66 Degrees North

Harpa shook her head. She tried, and succeeded, to control her tears. Her father waited. ‘How was the fishing?’ she asked him.

She meant the fly-fishing. Einar had had to give up sea-fishing fifteen years before when a wave had broken over the Helgi and flung him against a winch, breaking his knee. He had spent a few years managing the boat from land before selling it and his quota for hundreds of millions of kronur. Since then he had been a wealthy retired fisherman. Until he had listened to his daughter, that is.

At first, he had invested the money in high-interest accounts at Odinsbanki, which gave him plenty of income to live on. But some of his mates were making a fortune speculating on currencies or investing in the booming Icelandic stock market. He had asked his clever daughter who worked for a bank for advice.

She had told him to steer clear of the currency speculation and of investing in the racier new shares on the stock exchange. But bank stocks, they were safe. And she could recommend Odinsbanki. It was the smartest of all the Icelandic banks.

And so Einar had put all his savings in Odinsbanki shares. Shares which were all but worthless when the government nationalized the banks the previous autumn.

Harpa wondered how he could still afford to go fly-fishing.

‘I didn’t catch much. And it rained most of the time. But I’m going again over the weekend. Maybe my luck will change.’ He put his arm around his daughter. ‘Are you sure there is nothing you want to tell me?’

For a moment Harpa considered it. Telling him everything. His love for her was unconditional, wasn’t it? He would stand by her whatever she had done. Wouldn’t he?

But what she had done was awful. Unforgivable. She had certainly never forgiven herself, could never possibly forgive herself in the future. He was a good man. How could he forgive her?

She couldn’t bear it if he didn’t.

So Harpa shook her head. ‘No, Dad. There’s nothing.’

CHAPTER FOUR

October 1934

BENEDIKT HAD A really good idea for a game.

He had just finished the Saga of the People of Eyri and he had read that there was a chieftain called Bjorn from Breidavik on the other side of the Snaefells Peninsula, across the mountains from Hraun and Bjarnarhofn, who had travelled all the way to a land far overseas that Benedikt guessed was America. Bjorn had become a chief there amongst the natives. What if Hallgrimur and Benedikt discovered America?

Hallgrimur wanted the berserkers to go too. They could fight the Skraelings, the name the Vikings had given to the Native Americans. Benedikt said that was all right.

But they would need to go on a long journey of exploration. Hallgrimur suggested that they go to Swine Lake, a lake formed by the congealed lava several kilometres to the south. Although Benedikt’s mother was happy for him to be out playing for long periods, Hallgrimur’s was much stricter. So he waited until his father had ridden off for the day to Stykkisholmur, the nearest town, and his mother had gone to visit the wife at a neigh-bouring farm.

It was hard slow going over the lava field, especially since the boys were careful to keep out of view. There was some sunshine, but it was cold, with a stiff breeze blowing in from the north-east. Snow had fallen on the mountains to the south the week before, and there was a dusting on the top of Bjarnarhofn Fell. They paused to watch a motor car in the distance clatter down from the Kerlingin Pass on the high road from Borgarnes to Stykkisholmur. A horse neighed in fright.

‘A Buick,’ Benedikt said. He was knowledgeable about motor cars, or claimed to be, although Hallgrimur had his doubts. Every car seemed to be a Buick.

A pair of eider ducks flew low overhead, on their way back to the dwarf willows by the stream at Bjarnarhofn.

They pressed on. Benedikt was getting tired, as was Hallgrimur. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all. But then the Vikings who discovered America had put up with much worse conditions than this. And Hallgrimur was a berserker. He certainly couldn’t give up.

‘Halli, let’s go back!’

‘Don’t whine, Benni.’

‘But I’m tired!’

Hallgrimur sighed. ‘All right. We’ll rest for a couple of minutes. But then we have to get on to America!’

They found a comfortable hollow and sat down. The lava protected them from the wind, and the sun warmed their cheeks. Hallgrimur looked up at the savage profile of the Kerlingin Pass, with its outlandish shapes along the ridge. From here he could just make out the silhouette of the Kerlingin troll herself, a giant woman walking along with a bag over her shoulder. The bag was full of naughty children from Stykkisholmur. The troll had been caught by the rising sun just before she had returned to her cave and was frozen there, on top of the pass, for evermore.

Could the berserkers beat the troll in a fair fight? Hallgrimur wondered. It would be tough. Maybe both of them together could.

He turned to ask Benedikt for his opinion when he heard voices, angry voices.

‘Do you think they will ever find him?’ It was Hallgrimur’s mother, and she was sobbing.

‘No chance.’ His father. They were coming closer. ‘He’s at the bottom of the lake and he will stay there. The fish will eat him. It’s what he deserves.’

‘You are a horrible vile man! I’m not going back with you!’

‘Do you want to join him, you whore? Well, do you?’

Hallgrimur heard his mother sobbing.

‘I thought not. I left the horse by the road. Now, come on!’

They were really close now. Hallgrimur and Benedikt could not risk being seen; Hallgrimur could only guess at how angry his parents would be if they discovered him. The boys pressed themselves tight against the ground, their faces buried in the moss. It was only after Hallgrimur was sure that his parents were long gone that he raised his head.

‘Benni? What were they talking about? What’s a whore?’

His friend didn’t answer. He was staring over the lava field towards Swine Lake, tears streaming down his face.

Thursday, 17 September 2009

It was still dark when Harpa walked along the Nordurstrond to the bakery. She had had the job for a couple of months. During the summer she had enjoyed the walk, with the lights of Reykjavik blinking sleepily as the town woke up in front of her, and the sun rising over the mountains to the east, beating a golden path towards her over the bay. But that morning the dawn was just a band of steel blue under the clouds on the horizon. A cold breeze clipped in from the sea. She looked forward to the warm comforting smell of bread from the bakery’s ovens.

When she had first been fired from Odinsbanki, she had spent a couple of months in shock, cocooned in her house with her son. But eventually she realized she would have to get a job. She considered the bakery that she stopped in every day on her way to work. They liked her, she was sure they would be bound to hire her, but she could do better, she thought.

Well, it turned out that she couldn’t. So after a couple of months of fruitless search she presented herself to Disa, the woman who ran the bakery. Disa was kind but firm. There were no vacancies. It was only then that the truth hit Harpa. In the kreppa there were no jobs for someone like Harpa. None.

She tried everywhere; it was only at the end of June that Disa eventually called her and said that a vacancy was opening up and Harpa could work for them. It was a good job: the people were friendly and it provided some flexibility for her to spend time with Markus. Her parents looked after their grandson in the early morning, and took him to the nursery. And she earned some money.

Not nearly enough to make the mortgage payments though.

She thought again about Oskar’s death. And Gabriel Orn. The familiar anxiety wriggled in her stomach. She stopped. Faced the breeze coming in from the sea. Took some deep breaths. And wept.

Bjorn. She needed to see Bjorn. He was always up early, looking for work on a fishing boat. She pulled out her