We Shall Inherit the Wind (7 page)

The neighbouring cabin with the bedrooms was furnished differently from the first. Instead of a reception area the whole of the ground floor was a communal room that could be quickly turned into a meeting room. A broad staircase led up to the mezzanine, where there were two west-facing rooms and two facing east. I unlocked the door to mine and entered a light, rectangular room with a slanting ceiling, a bed broad enough for two people and a small, practical en-suite with a toilet, sink and shower. The window faced the sound.

I put down my bag, took out my toiletries and put them in the bathroom. Then I changed into light walking boots with a good tread and grabbed an anorak and a camera as I left.

It was still just as quiet outside. There were several boats moored to the pontoons in the marina. They were of various sizes, from small dinghies with outboard motors and polished rowing boats from Os, to swanky island powerboats, the kind that could be seen moored at Bryggen, in Bergen, in high season.

I looked down at the abandoned building by the sea. I had forgotten to ask Kristine Rørdal about it, but it still looked like a fish hall whose owners had shifted their business to Poland, Portugal or somewhere with cheap labour. On Brennøy they hadn’t left so much as a fading company name. The walls were white, but the paint was peeling off, and the grey concrete was visible underneath, stained green. The windows were black. The brown door appeared to be locked and bolted.

I set off towards the chapel. It was in better condition. The walls had been painted relatively recently, white as well. Inside the tall windows, lights were lit, and I stopped by the information board at the entrance, protected by glass against the wind and rain. There were invitations to
regular meetings every Wednesday and Sunday evening, and morning meetings at the Missionary House, one of which was taking place at this very minute, if I felt a need to knit mittens in support of the missionaries in Africa.

A poster caught my attention. The title was: WEDNESDAY MEETING. Beneath it was a quotation from the Bible: ‘
He that troubleth his own house shall inherit the wind: and the fool shall be servant to the wise of heart. (Proverbs 11:29)
And after it:
Hear LARS RØRDAL speak on Wednesday evening at 7.00. A warm welcome to you in the name of God
.’

I didn’t bother with the Missionary House, left the chapel and found the path leading through the wood north of the village. The last building before the copse was a little red house with white curtains. As I glanced in its direction I noticed a movement behind one of the window panes. I caught a brief glimpse of a pale woman’s face before the curtain was drawn, as if Evil in person were passing.

I crossed through a classic tree plantation of tall, dark-green spruces, most of them far taller than Christmas-tree height. The lowest branches were dry and brown, and there was a soft covering of needles on the ground.

Then I emerged into open country. A quartz moonscape – furrowed, weather-bitten above the water – rose to the north of Brennøy. The path disappeared. Now it was a question of following the natural grooves in the terrain. Occasionally I came across narrow patches of grass in crevices, where the path reappeared in part. The wind off the sea grabbed hold of me, ruffled my hair and swept it across my face, wantonly caressing me, panting like a paramour, immense, invisible to all.

After five minutes I saw the cross. It towered aloft on one of the outermost crags. At first sight it resembled a mock-up of a wind turbine. But as I came gradually nearer there was no doubt. Like a local Golgotha it rose up, silhouetted against the sea, on the north of the island, a
mene, mene, tekel, upharsin
to wind-turbine supporters or whatever the meaning was supposed to be. When I was close it stood like a gigantic gravestone, cemented to a concrete base and so solidly constructed that it was intended to withstand even the fiercest blasts of wind. But
there was nothing to explain why it was there and what it was supposed to symbolise. In its silent way it still gave me an indefinable sense of unease, a warning that something was about to happen.

I scanned the surroundings. This was Norway’s westernmost limit. To the north I glimpsed the mountain formations in Ytre Sula and Lihesten further down the Sognefjord. This was windblown terrain where the sea broke against the rocks with regularity and only very seldom came to rest. You could hardly go any further.

Suddenly I felt very small. This landscape had been here since the dawn of time, covered with ice for long periods, only trodden underfoot by man for a fraction of a historical second. The sea had been there for even longer, solidified into ice for thousands of years, rolling to its own rhythm for just as long, with a pulse that was too slow for us to perceive and a global circulation we barely caught a shadowy glimpse of during our short sojourn on earth.

For understandable reasons there were no houses or quays here on the exposed rocks. A few wild sheep might have survived on the heather and other vegetation. For any other creatures survival prospects were poor. So, from that point of view, there was nothing to stand in the way of building a wind farm here.

When I turned back again I saw that I was about to have company. A tall man dressed in dark clothes, snow-white hair fluttering in the wind, was on his way towards me. In the rough-hewn countryside the man heading in my direction with long, determined strides was so stylised and unreal he could have been a figure from a Norse family saga.

From the very first glance there was something prophet-like and Old Testament about him. So it didn’t come as much of a surprise when he came to a halt in front of me, ran a hand through his hair, fixed me with a stern look and said in a deep, sonorous voice: ‘I’m Lars Rørdal. And who, if I might ask, are you?’

‘Varg Veum.’

A twitch traversed his face, somewhere between a smile and a grimace. ‘Did I hear you aright? A wolf in a sanctuary?’

I smiled back. ‘And you? A voice crying in the wilderness?’  

He looked at me gravely. ‘You could say that.’ His gaze moved to the cross that towered up behind us.

‘You’re Ole’s father, I assume.’

He nodded. ‘I cannot deny it.’

‘I met your wife too when I rented a room at Naustvik.’

‘Ole’s a grand boy. No one can say otherwise.’ He gave me the opportunity, but I didn’t take it, and he continued: ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Looking around.’

He peered at me sceptically. ‘Right. Do you represent a company?’

‘A company? No. Just myself. But I have a job.’

‘And that is …?’

‘You know Mons Mæland, don’t you?’

He opened and closed his mouth twice before answering. ‘Yes. Do you represent him?’

‘I can’t say that, either. I work for his wife.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

‘Have you seen him recently?’

‘Mons? He was here … a week ago, two weeks maybe. I don’t remember exactly. I just saw him briefly. Asked him how he was.’

‘And what did he answer?’

‘He’d been better, he said. I asked him if he wanted to talk about it. You might already know, but I’m a … preacher. I’m used to people confiding in me. But he didn’t. No, he said. Not now.’

‘Did you touch on …?’ I looked around me. ‘… what’s going to happen here?’

His face hardened. ‘What’s going to happen? Or what some people want to happen?’

‘The wind farm.’

‘Yes, I knew what you were hinting at. Yes, we did talk about it. He’d had a change of heart, he said, and it wasn’t popular, I gathered. Not even among closest family.’

‘No, so I understand. There was definitely a difference of opinion.’

‘Yes. The daughter’s on our side, but the lad … that’s what I call him … Kristoffer. He’s stubborn. And he’s got financial muscle behind him.’

‘By which you mean?’

‘Norcraft Power.’ He pronounced the English words the Norwegian way, with deep contempt. ‘But they’ve forgotten one thing. This land is the work of Our Lord. He’s given it to us, but not so that we let it rot as we’re doing at the moment. It’s an abomination in God’s eyes, and He will strike back with a vengeance. Pestilence, destruction, storms, flames and other catastrophes will smite us all if we don’t change course and learn to live according to God’s word.’

He glowered at me as if expecting me to protest. I held my tongue as I had learned to do when confronted by people with vaguely fundamentalist views. It was usually a waste of energy trying to discuss with them. When I said nothing, he nodded and moved his gaze again to the cross.

‘Did you erect this?’ I ventured.

‘I did, with some brethren. As a warning to the faithless.’

‘But you weren’t planning to crucify anyone here?’

He strode over to me. ‘Do not mock! The earth itself is being crucified, and Domesday is near, believe me. Only the Lord’s mercy can save us!’

‘My understanding is that Mons Mæland was a frequent visitor here.’

‘Of course. He had no other reason to come out here. He owns the land, but you probably know that. Him and his company.’

‘Yes … Did you get his permission to erect this?’

‘Did they ask God for permission to build wind turbines here?’

‘I doubt an application on high constituted part of the legal proceedings.’

He scowled at me. ‘Do not mock, I said! You should show the Lord our God respect, man. I’ve told you once!’

‘My apologies, but now Mons Mæland and the others own this property.’

‘And how do you think they got their hands on it?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘They cheated an old man out of it. He was barely conscious at the hospital in Eivindvik. Per Nordbø, his name was, and he died straight afterwards, in 1988. An old bachelor with no heirs.’  

‘But the purchase must have been approved by the council, at least?’

‘And what is the council in the greater scheme of things?’ he almost spat. ‘Has it been sent by God?’

I reflected for a few seconds before answering. ‘No, strictly speaking, it hasn’t.’ After a little pause I added: ‘But, in other words, you’re putting God above the council and following his commands rather than theirs.’

‘You can certainly say that.’

I found it hard to stop myself. ‘Legal proceedings are a bit quicker up there perhaps.’

He shot me a furious glare. To show what he thought he put his hand in one jacket pocket and pulled out a small, well-thumbed Bible bound in black leather with a gold cross on the front. He held it out, in front of my face, as if urging me back whence I had come. ‘Everything’s written here, Veum, from the very first day on earth. I need no other laws.’

‘OK. I’d like to get back to Mons Mæland if you don’t mind. Did you meet him when he came here?’

‘Now and then. Far from every time. We didn’t have much to talk about.’

‘But when you were young … I heard you went dancing together. You and him and … your wife.’

His face developed a tic. ‘That was then. Did Kristine tell you this?’

‘I asked her about Mons.’

He sent me a stony look. ‘Alright. I saw the light the year I turned twenty. Before that I took part in worthless activities, but I’m on the straight and narrow now.’

‘Do you and your wife run the business together?’

‘It’s a family business, yes, but Kristine runs it. I don’t deal with things like that.’

‘No, I can imagine. Are you intending to be present at what’s going to happen here tomorrow, the survey of the area?’

‘Of that you can be sure, yes. They won’t be leaving here without hearing the Lord’s word!’

It was good the Lord had his representative here then, I thought. But I didn’t say anything. Instead I asked him if I could take a few pictures
of him in front of the cross. Strangely enough, he had no objections. He posed with an expression as if he were the Master Builder at a topping-out ceremony, ready to celebrate with all his employees. But there was only him and me.

Afterwards I took a few pictures of the countryside. The light was falling from a new angle now, and the contours were changing character as they always did on the margins of the mainland, with the constant roar of the sea in eternal motion, unchanging it seemed. But if there was something life had taught me it was precisely the opposite: nothing of what the Lord God, or whoever it might be, had created was unchanging.

We walked back together. At the chapel we parted company. He went in, perhaps to say a little prayer for the Missionary House. I went down to the quay and the fishermen’s cabins. As I passed by I noticed a black Audi A4 with a Bergen number had parked beside my car, a grey Toyota Corolla.

A big cabin cruiser was mooring at the quay. In the cockpit I glimpsed the face of Ole Rørdal. On the deck, with the mooring rope in his hands, stood Stein Svenson. As I approached I even recognised one of the passengers. The young woman standing next to Ole Rørdal was Else Mæland.

As soon as the boat was secure she jumped ashore in a hesitant, slightly awkward manner. She stretched her legs and looked sulkily in my direction.

I ambled over to her. ‘So you came after all?’

She tossed her head back. ‘As you can see.’

‘I wasn’t aware you knew … them.’ I motioned towards Svenson and Rørdal.

‘Weren’t you?’

Stein Svenson scowled suspiciously at us. Ole Rørdal was fiddling with something in the cockpit, but he too was following events on the quay.

‘You came to see me about my father.’

‘I did.’

‘Is there anything new?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. Unless Ranveig’s heard something. Have you spoken to her?’

‘Not since our conversation, no.’ She looked around as though searching for an avenue of escape.

Svenson was wearing the same militaristic uniform as the day before. Now he came over to us. ‘What’s this about?’ he asked with an aggressive stare at me.

‘Mons Mæland,’ I said.

His eyes narrowed. ‘Haven’t we met you before?’

‘
En passant
, outside the office in Lille Øvregate. You were on your way out; I was on my way in. Yesterday afternoon.’

‘You’re from Norcraft, aren’t you.’

‘No, I’m not. You asked me the same question yesterday.’

‘TWO then?’  

‘Two what …?’

‘TWO. Trans World Ocean.’ He articulated it in capitals, as though he considered me too dim to understand. ‘An international shipping company with Norwegian roots. Registered in the Bahamas, in case you were wondering.’

‘Oh, them,’ I said airily.

‘Them, yes!’ He glared at me. Else looked as if she would rather be anywhere else. Ole Rørdal was still observing us from a safe distance.

‘I’ve come across them before. Several times. The first time so far back that you were hardly out of kindergarten. At that time they were called Helle Shipping, and Hagbart Helle was the big boss.’

‘Then you do know who we’re talking about. Capitalists of the worst kind. They sail ships that should have been scrapped several decades ago to Mongstad and back without a thought of the catastrophes that would ensue if one went aground in the already polluted waters around Austrheim and Fedje. That is, they know well enough; they just don’t care. All they’re concerned about is how much profit they can squeeze from transporting crude oil from Norway to the rest of the bloody industrial countries.’

‘The last time I had any dealings with them it was to do with transporting toxic waste and people smuggling, so you won’t find me in their fan club, either. But what has that got to do with this?’

‘So you don’t know?’

‘No.’

‘They’re the owners of Norcraft. At least they’re the majority shareholders. In other words, we’re not dealing with little boys.’

‘No, I can see that.’

Svenson had calmed down now. ‘So what are you doing here actually?’

‘Strictly speaking, that’s none of your business. Else can tell you, if she feels like it. But the wind farm, you might say, is a sidetrack for me.’

He turned to her, unsure of himself now.

She said: ‘We can talk about it later. Right now we’ve got more important things to think about.’

He hesitated for a moment. Then he nodded. ‘OK, of course we have!’

As if at a signal they turned towards the boat.

‘More important?’ I said in a low voice.

She craned her head round and sent me a dirty look: ‘Yes!’

‘OK,’ I mumbled, watching them until they were on board again and moving towards Ole, who was clearly waiting for a report on our brief exchange of opinions on the windblown quayside.

I strolled back to the fishermen’s cabins. As I rounded the bend Kristine Rørdal came out in a worn leather jacket over the same blue trousers she had been wearing earlier in the day. In my view, she didn’t look at all like a preacher’s wife should. The wind caught her chestnut-brown hair, and she flicked her head to free her eyes.

She stopped for a moment. ‘Find it?’

‘Yes, thanks. And I met your husband there.’

‘Lars? Yes, he often goes there – to consult the Lord, as he says,’ she said without a trace of irony in her voice.

‘And you?’

‘Sometimes I accompany him. When things are quiet here. And they often are.’

‘And whom do you consult?’

She sent me a cool look. ‘I’m keeping that to myself.’ Then she walked on. ‘I’m off to see Ole.’

I nodded towards the black Audi. ‘More guests?’

‘Yes. Anyone would think it was peak season.’

For a moment I wondered whether to pop my head into the reception-cum-café to see if anyone was there, but I dropped the idea. Instead I went up to my room to make some telephone calls, the first to Ranveig Mæland.

She sounded anxious. ‘Anything new?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. Nor with you, I can hear.’

‘Nothing. Not a peep from anyone. Not even from the children.’

‘Else’s here, and Kristoffer’s probably coming tomorrow.’

‘Else?’

‘With Ole Rørdal, amongst others.’

‘To demonstrate?’

‘Looks that way.’

‘Goodness me! It’s got that far.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you …’

‘I’ll stay here in case Mons shows up. He might have needed space to think. And he was lying low for strategic reasons.’

‘Strategic? With respect to …?’

‘Well, I was thinking of what’s going to happen tomorrow. The survey. The meeting afterwards. What were you thinking of?’

‘Well, he could have told me, couldn’t he?’

‘That wouldn’t have been unnatural.’

‘So, we’re as far as we were before.’

‘No further anyway.’

‘Well … Keep going, Varg. If we’re lucky he’ll turn up tomorrow. If he doesn’t I don’t know what I’ll do.’

‘If he doesn’t, my advice would be to go to the police. Then they’ll have to organise a search. I can’t do that.’

‘Yes, I understand. But thank you for everything you’ve done.’

‘Not much to thank me for, if I say so myself …’

We said our goodbyes and I rang off.

Karin had just arrived home when I phoned her. Her voice was bright and cheerful. ‘Hi! How’s it going?’

‘Nice place. We should think about coming here for a weekend ourselves when all this is over. If the food’s good, that is. I haven’t checked that out yet. Only the waffles.’

‘And Mons?’

‘Nothing, unfortunately. I’ve just spoken to Ranveig. Nothing new here, nothing new there.’

‘What do you reckon then?’

‘I don’t have a good feeling. I doubt a man like Mons Mæland could have kept his hands off his phone for several days, however underground he was supposed to be for business reasons.’  

‘Business … what do you mean?’

‘I mean that with the opponents he’s got over this issue, if he really has had a change of heart about the wind farm, then he could have decided to lie low so as not to be exposed to inappropriate pressures.’

‘And by that you mean …?’

‘Everything from financial incentives … to other methods.’

‘That sounds serious.’

‘This is no bloody Sunday School outing, that’s for sure. Even if he does seem to have God on his side.’

‘God?’

‘I told her about Lars Rørdal and the huge cross, and she replied: ‘My goodness, Varg. You’re in the African bush. Make sure you don’t get converted while you’re there.’

‘Bit more’s required for that, I’m afraid.’

‘OK …’

I finished by promising to keep her posted on any new developments, and we rang off. I went to the window and stood gazing across Brennøy Sound to the land beyond. The closest islands were smooth and hilly as though it was still only a short time since the great ice sheets scoured their way past. Further away, the mountains rose like breakers in the sea, towards Masfjorden and the Stølsheimen mountain plateau, and in the north I had the Gulen transmitter on top of
Brosviksåta
as the clearest landmark, visible all the way from Bergen if you stood on the right peaks.

Down on the quay I saw Kristine Rørdal in conversation with her son. Else and Stein Svenson were on the sidelines, slightly apart from them, and the black Audi kept watch on them all, like a panther ready to spring, a hitherto unknown danger.