The Voyage of the Dolphin (9 page)

Fitzmaurice eyed Rafferty with suspicion.

‘Since when were you a revolutionary?' he demanded.

‘I believe all nations should have the right to govern themselves. I've never made a secret of it,' Rafferty said.

‘And what exactly is it that you hope to achieve in two days?'

‘I can pass on the lessons learnt in Ireland, for a start,' he replied. ‘Anyway, I was thinking I might just stay here and join the struggle.'

‘
What?
' Fitzmaurice and Crozier halted. Rafferty turned to face them.

‘These people have been under the thumb of the Danes long enough. And besides,' he added, ‘we can't leave Phoebe here on her own.'

His companions exchanged glances. After a pause they walked on.

‘Wouldn't your own country be a better place to start?' Crozier said.

‘Ireland will rise up with or without me.'

‘Never,' Crozier said. ‘It'll never happen. The Irish are too busy fighting among themselves.'

They had reached the top of the street that led to the port. Below, in the main square, they could see Phoebe standing on a crate, addressing a small crowd of bemused fishwives who had stopped to eat hunks of bread in the sunshine. Freshly recruited to the cause, her interpreter, Bjork, was marching to and fro in front of the makeshift podium, beating her breast and shaking her fists at the heavens as though auditioning for a Greek tragedy.

As they watched, Sir Crispin's Viking nemesis from the previous day entered stage right, walking briskly, noticed the activity and veered towards it, halting a short distance away. He folded his arms. Seeing him, Phoebe broke off. The women turned as one to stare at him. Not a word was spoken. The silence swelled. A paroxysm of fear passed across the Viking's face, and appearing suddenly to remember an urgent appointment, he scuttled away. Phoebe resumed.

‘Please, call me Steingrimur.'

The Under-Secretary for Natural Resources extended a plump, neatly-manicured hand which Fitzmaurice hesitatingly took.

‘Stan—?'

‘—grimur.'

‘Pleased to meet you Stan Grimer.'

‘And you are the
fáviti
nephew – your uncle has told me all about you. Can I say, I very much like your neckwear.'

Fitzmaurice's bowtie, lent to him, despite sustained protest, by Sir Crispin to complete his improvised formal attire, was large and green, and had been tied far too tightly. As the night wore on it would increase its grip.

‘Thank you, it's—' Fitzmaurice began, but was pushed gently aside to make way for the next in line. This happened to be Phoebe, who had been decked out by Bjork in full traditional garb, including a black velvet tunic with silver buttons, a ruff, and a white, two-foot-high headdress in the shape of a forward-curving horn.

Steingrimur surveyed her with some pleasure.

‘Ah, the famous suffragette. We are indeed honoured,' he said, bowing low and clicking his heels. ‘I hear you addressed the women of the town this morning. You must tell me over dinner how you found them.'

‘Of course,' Phoebe replied, slightly nonplussed. ‘I'd be glad to.'

The queue moved again and, accepting a glass from the hovering waiter, she joined the other guests, among them the bishop, the chief justice, the chief physician and the under-secretary's wife. Nearby, several other dignitaries were receiving the close-up treatment from Sir Crispin who, with his freshly-oiled hair and antique lounge suit, had the air of an undertaker with designs on the widow. The word ‘puffin' hung in the air.

The reception was being held in a house built in high style for the country's colonial governors: enormous oil paintings, chandeliers, clusters of crystal glasses glittering along the length of a table hewn from primeval wood. Crozier found himself seated between the chief physician and the bishop, but barely had time to introduce himself before the toasts began, three in a row, generous helpings swiftly replenished, of a poteen-like spirit that tasted of pine sap. They drank to the young adventurers, wishing them Godspeed on their expedition, to the distinguished guests, and to Sir Crispin and the mutual trade benefits that would eventually result from his selfless endeavours.

‘My word, that's bracing,' Crozier said after the first tumblerful.

The bishop nodded and smirked. The soup arrived. On the other side of the table Fitzmaurice, his eyes starting to bulge from the effect of the schnapps on his constricted jugular, was explaining to the chief justice the difference between an iguana and a basilisk.

‘I believe they're related but the basilisk is much smaller and can run across water – that's why it's known as the Jesus Christ lizard – and it has a crest on its—'

‘And they are changing colour?'

‘No, that's a chameleon. Completely different. If you'd like to come aboard the
Dolphin
I could introduce you to Bridie.'

‘Thank you. That will not be necessary.'

Fitzmaurice clawed at his collar and mopped his puce forehead with a napkin. Glasses were refilled, discharged — S
kál!
— and topped up again. The soup bowls were taken away and replaced with platters of cold fish. The dress code for the occasion may have been formal but the atmosphere was relaxed and the babble of conversation soon rose to an almost festive pitch. Rafferty, his tongue already liberated, was apprising the under-secretary's wife of the ferment in his native land and empathising with the subjugation of her own people. Her expression, confused to begin with, graduated to one of haughty bemusement.

‘Well yes, but there
is
a difference,' she said at length. ‘You see, we've already had home rule for more than a decade.'

Rafferty's head jerked sideways.

‘But the Danish flags. They're all over the place.'

‘Pure laziness, I'm afraid,' she laughed. ‘We put them out for the king's visit six months ago and we just haven't managed to take them down yet.'

‘But you don't have full sovereignty?'

‘Not yet, but soon. It has been agreed.'

Rafferty stabbed a herring with his fork.

‘Your English is excellent,' Phoebe was saying to Steingrimur. ‘Really quite faultless.'

‘Thank you. Yes, I was educated in England – in Copenhagen also – but mainly in your country. But you'll find that most of us have the language to some degree. Now, tell me, how was your speech received?'

Phoebe adjusted her horn-hat, which was listing to one side.

‘It went very well. They seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say—' She paused while the waiters removed the plates and set down the next course.

Sir Crispin turned to Fitzmaurice. ‘Roast puffin, Hugh. See what you think. I'll be talking to Steinie's people later about an export licence.'

Fitzmaurice contemplated the burnished carcase in front of him. He was beginning to feel odd. Oaky purple wine was poured into goblets.

‘It's important that women are kept abreast of the suffragette struggle,' Phoebe continued. ‘No matter where they are—'

‘They did tell you that women here already have the vote?'

‘Yes, but only over the age of forty. That's not good enough—'

‘It's better than Britain.'

‘True, but—'

‘And America.'

‘Yes, but—'

‘And Germany and Russia.'

‘Granted, but—'

‘And, in fact, most of the rest of the world. Women are strong here, you see, because we are a seafaring nation. While the Vikings were away raiding and pillaging, women were holding the fort, running the farms, taking care of business, and that has paid off. How do you like the puffin?'

‘It's very good… Are you supposed to eat the beak?'

Further along the table, the bishop, whose upswept eyebrows and unblinking amber eyes gave him the look of some form of raptor, was regarding an oblivious Rafferty with some interest.

‘And you say he worships the statue every day?'

‘Oh yes,' said Crozier, who was unused to large quantities of strong liquor. ‘He keeps it wrapped in a shroud under his bed.'

The bishop shuddered.

‘Along with his relic,' Crozier added for good measure. ‘A length of St Celia's shin-bone.'

The bishop gave a woof of disgust.

‘You are aware that it was outlawed here for many years?' he said.

‘So I believe.'

‘Yes indeed. No Catholic priest was permitted to set foot on Icelandic soil for more than three hundred years.'

‘Quite right,' Crozier said, tearing off a puffin leg.

‘It's all changed now, of course. Now we have two Catholics on the island. We did have three but one converted. Loneliness, I think.'

‘How interesting,' Crozier said, taking a noisy slurp of wine.

‘We've done our best,' the bishop continued, ‘to dispel mistaken beliefs, but it's disappointing how much superstition still persists among the islanders.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Has Sir Crispin not spoken to you of the
huldufólk
?'

‘The which?'

‘The
huldufólk
? The hidden people?'

‘I don't think so.'

The bishop appeared surprised.

‘Really? It's all nonsense, of course, but it goes back a long way in our folklore. Tales of supernatural beings – spirits, elves, trolls — who live in the rocks, and beneath the hills. It's part of everyday life.'

‘How can people believe in things they can't see?' Crozier mused.

‘Oh but many claim they
have
seen them
and
talked to them, and in some cases even to have… well, never mind. The point is that such convictions are not compatible with Christianity.'

‘
Up the airy mountain, down
the rushy glen
,' Crozier sang, ‘
we dare not go a-
hunting for fear of little men
.'

‘What's this about
huldufólk
?' Sir Crispin demanded, leaning forward.

‘I was just saying,' the bishop said, raising his voice, ‘how we must eradicate this absurd belief in the non-existent.'

A hush descended. A piece of cutlery hit the floor. The waiters came to attention, decanters of wine suspended in mid-air. The moment elongated and then ballooned. At last, someone coughed.

‘That's as may be,' Sir Crispin said. ‘All I know is they've frightened off my workers and stopped me building my bureau.'

‘Sir Crispin, I assure you,' the under-secretary broke in, ‘that matter is in hand. You shall have your bureau.'

‘I'm also pretty sure they put a spell on my bloody ponies.'

Conversation resumed. Someone further up the table did an impression of some kind of farm animal.

‘That sounds intriguing,' Phoebe whispered. ‘What's he talking about?'

Steingrimur sighed.

‘Sir Crispin has fallen foul of local superstition. Despite repeated warnings he is insisting on having his consulate on land where some
huldufólk
are believed to live.'

‘Sorry, but what exactly are
huldufólk
?'

‘You would probably call them elves.'

‘Are they like leprechauns?' Fitzmaurice said. ‘Mother caught a leprechaun once, at least she thought it was, at the bottom of the garden eating her raspberries. Managed to trap it under a tarpaulin and knock it out with a spade, but, quite embarrassing actually, it turned out to be just a particularly ugly child from the village.'

‘…Yes,' Steingrimur continued, ‘otherworldly beings. They remain hidden most of the time but when they're threatened or their territory is damaged they can be very troublesome. Vindictive even.'

‘And what have they done this time?'

‘Sabotaged Sir Crispin's plans.'

‘Oh?'

‘Yes, it was all fine to begin with. The foundations went down well enough but then,' he shrugged, ‘missing equipment, strange noises, mysterious ailments. And then one day, for no reason, the scaffolding collapsed and the foreman's legs were broken. That was it, the workers downed tools.'

‘Blimey. So what happens now?'

‘We must bring in a mediator, a clairvoyant of sorts, to communicate with the
huldufólk
, to placate them and secure their blessing.'

‘What do these “hidden people” look like?'

The under-secretary laughed.

‘I've never seen one myself actually, but they are reputed to dress in green and come in various sizes: some are as big as humans, others – the flower elves, for example – are only a few inches tall.'

‘How extraordinary.' Phoebe thought for a moment. ‘Where did they come from? Have they always been here?'

‘There are various stories. My grandmother, for instance, told us they were the unwashed children of Eve. She said that, one day God decided to visit Eve, who, as you might expect, being the mother of creation, had many offspring. It was short notice and she flew into a panic trying to make them presentable, but she ran out of time. So what did she do? She hid the dirty ones so they wouldn't offend her special guest. He duly arrived and inspected her brood and was pleased. He then asked if there were any more but Eve, for shame, denied their existence. God, being of course omniscient, found out about them and determined that whatever humans tried to hide from him he would hide from humans.'

Trenchers of smoked mutton were set down, glasses recharged. The light outside had dimmed so extra candles were brought in and lanterns lit. Shadows chased each other across the ceiling beams.

‘
You
don't believe in this stuff, do you?' Phoebe continued.

‘Of course he doesn't,' the bishop interjected. ‘Only a
fáviti
would take such nonsense seriously.'

‘Only a
what?
' Fitzmaurice said, looking up.

‘Real or not, Reverend,' Steingrimur said with a smile, ‘tales of ghostly creatures and trolls keep our children from wandering too far.' He lifted his glass. ‘A toast, ladies and gentlemen,' heads turned, ‘to the
huldufólk .
May we live in peace with them.'

Sir Crispin and the bishop both muttered under their breath but drained their drinks nonetheless.

 

After rice pudding and another round of toasting, quiet was called for and an immensely old, goat-faced man in a grey cloak was ushered in and helped onto a high stool placed at the top of the room. He surveyed the company with mild disdain and then, in slow, narcoleptic Icelandic, proceeded to tell a story that seemed to Fitzmaurice, whose bowtie had now become a garotte, to last several hours.

At last, the old man's voice faded to a croak and the saga came to an end, prompting a cheer of relief. The waiters darted forward with refills.

‘A toast!' Rafferty cried. ‘To the people of Iceland.'

More salutations followed: to the King (no one was quite sure which); to women's rights; to the rebels; to the Kaiser; to the one true faith; to the Holy Trinity; to God; to cod; to Home Rule; to the King, again; to Icelandic sovereignty; to victory in Europe, and last (and, coming from the bishop, most controversial) to the under-secretary's wife's eyes.

Sir Crispin climbed unsteadily to his feet.

‘Time for wrestling,' he announced.

A shadow passed across Fitzmaurice's sweaty visage.

‘Oh no,' he moaned, holding his head in his hands. ‘Not wrestling. Not now.'

‘Come on, boy. Me and you. Just like Christmas in the old days.'

The honorary consul shrugged off his jacket and began rolling up his sleeves. He slapped his nephew on the back.