Preston Child - The Fountain of Youth

“You take pictures of the fjords with that monster?” someone asked him, but Sam was still laboring to get his gear to fit inside the bag without stripping the zippers. His greasy, thick, black hair was wet with saline water, the ends of his locks bending on his tan-colored collar as he moved. As he finally managed to get the last zipper closed, he looked up at the patient man staring down at him.

“Not so much the fjords as the monuments,” Sam answered genially.

“Oh, the old churches?” the man asked, his own long blond hair taken back in a low-tied, rough ponytail.

“Also, no. I was up at Eggjarnar for the day to get a view from up there and take pictures of the ruins,” Sam told him. He could not help but be intrigued with the Nordic charm of the well-spoken local with the modestly braided beard and ice gray eyes.

“I see. You came all the way from what I guess to be Scotland to take a picture of the old station in Eggjarnar?” The curious man smiled with a cynical wink.

“Only after I did an exposé on the Grind in Hvalba,” Sam admitted.

The Nordic man kept smiling, but it became more of a wince at Sam’s revelation. “So you’re another Sea Shephard lunatic playing judge over thousands of years of tradition for the people here?”

“I’m a journalist who came to get real information on the whale hunt, and I’ve spoken to many native citizens here, sir. True reporting does not include having a predisposed opinion. I report on the origins of matters and events,” Sam informed him, trying to keep from sounding defensive. “All I was doing here was getting the real reasons behind the hunt from the actual people who live here, not some outlandish speculation,” Sam explained as he leaned on the barrier, subjecting his face and hair to more frigid spray as the ferry sailed on through the grey above and beneath.

“That’s a good rule of thumb, my friend,” the man nodded satisfactorily, his head turned to survey the waves and what he knew lived within them. “It’s good to ask the truth from only those who live it. That’s something I can respect, even in enemies. There’s something to be said for informed opponents that is far more worthy of respect than ignorant compliance from allies.”

“Did you grow up here?” Sam asked, itching to whip out his Panasonic and record the attractive local. “If I may say so, your command of English is exceptional, even with the accent.”

“Thank you,” the man replied modestly. “I’m from Toftir, on Eysturoy, but I travel extensively all over the world with my various ventures. My command of your language comes from my love for linguistics.”

“That’s interesting.” Sam smiled genuinely. What he found most peculiar about the man was that he could not tell his age. As far as Sam was concerned, the local could have been anything between twenty-eight and fifty-four, as he displayed signs of a number of different age groups altogether. It struck Sam that he was looking at an ancient young man, if there were any such glorious blasphemy in this world by science or God. “So you know what those ruins up there used to be, I would venture to guess.”

“I do. It was built up there by the Allies during World War II,” he said nonchalantly, tapping his fingers on his windbreaker cuffs. His fingers were decorated with Norse runes, which wasn’t unusual, given the countries they were travelling between. But the man’s answer hooked Sam.

“What exactly did they do up that high?” Sam pressed.

“They built a Loran-C station. You know, a radio signal to guide British ships and aircraft after the Germans occupied Denmark. The Allies occupied us and used the altitude of the island peaks to their favor,” the local explained with articulate precision.

“So that was why there was a bunker and a gun pit up there too!” Sam smiled. “I had some idea of what it was, but I didn’t know the details of the story. You should be a guide for the meek tourists who come to take pictures with absent attention.”

“I think so, right?” The man laughed with Sam. “But not all tourists are as tolerant and interested in learning, believe me. Throughout the years we’ve had many wars here, not just the ones you read in history books. Most people make assumptions about a place and treat the people accordingly. But we are storytellers, fathers, chieftains, warriors, fishermen.”

Sam was captivated by the serenity of the well-informed and obviously educated local, and he wished he had more time to chat over a whisky or take in a trip on a fishing trawler to find out more about the recent history of this archipelago west of the Norwegian Sea.

“Where are you headed, by the way?” Sam asked. “I would like to pick your brain some more over a drink or two.”

“I’m just accompanying a friend of mine, the guy who owns this ferry. He asked if I would tag along today while he made his last trip for the week, so I agreed. Had nothing to do for a change, you know?”

“Wait, you’re going back?” Sam asked.

“Going to Sumba to pick up some gear we have to move,” the man shrugged. “Why don’t you stay one more day, then…?”

“Oh, shit, my manners!” Sam chuckled. “My name is Sam.”

“Ah! Good to meet you, Sam. Will you be drinking with us tonight then?” he asked the journalist, igniting his sense of adventure all over again.

“Aye! I believe so,” Sam affirmed. The operator called out from the railing a level above them. The language was alien to Sam, but he knew his new acquaintance was being summoned.

“I have to go up there quickly,” he excused himself. “Talk to you a bit later?”

“Of course,” Sam agreed as the blond man made his way to his friend. “Um, I didn’t catch your name!” he hollered at the local.

The man with the folded ponytail looked back at Sam and smiled. “Heri. I’m Heri.”

It didn’t hurt Sam’s pocketbook that much to travel to the Hebrides and back for no reason, apparently, because the food and drink offered at Heri’s shindig was worth every penny wasted. It had been a long time since he’d hung out with such a rowdy bunch of fishermen and sailors, but what struck him as most interesting was the storytelling. From what he gathered, these people had a get-together at a different house every week. There they’d sing together about the ancient warriors who’d defended their home, eat and laugh together, and share the latest news about their lives.

Sam, as the outsider, was also afforded a few tales to tell and he elected to share some horror stories about his narrow escapes at the hands of the Order of the Black Sun’s secret contemporary existence. What baffled him here was the way in which the Faroese men accepted his remarkable stories without question or contest. He reckoned that the alcohol must have sedated their need for inquisition. Throughout the dirty jokes and hairy tales, Sam became more and more aware that the people here spoke of historical accounts as if they’d just happened yesterday. Not to mention, they spoke as if they’d actually been there.

Soon he discovered that this was why his stories of modern day Nazi organizations didn’t even provoke a frown out of them. Everywhere on these islands, even in the atmosphere, there was a timelessness where antique practices prevailed even in the present day and few things assimilated into the modern world. Granted, cities like Tórshavn looked like any other modern city. But as far as the mindset and traditions of the large part of the place were concerned, time had not changed much since before 999 AD. The people of the Faroe Islands had every modern amenity and technological advancement Europe and Scandinavia could offer, but something about them had stayed in the old world of their forefathers — and Sam reveled in that.