The Flight of Gemma Hardy (40 page)

Beyond the village rough moorland stretched in all directions. Save for a few sheep and ponies I was utterly alone. Berglind had told me that before Iceland converted to Christianity, the god Thor had lived on Helgafell. Later it had been the home of Gunner, the heroine of one of the sagas. Icelanders hoped to be taken into the mountain when they died. I came round one more bend and there, to my left, rising out of the flat landscape, was Helgafell. A track led from the road past a small lake to the mountain. As I pedalled along I counted a dozen swans swimming on the windy water. Near the foot of the hill I leaned the bike against a fence. A sheep path zigzagged up through the long grass. Soon the grass gave way to rocks, large and small, and in the distance I could make out the colourful houses of the village and beyond the islands in the bay. A small stone ruin, the remains of a shepherd's hut or hermit's cell perhaps, marked the summit. The wind rushed in my ears as if it had come all the way from Scotland.

I was heading down the path to the east when I heard a soft cry. Two ravens were rising and falling in the wind—Thor and Gunner, I thought—but I was careful not to follow their flight too far. I must not look back. I started walking again, stooping now and then to pick ripe blueberries; they had a faint bitter taste.

“Gemma,” called a voice. “Wait for me.”

“Who is it?” I stopped to scan the empty hillside. “Where are you?”

A sheep raised its head. The two ravens circled.

“Where are you?” I repeated. But only the birds and the wind answered.

Presently I began walking again. This was not like the muffled shout in the hailstorm. I had heard the words clearly and recognised their speaker instantly. Mr. Sinclair was looking for me, was still looking for me, and I could no longer deny that I was glad. Since I stole out of the hotel in Kirkwall, I had learned that I too was capable of lying to get what I wanted, or to avoid what I dreaded. I had betrayed my uncle's ideals. And perhaps, it came to me now, he felt that he had too: pretending to marriage and fatherhood. As I circled the base of the mountain back to where I had left the bicycle, I realised that, like my aunt and my father, I had lost my wishes.

W
hen Berglind returned from work I told her and Kristjana that near the top of the mountain a sheep had startled me; I had looked back.

“Too bad,” said Berglind.

“You are in the family tradition,” said my aunt. She set aside her knitting and clasped her hands. “I have thought about this all day, and there are two things I must tell you. Berglind, you must translate without comment and you must, both of you, forgive me for not telling you sooner. The truth is, I am ashamed. I liked Agnes, but something unfortunate happened. The first time I met her I saw how she would die. I did not know what to do. I tried to warn her not to walk on the rocks; I tried to warn Einar. But rocks are everywhere. How could I warn her against them? So I could not be friends with your mother because I was always wondering if there was something I could do to save her.

“Then one day, soon after she became pregnant, I told her what I'd seen.”

“What did she say?” I couldn't imagine the bewildering conversation.

“She was angry, and she was frightened.” My aunt pressed her hands to her temples, as if the memory still pained her. “She made me promise not to tell Einar, but I think that was why she went back to Scotland for your birth, and why she made your uncle promise to take care of you if anything happened. What I described, her pleasure in Iceland, that was true, but her pleasure grew less after I spoke.”

“What about my father?”

“Did I see his death? Happily, no. I was able to enjoy his company until the last day of his life. I never see things about my close family. I see nothing for Berglind or her brothers, or Ulfur.”

“And,” I had to ask, “what about for me?”

Kristjana lowered her hands and leaned slightly forward. “I do not need to see the future to know that you are a very determined person. Your determination will bear fruit. Now the second thing.”

Gradually, as I heard her begin sentences, break them off, begin again, it dawned on me that my aunt was embarrassed. My parents, she said, had owned their house, and when my father died, I had inherited it. After many delays it had been sold, the mortgage had been paid off, and the rest of the money put in a bank account for me.

“But why didn't anyone tell me?” I thought of all the times when even a small amount of money would have made a large difference.

“Two reasons,” said my aunt, “neither pretty. I wrote to your uncle with Berglind's help—it was more than four years later—and he wrote back saying it would be better to keep the money here for you until you were of age. He gave me your Scottish name for the bank. Any money, he said, might make war with your aunt. We wrote again when you became eighteen to the address we had, but no letter came back.”

Yet another of my aunt's betrayals. Even as I opened my mouth to denounce her, Isolfur, or one of his brothers, neighed, and in the few seconds that followed I suddenly knew, as clearly as if I were standing in Edinburgh, the answer to the question I had pondered at Hallie's. My anger was too late; there was a new grave beside my uncle's and his brother's. “I'm sorry,” I said. “And the second reason?”

Kristjana turned towards the window where the sun was still high above the rooftop of their nearest neighbour. “Our life here is not easy. One winter Ulfur broke his arm and could not work. And you see how it is with me. Besides my knitting I can do nothing that makes money. I borrowed from you—nearly seventy thousand kronur—and I have never been able to pay it back. I am most sorry.”

Beneath Berglind's wide-eyed gaze I jumped up and kissed my aunt. The idea of being owed money by someone I loved was almost better than the idea of owning money.

T
he next morning all four of them came to see me off on the bus back to Reykjavik. My hand disappeared into first Ulfur's, then Gisli's large grasp. Berglind lifted me up and swung me round. “One summer Gisli and I will come to see you in Scotland,” she said. “And you must come here. We will sail out to Flatey and visit the birds.”

“I would like that,” I said. “Please translate one more time.”

I turned to my aunt. “Since my uncle died I've been a friend, a pupil, a maid, an au pair, but I've never had a family. Thank you for making me feel like a daughter again, and a niece, and a cousin.”

Kristjana smiled and touched my cheek. “Berglind and Ulfur say you have your father's nose,” she said. “And we all say you have your mother's spirit. Come and see us again soon, Fjola. Listen to the voice of Helgafell.”

They stood waving as the bus pulled away. Only when they were out of sight and we hit the first pothole did I understand how she had dodged my question of the night before. She had foreseen my arrival; she knew about the voice on the wind.

chapter thirty-three

B
esides the black stone and the scallop shells, and the photograph of my parents, I carried with me two copies—one in my notebook and one in the pocket where I kept emergency funds—of the details of my bank account, which, now that I was nineteen, was entirely at my disposal. Kristjana had explained that there were several branches of the bank and suggested I visit the one in the centre of Reykjavik when I got off the bus. I had never been in a bank before, and as I stepped into the lofty room, I kept expecting a policeman to tap me on the shoulder, but no one seemed to find my presence strange. The woman behind the counter beckoned me forward and nodded pleasantly at the sight of my passport.

“A minute,” she said. “Please.”

“
Takk fyrir
,” I said as she disappeared into a back office.

She returned accompanied by a plump, cheerful-looking man wearing a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows. “Good afternoon,” he said. “Can I be of service?”

“You're from Scotland,” I exclaimed. His accent was much stronger than mine.

“No,” he said, sounding pleased, “but I studied at Edinburgh University for three years. How can I help?”

I explained about the account, that it had money, that the money was mine, and that I hoped to take it back to Scotland. To my amazement he nodded as if this were all quite ordinary. Did I want cash, in which case he would have to give me kronur? Or would I prefer a cheque, which could be in pounds?

Although I had often seen Marian write a cheque, I was still not entirely sure how they worked. I said that I wanted the money to be safe. “If I fall through the ice,” I joked, “or if someone steals my bag, I don't want to be penniless.”

“The cheque isn't the money,” he assured me. “It's the key to the door where the money is kept, and that key can only be used by you. Even if someone else gets hold of it, it won't turn.”

Kristjana hadn't said how much money was in the account, and while I waited I made a bargain with myself that, whatever the sum, I would not be disappointed. If there was enough to pay back the MacGillvarys and buy books for the first term of university, that would be wonderful. If there was more, enough, say, for a new winter coat and some boots, that would be even more wonderful. I could buy Robin a book about birds and get Marian the new kettle she'd said several times that we needed.

“Here,” the man said, sitting down beside me, holding out a rectangular piece of blue paper, “this is your name. This is your passport number, for extra security. And here”—he set some notes on the table beside me—“is the extra money in kronur. Four thousand pounds is what you Scots call a nice round sum. After the fees, that left eighteen hundred kronur.” He fanned out the brightly coloured notes. “I hope you can use it.”

“Four thousand pounds,” I whispered. “Are you sure you haven't made a mistake?”

“No. We are a very careful bank. The account has been gaining interest every year; little by little it grows. There has only been one withdrawal since it was opened.”

I took the cheque—my parents' house, my father's boat turned into a piece of paper too small even to make a paper boat—and put it carefully in my purse. Then he held out another sheet of paper and said here was the name and address of the bank, my account number, and his name. “If you fall through the ice, write, and I will rescue you. When you return to Scotland go to a bank—there is a nice one in Edinburgh in St. Andrews Square—and open an account. Your money will be safe, with a view of the castle, and you can get it whenever you want.”

If I had been Berglind, I would have lifted him into the air and carried him round the room. As it was I kissed him. “Oh, my goodness,” he said. He took off his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. Then I asked if he could direct me to a shop where I could buy flowers. He walked me to the door and pointed, diagonally, across the street.

For the next half-hour I wandered in and out of shops, studying cakes and caviar, leather belts and jewellery, sweaters and scarves. Finally I chose a dozen deep red roses, a jar of caviar, a cake, and four jars of jam for Hallie's neighbours. I found my way back past the bronze statue overlooking the harbour and down the hill, past the former prison, to the bus stop. Once again following the map her niece had drawn, I walked to her house. Hallie answered the door dressed in her familiar black.

“
Rosavin
,” she exclaimed as I handed her the roses. “No one has given me flowers since Eirikur died.”

My little room waited; the table was laid. While we ate, I told her almost everything. She congratulated me on my three new cousins, although two, I explained, didn't really count. From Berglind's silences and Kristjana's dismissive gestures, I had understood that they were not close to the brothers in Reykjavik. Some branches on the tree, I explained to Hallie, were less sturdy than others.

“So you have posthumous cousins,” she said, “but one good one is a lot. Did you remember your village?”

“The only thing I remembered was the kitchen floor of the house where we used to live. When I looked through the window, I remembered crawling across the linoleum.” I asked if she knew about Helgafell, and when she said yes, I described how my aunt and father had lost their wishes there and how I had too.

“When I met you,” she said, “you were wishing hard to find one relative and you found two. Maybe you got your wishes before you met the mountain.” Her bright brown eyes looked into mine as if there was something more that she wanted to say, but when she spoke again it was to suggest we try the cake.

T
he next morning, although it was only seven
,
Hallie insisted on walking me to the bus stop. “Don't forget,” she said, “to take your ticket to my niece, Nanna. She is working today and she is anxious to know what happened on your quest.”

I promised I would. And I promised to write and tell her when I was coming to Iceland next summer. That was another thing I had discovered money could be turned into: plans. “I couldn't have managed without you,” I said.

“I think that is true,” she said, accepting my thanks as she had the kronur I had handed her the night before. “Good luck at university, and with the people you meet. Next summer I will take you, or you will take me, to our famous hot springs.”

As the bus pulled away, she stood waving her small, gold-ringed hand. Until yesterday no one had ever waved me off on a journey. Now here was Hallie, like my aunt's family, casting a blessing on my travels. Perhaps the curse I had carried for so long was, finally, loosening its grip.

At the airport all the desks were busy; I joined the queue at Nanna's. I wasn't sure she would recognise me, but when my turn came to offer my ticket and passport she said, “Hello, Scottish girl. How was your visit?”

“My visit was very good, thanks to you and Hallie.” Quickly—people were waiting—I told her that I had found my father's family and my old home. “Could I sit by the window again?”

“It is already arranged,” she said with a smile. “Come again soon.”

In the lounge I stood looking out at the runway, the bleak lava fields, the distant mountains. Not far from Stykkisholmur, Berglind had told me, was the mountain of Snaefellsjökull, which the French writer Jules Verne had written about in
Journey to the Centre of the Earth
. “I did not like the story,” she had added, “but it was nice to see our mountain in a book.” I had promised to read it when I got back to Scotland.

The flight was announced, and I followed the small crowd through the doors, across the tarmac, and up the steps of the plane to my window-seat. In the row in front of me a woman and a girl sat down; their wavy hair was exactly the same shade of brown. Once again the seat next to me was empty. The day was clear and I hoped for a good view as we took off. Perhaps we would fly over the city and I would see the Hallgrimskirkja or even the little lake with the mallards. A voice said, “May I?”

Mr. Sinclair sat down beside me, fastened his seat belt, and, without another word, reached for my hand.

O
nly when we were safely airborne, when the roar of the engines had lessened, and we were out over the Atlantic, the city of Reykjavik and the smoky bay left behind, did he begin to talk. As he spoke, I examined him in sly glances, taking in his skin, so much paler than when we parted, his cheeks just a little thinner, his eyes, beneath their long lashes, at their darkest blue.

“I don't think you can imagine, Gemma, how I felt when I discovered you were gone. I'd been up all night thinking about what I could say to you.”

He had caught a plane to Inverness and followed me as far as Pitlochry, then lost the trail. He had telephoned police stations, churches, and libraries. He had checked hospitals and—his grip on my hand tightened—morgues. People had reported seeing me in Glasgow, Dunblane, Perth, Aberdeen. Each time he had travelled north, only to find some other young woman. As the weeks passed he had tried to persuade himself that I was fine, but he knew that I had little money, few friends, no family, no—

“How is Nell?” I interrupted.

“Nell,” he said. “She's flourishing. Thanks to you, she's doing well at the village school, and she's made friends. She asks about you every time we speak.”

Involuntarily my free hand moved to the place below my ribs where her fist had landed. “I thought she hated me.”

“No. She was sure it was all her fault you'd left. I told her it was mine.”

I was still smiling as I asked how he had found me in seat 9A.

“I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news”—his voice fell and again his hand tightened around mine—“but your aunt has died.”

My gasp was more of amazement than sorrow. After all my failures at telepathy, I had, it seemed, inherited a small portion of Kristjana's gifts. But there was no time to consider that now. Mr. Sinclair was already explaining that her death had set off a chain of phone calls. A woman named Mrs. Marshall had called Aberfeldy and, when she learned I was in Iceland, had—he didn't know why but was eternally grateful—called Blackbird Hall.

“Mrs. Marsden,” I corrected. So even as we both endured Louise's conversation, she had sensed some of what I couldn't say.

“I knew how you felt about Iceland,” he went on, “and I couldn't help hoping that meeting you here would be a second chance.” He had flown to Reykjavik the day before and, like me, had asked people at the airport if they could help him: Did anyone remember the arrival of a Scottish girl, travelling alone, in the last week? After questioning him closely, Nanna had agreed to arrange our meeting. “Thanks to her and her aunt, I have nearly three hours to persuade you not to run away again.”

I pulled my hand free of his and kept it, firmly, in my lap while I asked about Mrs. MacGillvary. Was she angry with me? As Mr. Sinclair said that he didn't know—he hadn't spoken to her directly—the air hostess set down trays of neat sandwiches. I couldn't help reaching for one.

“That's the easy part,” said Mr. Sinclair. “How we both got here. The hard part is can we get to a different place from the one in which you left me. I've had nearly a year to think about how I might make amends.”

I ate a delicious sandwich and then another while he told me that he was having the croft beyond the meadow rebuilt for Seamus. Maybe if he wasn't living in Alison's old home he'd be able to imagine a life without her. And Vicky was advertising for a couple to live in the house and help look after Nell.

“Can you afford all this?” I asked between bites. “Houses and jobs are expensive.”

“They are,” he said, sounding amused. “But when I haven't been looking for you, I've had my shoulder to the wheel. And this is still much cheaper than sending Nell to boarding school, which, you may recall, I promised not to do.”

His emphasis on “promised” made me eager to change the subject. I announced that I had got into Edinburgh University. “At least I'm pretty sure I did. The exams results aren't out until August.”

“That's terrific, Gemma. You must have worked very hard. If it weren't ten in the morning I'd ask the air hostess for champagne.”

It hadn't occurred to me that one could drink champagne on an aeroplane. “I did work hard. Studying was the only way I could imagine my life getting better.” It was the first hint I'd given of all I'd suffered since Maes Howe.

Mr. Sinclair nodded. “This is going to sound strange, but I had the feeling recently that you were in danger. A few months ago a minister in Pitlochry told the police you were safe and I stopped searching for you. But last week I dreamed we were back on the Brough of Birsay, standing on the edge of the cliff, watching the birds. Suddenly you announced you could fly. You kept moving closer and closer to the edge.”

He had dreamed about me, I realised, the night before I visited Archie. “Did you cry out to me?” I asked.

“Not then, not in the dream, but after Vicky phoned, I stood there in my study, begging you to wait.” He made a little noise and gazed down at his hands. “Were you looking for your father's family?”

“I was. And I found a cousin, Berglind, who's like Pippi Longstocking, strong and cheerful, and an aunt, Kristjana, who is blind but has second sight.”

“And did they call you by your Icelandic name?”

“Fjola Einarsdottir. Hallie, the woman who helped me, told me that it means ‘the violet daughter of he who fights alone.' ”

“Fjola,” he said, muddling the syllables as I had.

Back in his room at Blackbird Hall I had said I would tell him my Icelandic name on our wedding night. And, I now recalled, I had promised that nothing he had done could ever change my feelings. I remembered how insistent he had been in exacting the promise and how confidently I had made it, even—my cheeks burned—quoting Shakespeare. Useless to say that I had imagined he would confess to a mistress, or two; I had given my word, and I had broken it, like Gunner with Helga. I was thinking how to frame my apology when Mr. Sinclair said, “Excuse me.” With a click of his seat belt, he disappeared down the aisle.