Michael Ridpath - Where the Shadows Lie

It was miraculous that the hole had not been submerged in any of the volcanic eruptions of the previous millennium, especially the big one that had smothered Gaukur’s farm. But then the ring dealt in miracles.

He had worn it on and off now for nearly twenty years. He loved it, he worshipped it. Sometimes he would just sit and stare at it, the music of Led Zeppelin or Deep Purple swirling around him, wondering at its history, its mystery, its power. Andvari, Odin, Hreidmar, Fafnir, Sigurd, Brynhild, Gunnar, Ulf Leg Lopper, Trandill, Isildur and Gaukur, they had all owned it. And now it was his. The pastor of Hruni.

Extraordinary.

But although it gave him a tremendous feeling of exhilaration, of power, every time he put it on, over time his disappointment had grown. The pastor thought of himself as a pretty extraordinary man, and he had assumed that the ring had chosen him because of his knowledge of the devil and of Saemundur. But although he had thrown himself into his studies, nothing had happened. Nothing had been revealed to him. The way to power and domination had not appeared.

But how could it, when he locked himself up in the hills at Hruni? He had assumed that it was his duty to keep the ring in the shadows of Mount Hekla, which was after all only forty kilometres away as the raven flew. But keep it for whom? He had always assumed that his son was worthless, far too lightweight and superficial to make any use of the ring. But perhaps he might make something of his life after all. He was already a celebrity in Iceland. It was unlikely that an Icelander could go out into the wider world and make a name for himself, but perhaps Tomas could.

With the help of the ring.

The pastor scrabbled around in the rocks looking for a niche similar to the one in which he had originally found the ring seventeen years before. He would have to be very careful to make clear notes of where he had hidden it, or else it might be lost for another ten centuries.

But maybe he shouldn’t conceal it? The ring had not revealed itself to him and Dr Asgrimur merely to be removed from the world again. It was making an entrance into the affairs of men.

It wanted to be discovered.

The hiding place in the altar at Hruni church wasn’t the best. A determined police team, or anyone else for that matter, could find it there. But it was the right place.

The pastor took off the ring and grasped it in his hand. He closed his eyes and tried to feel what the ring was telling him.

It was the right place.

He turned on his heel and began walking back towards Hruni at a brisk pace. He checked his watch. He would be lucky to be home by nightfall.

Ingileif’s house, or rather her family’s house, was on a bank over-looking the river that ran through Fludir. Fludir itself was a prosperous village with a convenience store, an hotel, two schools, some municipal buildings and a number of geothermally powered greenhouses – Ingileif said it had the best farming in Iceland. But no church: the parish church was at Hruni, three kilometres away.

Although the village itself wasn’t up to much, the view was spectacular. To the west was the valley of the glacial River Hvita, with its ancient settlement at Skalholt, the site of Iceland’s first cathedral, and to the north were the glaciers themselves, thick slabs of white running a dead-straight horizon between mountain peaks.

Hekla was out of sight, behind the hills to the south-east.

The house was a single-storey affair, cosy, but large enough for a family of five. Magnus and Ingileif spread out the contents of several cardboard boxes on the floor of Ingileif’s mother’s bedroom. There were indeed a dozen letters from Tolkien to Hogni, Ingileif’s grandfather, which had only come into her father’s possession after Hogni’s death. Ingileif showed Magnus a first edition of The Fellowship of the Ring, the first volume of The Lord of the Rings. Magnus recognized the handwriting of the inscription inside: To Hogni Isildarson, one good story deserves another, with thanks and all good wishes, J.R.R. Tolkien, September 1954.

They studied a folder of notes and maps, most of which were in Dr Asgrimur’s handwriting, which showed guesses of where the ring might be hidden. There were also notes and letters from Hakon, the pastor. They dealt with various folk tales he had researched. There were several pages on the story of Gissur and the troll sisters of Burfell, which was a mountain close to Gaukur’s farm at Stong. There was also a mention of a story about a shep-herd girl named Thorgerd who ran off with an elf.

‘Do you have elves in America?’ Ingileif asked.

‘Not as such,’ said Magnus. ‘We got drug dealers, we got pimps, we got mobsters, we got crooked lawyers, we got investment bankers. No elves. But if we ever do have any problems with elves in the South End, I know right where to come for help. We could do an exchange with the Reykjavik Metropolitan Police.’

‘So you didn’t hear any stories about them when you were a kid?’

‘Oh, yes, especially when I was living with my grandparents in Iceland. My dad was more into sagas than elves and trolls. But I do remember asking him about them.’ Magnus smiled at the memory. ‘I guess I was fourteen. We were hiking in the Adirondacks. That was my favourite thing, hiking with my dad. My brother wouldn’t come, so it was just me and him. We spoke nothing but Icelandic to each other for a whole week. We talked about everything.

‘I can remember exactly where we were, on the shore of Raquette Lake. We were eating a sandwich sitting on a rock that looked like a troll. Dad told me how the Icelanders would have invented a long involved story about it. Then I asked him whether he believed in elves.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He kind of dodged the question. So I pressed him on it. He was a mathematician, he spent all his life dealing in proofs, there was no proof that elves existed.

‘So he gives me a long lecture about how although there is no proof that elves exist there is equally no absolute proof that they don’t. So science can’t answer the question. He said although he didn’t believe in elves, he was too much of an Icelander to deny their existence, and if I ever lived in Iceland I would understand.’

‘And now you live in Iceland, do you believe in them?’

Magnus laughed. ‘No. What about you?’

‘My grandmother saw hidden people all the time,’ Ingileif said. ‘Back in a rock near the farm where my mother was born. In fact a hidden woman came to her the night before my mother’s birth. They were planning to call Mum Boghildur, but the hidden woman said that unless my grandmother named her Liney the baby would die young. So that’s how my mother became Liney.’

‘Better than Boghildur,’ said Magnus. ‘The hidden woman had taste.’

‘Here, look,’ said Ingileif, pointing to a map with notes and arrows scrawled across it. ‘This is where they were heading for the weekend my father died.’ A cave was marked near a stream about ten kilometres away from the abandoned Viking farm at Stong.

Ingileif’s cell phone rang. As she answered Magnus could hear an agitated male voice, although he couldn’t hear it well enough to recognize it.

‘That was my brother,’ Ingileif said when the call was over. ‘Apparently the two foreigners who were trying to buy the saga showed up at Neon. An American and an Englishman. They were asking about the ring. Petur sent them packing.’

‘You’d think they would have the sense to leave all that alone.’

‘That’s certainly Petur’s opinion,’ said Ingileif. ‘He warned me they’ll be looking for me too. He doesn’t want me to tell them anything.’

‘Will you?’

‘No. And they’re not buying the saga at any price, if we ever do get the chance to sell it. Petur is adamant about that, and I agree with him.’ She checked her watch. ‘It’s nearly seven o’clock. The pastor should be back by now. Shall we go and check?’