by Kim Wilkins
As I left behind the concrete, civilized space of Kirkja and moved into the forest, with that mild, clear sky obscured by dark trees, my sense of purpose faltered. The haunting familiarity returned to me. I bent my mind toward remembering what trigger linked my memories to this place, but the search pulled me so far back that it felt like I was falling out of time. I concentrated instead on counting my footfalls, making them rhythmic. An acute awareness of my own vulnerability seized me. I was alone, on an island, in the middle of nowhere. Completely defenseless wasn’t a feeling I was used to. I usually felt capable and robust. But there, in the deep forest on Othinsey, it seemed I was so transparent and flimsy that a gust of wind could knock me over. Was this at the root of my recent hysteria? I had thought being left alone would be thrilling. Was Magnus right? Had the solitude caused me to revert, in some primitive biological way, to a frightened girl?
I banished the thoughts and kept counting, dividing footsteps and spaces, making rudimentary calculations that meant nothing. Twenty minutes later I arrived at Magnus’s instrument enclosure. The big, anvil-shaped rock jutted out of the ground like a crooked tooth. I leaned back on it and looked up at the sky. A black feeling swooped down on me. Something bad happened here. I shook my head, straightened up and glanced around. Nothing bad was happening. It was a soft spring day. I could hear the ocean in the distance and I was surrounded by cool green colors, fresh air and the scent of pine needles. Weak sunshine formed a pillar down into the clearing.
Magnus had marked the transpiration monitors in the soil with small red flags on posts. I flipped open the folder and found his pen inside. With a squirm of guilt, I realized it was one of those expensive Mont Blanc pens, probably worth a small fortune. I held it very tight, afraid to lose it, as I went from one red flag to the next, taking readings and writing them down. My handwriting looked childish and loopy next to Magnus’s neat, spare marks. Concentrating on the work helped me to relax. I found a spot in the sunshine and sat down, flicking through Magnus’s folder and notes. Most were in Norwegian. It was growing warm, so I rolled up my sleeves. As I did so, I glanced up and saw a dark shape moving among the trees in the distance. My heart started; I leaped up. Was it just a trick of the light? I strained my eyes, but could see nothing more than shifting shadows. I listened into the distance, but could only hear the sea and the wind.
This was becoming tiresome.
Gunnar was right. I needed to go out to the beach and see with my own eyes that I was alone. I packed up and headed away from the clearing, following my ears to the beach, hoping the wind off the Norwegian Sea would blow away the fog of silly fears.
As the trees thinned out, the wind pulled my hair into tangles. The ocean roared, the beach was flat and grey. I pulled on my anorak and walked right to the edge of the waves, where they sucked and crashed on the sand. I cast my eye along the beach to the north and the south. It was empty, vast and empty. Where the sand ended, rocks took over: nobody could land a boat on rocks. Watching the wild water, I doubted anybody could bring a boat anywhere near this beach. I felt relief; it was abundantly clear that no thieves and brigands had arrived on the island.
I really was alone. Not just on Othinsey, but in the vast incomprehensible space of existence. I was born alone in my skin and knew I would die that way too. It was so awful and tragic that I wanted to cry. What use were scientific explanations? They were great for chasing away imagined spectres, but provided no comfort in a sudden moment of mortal dread. Not a scintilla of proof existed that a spirit inhabited the body of man: when we die, we die.
I turned my back on the sea and began the return trek to Kirkja.
At ten-thirty on Sunday night, I dutifully left my warm cabin and went to the cold lino-floored storeroom to assemble a weather balloon, then out into the crisp darkness to load it into the hydrogen chamber. As it filled, I did a quick check on all the equipment, did a visibility check and worked out the angle of the wind (it was a very still night), then launched the balloon and fixed it with the radar. By then, these tasks were becoming so familiar that I could do them without thought, and yet I concentrated on them very hard. Thinking about what I was doing kept me from falling down the neurotic rabbit holes in my head. I fussed around a bit longer in the control room, then left just after midnight (that made it Monday, it happened on a Monday) and went downstairs to lock up.
My hand was falling away from the door, the keys returning to my pocket, my breath fogging in the still night air, a chill on my cheeks, a warm fulfillable desire to return to my cabin, the smell of pine and faraway sea, a susurration in the treetops. I seem to remember holding my breath, or perhaps that’s one of those false memories, perhaps I am holding my breath now.
I heard a sound. I turned. The dark figure of a man stood directly before me, tall and broad, his face in shadow. My heart leaped into my throat and I opened my mouth to scream.
He grabbed my wrist and said, “Please, please, don’t scream. I couldn’t bear to hear it.”
Ten
I screamed anyway. Not the bloodcurdling scream you might hear in a horror film; more a cross between a shout of shock and a moan of helpless terror. Here was the nightmare made manifest, the stranger on the island that I’d been trying to convince myself was not real. I tried to wrench away but he had me firmly by the wrist. My heart and lungs were bursting and a million scenarios played out in my head in an instant.
Then he took a step forward and the light from the station fell across his face. And everything changed.
“You’re . . .” I opened my mouth to say his name, but I didn’t know it. Though I was sure I must. He seemed so very familiar to me.
“I’m sorry that I frightened you.”
He released my wrist and I took a step back, knowing I should run, knowing I should lock myself in the station and call Magnus. I stood before him, breath held, and merely stared. He was overwhelmingly attractive. Dark brown hair swept away from his broad forehead and fell in waves to his shoulders. His eyes were almost black, wide-set and feline; he wore an untidy goatee. His height and breadth made him appear very masculine, but his movements were agile and lithe, his hands pale and long. His physique betrayed both an athlete and artist, both power and patience. An ancient and unutterable longing drew up through me, gathering me like a needle and thread gathers silk.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“My name is Vidar,” he said, his voice faintly accented like Magnus’s and Gunnar’s. “Don’t run away. I promise I won’t hurt you.”
“I know,” I said.
He smiled, and the keen stab of familiarity stole my breath again. I knew that I had never met this man, but some long-buried spark in my heart ignited in response to him as though he were deeply significant to me.
“I’m glad you know,” he said, relieved.
“How did you get here?”
“To Othinsey? I have been here for a number of days. I can’t reveal how I came to be here, I’m sorry.”
His reluctance to explain made me suspicious. Had he stowed away on the Jonsok and been hiding in the forest? Gunnar had said it would be a good place to hide. Perhaps he was running from the law.
“Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“Don’t ask me any more, I can’t explain further. I know it’s difficult to trust me when I say so little, but you must trust me.”
I smiled. “At least you’re not a ghost.”
“No, not a ghost.” There was no return smile; his eyes were fixed on my face and he struggled with some inner distress. “Your name is . . . ?”
“Victoria.”
“Victoria,” he said. “That’s a pretty name.”
“Thanks.” I noticed, for the first time, the clothes he was wearing beneath his cloak. A brown tunic to his thighs and trousers with leather straps crisscrossed up to his knees, similar to the costume Gunnar was wearing in the photo over his desk. “Are you a friend of Gunnar’s?”
“I don’t know anyone named Gunnar.”<
br />
“Your clothes—”
“Are muddy and cold,” he said. “Could you help me, Victoria?”
I took him to Gunnar’s cabin. I couldn’t think what else to do. Leaving him outside in the dark while I fetched him clothes did not occur to me, though obviously it would have been more prudent. Yet I had no sense of vulnerability or of a threat to my safety. So I took him to Gunnar’s cabin because I thought some of Gunnar’s clothes might fit him—he said he had slipped in the mud near the lake—and I wanted to see him in a better light.
“Would you like a warm shower?” I asked as I led him in through Gunnar’s back door.
“A shower?”
I indicated the bathroom. “Through there. I’ll find you some clothes.”
I went to Gunnar’s bedroom and in his drawers found a pair of dark track pants and a crumpled white shirt that looked larger than the others. Vidar was about Gunnar’s height, but not so skinny. I emerged from the bedroom to see Vidar standing in the bathroom, considering the shower with a confused expression.
“Oh, it’s a strange one,” I said, walking in and handing him the clothes. My fingers brushed his wrist; his skin was very warm. “Here, you have to wind this dial up to the right temperature, then . . . pull this tap.” Warm water sprayed from the showerhead. “There. When you’re done, push the tap in and turn the dial back to zero.”
His gaze went from the tap, to the clothes in his hand, to me. He looked bewildered and, in this better light, tired. Dark circles shaded his eyes.
“Are you all right?” I said.
“Yes, yes,” he answered quickly. “I’ll go in the shower.”
“Fine. Towel there, soap there. I’ll wait in the lounge room.” I left him, closing the door behind me. I collapsed into Gunnar’s sofa with a groan. What was I doing? Would I be kind to any homicidal lunatic in need as long as he was handsome? But that wasn’t fair. Vidar wasn’t a homicidal lunatic. I don’t know how I knew that for certain, but I was certain. Oh, doubtless he was in some kind of trouble. Why else would he hide on an island in the middle of nowhere? But I was more intrigued by him than I was frightened. There was something vulnerable about him—something unsure about his eyes, something hesitant about his lips before he spoke—in spite of his obvious physical strength. I rubbed my wrist where he’d held it. My most violent struggle hadn’t been enough to break his grip.
I went to the window, pushed the sash up and leaned out to breathe in the deep, still air. Far off in the forest a rustle and a thud echoed among the trees. I wasn’t afraid of it, as I would have been just hours before. I had met the bogey—not some supernatural monster, just a man.
I heard the shower turn off and held my breath. Delicious images formed in my mind: the plane of his bare back, the hard curve of his shoulder . . . I shook my head to dispel them. My attraction to Vidar was completely puzzling: he was far from my type. Patrick and Adam had both been clean-cut, well dressed, aspirational. The kind of men who paid for manicures.
A minute later Vidar stood in the lounge room, dressed in Gunnar’s clothes, his hair damp.
“They fit then?” I said, standing up to greet him.
“Just.” He smiled at me. “I’ve imposed too much on you. I should go.”
“Go? Go where? Stay a while, talk to me.” A stern voice, much like my mother’s, echoed in my mind, telling me not to sound so desperate.
He brushed his damp hair from his face. “Could I?”
“Of course, sit down. Would you like something to eat? You must be hungry.”
“I brought supplies with me. I’ve eaten already.” He sat in the armchair opposite me, glancing around the room.
“A glass of wine, then,” I suggested brightly, hoping that Gunnar’s supply had not been polished off.
“Wine? No,” he said slowly, “no thank you, Victoria.” He gazed at me for a few moments, then said, “Why are you being so kind to me?”
“Because you . . . because I . . .” Words simply would not spring to my tongue. Then he broke the gaze and his eyes turned to the window and I could speak again. “You seem so familiar to me,” I said softly.
“Do I?” he said, his gaze far away.
“I know we haven’t met, but—”
“Perhaps I remind you of somebody. Your brother or your father.”
“I have neither.”
“An old friend.”
“We haven’t met, have we?”
He turned to me. “You know the answer to that.”
A silent moment grew between us. It felt like the moment before a roller coaster dips over a curve. I laughed to break the tension. “I guess I do. Sorry if it sounded like a pickup line.”
He looked puzzled, and I realized that perhaps his English wasn’t as good as Magnus’s or Gunnar’s. I apologized again, but he didn’t hear me.
“What do you do here, Victoria?”
“I’m a scientist. I watch the weather.” I drew my legs up under me on the sofa. “And you? What do you do?”
He tilted his head to one side and pressed his lips together thoughtfully. Finally, he said, “I’m a woodworker.”
“Ah. And what are you doing on Othinsey?”
“I can’t tell you.” He leaned forward and lowered his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Victoria, but I can’t tell you.”
“You’re in trouble, aren’t you?”
“You could say that.”
I shivered. “Have you done something bad?”
“Some would consider it bad. I don’t. You wouldn’t.”
“Are you sure?” I said softly.
“I have committed no crime,” he said. His eyes were intense, almost desperate. “But I have broken a rule.”
“Now I’m even more confused.”
He waved a hand, dismissive suddenly, all intensity evaporating. “You are very kind, Victoria, but I should return to my camp and dry out my clothes by the fire.”
“Your camp?”
He gestured toward the window. “In the forest.”
“But it’s cold out there. You could sleep in—” My tongue was galloping along without the assistance of my brain. I paused. I thought. I couldn’t offer him Gunnar’s bed. I still didn’t know if he was Othinsey’s resident thief and it wasn’t fair on Gunnar to leave Vidar alone with all his computer equipment and CDs. I couldn’t offer for him to stay in my cabin because, despite my recent behavior, I wasn’t a complete fool; supplying a fugitive with warm clothes was one thing, going to sleep while locked in a small space with him was another altogether.
“Victoria?”
I remembered the storeroom. An internal door locked it off from the rest of the admin building. “You could sleep in the storeroom,” I said.
Vidar needed a little persuasion. Although the night was mild and clear, I assured him that the rain clouds around Othinsey blew in at an instant’s notice. I fetched him blankets, pillows and a quilt from the linen store at the back of the rec hall, locked everything that I could, and made up a bed for him in the storeroom. I glanced around, assessing the risk of him stealing anything from there. Weather balloons, cleaning supplies, spare parts of obsolete equipment, old record books growing mildew, Magnus’s blue folder. Good luck to him if he thought anything there had any market value.
“I won’t take anything,” he said, guessing that I was counting with my eyes. “I’m not a thief.”
“I’m sure you’re not,” I said quickly.
He smiled at me gently. “Thank you, Victoria. You’re a good person. I hope that one day I can repay you.”
I hesitated at the door. “No repayment necessary. I just hope you sleep well.”
“I’m certain to,” he said, his gaze lingering for a moment. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
I closed the door behind me and hurried back to my cabin. I predicted a sleepless night: my thoughts were moving like wildfire, my heart burst with guilt and excitement. And yet, safely locked in my cabin and tucked in my warm bed, I thou
ght of Vidar and a sense of peace and happiness stole over me. Nothing else troubled me. Until morning.
I took a little more care choosing my clothes in the morning. I pulled on a warm dress, and even scraped on some makeup for the first time in nearly a week. I trembled as I locked up my cabin: my knees felt rubbery and my heart was in my mouth. I didn’t know if it was fear or desire, but the two together were a potent combination and I felt faintly sick, as though I’d drunk too much coffee and stayed up all night.
I made my way over to the admin building. The smell of ocean bristled on the air. I opened the back door to the storeroom and peered in.
It was empty.
A tumble of realizations: Vidar had left and he had taken Gunnar’s clothes and the linen I had loaned him. Magnus’s blue folder was open on the bench and . . . that’s right, oh my God . . . his Mont Blanc pen was missing.
I tried the door through to the station, but of course it was locked. I ran out the way I’d come and quickly scanned around. I glanced toward the forest. He was in there, no doubt. Hiding. All at once, I guessed his plan: a ring of thieves dropped him off on the island and picked him up later with the swag. I raced over to the rec hall to see if he’d broken in to steal the television. It was still locked, but I let myself in, checked around (nothing missing) and went through to the galley (nothing missing, but the chicken breast I’d left out to thaw two days ago was getting stinky).
“Well, I hope your trip was worth the damn pen,” I muttered as I headed back to the admin building. I was keenly irritated with myself. What kind of an idiot would trust him? As I sat down at the desk in the control room, a darker thought occurred to me. Was I safe with him on the island? I had been so enamored of him that I might have overlooked crucial signals. Perhaps he intended far worse than just stealing expensive pens.
I put my head on the desk. My breathing echoed loudly in my ears. My intuition told me that he wouldn’t hurt me, but since when had I believed in intuition, let alone listened to it?