehow. He found the door to the sitting room. The woman had not moved from her post by the window and when he greeted her, she didn’t answer, merely continued to contemplate the view.
He moved closer and said good day again, at which she turned her head and glared up at him, looking outraged.
‘I didn’t invite you in.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have rung beforehand to let you know I was coming.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I’m sorry, I’ll leave.’
The woman perching on the cushion was tiny and grey-haired; around eighty, he guessed, with piercing eyes that were now fixed sharply on him. She was holding a pair of binoculars. He thought he had gone too far; he shouldn’t have barged in like that. He had no business intruding on people’s private lives. When she didn’t answer the door he should have left her to her own devices.
‘I have no intention of selling this house,’ she announced. ‘I’ve told you people a thousand times. A thousand times. I’m not going to be packed off to a nursing home and I’m utterly opposed to these developments. You lot can just clear off back to Reykjavík and take all your rubbish with you! I want nothing to do with aluminium barons!’
He paused in the doorway. ‘But I don’t want to buy your house. I’m not involved with the smelter.’
‘Oh. Who are you then?’
‘I wanted to talk to you about your sister, Matthildur – the one who died.’
The woman studied him. She obviously hadn’t heard the name for years and couldn’t hide her astonishment that a complete stranger should have entered her house and asked about Matthildur.
‘We get no peace from Reykjavík hotshots wanting to buy everything up around here,’ she said at last. ‘I thought you were one of them.’
‘Well, I’m not.’
‘There’s no end to the strange goings-on these days.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Who did you say you were?’ she asked.
‘I’m a police officer from Reykjavík. I’m on holiday and –’
‘How do you know about my sister?’ the old woman interrupted.
‘I heard about her.’
‘How?’ she asked sharply.
‘When I was a child,’ said Erlendur, ‘and I was talking about her the other day with a fox-hunter I met on the moors. His name’s Bóas. I don’t know if you’re acquainted with him.’
‘I ought to be – I taught him when he was a lad. The naughtiest boy at the village school. But what’s Matthildur to you?’
‘As I said, I was told her story when I was young, so I asked Bóas about her and . . .’
Erlendur didn’t know how to explain his long-standing fascination with the fate of this woman who had once lived near his home but had no other connection to him. After all, he was an outsider, no relation, and only ever came out east on flying visits, years apart. Although he had grown up here until his early teens, he didn’t know any of the locals, hadn’t kept in touch with anyone or come back until he was an adult. Whether he liked it or not, his life was in Re
ykjavík now.
Yet part of him would forever belong to this place, a witness to the helplessness of the individual when confronted by the pitiless forces of nature.
‘. . . I’m interested in stories about ordeals in the wilderness,’ he finished bluntly.
5
THE WOMAN’S DEMEANOUR changed. She asked his name and he told her, saying he was just passing through, only stopping in the East Fjords for a few days. She shook his hand and introduced herself as Hrund. As he took in the view from the window, he realised that far from watching, let alone waiting for him, she had been spying on the progress of the enormous pylons that were being erected above the town to connect with the smelter further down the fjord. At her invitation, he sat down on an old sofa that creaked in protest, while she took a chair facing him, neat and, now that some kind of understanding had been established between them, inquisitive. He elaborated on his interest in accidents in the mountains, easing the conversation round to Matthildur’s disappearance in the great storm of January 1942, when the British servicemen had famously come to grief.
There had originally been four sisters, daughters of a couple who had moved to Reydarfjördur in the 1920s, fleeing a miserable living on a small croft in the northern district of Skagafjördur. Their father, who came of an East Fjords family, had taken over a relative’s smallholding, but according to Bóas he was a heavy drinker who made a mess of running the place and was killed in an accident some years after the move. His wife, left on her own with four daughters to support, had managed to turn around the fortunes of the farm with the help of her neighbours, married a local man and saw her daughters safely into adulthood. The two eldest had left, moving right across the country to Reykjavík, while Matthildur had married a fisherman from Eskifjördur, the neighbouring fjord. At the time she went missing they had been together for a couple of years but had no children. Hrund, the youngest of the sisters, had got hitched to a local and stayed on in Reydarfjördur.
‘They’re all dead, my sisters,’ Hrund said. ‘I didn’t have much contact with the two who moved to Reykjavík. It was years between their visits. We did exchange the odd letter but that was it really, though Ingunn’s son moved out here as a young man and still lives in Egilsstadir. He’s in a care home now. We’re not in touch. As for Matthildur, I have nothing but good memories of her, though I was only thirteen when she died. She was considered the prettiest sister – you know how people talk – perhaps because of what happened to her. As you can imagine, her loss was a terrible tragedy for the family.’
Strange Shores Page 2