by Cameron Bell
“Been driving long,” she ribbed.
I make a face like it is funny but barely so. I then reverse and realign the Ranger and we roll on. Hugging the mountainside and keeping a safe margin from the edge, moving slow and steady through the ruts and ridges.
The cabin feels like a pressure cooker until we trundle off the mountain and the road pulls away from the lip of the cliff.
“Why couldn't this treasure be buried a few yards off the Ring Road hey?”
She comes back at me in the tone of an old school Ma'am,
“Because it wouldn't be as much fun Will. Now don't be a grumpy old man.”
“I'd like to become a grumpy old man.”
Though this is only half true; I'm kind of indifferent to making old bones.
We pass a pimped, green Volkswagen T5 camper van at the side of the road. Two men wearing bright anoraks, cargo shorts and tights underneath are at the back end of it prepping fat wheeled mountain bikes.
“Looks like we aren't the only fools out here,” she says absently as if the greater part of her mind is absorbed in untangling a dense knot.
There are wilder more remote places in the world, but here on a sparsely populated jut of rock on the very western edge of Europe, facing an expanse of ocean and the emptiness Greenland beyond, it felt that foul deeds could be done, and how easy it would be for no one to get to know of them.
I'd been mulling a question in my head that I am uncertain I want the answer to. I suppose I do want to ask it, only I don't want a real ugly reply.
“I know money is certainly the answer; it is the motivation for most of the things people do, but you have a business that you love, why do you want to risk everything on what is likely a wild goose chase?”
“I could ask the same of you, and from where I'm sitting you've got more to lose than me.”
“Yes, you could but I asked first,” I said childishly invoking the law of the playground.
“Finding it would make my father proud of me. I'd complete a journey that he started …”
Toni tails off, seemingly unconvinced by her own story and then pulls the plug on it altogether. There is an uncomfortable pause which I don't fill. I give her time to get a grip on what she is about to say. Toni sucks her top lip and says,
“I need the money. I incurred debts setting up the shop and it is proving hard keeping my head above water. North Tonawanda has three ink shops and there are plenty of others nearby in Cheektowaga, Niagara Falls, Lockport and Buffalo. I got the loan on the new equipment, rent for the shop, rent for my apartment and the beat-up old car I drive keeps needing repairs. To add to this my father is sick and the medical insurance doesn't cover all the bills. I make money but I don't make enough.”
“What about Marcus?” I ask.
“Marcus Rocher, he's got his own financial problems. A big chunk of his cash goes up his nose and he loses more at the track and at the poker table. When I told him, he wasn't nearly as sceptical as you.”
“A drowning man will clutch at straws that's why, buy into any pipe dream. What about Jon, what is he in it for … glory or coin?”
“Jon's broke. He hasn't said as much but he says his pension from the Fisheries Department doesn't stretch far, and he complains about the upkeep costs on his boat. How about you, how are you fixed for money?”
“I'm good at the minute though I could have some worries down the line.”
I then realize that I hadn't given much thought to the financial aspect of losing my job. We had lived within our means and didn't owe anything to anybody, however that was with a Sergeant's wage. If they sent me down the road I wouldn't get close to that - I'd be earning peanuts stacking shelves somewhere. Maybe I ought to take a fair cut and then it wouldn't matter what I did.
After a jarring ride we reach the point of the peninsula and the track bears left across its rocky crown. Gulls sail high on the winds above and swoop like dive bombers into the sea. An undulating dark iron sea ripping white across the surface and pounding furiously into the shore. I see the lighthouse and a spike of adrenaline comes with it. Expectantly I survey the uneven, craggy terrain and disappointingly that is all there is.
The lighthouse is different from the tall white towers dotting the coast of the British Isles. With a red housing on top and a yellow support block underneath it appears dumpy by comparison. I notice an integral metal rung ladder running up the side to a platform where the housing is set. I stop the Ranger next to it.
“This is a good vantage point,” I say. “If they are nearby we should be able to spot them.”
“And them us,” she retorts.
“No risk no reward,” I encourage, smiling at my memories of this in action.
The wind ruffles our clothing trying to cause mischief as we climb up the bare metal rungs to the platform. On top I smell the salt in the unspoiled air and listen to the cries of the gliding gulls.
Toni adjusts the binoculars to her eyes and scopes the landscape.
“Any sign?” I ask.
“Nope, just a lot of shit spattered rocks.”
There isn't the time or mood to appreciate the view and we climb back down to the Ranger.
Back in the cab I break open another Red Bull and say to Toni,
“Are you sure of the location?”
“Yes. I heard Jon talking about Svalvogar and the lighthouse and it is near there, so it must be further on. They can't have found and dug it up yet.”
Toni squints her eyes a little, her brow furrowing in question of her recollection. I had often doubted that most fallible of our faculties myself. There were events I had forgotten and memories of things I'm pretty sure I'd imagined. Playfully I offer,
“Do you think the gambler pressed his luck and drove through the night?”
“He might have, or he could have gone back for Adam and be behind us.”
“That didn't work out so well last time,” I reply.
It felt like a game of cat and mouse, where the cat and mouse switched around – one day Tom the other day Jerry, and sooner or later whoever is Jerry is going to get fucked for good.
“Let's go on,” she says.
“Aye, aye Captain,” and we roll on.
Chapter 17
Jacked on caffeine and nervous energy twenty mile per hour is just too slow when you need to cut loose, and I'm piling up on myself like a derailed train. I grip the steering wheel and exert forces on it, venting my frustration when we hit another hairy section of the route and the speedometer drops down to five. I blow air through my nose like a bull, and keep my hands throttling the wheel, instead of beating and breaking something.
We reach a stretch of clear track and pick up speed and I start to loosen up a little. Then the road tilts downward in a long gradual descent along the margin of the Fjord. The sun having poked out from the white puffy clouds shimmers on the wrinkled water, and you could almost forget what you are here for. The thick tread tyres chew up the dry dirt into a dust cloud and we cut through a nascent, shallow stream that has yet to properly scar the mountain. The road runs to a point and ahead I see an odd rock formation. The mountain slopes and stops abruptly, there is a gap, sizeable as a mythic gateway and then a huge nub of rock like a bolt stiff nipple the other side - and what is beyond is unknown.
I push down on the accelerator and steer towards it, racing the sheer faced mountain wall that looms over us threatening to crash like a Hawaiian wave. I take my foot off the gas and ease through the passage and still almost smash into it. The tyres crunch the rocky dust and the Ranger comes to a halt less than twenty yards away.
◆◆◆
It is stationary and askew as if it had come to a stop in a rush. For a split second I don't fully process what I see. A vacant gunmetal Mitsubishi Warrior the underbelly and flanks coated with dust and dirt, the rear right door dinked and scuffed of paint. I double check that my eyes haven't deceived me and that it is empty. Meanwhile, Toni flings opens the door and leaps out like she is parachuti
ng from a plane. She strides towards the Warrior and elegantly skips into a twirl like some love-struck teenager, her head canted to the cliff top, her ice blue eyes taking everything in.
I get out and pull the spade off the back seat and stand guard. I watch Toni's right hand dip into a jacket pocket and take something out. I see both hands together at work and hear a faint snap. She places a spread hand against the rear door and stabs the tyre rapidly in three places. She leaves the tyre hissing from puncture wounds and moving onto the front tyre, swiftly injects it with steel. Amid a cacophony of sibilating air, she whips around the other side and bleeds out the other two. I am wrongfully impressed and keep lookout less than I ought.
She struts back wearing a lopsided grin, the lock knife in hand; its black blade compact and business like.
“That's them fucking stranded,” she declares proudly.
“Done like a boss,” I compliment.
“Am I the boss then?”
“I suppose you are, I'm dancing to your tune aren't I?”
“And do you like the tune?” she asks vampishly.
I stick my tongue into my bottom lip and shake my head.
“Stop fishing for compliments we've got a bad guy to find.”
“They've likely climbed over the hill to find the exact location,” and she waves yonder across the ridgeline.
I wander over to the Warrior, take off a glove and put the palm of my hand on the bonnet. It is lukewarm and I figure that the engine underneath has been idle for twenty to thirty minutes. I walk back to Toni and say,
“It would be a good idea if we hide the Ranger or they could do the same to us.”
I swing back into the cab, make a three-point turn and exit the ravine. I take the Ranger three hundred or so yards up the track and park it in a nook where it widens. Toni pushes the twined axe handle into her rucksack leaving the small, dark age head partially exposed underneath the flap. The metal of which is weathered grey and chipped - chipped perhaps over a millennium ago splitting open the skull of an enemy.
We hike back with Toni carrying the metal detector and I with the spade in support. I am cautious going through the ravine and my eyes search the top in anticipation of being clobbered by a hurled rock. Toni sees a thin sheep track staggered on the hill and we make for it. The shin aches and bitches more today and I wince with nearly every steep step. Pain sweat appears on my brow and breaks out on my back in a flush, and I am sure by this stage I stink. I plod on, harassed by doubts I'm not up to the fight ahead.
Near the top I lower into a crouch and then go on to my knees and my shin hurts less. At the peak I lay on my front and prop myself up with an elbow. I use the binoculars and take time scoping the ground. The top doesn't level for far before there is a long escarpment to a low interceding hill with a rise beyond it. I sweep the binoculars the full field of view and don't see anything. I am about to get up when I see figures emerging from above the low hill climbing the rise to its twin peaks. The peaks are almost identical and look like two waves at their zenith rolling inland. I'm thinking that it is a unique feature when Toni whispers excitedly,
“That is it, the mountain with the curling peaks … that is it!”
Chapter 18
At times twelve magnification I can see them clearly. There is Marcus in his svelte, ribbed jacket with a spade slung across his shoulder, a stooped, shaggy haired old man in a brown duffle coat, and the mysterious woman with a Mediterranean complexion, outfitted in grey carrying a detector. I watch Marcus hand the old man an object. I get a better perspective seeing the old man marvel at the brooch as he inspects it through a range of angles. He holds it up framing it against the mountain, then steps back, and moves sideways like he is trying to take the perfect camera shot. I then see old man Einarsson shake his grey white mane and point ahead. They continue, and I am worried to see Marcus tackling the hill with the grace of a gazelle. The woman is lithe too and Einarsson, though slower is still spry.
Toni wriggles in beside me.
“What can you see?”
“Marcus has given Jon the brooch and he has been trying to line it up. I think they are making their way over to the other side of the summit.”
“I've been examining the terrain Will and there is a flatter, easier route to the left.”
I look myself and could see that we are on the rim of a wonky bowl. To our left the rim rose sharply and then swept gently downward for the most part, curving into the shoulder of the twin peak mountain opposite. They had dropped into the bowl to frame the brooch, but the quicker route is around the rim.
“I like it Toni, we can flank them and if we pick our spot well, maybe we get the drop on them,” and as I said it I knew it to be a long shot on open, barren ground.
We wait for them to disappear over the other side. Toni withdraws the axe and starts slaying the air with practice chops and slashes. Her face is steeled and prepared for mayhem, her strong arms and core handling the axe with ease. Watching her it is evident that a light, utilitarian axe is simply better at swiftly hacking a resisting human being to pieces, than the ponderous, oversized battle axes beloved of fantasy – and I ruminate that appearances can be deceptive, and like many things in life less is often more.
“Got an axe to grind?” I quip not able to resist the awful pun, and as I've come to expect she is lightning quick on the comeback.
“No, I'm the forgiving sort I'm going to bury the hatchet,” she replies with not so innocent sincerity.
“Where though that's what concerns me,” I say dryly.
“I'm a perfect nightmare, an ex with an axe.”
And I had to agree this was going to go sideways no two ways about it.
◆◆◆
We set off armed with a piece of Viking history and a garden tool, and in my mind I hear the dice clinking in the shot glass. I call on the last reserves of adrenaline and we cover the ground, watched over by a low autumn sun squinting through gaps in thin monochrome cloud. When we get close I slip off my coat and gloves to be unencumbered as possible and drop to my haunches. Toni copies me stripping light and before I can signal for her to drop down she does. I cradle the spade like it were my rifle and commando crawl over the cold, dewy grass to the ridgeline of the mountain's shoulder.
I peek over, and the descent on the other side is a kind sweep over scrubby grass, that is balding with dirt and pimpled with small gnarled rock. The woman now has the brooch held in front of her like it is a camera phone and Marcus is nowhere to be seen. Jon stands behind her with his hands stuffed into coat pockets dejectedly staring downward into the ground. If Adam was sent to dispose of Toni then would what they had planned for Jon be any different? And did he suspect as they zeroed in on the prize that his minutes were now numbered, like sand grains seeping through a flipped hourglass? Perhaps he contemplates the hole dug to get the gold, will serve another purpose and become an anonymous grave.
I divert my attention from Jon and the woman and search the slope for Marcus. I can't see him, and a prick of panic makes me think he is on to us and could be outflanking us now. I spin around and startle Toni and my alarm is infectious. Our eyes rake the terrain like a pair of cross-eyed antennae until we are satisfied that we are safe for the moment, however fleeting that moment maybe. I get back into position and when Marcus appears at the woman's side, I realize that he had merely been eclipsed by her.
The woman nods her head, and Marcus with the detector and the spade in each hand hikes diagonally up the hill in our direction. I press the left side of my face into the earth and hear my heart thump inside my ear, and the fast, thumping beats become a tense metronome. Is he going to climb over the shoulder and stumble over us I fret? I think, and remember the cross is south east of the peaks. I give it a long minute and edge my eye over to see Marcus walking backwards up the hill. He stops and takes several pronounced sidesteps to his left. He then paces a dozen steps forward and two further sidesteps left.
“There, stop there!” the woman holle
rs.
Marcus holds the spot and discards the spade. With his back to me he fiddles with the detector and I think about making my move. I cast a practised eye over the distance and estimate the range to the target to be between sixty and seventy yards. There is absolutely no cover for a stalk, and I envisage the odds of reaching him with a mad charge down the hill before he would notice. Slim chance of that - about the same as a smack head making his job seekers allowance last two weeks. Marcus would notice, but would he have enough time to effectively react to a shock assault?
Marcus takes a packet out of his pocket and hinges the lid open. He puts his lips to the top and pulls out a cigarette. The packet goes back and out comes a zip lighter which flames with a sharp flick of the wrist. The cigarette is lit, and a puff of smoke rises, and with the cigarette perched from his lips he swings the detector in arcs over the ground in ever increasing circles. I continue to watch transfixed if he will find the prize.
“What's happening?” whispers Toni.
“They've found the spot and Marcus is using the detector to locate it. Get ready to go!”
From a one eyed slant I see Marcus suddenly stop mid swing and hover the detector in small circles. He shouts excitedly down the hill,
“I found something!”
He places the detector down and I realize he's going back for the spade and that the ideal moment is passing. With my palms pressed into the earth I explode to my feet and sprint down the mountain. The sky shakes, my shin bursts pain and my breath comes hard and bloody in the cold morning air. I grimace hurt, I grimace grief, I grimace war, I grimace the point of my existence where it could end - I hurtle down the hill right on the edge of falling.
At thirty yards I see Marcus lean for the spade, stubby cigarette in mouth, his tattooed hand grasping for the handle. Four to five seconds and I will be on him with the decisive blow. At twenty-five I suddenly see the rock, a bulbous rock the size of a big beach ball lodged in the ground, just three yards in front. I adjust my step and leap for it with my good leg. I plant my foot on the top and push off. I hit the ground and a spasm of pain shoots upwards through my bad leg. I stumble wonky legged and bent over fighting to stay on my feet. I steady and raise my head somewhere between twenty and fifteen yards. I see Marcus open mouthed and aghast, the almost spent cigarette dropping from his lips. I hear a war scream from behind, and Marcus is on his heels back peddling, tripping over, rolling off his back and on to his feet, turning tail and running.
