The Last Refuge (16 page)

‘Karis, what the hell . . .’

‘You survived, then?’ Her eyes never left the canvas.

‘Yeah. I did. Why am I dressed like that?’

She didn’t answer immediately, her right hand busying in a corner, a detail requiring attention.

‘I wanted to paint the past but I can only do it in the present.’

‘Okay. I see that man is me, but you could have painted anyone going down there.’

‘Yes, but I wanted it to be you.’

‘Why?’

Again, she worked on her piece before she replied, refining the figure at the heart of it. When she did speak, it could have been an answer to a different question.

‘Do you know that when the young men of the villages went out to the cliffs to get eggs and birds for the winter food supply, they could be away for two weeks? Before they went, they would go to all their friends and family and say goodbye. That is how dangerous it was. From the moment they left, until the moment they came back, their family would be in mourning.

‘They would go down to the ledges, held up only by their friends, and when they got to the ledge, they would untie themselves, be on the ledge with nothing to save them. The grass grows on the ledges, as you saw, but it is a fragile thing. The puffins nest in holes in the grass and the hunters must grab them from there. The grass moves and they seize it out of instinct. But sometimes all the grass comes loose and they fall to their death. Or the line disturbs rocks and they are hit by the falling stones. What happened to you, being hit on the head like that? It would have killed you if it had been a hundred years ago.’

‘Karis . . .’

‘The bird-catchers would collect the puffins or the guillemots and put them in the belt around their waist or drop them down to the boat that waited in the water below. It was so dangerous, but they say an expert hunter would catch a thousand puffins in a day. And being in the boat was dangerous too. Being hit by a falling bird was bad enough, but if a guillemot egg landed point-first from such a great height, it would go straight through the bottom of a rowing boat. So many of the bird-catchers died. And so many more of the birds.’

She was still engrossed in her sketch and hadn’t set eyes on me since I returned. I was stunned at suddenly being part of the past.

‘Usually, the birds would be caught unawares, thinking themselves safe, so high up a cliff face. Others would fly and maybe attack the men to try to save their eggs and their young. So brave, don’t you think? What would you do for someone you love?’

It was the kind of trick question that men hate. The sort with no correct answer, and even if there were one it would have to be delivered without hesitation and in precisely the right tone of voice. I made a feeble but, I hoped, safe attempt at responding.

‘Anything.’

Karis didn’t take her eyes off the drawing but nodded slowly. ‘What wouldn’t you do?’

‘What?’ This was a new twist, and I wasn’t prepared.

‘What wouldn’t you do? Is there a line you wouldn’t cross? Those birds would put their lives on the line. They would do anything to save their unborn or their chicks. The bird-catchers were feeding their families and keeping them alive by risking their own lives. What wouldn’t you do?’

I felt exposed, as if she’d looked inside me and seen the failings in my past. She couldn’t possibly know what I had done. How far I’d gone. How could she?

‘You want me to jump off the cliff?’ It was flippant. An automatic and easy defence mechanism.

‘No.’ She turned to look at me. ‘Of course I don’t. And I asked what you
wouldn’t
do. Not what you would.’

‘Isn’t it the same thing?’

‘No. Not at all.’

I was uneasy with the conversation, troubled by the place she entered when she was drawing.

‘So tell me then. What is the difference?’

Karis looked me in the eyes, seemingly disappointed. ‘John, if there was nothing you wouldn’t do, then you would already know. You wouldn’t have to ask.’

Chapter 23

The pedestrianized street of Nils Finsens gøta was busy, by Torshavn standards at least, with Saturday lunchtime shoppers. I saw a few people carrying bags emblazoned with the name of Gudrun og Gudrun, the incredibly successful sweater shop that now sold its products all over the world, each for a small fortune. At those prices, the buyers had more wool then sense. All around me, people strolled while others ate or chatted. No one in any hurry to get to where they were going, instead enjoying the sunshine under wispy clouds.

I sensed who the short, dark-haired figure on the other side of the street was before I had the chance to recognize him consciously. He had his back to me and was holding court over two middle-aged couples, all four of them seemingly hanging on his every word.

As I looked closer I could see the dark hair was speckled with grey. He was casually dressed, in a light-brown chunky sweater with dark-brown and white diamonds across it, brown cords and a pair of hiking boots with rather ostentatious buckles. For its casualness, there was a sense of deliberate smartness about his attire. I walked a few yards till I was side-on to him, and saw that it was indeed Karis’s father, the minister Esmundur Lisberg.

The people listening to him seemed entranced, nodding at whatever he was saying. His hands were gesticulating, but in small, controlled movements, very Faroese and undemonstrative, occasionally making gestures as if to say ‘now do you understand?’ He came across as kindly but superior, a man more than happy to dispense wisdom to those in need of it.

He looked up and caught me staring over at him, his eyes widening as he recognized me. Cursing myself, I began to walk on, hoping he might not realize that I had been watching him. But he had.

Moments later, I heard footsteps quickening behind me, coming from the only person in the whole of Torshavn who was in a hurry, and a voice calling out in English.

‘You will wait. You will wait, please.’

I swore under my breath, having no appetite for the conversation that was to come, and even less for the one that would surely follow once Karis knew of it. I composed my features and turned to face him.

‘Yes?’

‘I am Esmundur Lisberg. I believe you know that. You are known to my daughter, Karis Lisberg, are you not?’

‘Yes. Yes, I am.’

He nodded curtly. ‘I wish to ask you some questions, sir. Will you answer me?’

I tried not to sigh. ‘If I can. What is it you want to know?’

He was studying me closely, as if trying to see inside, looking for clues, for truth or lies. For a man of God, he seemed keen to judge me. ‘I want to know the nature of your relationship with my daughter.’

I nearly laughed in his face, but knew it wouldn’t help the situation. The nature of our relationship? Had this man walked out of a Jane Austen novel or had I walked into one?

‘Mr Lisberg, with all respect, that is a very personal question.’

His face flushed slightly with anger. ‘Karis is my daughter, sir. So yes, of course it is personal. I have a right to know what is going on. You are a foreigner here and I need to know that she is safe.’

‘Safe? Of course she is safe. Mr Lisberg, if you want to know the answer to your question, you should talk to Karis. But then you already did that, didn’t you?’

He wasn’t used to being answered back, I could see that. His eyes hardened and I saw some of Karis in him.

‘Yes, I asked her and she would not tell me. Young people have no respect. I would hope for some respect from you, sir. My duty is to look after my daughter and hers is to show obedience to her father and his wishes. Do you understand?’

‘I understand, but—’

‘My daughter is young and foolish, sir. She has made mistakes in the past and I will not see those mistakes repeated. You are not from here and you cannot understand our ways. It is better for Karis that in time she finds herself a Faroese man who will look after her. That is better, I think.’

I was getting fed up with people telling me what I should and shouldn’t do. Particularly when it came to Karis. ‘I think that is up to her. If she wants to be with me then that’s how it will be. If you want to discuss this, talk to her.’

‘You disrespect me, sir. I ask for your understanding and you give me none. You are bad for my daughter. I will not see her hurt again.’

‘She won’t be hurt by me. Take care that she isn’t hurt by you.’

Lisberg’s face reddened furiously. ‘Do you attend church, sir?’

‘What?’

‘Do you attend church? Are you a believer or a heathen?’

‘If that’s the choice then I guess I’m a heathen. Look, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be disrespectful but—’

‘The wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord. If you do not believe in the Lord then you deny yourself that gift and face eternity in the lake of fire. Think on that.’

He began to turn away from me. ‘Look, Mr Lisberg—’

‘Think on that!’

The man strode back down the street, leaving me standing there under the gaze of curious shoppers, all doubtless wondering about the foreigner who had incurred the wrath of the kindly minister. They were not alone if they were wondering about my sins.

I had two hours before I was to meet Karis at her studio. She was working on a new piece and had instructed me to stay away until she was finished for the day. Of course she’d given me a time, but we both knew that ‘finished’ meant when she was done with it, when the inspiration or the energy ran dry and not before. I’d take the chance on interrupting her, and if that meant upsetting her and having to deal with the consequences then I could live with that.

I’d leave any conversation about her father until later, if I mentioned him at all. She wouldn’t want to hear it and I wasn’t sure what would be gained from telling her. First I was going to have a shower and get changed.

Shutting the door of the shack, I pulled the curtains over and stripped, dropping my clothes in a heap at my feet. Catching sight of the scar above my hip, I instinctively placed two fingers over it and rubbed the old wound, stirring up memories that I quickly moved to shut out. When Karis had asked about it, I’d dismissed it as an old football injury.

The water was warm rather than hot, but it did its job. I let it run over me, standing there for an age, feeling the force of it against my face. The day and the conversation with the minister were eventually washed away with the water.

Getting out reluctantly, I shook the last of the water off me and reached for a towel. Still naked, I walked over to the other side of the bed to grab some clean clothes.

I stood on it before I saw it. My toes felt the softness of the feathers and the brittle straws of the bones in its wings. The recognition raced up my body to my brain, and my heart nearly stopped as I stepped back in fright.

Lying on the floor in front of me was the body of a huge raven, its jet-black wings spread wide and its dark eyes staring into eternity.

I let go of my breath, panting hard. The raven, bird of mystery and magic, harbinger of death.

Bending down, I couldn’t see how it had died. No blood, no broken neck. If it had got stuck in here and panicked it could have had a heart attack quite easily.

But how could it have got in? There was no chimney for it to have flown down or window open for it to have got through. The door was locked and I’d have surely noticed if it had got in as I’d left that morning.

I looked at its black beak and heavy throat. It had to have been brought in and left there. And I knew by whom. My hands instinctively formed into fists and I pounded one into the wall. He had been in my shitty little house. I punched the wall till my fist rang with pain.

Chapter 24

My hands still throbbed with the memory the next day as I travelled into work with Hojgaard, Samal and Petur. I was jagged with anger at the violation of the shack, and with guilt that I’d brought it upon Martin’s property.

I didn’t mention the dead bird to him, but it was the image of it that led me to talk of the whales at Hvalvik. Flightless birds and fish that couldn’t swim. Dead in a cause they’d never understand.

‘It’s not just that it’s our culture,’ Hojgaard explained animatedly as he drove. ‘It’s much more basic. The whale hunt has always been a way to eat. As simple as that. Remember we are island people and a long way from anywhere else. In Scotland you have cows in the field or chickens in the farmyards. We don’t. We have fish in the sea, and whales. That is what those who disrupt the hunt seem to forget. We need to eat.’

‘Who is disrupting it?’

He shook his head bitterly. ‘Sea hippies. They call themselves a wildlife conservation group for the sea. Marine Machine. They come in their boats, break up the hunt, scare the whales off, deprive people of the meat. It used to be very difficult for them to do this, because the hunt can happen in any one of twenty-three coves on the islands. So it is hard for them to know where to go. But these last months, they have been much trouble. Turning up all the time. People are worried.’

‘But the killing of the whales . . .’ My mind’s eye saw slaughtered whales with ravens flying above them signalling death. ‘It seems so barbaric.’

Martin shook his head bitterly, his eyes still on the road. ‘How do you think the cows die that are in your beefburger? Or the pigs that make your bacon? You think they die in their sleep then the cook comes in and slices them up? You are happy that your food is killed out of sight, in some factory, but it does not make it any different. Unless you are a vegetarian, and I know you are not, then you can say nothing.’

‘But . . .’ I knew my argument was faltering.

‘Those animals are killed quickly. Humanely. The cutting of the spinal cord is the most humane way. The quickest way. You think it is better cows are shot in the head with a bolt? And at least the whales have lived free all their lives, not living in cages like factories keep chickens.’

‘Okay, it is your tradition, but it is a strange tradition that slaughters animals.’

He shrugged. ‘Tell that to Americans who slaughter forty-five million turkeys every year for their Thanksgiving dinner.’