Dustin Long - Icelander

“Followed?” I asked. “I wasn’t following you.”

Wible pulled a tin of tobacco from an inner coat pocket and refilled his pipe.

“Of course not. Were you on your way to visit the librarian, Hubert Jorgen, then? We have just come from his door, ourselves, and were disappointed to learn that he is not at home.”

“He’s not really a librarian these days, you know. [33] She needn’t belabor the point. But I was just out taking a walk. I’m looking for my dog. You haven’t seen any strays about, have you?”

Wible tried to strike a match with his thumb, but it wouldn’t spark, so he just ended up using the side of the matchbox. It took him two matches before he got a good coal burning.

“Hmm. We did notice a fox earlier, running astray in the downtown area, but your infamous dachshund did not appear to be anywhere in the vicinity.”

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye out for him while you’re wandering around.”

“You have our word. If we find your dachshund, we shall return him to you at once.”

“So, what did you guys want to see Hubert about?”

“It was our wish to question him regarding the same matter of which we spoke with you earlier; we believe he may possess some degree of knowledge on the subject.”

“About the mysterious documents, right?” As I said this, I realized that I’d allowed myself to become so caught up in the intrigue of following them, that I had allowed my mind to wander from the tragedy of Shirley’s death. Which was precisely what I’d hoped to avoid. Wave of guilt and sadness washed simultaneously over me.

“We do not assume that you have reconsidered our proposal to relieve you of the danger and responsibility that accompany the custodianship of those documents?” Wible asked.

“Well, I’m admittedly a little curious about the fact that your investigation appears to involve Shirley, me, and Hubert, but—as I still have no idea what these documents are that you’re searching for—you’re safe in assuming that I haven’t reconsidered handing them over to you.”

“Of course. Since you insist on maintaining this charade, perhaps we should allow you to return to your search while we proceed with our own.”

“Actually, you know, I’m kind of stumped as far as my search goes. Garm didn’t exactly leave any clues regarding where he was headed. But how are you guys doing? You haven’t seen already Hubert today, have you? Or are you just trying to contact everyone who might possibly be involved with… whatever?”

“Why do you ask? Are you aware of his whereabouts?”

“No, I’m just curious… I mean, aside from the fundamental flaw of your assumption that I have the documents, how is the search coming along?”

“It goes as it will. We gather points of information and trust that eventually we will be able to draw the proper connective lines between them; once we observe the full figure that these lines trace, our goal will have been met.”

“Aha. That’s nice. Keep it abstract and you don’t need to worry about tangible results.”

“You misunderstand. We—”

“No, it’s okay. I get it. Mystery metaphysicians and all that.”

“That is not a term we would apply to ourselves.”

“I’m sorry. No offense was meant.”

“You needn’t concern yourself with the intricacies of our methods. If you decide that you wish to assist us in the full degree to which you are capable—namely by providing us with the documents for which we search—then shall we reveal to you the full scope of our knowledge, including the particulars of how you, Hubert Jorgen, and Shirley MacGuffin all fit into the picture that the lines of our knowledge trace. Until that time, however, we must keep certain details hidden to all but ourselves.”

“Hmph. And your employer, right? You did mention earlier that someone hired you.”

“If you mean to cast aspersions upon the purity of our motives, please be assured… Though it is true that this investigation was begun at the behest of another, it is for our own reasons that we pursue it now. Our employer has become… incidental to the case, and you need not refrain from cooperating with us on that basis. Our intentions are—as ever—noble.”

“You still ultimately answer to her, though, don’t you?”

They paused before answering. “We are not deceived by your use of such a definite pronoun; you do not know the identity of the one who hired us.”

“I—”

“…”

“Never mind. You’re right; I don’t know who she is. And it’s none of my business, either. I should just stick to looking for Garm. Sorry to have bothered you guys.” I turned to walk away.

“It is a positive sign, at least, that you show more curiosity regarding the matter than you did this morning,” Pacheco called after me. “Perhaps, as your interest grows, you will come to see that cooperation with us is the wisest option available to you. For the time being, however, my partner and I wish you success in locating your dog.”

When I turned around, they were already walking the other way.

It is late this afternoon, and I am lumbering through the snow of my backyard, approaching the Two-Story House. I am confident that Shirley’s clue of “fish” will lead me to the answer not only of what happened in Denmark but also to the identity of her murderer.

Bless my throat. I am a fish , amid the Danish notes. And the two stories of the house each were concerned with fish.

The front door of the structure has no lock, but it is swollen with moisture and does not open when I turn the knob. Anger has begun to thaw the dullness of my pain. I shove against the door, and the thin wood shudders before swinging inward.

I have come here because it was begun immediately before Shirley departed to Denmark two and half years ago and it was completed immediately upon her return. I hope that here I may unearth the seeds of her betrayal. I have come here to find the fish on whose bone I choke.

I enter the house along with snow, and the floor is already wet from where previous snow has melted. Likely the door’s bottom edge is too far from the floor, an unsealed aperture. The house was not designed for living.

Heat, among other amenities, is noticeably absent, and I have bundled myself in preparation. My hands are encumbered in snow gloves made even more awkward by my bandage, and I wear woolen socks within my boots. Additionally, a scarf which is the only thing that Shirley ever knit for me itches my unshaven neck. Despite all of this, I am cold.

I am beginning to realize the full import of things. Of all the desires that will never be met. I want to have Shirley now, and entirely. I want to know the things that she thought yet never said, and every urge that once occurred to her. I want to hear the story that she wrote alone in the sands of low tide while we were on our honeymoon and I slept late after a night of much exertion. I want to know of all the times when she watched me sleep and thought how easy it would be to smother me if she were evil. I realize that she will never be here to tell me of these things and that she will never be here for me to forgive her for what I have come to suspect she did.

The Two-Story House is so called because it is meant to tell two stories, and also because it is built of two floors. Shirley explained the premises to me often as we ate our breakfasts, though I have never explored them thoroughly.

I press the door to a close behind me and walk across the living room. The silence of the house is outlined by my boots upon the wooden floor. I have seen the interior before, but I have never paid close attention to its details. All objects with which the house is furnished are overlaid with words—sentences printed neatly upon them in inks of various color. There are four varieties in total: yellow, blue, green, and red. I do not know what significance is carried in the color of a given sentence, but yellow is by far the most prevalent.