Arnaldur Indridason - Strange Shores

Erlendur parked by the cemetery and switched off the engine. The two men remained in the car for several minutes without speaking until finally Erlendur broke the silence.

‘Well, shall we get out?’

Ezra was in another world.

‘Ezra?’ said Erlendur.

‘Yes.’

‘Shall we go?’

As the old man turned to him, Erlendur realised he was fighting to hold back the tears.

‘I don’t know if I can do this,’ he stammered.

‘No, of course. I can take you home again. You can come back tomorrow. Or whenever you feel up to it. As I said before, you can keep the information to yourself or tell anyone who’ll listen, as you see fit.’

They sat there, unmoving. The moon, finding a rift in the thick cloud cover, cast a pale light over the graveyard. This seemed to galvanise Ezra. He raised his head to look at the serried ranks of stones and crosses, many of them belonging to people he had known. He had even attended funerals here, never suspecting how close he was to his lost love.

‘Let’s go,’ he said at last, opening the door.

They climbed out and Erlendur escorted him through the gate and over to Thórhildur’s grave.

‘Matthildur is down there,’ he said. ‘The fresh spoil’s my doing.’

Ezra squinted at the headstone, trying to make out Thórhildur’s name and dates by the light of the moon. Then he got down stiffly on one knee.

Erlendur turned aside to give him privacy and strolled over to his parents’ plot. There was one more task he had to perform before the night was over. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at the old man kneeling on the grave of the woman he had loved so many years ago. He had managed to unite them again, though death still stood between them. He had managed to draw a line under the story of Ezra and Matthildur.

Ezra rose and made the sign of the cross. Erlendur walked back to join him.

‘Could you take me home?’ Ezra asked.

‘Of course. I can’t imagine how difficult this must be.’

Ezra gave him a look. ‘I suppose I deserve it after what I did to Jakob.’

‘Do you remember Thórhildur at all?’ Erlendur asked.

Ezra nodded. ‘Yes, I remember seeing her around the village — a very old lady. But I didn’t really know her. She was a good woman, though. Matthildur’s been in good hands.’

‘So you’re going to let her stay?’ said Erlendur.

‘What do you think I should do?’

‘If she’s in good hands. .’

‘At least I know where she is,’ said Ezra. ‘It’s quite a relief, a tremendous relief to know where she is at last. I don’t think I should disturb her. I can’t think who’d benefit.’

‘Good,’ said Erlendur. ‘Fine.’

‘I reckon it’s best for everyone that she disappeared in the storm,’ said Ezra. ‘Perished on the moors.’

They drove home without further conversation. The moon was obscured by cloud again.

‘Well, that’s that,’ said Erlendur as he stopped the car in front of Ezra’s house.

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘How are you doing?’

‘I’ll survive.’ Ezra held out his hand. ‘Thank you for all you’ve done.’

Erlendur shook it.

‘What were you doing sitting there in the dark with the gun?’

‘Do you really want to know?’

‘Not unless you want to tell me. I’m not going to interfere any further in your life.’

‘Let’s leave it at that then.’

‘Fine.’

‘Do you know what I was thinking as I knelt by her grave?’ Ezra asked. ‘When I’d found her at last. Do you know what struck me?’

Erlendur shook his head.

‘I can die now, I thought. There’s nothing to hold me here any longer. Nothing to keep me away from her.’

As Erlendur pondered his words he pictured the gun lying on the kitchen floor. He met and held Ezra’s eye. The old man returned his gaze with an imploring look.

‘What’ll happen to the cat?’ asked Erlendur.

‘He’ll manage.’

Erlendur looked away, into the night.

‘I’m glad to have met you,’ he said at last.

‘Likewise.’

Erlendur watched the old man disappear into his house. He lit a cigarette, then turned the car and drove slowly back along the drive.

Parking by the cemetery for the fourth time in twelve hours, he took out the spade and the small box of bones from Daníel’s garage. His attempt to bury them earlier the previous day had been interrupted when he noticed the date on Thórhildur’s grave. He didn’t want anything else to detract from this ceremony.

Picking up the spade, he scraped the thin layer of snow off his mother’s mound and cut through the grass into the soil. Having removed a small square of turf, he laid it aside and dug down to a depth of one foot. Then he put down the spade, took the box, knelt and solemnly placed it in the hole.

Afterwards, he refilled the little grave, firmly tamping down the earth and replacing the piece of turf so one could hardly tell the grave had been disturbed.

With that, the little funeral was over.

Erlendur glanced up, towards Hardskafi, then sent a long look back in the direction of Bakkasel where the ruined farm lay hidden in darkness.

Then he set off on foot for the slopes of the mountain.

He hears the child’s voice approaching from a great distance. The traveller has gone, taking with him all the feelings he stirred up, of dread and pain and cold, leaving only this little voice and the radiance that accompanies it.

It is a sunny morning and they are walking along the river together. The air is still, the sky a cloudless blue and the sun is making him hot. Bergur, who is in front, stops, dips a hand in the water and takes a drink. He senses the cool of the river on his hot face and watches his brother kneeling on the bank. He feels oddly light at heart.

‘Are you ready?’ asks his brother, standing up.

‘Yes,’ he says.

‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m here.’

‘I know.’

Behind them the house shimmers in the heat. Ahead is the welcoming moorland, with its scent of heather. He raises his eyes to the crags at Urdarklettur and the Hraevarskörd Pass, mild now and benign in their summer guise.

Then he takes Bergur’s hand in his and together they walk along the river into the bright morning.