Eight
After Owen and his granddad have been driving with Aris for another hour, they pass a road sign that reads Blönduós. Aris slows down for some crossing sheep, and Owen wakes up.
“Blönduós is the first major town we’ll come to on the northern coast. We’ll stop there for the night. Then we’ll only have another fifty kilometers to go before we get to Sauðárkrókur, where your archive is located and the region where Stephansson’s family first farmed,” Aris says.
“As I recall, Stephansson moved to Alberta in 1888, along with eleven other Icelandic families. My friend Gunnar traced his roots back to one of those families,” Neville says.
He turns in his seat to face Owen.
“Owen, think about Alberta back then. No highways or bridges. No electricity. No grocery stores.”
Owen’s stomach growls.
“And no restaurants,” Owen adds.
“Speaking of restaurants, who’s hungry?” Aris asks, taking the hint.
“Me!” Owen says. It has been a long time since they ate breakfast in Reykjavík.
“I know a great little place up ahead.” Aris says. “It’s called the Peckish Arctic Tern, named after a popular seabird in Iceland.”
They pass a scenic lookout with crashing waves that pummel craggy black rocks below and pull into a small parking lot in front of a wooden-clad café.
“I hope you like seafood chowder. That’s the specialty here,” Aris says as she climbs out of the car. “They make it with char.”
“What’s char?” Owen whispers to his granddad.
“Fish,” Neville explains, holding the café door open for Owen and Aris.
Owen slows his steps, but his granddad ushers him inside.
The walls are decorated with rusty fishing gear, and a glass milk bottle filled with water and lemons has been placed on each table. The tables are made of old painted doors laid flat on wooden legs, and the chairs are mismatched but comfortable-looking. They sit down next to the large front window.
Owen is relieved to see that hamburgers are also on the menu, but both Owen’s granddad and Aris order the specialty.
While they wait for their food, Aris steps outside to make some work-related calls. Owen and his granddad watch her through the window as she paces back and forth while talking and sometimes laughing with whomever she is speaking to.
“Aris is really nice,” Owen remarks.
“Indeed,” Neville says. “I see you’ve been taking lots of photos.”
Owen pulls out his camera from his knapsack and clicks through the images he has taken that day: the boiling steam vents, the distant snow-capped mountains and the sheep. Always the sheep. He shares the screen with his granddad who nods his approval.
When Aris returns, she says she has some wonderful news.
“I’ve arranged for the archivist I know to show you some of Stephansson’s documents in their collection. You’ll be able to see his handwritten letters from Alberta firsthand!”
“When?” Owen blurts at the mention of the archive.
“Tomorrow morning. But before that, I thought I’d take you to a nearby geothermal pool since no trip to Iceland is complete without one. Then we’ll have time to visit a historic turf-walled farmhouse and church. That will give you a good sense of the conditions that Stephansson’s family lived in before leaving Iceland for North America.”
“Terrific!” Neville says. “These are all the things that Gunnar would have loved for us to see.”
Aris nods, but she’s not done.
“From there, I’ll drop you off at the archive while I attend to some meetings. After that, I’ll deliver you to Stephansson’s monument and I’ll be on my way. My colleagues Ragna Guðmundsdóttir and Oddny Thorvaldson from Akureyri will drive you back in time for your flight home.”
“Do they have meetings in Reykjavík?” Neville asks.
“They do.”
“What a perfect plan! We can’t thank you enough,” Neville exclaims.
Owen also beams. His notebook is within reach. He allows himself to believe that nothing can go wrong now.
Their server arrives with the meals and he lays down soup spoons beside the two bowls of chowder. While he does so, Owen takes a huge bite of his hamburger. It is delicious, just like at home.
Owen reaches for the ketchup and squeezes some onto his plate beside his fries. As he puts the ketchup bottle back on the table, he notices that his granddad has picked up his spoon and is staring at it.
“What’s wrong with the spoon?” Owen asks.
“The spoon?” Neville repeats. “Is that what this is?”
Owen looks at the spoon in his granddad’s hand. The spoon is as ordinary as they come.
“Of course it’s a spoon,” Owen says.
“What’s it for?” Neville asks.
His granddad must be joking, Owen thinks.
Only, his granddad isn’t. He is waiting for an answer.
“It’s for your chowder,” Owen says, frowning.
His granddad sets the spoon down. He picks up his fork.
“What are you doing?” Owen asks.
“What do you mean?” Neville asks.
“You’re going to use your fork to eat chowder?”
Owen’s granddad looks down at his meal. He has that confused look again. Then he stares at Owen as if he has no idea where he is.
“The spoon would work better,” Owen says, blinking like an owl.
Owen takes another bite of his hamburger. He does not want to make a big deal out of something as ridiculous as cutlery. He steals a glance at Aris. He sees that she has been quietly watching the scene, but she takes Owen’s lead and starts eating her chowder as if nothing peculiar has happened.
“Can you taste the char?” she asks Owen’s granddad between spoonfuls.
Owen’s granddad cautiously picks up his spoon and tries a mouthful.
“Yes. It’s excellent,” he declares.
They eat their meals in awkward silence.
“How is everything?” the server asks after he swoops back to check on them.
“Good.”
“Terrific.”
“Delicious.”
All three speak at once, breaking the tension.
Aris talks about her work and the meetings that she has lined up over the next few days. She is planning to circle all the way around Iceland on a highway called the Ring Road before heading back to Reykjavík.
“Back to Reykjavík and my little Britta,” she says longingly.
They order dessert. Owen’s granddad and Aris each order a slice of bilberry pie, which his granddad reports tastes like blueberries. Owen orders his favorite, rhubarb crisp. It is not as good as his grandmother’s, but he finishes it anyway, scraping his plate clean. Owen’s granddad scoops up the bill when the server lays it on their table.
“This meal is on me, Aris,” Neville declares. “We’re so grateful for all you’ve done.”
“It’s nothing,” Aris says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’m glad to have the company.” Then she adds tentatively, “They only take cash here. Do you have Icelandic currency?”
Owen’s granddad starts to search his pockets, but Owen stops him.
“Pops. You gave me the envelope of money. Remember?”
Owen pulls out the envelope stuffed with Icelandic bills from his knapsack as proof. He starts to hand it to his granddad, but his granddad gently pushes the envelope back to Owen.
“Let’s see if you can figure out how much to pay,” Neville suggests.
Before Owen can answer, his granddad turns to Aris and starts talking about her two colleagues who will be meeting them tomorrow at Stephansson’s monument. Owen gets up and moves to the cash register near the door.
Owen isn’t too worried about fi
guring out how much to pay. As he pulls out the money from the envelope, he can see that Icelandic currency comes in bills of five hundred, one thousand, two thousand and five thousand, so it’s easy to count like Canadian money.
Still. He wonders how his grandad would fare with the math. Would his granddad have trouble? Is that why Owen got the job?
Things are adding up in a way that Owen doesn’t like. His granddad is forgetting important things like a driver’s license. He is confusing routine things like cutlery. He is getting lost, like when they were on the airplane.
What’s happening?
Owen looks over at his granddad who is talking to Aris and making her laugh.
Nothing is wrong, Owen tries to assure himself.
Nothing.
So how come there’s a knot in his stomach?
When they leave the café and climb back into the car, Aris tells them that she has also arranged for accommodations.
“I’ve booked us rooms at my favorite inn in this area,” she says. “It’s called the Ambitious Viking Guest House.”
“What an unusual name,” Neville says.
“Not so much,” Aris says. “Almost everyone who’s Icelandic can trace their roots back to the Vikings.”
When they pull up to the guest house, it is still light out, but their shadows stretch long before them. Owen remembers what his granddad told him about the sun not setting at this time of year. Now he wonders if he will be able to sleep with it being so bright outside.
They enter through the front doors and meet the innkeeper.
“How do you like Iceland?” she asks when she learns that Owen and his granddad are from Canada.
“It’s been quite an adventure,” Neville says, “for two old-timers like us.”
The innkeeper chuckles. She turns to Owen.
“And what have you enjoyed the most?”
Owen does not hesitate.
“Photographing the landscapes,” he declares. “The sky. The weather. The light. I think I must have taken dozens of pictures by now.”
“I’ve never been to Canada,” the innkeeper says. “What does the landscape look like where you live?”
“Flat,” Owen says. “We’re from the prairies.” But he thinks some more, and in his mind’s eye he can see a cathedral-high blue sky. He can see the rolling thunderstorms that can change the weather in minutes, the light when the harvest moon colors the fields with shards of silver and the blinding white sparkles that drift down to form the banks of softly fallen snow.
“But our skies are beautiful,” Owen adds.
Owen’s granddad smiles at him with pride.
“We have you staying with us for one night,” the innkeeper says, checking her records. “What are you planning to visit in our district?”
“The archive,” Owen blurts. It’s still his number-one priority.
“At Sauðárkrókur,” Aris adds.
“We’re going there to donate notes from my late friend Gunnar Ingvarsson who translated much of Stephan G. Stephansson’s poetry,” Neville explains.
“Ah! Stephansson! So you’ll be sure to visit his monument,” the innkeeper says.
“Indeed! That’s our final destination,” Neville says.
Owen glances at his granddad. The determined tone in his voice catches Owen off guard.
“We’ll go there tomorrow morning after a dip at Reykir. We’ll also be visiting the turf houses in Glaumbær, as well as the turf church at Varmahlíð,” Aris adds.
“Well done,” the innkeeper says, clapping her hands. “You’ll cover all of Stephansson’s sites.”
“I like the name of your inn,” Owen says. “Do you come from Vikings?” he asks. “Like Aris?”
The innkeeper laughs.
“Not me, I’m afraid,” she says. “But I married an Icelander who can trace his roots that far back. We opened this inn together right after we were married.”
The innkeeper turns the register to face her guests.
“Please sign in here,” she says, pointing to an empty line on the register. “I’ll need your name, your nationality, your address and a phone number.”
“You sign for us,” Neville says to Owen, nudging him.
Owen uses his best handwriting and completes all the fields. His granddad checks his work and nods with approval.
“Breakfast is served between 7:00 and 10:00 a.m.,” the innkeeper tells them when she hands out the room keys.
“Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning,” Aris says to them both, and she heads to her room on the second floor.
Owen and his granddad climb to the third floor with their luggage. When they get to their room, number six, Owen is thrilled to see that they have the top-floor room with a balcony. He throws his knapsack onto one of the twin beds and steps outside. His granddad joins him at the railing.
It is quiet. Most of the buildings around them are a soft pinkish-white. In the distance, they can see the snow-capped mountains with flattened tops and a swift glacial river cutting through the town in search of the cold, vast sea.
A wave of tiredness hits Owen even though it is still light out. He yawns.
“I’m bushed, as well,” Neville says. “Let’s get some shut-eye.”
Owen is too played out to brush his teeth, but his granddad makes him anyway. When he washes his face, the hot water from the tap smells like the angry vents he breathed in earlier that day. He asks about it, and his granddad reminds him that the smell is due to the geothermal springs, hot water from deep underground, but that it is perfectly safe to drink.
Owen puts on his rodeo pajamas and crawls into bed with its crisp white sheets and puffy feather duvet. The next thing he knows, he wakes up to the sound of the door to their room quietly shutting.
He bolts up in bed.
“Pops?” he calls out, turning to his granddad’s bed.
But his granddad is gone.
Nine
Owen shuts the door to their guest room, having learned that the outside hallway is empty and his granddad is nowhere in sight. He glances around for clues as to where his granddad might be headed in the middle of the night. Even with the curtains pulled across the balcony doors, it is still bright enough inside to see.
Owen spots his granddad’s coat, which had been tossed on a nearby chair, so he knows his granddad has not gone far. Not outside anyway. Perhaps he wanted to ask the innkeeper a question about their room? Perhaps he was hungry and went downstairs to pick out something from the fruit bowl beside the register at the front desk? Perhaps he forgot something in the car — Gunnar’s map, maybe?
These are all perfectly logical explanations. Still, with everything that has been going on with his granddad, Owen decides to wait up for his return. To distract himself, he digs out his camera and lies down on his bed to look at his photographs of Iceland. Then he returns to the file of photographs of Stephansson House. He clicks through and pauses on a photograph he took of one of Stephansson’s portraits.
In it, Stephansson is wearing a double-breasted jacket, perhaps the best jacket he owns. He is younger, maybe Owen’s dad’s age, and he is staring off to the right and a little downward. His gaze is soft, slightly unfocused. He looks as if he is not even aware of the camera. What is he thinking about? It has to be something bigger than feeding his livestock. Bigger than planting crops to harvest. Bigger than stocking his root cellar for the winter.
And then Owen knows. Stephansson is thinking about his next poem. His next poem is what keeps Stephansson going, almost like the food on his table. His poems are what keep him connected to everything and everyone around him. His poems are what give him a bigger purpose and make him happy to be alive, happy enough even to nail a crescent moon to the trim of his house. His poems are what will be recited by generations to follow, giving Stephansson a voice long after he is gone.<
br />
Owen sets his camera aside. Stephansson feels more real to him now. He wonders what Stephansson would think about the things Owen wrote in his notebook. Stephansson might be as disappointed as Owen’s granddad would be, Owen thinks.
Owen sighs. He pulls back his duvet and walks to the balcony doors to view the glacial river that is rushing by. The floor creaks beneath his bare feet. He opens the curtains. All is quiet. Nothing moves except the river. Then voices.
Owen turns to the door of their room. His granddad walks in along with Aris. Neville is dressed, but Aris is in her housecoat and slippers.
“What’s going on?” Owen asks.
He has a sinking feeling. His granddad has that confused look again. Neville crosses the room and slowly sits down on the edge of his bed but says nothing.
Owen looks to Aris.
“I was watching TV in the guest lounge downstairs,” Aris explains, her voice unnaturally cheerful for this late hour. “I miss Britta. I couldn’t sleep. And in walks your granddad. I think I might have had the volume up too loudly.”
“Yes, I heard the TV,” Neville confirms. “I wanted to see if the news was on. I always watch the news before I go to bed.”
Owen knows that this is true. Whenever he stayed over at his grandparents’ home, his bedtime was scheduled with the start of the late-night news. He would kiss them good night as they sat together in the living room — his granddad on the sofa, his grandmother in her orange recliner — then climb to his bedroom attic where he’d listen through the floorboards to the day’s events until he was lulled to sleep.
“So we watched TV for a bit,” Aris says. “There was a story about new airline rules for luggage. And then …” Aris hesitates.
“I couldn’t remember where I put my suitcase,” Neville cuts in. His voice is clearer now, his eyes more focused.
“What do you mean?” Owen asks. “It’s right there.”
Owen points to his granddad’s suitcase that is standing near the door to their bathroom, unopened since their arrival at the guest house.
“That’s not mine,” Neville declares.
The Things Owen Wrote Page 7
