My Soul to Take: A Novel of Iceland (4 page)

Birna tried to smile as she recalled the behavior of Eirikur, the resort's aura expert, when she had arrived a week before. He had grasped her upper arm and whispered that her aura was black. She should watch out. Death was after her. She frowned at the memory of his foul breath.

Five minutes had passed. He'd be getting a piece of her mind for this. She could have been working: there was a lot to do and her time was precious. If she had not received the text message, she would have spent this time working on the plans for the new building, and maybe she'd have reached a conclusion by now. It was supposed to stand by itself, a short way from the main building. For some reason she had still not been able to decide on the exact location. There was something about the place she had chosen that disturbed her. That wasn't quite it: there was something about the spot that struck her, something that did not quite fit, although she had no idea what it was. She had asked several of the hotel employees whether they could see anything odd about that patch of land, but in vain. Most of them had answered the question with a more obvious one: "Why don't you choose another place if this one disturbs you? There's plenty of land here." But they didn't understand her. They understood the relative configurations of the constellations. Birna, on the other hand, understood the relative configurations of buildings. This was the location; any other was out of the question.

The birds' squawking intensified again, but Birna was too deep in thought to notice properly. She threaded her way carefully along the rocks toward the gravel path above the beach. Suddenly she stopped in her tracks and listened. She could hear crunching in the pebbles behind her. She began to turn, looking forward to venting the anger that had been building up inside her since she got there. About fucking time.

Birna did not manage to turn around completely. Even over the noise of the birds on the cliff she clearly heard the rock swishing through the still sea air toward her head, and caught a glimpse of it as it struck her forehead with terrible force. She did not see anything more in this life, but she felt many things. In a vague and dreamlike state, she felt herself being dragged along the rough terrain. She felt the goose bumps that the cold fog brought out on her bare flesh as her clothes were removed, and she felt nauseous as she tasted the ferrous tang of blood in her mouth. Her socks were pulled off and she felt a terrible pain on the soles of her feet. What was happening? It was all like a dream. A voice she knew well was ringing in her ears, but given what was happening, that couldn't be right. Birna tried to speak, but couldn't produce the words. A strange groan came out of her throat, but she had not groaned. How very strange all this was.

Before everything turned black, it occurred to her that she would never read about the origin of Mount Kirkjufell. Oddly enough, this hurt the worst of all.

The same pair of gulls that Birna had watched plunging into the sea for food were waiting farther along the beach, watching what was done to her through the mist. Patiently they waited for calm to return. The beach and the sea look after their own. No one here has to starve.

Chapter 3

Friday
, 9
June
2006

I
Can’t understand
what's become of Birna," muttered Jonas, reaching for a floral-patterned cup containing the elixir whose praises he had just been singing to Thora. This was a special brew of tea from local herbs that, according to Jonas, cured all manner of ailments and ills. Thora had accepted a cup and taken a sip, and judging from the taste, the tea must have been exceptionally wholesome.

"I would have liked the two of you to meet," he added, after taking a mouthful and placing the cup down carefully on the saucer. There was something quite ridiculous about this, for the cup and saucer were so oddly delicate, bone china with a slender handle that looked even smaller in Jonas's big hands. He was far from delicately built—big-boned without being fat, weather-beaten and with an air of one who would rather swig strong coffee from a mug onboard a trawler than sip undrinkable herbal tea from a ladylike cup following a yoga class.

Thora smiled and made herself comfortable in her chair. They were in Jonas's office at the hotel, and her back ached after driving up west. The Friday traffic had been heavy, and it didn't help that she had had to drive her children to their father's house in Gardabaer on her way out of town. The traffic had crawled along as if every single resident of the capital were on exactly the same route. Although this was not officially his weekend to have the children, Hannes had offered to swap because he would be abroad at a medical conference the following weekend. Consequently Thora had decided to take Jonas up on his offer and spend the weekend at the New Age spa hotel on Snaefellsnes. She was going to use the opportunity to relax, have a massage and unwind, as Jonas had suggested, but the main purpose of her trip was of course to dissuade him from claiming compensation for the supposed haunting. Thora wanted to end the conversation as quickly as possible and go to her room for a nap.

"She'll turn up," Thora said, just for the sake of saying something. She knew nothing about the architect; the woman could easily be a raving alcoholic who had fallen off the wagon and would not be seen for weeks.

Jonas huffed. "It's not like her. We were meant to go over the draft plans for the new building this morning." He flicked through some papers on his desk, clearly annoyed with the architect.

"Couldn't she just have popped back to Reykjavik to fetch something?" Thora asked, hoping he would stop talking about this woman. The ache in her back was beginning to spread to her shoulders.

Jonas shook his head. "Her car's outside." He slammed down both hands on the edge of the desk. "Anyway. You're here at least." He smiled. "I'm dying to tell you about the ghost, but that will have to wait until we have more time." Glancing at his watch, he stood up. "I have to do my rounds. I make it a rule to talk to my staff at the end of every day. I have a better sense of the operations and the situation if I know about any problems from the very start. That makes it easier to intervene."

Thora stood up, delighted to be free. "Yes, by all means. We'll talk about it tomorrow. Don't worry about me. I'll be here all weekend and there's plenty of time to discuss it." As Thora slung her bag over her shoulder, she noticed an awful smell and wrinkled her nose. "What's that stink?" she asked Jonas. "I smelled it out in the car park too. Is there a fish-oil factory near here?"

Jonas took a few deep breaths. Then he looked at Thora with a blank expression. "I can't smell anything. I suppose I've got used to the god-damn stench," he said. "A whale has washed up just down the beach from here. When the wind's in a certain direction, the smell wafts over the grounds."

"What?" Thora said. "Do you just have to wait for the carcass to rot away?" She pulled a face when another wave of the stench swept in. If only the problem she was here to deal with was something like this, it would be a cinch.

"You get used to it," Jonas said. He picked up the telephone and dialed a number. "Hi. I'm sending Thora over. Have someone show her to her room and fix a massage for her this evening." He said goodbye and put the receiver down. "If you go to reception, I've reserved you the best room, with a lovely view. You won't be disappointed."

A young girl accompanied Thora from the reception to the much-praised room. She was so small that she barely reached up to Thora's shoulder. Thora disliked letting such a slip of a girl carry her bag for her, but had no say in the matter. She was glad that her luggage was not that heavy, even though, as always, she had brought far too much with her. Thora was convinced that different laws applied on holiday from everyday life, that she would wear clothes that she normally neglected in her wardrobe, but she always ended up in the same clothes as usual. She followed the girl down a long corridor that appeared wider than it was because of the skylight that ran its length. The evening sun shone on the thin, fair hair of the girl in front of her.

"Is this a fun place to work?" Thora asked, making small talk.

"No," replied the girl without turning around. "I'm looking for another job. There's just nothing going."

"Oh," said Thora. She had not expected such a frank answer. "Are the people you work with boring?"

The girl looked back over her shoulder without slowing her pace. "Yes and no. Most of them are all right. Some are real idiots." The girl stopped by one of the doors, fished a plastic card out of her pocket, and opened it. "But I'm probably not the best judge. I'm not too keen on the bullshit they try to feed the guests."

For the hotel's sake, Thora hoped that this girl did not have much contact with the customers. She wasn't exactly the world's best sales-woman. "And is that why you want to quit?" she asked.

"No. Not exactly," the girl answered, showing Thora into the room. "It's something else. I can't explain exactly. This is a bad place."

Thora had entered the room first and couldn't see the girl's face as she said this. She couldn't tell if she was serious, but the tone of her voice suggested that she was. Thora looked around the beautiful room and walked over to a wall of glass overlooking the ocean. Outside was a small terrace.

"Bad in what way?" she asked, turning to look at the girl. The view implied quite the opposite; the waves glistened beyond an empty, peaceful beach.

The girl shrugged. "Just bad. This has always been a bad place. Everyone knows that."

Thora raised her eyebrows. "Does everyone know that? Who's 'everyone?' " If the place had a bad reputation that the sellers knew about but had neglected to mention, it might provide some flimsy grounds for a compensation case.

The girl looked at her with the scorn only a teenager can muster.
"Everyone,
of course. Everyone here, anyway."

Thora smiled to herself. She didn't know the population of the southern coast of Snafellsnes, but knew that the word "everyone" could not cover many people. "And what is it that everyone knows?"

Suddenly the girl became evasive. She thrust her hands into the pockets of her far-too-large jeans and looked down at her toes. "I've got to go. I shouldn't be talking to you about this." She spun around and walked out into the corridor. "Maybe later." In the doorway she stopped and looked imploringly at Thora. "Don't tell Jonas I've been gossiping about this. He doesn't like me talking to the guests too much." She rubbed her left hand between the thumb and index finger. "If I want to be able to find work, I need a reference. I want to work at a hotel in Reykjavik."

"Don't worry. I'm not an ordinary guest. I'll tell Jonas that you've been particularly helpful and ask his permission to talk to you properly when things are quieter. Jonas asked me to come here to investigate various matters. I think you can help me, and that would help him too." Thora looked at the girl, who glared at her suspiciously. "What's your name, anyway?"

"Soldis," the girl replied. She stood in the doorway for a moment, as if unsure what to do, then smiled weakly, said goodbye and left.

BERG
UR KEMSON
walked
at a leisurely pace
, even though
he knew that his wife was waiting for him at home with his nightly coffee. He preferred to spend the evening alone in the great outdoors rather than sitting at home with her in oppressive silence and fake marital bliss. He groaned at the thought. They had been married for twenty years, on reasonably good terms, but there had never been much passion between them, not even during their short courtship. They weren't that way inclined, or at least she wasn't. He had only recently discovered that side to his character—a little late to realize it, at forty. Life would doubtless have treated him differently had he found out before he married Rosa, the albatross around his neck. Perhaps he would have gone to Reykjavik to study instead. As a young man, he had taken delight in the Icelandic language, although he had never hinted at it to anyone. There was little to test the intellect of a lonely farmer. He scanned the eider nests mournfully. The recent cold snap had taken its toll on the ducklings. There would be fewer nests next year.

He walked on. In the distance he saw the hotel roof above the rocks on the beach. Silently he focused on it and tried to picture what went on inside, but he couldn't imagine. He shrugged and continued on his way. As he was feeling depressed, he decided to take the longer route home, via the bay. This was not completely random, because he wanted to know how the hatching seabirds had fared during the cold spell. Quickening his pace, he trudged on, deep in thought. The hotel was behind the emotional crisis that had seized him. If it had not been built, he would have gone on with his life, reconciled to it, neither happy nor sad. He could never form a firm opinion about what went on there, as in its way it had brought him too much joy and too much confusion for him to be able to think logically about it. Spotting a nest, he approached it slowly. Two tiny ducklings were lying dead inside. The mother eider was nowhere to be seen, so perhaps the cold had killed her too.

In the bay, the story was the same. He saw a few chicks in the nests resting on each ledge. Perhaps that was some consolation. Next year the eider and the scavenging seabirds would still be evenly matched. Turning from the cliff, he headed toward the farm. He walked slowly, reluctant to arrive. Not even the stench from the beached whale upset him; it suited his mood. Bergur quickened his pace slightly. Perhaps he should rush home and tell Rosa that he had found another woman. More fun, cleverer, prettier, and younger too. A better woman than her in every way. For an instant, it seemed the right thing to do. He would give Rosa everything—the farm, the cattle, the horses, the eider colony. He would not have any use for them in his new, happy life. Then this dreamlike vision faded. Rosa could not run the farm by herself and would hardly rejoice at the news. She had never been particularly impressed by the countryside or the farm, greeting everything with the same flat expression bordering on indifference. The only thing that got a reaction out of her was the cat. The same went for their married life: she was never furious, never ecstatic. The strange thing was that he used to be exactly the same, but now he was a completely different man.

At the beachhead he stumbled and looked down in surprise. As a rule he was sure-footed and confident, with a knack for negotiating the rounded boulders and slippery seaweed. Looking down, he noticed something that he had never seen on the beach before among all the oddities that had washed up over the years. For a start, it was a much larger bed of seaweed than he had ever seen washed ashore in the bay. More important, a human arm could be seen through the seaweed. There was no doubt about that. The fingers were curled and twisted in a way that no doll or mannequin manufacturer would have wanted to reproduce. Bergur bent down and the acrid stench of blood filled his nose. He jumped back. The smell had probably escaped when he'd uncovered the soft, slimy seaweed with his foot, and the metallic smell of blood was so powerful that the stench from the rotting whale paled in comparison. Bergur put his arm over his nose and mouth to avoid inhaling the foul air.

He straightened up, since there was little he could do for the person under the seaweed. He could see the outline of a body under the weed, and patches of white flesh were showing through. Once he had discerned the shape of it, it was so obvious that he was amazed he hadn't noticed it immediately. Since he never took his mobile with him, there wasn't much he could do but rush home and call the police. Perhaps the coast guard should be called out as well. They would enjoy being involved. He breathed through the sleeve of his coat to stave off the smell of blood, then stiffened. He recognized the ring on the swollen finger.

Bergur fell to his knees. Oblivious to the smell, he grabbed the ice-cold hand to be certain. Yes, that was her ring. He moaned and began to tear the seaweed away from where he imagined the head to be, but stopped when he realized there was no face. He could tell from the corpse's familiar hair that his dream of a happy new life was over.

T
hora
was trying to unwind. Lying on her stomach, She
m
ade an effort to relax, or rather to concentrate on appearing relaxed, because she didn't want the masseuse to think otherwise. The latter was a stringy, muscular woman, slightly younger than Thora. She was wearing white canvas trousers, a pale green T-shirt, and orthopedic sandals on her feet. She had painted her toenails with light blue polish. Thora did not make a habit of scrutinizing that part of people's anatomy, but the toes kept appearing as she lay on the bench with her face positioned in a hole at one end.