The Things Owen Wrote

by Jessica Scott Kerrin

  She told everyone that the cake was delicious, the best she’d ever had. But Owen knew that couldn’t possibly be true. He put in too much salt, he overbaked it, and the icing turned out runny.

  Owen loves everyone’s praise, no question. He thrives on it. Still, he wonders if he sometimes coasts because no matter what he does, he can depend on his family to back him up.

  Owen looks at his prairie photographs some more. He realizes that he should have stayed outdoors longer for the photo shoot. He might have had better results if he had truly pushed himself and taken artistic risks instead of going for easy praise and moving on to the next thing to tackle.

  Now he thinks about Kevin. Kevin is not an A student. Sometimes he’s not even a B student. Kevin is passionate about one thing: skateboarding. It’s all he talks about, and he doesn’t just talk. He practices every night for hours, he goes to training camps, and his bedroom walls are covered by posters of his skateboard heroes. Owen knows that Kevin will still go watch the regional skateboarding competition even without Owen this Saturday, because he would never miss an opportunity to learn from those athletes.

  Kevin pushes himself to the limits. He makes many spectacular mistakes. But he’s not afraid of failure.

  Owen wonders what that would feel like.

  It seems like a long time later, and Owen is about to get up and knock on the mansion’s front door to look for his granddad, when Neville emerges. He crosses the street and walks toward Owen with a slight bounce in his step, as if a heavy weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

  “All set?” he says to Owen.

  “So they took back the medal?” Owen asks.

  “Not at first. But luckily I remembered to bring a copy of Gunnar’s obituary to back my claim.”

  Owen knows that an obituary is a published story about someone who has died. He keeps a copy of his grandmother’s tucked into the last book she ever gave him, which was about a boy who loved rockets.

  “Smart thinking,” Owen says, impressed that his granddad thought of bringing the obituary, just in case. “So now we’ll rent a car and head to the archive?”

  “You bet,” Neville says. “But first, I think we should grab something to eat before we find a car-rental agency.”

  Owen doesn’t argue. He’s hungry, too, he realizes.

  They walk along the path beside the pond, towing their luggage until they reach the end and enter into the downtown streets of Reykjavík. They wheel their luggage inside the first café they come to.

  It is warm and colorful. The walls are a buttery yellow with gold trim around the windows. The chairs are bright orange with black legs. The polished wood counter where they sit down is resting on bookshelves jammed with travel guides and atlases arranged by continent, and the ceiling is plastered with maps of the world from which orange lamps hang down to match the chairs. Ketchup bottles and salt and pepper shakers are grouped together and spaced regularly along the counter. Owen fiddles with the ones closest to him.

  “What is a typical Icelandic breakfast?” Neville asks the server when he comes by to take their order.

  “We’re not known for lavish breakfasts. Mostly we look for something easy and piping hot to be scarfed down before braving whatever storm, volcanic eruption, earthquake or avalanche that might be waiting on our doorstep.”

  The server says this with a smile. He is used to tourists.

  Owen’s granddad laughs.

  “I would recommend our hafragrautur, or oatmeal,” the server suggests. “It’s been a staple in the diet of Icelandic families for centuries. We serve it with a sprinkle of brown sugar and raisins and a pat of butter.”

  Owen likes oatmeal. So does his granddad. That is what they order. Owen sees skyr on the menu and he orders that, too.

  While eating, Owen’s granddad consults Gunnar’s map of Iceland, which he has pulled from his briefcase, and traces the route with his finger.

  “According to this map, Stephansson grew up on a farm on the northern coast here, where a monument has been placed. Gunnar would want us to visit it. Fortunately, the monument is close to where our archive is located.”

  “Sounds good, Pops,” Owen says, his heart skipping a beat at the mention of the archive.

  Owen’s granddad pays for breakfast with his credit card. Then they wheel their luggage to the car-rental agency, which is three blocks away. It’s still early in the morning so they are the first customers. They get served right away.

  “Velkominn. Can I help you?” the rental clerk asks in an accent that Owen is getting used to.

  Owen’s granddad explains that they will need a car for the weekend just as another customer arrives, a tall, blonde woman wearing a ponytail and large, round sunglasses. She stands to the side politely listening to their story while consulting her cell phone from time to time.

  The rental clerk begins the paperwork.

  “May I have your driver’s license, please?” she asks.

  Owen’s granddad reaches into his briefcase and roots through it. His movements get more and more frantic. Then he pats down his coat pockets. He comes up empty.

  “Did you forget it?” Owen asks.

  His granddad barely nods. He seems dumbstruck.

  Owen turns to the rental clerk.

  “I can vouch for my granddad. He has a driver’s license. That’s how we got to the airport back in Canada.”

  “I’m so sorry. We can’t rent a car without proof of a driver’s license. It’s the law.”

  “Are you sure you don’t have it, Pops?” Owen asks. “Maybe you tucked it away somewhere safe like you told me to do with the money.”

  “Help me look,” he says.

  They step aside to let the ponytail woman go ahead while Owen helps empty out everything in his granddad’s briefcase and coat pockets.

  They stop rummaging at the same time.

  They stare at each other. Owen blinks like an owl.

  No driver’s license.

  Seven

  Owen’s granddad collapses in a chair near the car rental’s front counter. He is gray and stricken. Speechless. The forgotten driver’s license leaves him staring at the polished floor while Owen stands helplessly beside him, a fist-sized lump in his throat.

  The disappointment hits Owen, too. He is not going to be able to retrieve his notebook after all.

  The emptied briefcase tumbles to the floor. Owen picks it up and places it on the chair beside his granddad, who doesn’t seem to notice.

  “At least you were able to return Gunnar’s medal,” Owen consoles him while placing a hand on his granddad’s sagging shoulder.

  His granddad says nothing. He hangs his head even lower.

  Only then does Owen realize his mistake.

  For Owen’s granddad, this trip isn’t about returning the Order of the Falcon. This trip is about proving something to Owen’s mom and dad, to the ladies from the Red Deer River Readers Book Club, and maybe especially to Owen.

  And now Owen’s granddad has failed.

  Failed terribly.

  Owen doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to say. He is numb. What is their next move? He has no idea.

  The clerk behind the counter hands car keys to the ponytail woman. She turns to study Owen and his granddad while holding the keys in her hand.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your troubles,” the ponytail woman says with an Icelandic accent, removing her sunglasses. “Where were you two headed?”

  Owen’s granddad recovers slightly and clears his throat.

  “The northern coast,” he says, “but only overnight. We have to be back in Canada on Sunday.”

  “I think you’re in luck. I’m headed to the northern coast. Perhaps you’d like to join me for the first part of my trip, and I can see if someone in my office at Akureyri will be headed to Reykjav�
�k and can drive you back in time for your flight home.”

  “Are you sure?” Neville says, brightening up considerably.

  “Absolutely. I could use the company. My name is Aris Magnúsdóttir,” she says, holding out her hand to shake. “I work for the cultural ministry here in Iceland.”

  They introduce themselves. She turns to Owen.

  “I believe I saw you at the airport this morning,” Aris says. “You were chatting with my little girl, Britta.”

  The girl with baby teeth and crooked pigtails, Owen thinks.

  “What a happy coincidence,” Neville says.

  Aris shrugs.

  “We’re a very small country. Everyone knows everyone in Iceland. Are those your bags?” she asks, pointing to their luggage.

  They nod eagerly.

  “Well, then. Let’s be on our way.”

  It is not long before they are on the highway, making their way up the coast, the endless gray ocean always appearing on their left-hand side. They learn that Aris is meeting with various councils who want to improve their villages so that they can attract more tourists to their area. And Aris knows plenty about Iceland, which she is happy to share.

  Aris tells them that Iceland is made up of only 320,000 people and that 200,000 of them live in the capital city of Reykjavík. She tells them that Reykjavík is the northernmost capital in the world. She says that Reykjavík means smoky bay and is so named because of the steam or “smoke” that was rising from the land when the first settlers arrived over a thousand years ago.

  Owen tries to follow along, but he floats in and out of her stories. He’s relieved that they are able to continue their journey, but he keeps thinking about the missing driver’s license that nearly jeopardized their plans. He wonders if his granddad has forgotten anything else that they will need on this trip.

  A small animal darts across the road.

  “That’s an Arctic fox,” Aris says, looking at Owen through her rearview mirror. “It is the only native animal of Iceland.”

  Owen snaps out of his worries and presses his face against the window, but the fox has disappeared among the orange lichen-covered lava fields.

  They enter a dark tunnel.

  “We’ll be going under the sea now,” Aris says. “This tunnel is six kilometers long, but it is a shortcut between two points of land.”

  “How cold is the water?” Owen asks.

  “Very,” Aris says. “Even in the summer the ocean is barely five degrees Celsius.”

  “Brrrrrrr!” Neville says. “That would certainly fail the big-toe test!”

  “The big-toe test?” Aris asks, puzzled.

  “He means when you test the water with your bare foot before going in,” Owen explains from the backseat.

  Aris laughs. Owen’s pleased to see that he and his granddad can entertain her.

  When they come out of the tunnel, they are surrounded by desolate rocky moors studded with deep blue pools. Owen digs out his camera to try to capture the landscape’s dark mood. Aris spies him with his camera in the rearview mirror.

  “Iceland certainly inspires writers and photographers,” she says.

  “That’s why we’re here,” Neville says. “My late friend Gunnar received the Order of the Falcon for his work translating one of your poets. We returned his medal in Reykjavík and now we’re delivering his notes to an archive on the northern coast.”

  “Which poet?” Aris asks.

  “Stephan G. Stephansson,” Neville says.

  “Ah! He’s one of our country’s best,” Aris says. “There’s a monument dedicated to him near the town of Sauðárkrókur.”

  “That’s right,” Neville says. “It’s where our archive is located, according to my friend’s map.”

  “I know one of the archivists who works there,” Aris says. “You see? Everyone knows everyone in Iceland.”

  Aris slows the car down.

  “Do you mind if we take a short detour to stop at my favorite natural wonder?” she asks.

  “Not at all!” Neville says. He turns around to face Owen. “Isn’t this grand?”

  Owen only nods, because now he’s thinking about his notebook at the archive once again.

  Aris pulls off the main road onto a country lane. They drive a bit farther. Free-roaming sheep bleat on both sides of the road. Aris has to slow down whenever one of them threatens to dart across. After a few more minutes, she pulls into a small gravel parking lot.

  They pile out of the car and are hit by a rotten egg smell as if someone has struck a match. Clouds of billowing steam rise ahead.

  “Phew!” Owen says, waving at his nose.

  Aris laughs as she leads them to the row of angry steaming vents. When they draw closer, they see boiling water spewing up from the ground, making loud belching sounds. There are posted signs warning to stand back from harm’s way. The warm, billowing steam envelops them. They can barely see each other. Owen pulls out his camera but discovers that it is impossible to take photographs without fogging up his lens.

  “This is the biggest hot spring in Europe. Water comes from deep inside the earth,” Aris says above the roaring vents. “It’s what we use to heat our homes and our geothermal pools.”

  Owen thinks back to what the flight attendant on the airplane told him, but then he frowns because he remembers the confused scene on the flight with his granddad.

  Owen stands in the fog and slowly turns a full circle so that everything is a blur. The foul air fills his lungs, and the roar of the belching steam vents carries away the voices around him. He becomes disoriented, which scares him a little. Is this how his granddad sometimes feels?

  Owen steps out of the thick steam to clear his head and turns to face thunderclouds that are forming in the distance. He spots something through his lens.

  “Lightning,” Owen says as he lowers his camera to better view the deepening skies.

  Aris and Owen’s granddad step away from the steaming vents to look. Another bolt strikes, followed by the low rumble of thunder that they can feel in their feet. They hurry to the car and continue down the road back to the main highway as the first raindrops hit the windshield.

  “This will blow over quickly,” Aris assures them.

  “Like a Canadian prairie storm,” Neville says.

  “But not so deadly,” Aris adds.

  “Deadly? What do you mean?” Owen asks from the backseat.

  “Have you read about Stephansson’s son, Gestur?” Aris asks.

  She studies Owen in the rearview mirror briefly before returning her attention to the road.

  Owen gulps. Of course he knows about Stephansson’s son. It was well covered during his field trip. The terrible event. The subsequent poem. Everything.

  “I didn’t know he had a son,” Neville says when Owen doesn’t reply.

  Owen fidgets in the backseat but no one notices.

  “Five sons and three daughters altogether,” Aris says. “He wrote a particularly heartfelt poem about the one named Gestur at his farm in Alberta. I think of that poem every time I see lightning.”

  “How does it go?” Neville asks.

  Before Owen can stop her, Aris begins to recite.

  “The law which cuts life’s thinly ravelled thread,

  Gave little time for dread or hope or sadness.

  It flung a bolt from heaven overhead

  And felled my cherished son in its blind madness.”

  Aris drives on. Electric silence fills the car. Owen holds his breath.

  “So Gestur was struck by lightning,” Neville says, piecing the poem’s clues together.

  “Tragically, yes,” Aris confirms. “It happened in the summer during the early 1900s. Two of Stephansson’s sons, Gestur and Jakob, were running home ahead of the storm with their friend Bjorn. Gestur was the last of t
he three to reach the wire fence just as lightning struck. He died instantly. He was only sixteen. That night, his grief-stricken father wrote those words.”

  “So sad,” Neville says. “How does the rest of the poem go?”

  “No!” Owen erupts from the backseat. “No! I … I don’t want to hear any more!”

  Startled, his granddad turns around to face Owen.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “I just … let’s talk about something else,” Owen manages to sputter, frantic thoughts colliding.

  His granddad stares at him for a long minute before returning to face the front.

  Owen’s heart is roaring in his ears while his granddad quietly explains something to Aris about Owen’s grandmother dying a year ago.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Aris says to Neville. She looks at Owen in her rearview mirror. “I didn’t know, Owen. My apologies.”

  Owen nods, then stares out the window to steady himself.

  The rain is coming down hard, dancing across the highway in sheets and forcing Aris to slow down. The car’s wipers slap away at the windshield. Then, just as suddenly as the rain starts, it begins to peter out and the skies brighten.

  “You see? The weather always lets up,” Aris says, sounding overly cheerful to compensate for Owen’s unexpected outburst.

  Owen gives her a fleeting smile to let her know that he’s feeling better, which he is now that Stephansson’s poem is off-limits.

  Outside Owen’s window, rolling hills peppered with sheep and moss-dressed rocks sail by. The car’s heater is on because it is only eight degrees Celsius outside. There are no trees for as far as Owen can see, and only occasionally do farmhouses appear, all of the white-with-red-roof variety.

  “It looks so lonely out here,” Owen observes, taking photographs of the land that echo the emptiness.

  “I think there’s a fine line between a barren lonely place and somewhere that’s starkly beautiful,” Aris says.

  Owen thinks about this while studying the photographs he just took. Encouraged, he takes some more, trying to capture the beauty that Aris sees. But finally the travel catches up to Owen. He falls asleep in the backseat and everything goes black.