‘Good,’ said Erlendur. ‘Fine.’
‘I reckon it’s best for everyone that she disappeared in the storm,’ said Ezra. ‘Perished on the moors.’
They drove home without further conversation. The moon was obscured by cloud again.
‘Well, that’s that,’ said Erlendur as he stopped the car in front of Ezra’s house.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘How are you doing?’
‘I’ll survive.’ Ezra held out his hand. ‘Thank you for all you’ve done.’
Erlendur shook it.
‘What were you doing sitting there in the dark with the gun?’
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Not unless you want to tell me. I’m not going to interfere any further in your life.’
‘Let’s leave it at that then.’
‘Fine.’
‘Do you know what I was thinking as I knelt by her grave?’ Ezra asked. ‘When I’d found her at last. Do you know what struck me?’
Erlendur shook his head.
‘I can die now, I thought. There’s nothing to hold me here any longer. Nothing to keep me away from her.’
As Erlendur pondered his words he pictured the gun lying on the kitchen floor. He met and held Ezra’s eye. The old man returned his gaze with an imploring look.
‘What’ll happen to the cat?’ asked Erlendur.
‘He’ll manage.’
Erlendur looked away, into the night.
‘I’m glad to have met you,’ he said at last.
‘Likewise.’
Erlendur watched the old man disappear into his house. He lit a cigarette, then turned the car and drove slowly back along the drive.
Parking by the cemetery for the fourth time in twelve hours, he took out the spade and the small box of bones from Daníel’s garage. His attempt to bury them earlier the previous day had been interrupted when he noticed the date on Thórhildur’s grave. He didn’t want anything else to detract from this ceremony.
Picking up the spade, he scraped the thin layer of snow off his mother’s mound and cut through the grass into the soil. Having removed a small square of turf, he laid it aside and dug down to a depth of one foot. Then he put down the spade, took the box, knelt and solemnly placed it in the hole.
Afterwards, he refilled the little grave, firmly tamping down the earth and replacing the piece of turf so one could hardly tell the grave had been disturbed.
With that, the little funeral was over.
Erlendur glanced up, towards Hardskafi, then sent a long look back in the direction of Bakkasel where the ruined farm lay hidden in darkness.
Then he set off on foot for the slopes of the mountain.
60
HE HEARS THE child’s voice approaching from a great distance. The traveller has gone, taking with him all the feelings he stirred up, of dread and pain and cold, leaving only this little voice and the radiance that accompanies it.
It is a sunny morning and they are walking along the river together. The air is still, the sky a cloudless blue and the sun is making him hot. Bergur, who is in front, stops, dips a hand in the water and takes a drink. He senses the cool of the river on his hot face and watches his brother kneeling on the bank. He feels oddly light at heart.
‘Are you ready?’ asks his brother, standing up.
‘Yes,’ he says.
‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m here.’
‘I know.’
Behind them the house shimmers in the heat. Ahead is the welcoming moorland, with its scent of heather. He raises his eyes to the crags at Urdarklettur and the Hraevarskörd Pass, mild now and benign in their summer guise.
Then he takes Bergur’s hand in his and together they walk along the river into the bright morning.
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Epub ISBN: 9781448156054
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Copyright © Arnaldur Indriðason 2010
English translation copyright © Victoria Cribb 2013
Arnaldur Indriðason has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
First published with the title Furðustrandir in 2010
Published by agreement with Forlagið, Reykjavík, www.forlagid.is
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by
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ISBN 9781846557118
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