Season of the Witch (2 page)

We pull up and Jóa reaches into the back for her camera.

“She simply fell overboard. Quite suddenly. I don’t understand it,” says Sigurpáll.

Sigurpáll is a tall, heavyset man, middle-aged and weather-beaten, with bushy red hair and beard. On his craggy face the beard is just beginning to gray. Sigurpáll Einarsson, the owner of
Sigurpáll Einarsson Wilderness Tours Ltd
, appears to be powerfully built inside his bulky dry suit. But his lips are trembling.

“This has never happened to me before. Never. And everything had been going so well. The group was getting along fine.”

I’ve cornered him by the ambulance. “Were you in charge?” I ask him.

He slowly nods his shaggy head. Then shakes it, just as slowly, as if he has lost sight of his place in reality. There is so much distress all around that no one else seems likely to be more capable of providing information. I must try and get a clearer picture of what happened.

“What happened before the accident? What kind of trip was it?”

He is quiet for a while. “A wilderness tour. I’ve organized dozens, even hundreds of them, over the past five years. Exactly the same. We were going over the rapids on the Jökulsá River when she fell overboard from the raft. Just like that.”

“Isn’t it rather early in the year for white-water rafting? It’s a summer activity, isn’t it?” I ask.

“Yes, we don’t usually start till May. But the weather’s been so good. It’s been fine and windless, so two or three weeks either way doesn’t make any difference. The conditions today were perfect.
That wasn’t it. I was asked to organize a tour for the company, and I did it in the usual way. Team building, food and drink, white-water rafting on the glacial river, cliff-jumping, and so on. And the Jökulsá is tailor-made for beginners.”

“Drink? Alcoholic drinks?”

Sigurpáll sniffs. “We serve hot cocoa.”

I wait for him to go on. When he doesn’t, I ask: “Were they drunk?”

Sigurpáll is startled. There is suspicion in his brown eyes. “Who are you, anyway?”

“I’m Einar. I’m a journalist on the
Afternoon News
. We’ve opened an office in Akureyri.”

“Why don’t you stick to the scandals down south? Isn’t there enough dirt for you there?” he growls.

I don’t like the look of this. “The
Afternoon News
wants to improve its coverage of the drastic changes now being experienced in the regions,” I quote from an article published a few days ago in the paper by the editor, Hannes, “and provide a better service to the people who live there.”

“You’re not going to sensationalize this, are you?” he asks.

Now his voice is trembling, along with his lips.

“Not at all,” I reply, trying to appear cool. He’s clearly losing it. “I’m just looking for accurate information about this accident. The name of the company, for instance.” I look around at the gaggle of distressed people. Nobody looks intoxicated to me. I notice that Jóa is busy taking photos, but keeping a low profile.

“They’re from the Yumm
candy factory in Akureyri,” says Sigurpáll reluctantly.

“How big was the group?”

“Nearly thirty people. Some brought their husbands or wives along.”

“Isn’t that unusual, on these team-building trips?” I ask.

“Yes, kind of. But it was also supposed to be their annual staff party ending with a dinner in Akureyri this evening.” He goes on: “I don’t know if that dinner is going to happen.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not as if anyone died, is it?”

Now Sigurpáll is shaking from head to foot.

“Who is the woman who fell in the river?” I ask.

“She’s the boss’s wife. I don’t remember her name.”

“What about him?”

“Ásgeir Eyvindarson. He’s in the ambulance. Unconscious, like her.”

“What?” I ask. “What happened to him?”

“He jumped in after her,” Sigurpáll replies. And it’s as if the floodgates are opened. “I was in the boat ahead of them, and I didn’t see what happened until too late. He jumped in, but he couldn’t reach her. She was swept downstream, and then him too. It was a few minutes before we could fish them out.”

“How many minutes, do you think?”

“I don’t know. Five, maybe. Perhaps more. It all happened so fast.”

“Weren’t they wearing life vests?”

He gives me a scornful look. “Of course they were.” Then he looks down and violently kicks a pebble toward the river before slouching off toward the café.

Jóa is in the doorway devouring an ice cream.
Some people are cooler than others
, I think. But I’m not laughing. I try to get into conversation with two police officers who are sitting in their squad car.

“We’re just off,” says the driver. “You can get in touch with the station at Akureyri later today. Or the hospital.”

Suddenly a man’s roar of pain resounds from the ambulance. I can’t tell if the distress is mental or physical. Everyone turns in shock to look. At that very moment the ambulance backs up and sharply turns around. The police car drives off, followed by the ambulance. I watch them cross the river. The sirens start to wail, and the chilling noise, which you can never get used to, echoes out over the peaceful countryside.

The mountains and ridges, which from the air look as sharp and forbidding as razor blades on end, appear quite harmless, a little rusty and worn, when seen from the ground. When I flew into Akureyri nearly a week ago, the snow in the ravines resembled pure white stripes on a gray woolen sweater. Now, as we drive down the öxnadalur valley toward Akureyri, nothing is left of the snow but grubby patches here and there at the foot of the mountain slopes. We pass the occasional farmhouse. Rolls of hay in their white plastic packaging, scattered in the withered grass fields, are the only sign of habitation.

Most of the farms will probably soon be taken over by the banks or by the wealthy of Iceland, who see the future as opportunities for larger production units, enhanced profitability, and glossy annual reports.

The old stone cairns that used to mark the route through the mountains fly by, symbols of times long gone, an Iceland that will never return.

I am brought out of my musings by Jóa, who produces a plastic bag from the roadside café in Varmahlíd. She takes from it two small chocolate eggs and offers me one.

“It’s a bit early, isn’t it? A week before Easter. Aren’t they for Easter Sunday?”

“That’s so last century,” answers Jóa like a continuation of my thoughts at the wheel. “Now everything is allowed, always.”

She has already started on her egg. I make it clear to her that I can’t drive and open the chocolate egg at the same time. She breaks it open and passes me the slip of paper with the proverb.

“What does it say?” she inquires.

“
What goes around comes around
.”

Jóa chuckles, inadvertently blowing bits of chocolate out of her mouth. “Gotcha!”

I grunt and chuck the proverb out the window. “What does yours say?”

“
You must be strong to endure the good times
.”

“Remember that, Jóa honey,” I say with a smile. “Remember that your days of wine and roses with Ásbjörn and me in the north start today, but they won’t last forever. You must be strong. Oh, yes, indeed.”

She shakes her head gleefully. “At least I don’t have a phobia about everywhere outside the city—not like some people.”

“Do you mean me?” I ask, pretending to be offended. “I don’t even know what that means. All I know is I’m a town mouse at heart.”

And I also know in my heart of hearts, although I’m not about to say so to Jóa, that being exiled might do me good. I didn’t say so to Hannes either, when he informed me of what had been decided. Yep,
informed
. I argued for the sake of arguing, without even knowing why. Hannes leaned over his scratched,
carved wooden desk at the
Afternoon News
, holding a thick cigar between the index and middle fingers of his right hand, knocked the ash off into the ashtray, turned his steady blue gaze upon me, stuck out his jaw, and said:

“My dear Einar.”

When he addresses me like that, I know I’ve gotten to the point where I have no choice but to do what Hannes has decided for me.

“My dear Einar. I want you to do this…”

And that was that. I was to abandon my old beat, crime reporting in the capital area, to be transferred for an indefinite period up north to Akureyri, where Ásbjörn and I would be in charge of “strengthening the newspaper’s position in the north and east of the country, during the period of rapid change and development that is now taking place there,” as Hannes had put it in his editorial in the paper. I was to be responsible for the news side, while Ásbjörn would run the office, along with sales and distribution. Jóa would be assigned to us for the time being as our photographer.

Hannes is well aware that Ásbjörn and I don’t get along. Ásbjörn is submissive and hesitant when he should be bold and decisive, stubborn and rigid where he should be open-minded and flexible. And he gets his panties in a twist if you tell him so. We’re not a good combination.

“The Odd Couple?” Hannes had commented. “Yes, admittedly. But Ásbjörn was born and brought up in the east, and he went to Akureyri High School. He’s familiar with the area. And you’re our best newshound…”

Goddamn it.

“…and the one I trust best for real news content. And you’ve been sorting out your, how shall I put it, sir? Your lifestyle?”

Son of a bitch.

“And you will have plenty to keep you busy, which will be helpful to you in your battle with your demons. That is how I dealt with my own similar problems, sometime in the last century.”

Fucking shit.

“Hermann and I are in agreement.”

Oh my God. I thought of the new CEO of the
Afternoon News
and vice-chair of the board, Hermann Gudfinnsson. He attained that position after Hannes had cleverly maneuvered a merger with the Icelandic Media Company—the group owned by the wealthy ölver Margrétarson Steinsson—to form the Icelandic Media Corporation. Hermann was a rich and respected economist when he was convicted, twenty years ago, of killing his wife, and now he’s a reformed worker in the vineyard of the Lord. What I still don’t get is what particular god Hermann is toiling for, in deed rather than word. But I suppose that’s not my business.

Hannes went on, puffing at his cigar: “There is no way, at this time, when the pillars of society are creaking, not least in the media market, that we can take account of some old personal conflict between you and Ásbjörn. We’ve got a battle on our hands, and in this battle, all of us, and I mean
all,
must stand together. Anyone who doesn’t has no place on our team. Ásbjörn was, as you are well aware, not a good news editor, not my cup of tea in that job. So he’s not doing it anymore…”

“I’m not at all sure that his successor is any better,” I interjected.

Hannes fumed: “You were offered the job yourself and turned it down.”

The best decision I’ve ever made
, I thought.

Hannes went on regardless. “I believe that Ásbjörn’s abilities, his attention to detail, and his organizational skills will prove
more useful in this important task, rather than handling paper clip purchasing and taxi receipts here at the head office. You and he, sir, are going north.”

“And into the outer darkness,” I added.

But I wasn’t sure I meant it. I wasn’t sure of anything. Except that it might be good to try something you haven’t tried before. And tried again. And again.

I’m thinking of the biggest loss entailed by my exile: my daughter, Gunnsa. My only consolation is that she’s planning to visit me at Easter. And I can always make the odd flying visit to the south.

It’s close to six o’clock when we drive up Eyjafjördur, past the Hlídarbær community center, which, once, long ago, before the days of pubs and clubs in Iceland, fulfilled its function, but now seems to be an empty shell.

I switch the radio on for the evening news.

When I look out my window,
Many sights to see.
And when I look in my window,
So many different people to be
That it’s strange, so strange…

The lyrics of the old pop song seep into my consciousness in the silence between me and Jóa, who is dozing next to me. She stirs as the singer belts out the final notes.

“
Season of the Witch
, from Donovan,” says the DJ, speaking from Akureyri, capital of north Iceland. “The song was played for Skarphédinn and the other kids in the Akureyri High School Drama Group, who will be giving their first performance of
Loftur the Sorcerer
at Hólar on Holy Thursday. And for our last song
on this Saturday before Palm Sunday, here’s Donovan again. We’ll be here again next week at the same time. Thank you for listening, and good-bye.”

“Thanks to you too,” mumbles Jóa.

And the gentle voice begins, as if chanting a rhyme, first with a quiet guitar accompaniment; then a touch of piano is added:

The continent of Atlantis was an island
Which lay before the great flood
In the area we now call the Atlantic Ocean.
So great an area of land, that from her western shores
Those beautiful sailors journeyed
To the South and the North Americas with ease,
In their ships with painted sails…