Northern Lights (2 page)

When we reach the next stop—Gullfoss—I keep apart from the others, hoping to avoid a repeat performance. But to no avail. Within minutes the first couple approaches me, and from there the scene plays out much as it did before. I manage to take a handful of my own shots of the waterfall; however, most of my time is taken up composing portraits for the others.

By the time the coach pulls in to the Thingvellir National Park, any pleasure I had initially garnered from this day has evaporated, and all I want to do is return to my hotel and crawl into bed. Happy bloody birthday to me! I think 2015 is shaping up to be a real contender for the title of “Worst Christmas and Birthday Ever.”

The guide is giving his spiel about how we will all go into the Visitor’s Centre to watch the multimedia presentation before proceeding to see some of the park’s most famous sites. Everyone trails obediently after him, myself included. But then a realization washes over me and I slow my pace.

If I go in and watch this presentation, when I come out I’m going to be stuck in the role of group photographer again, forced to live through another round of cheesy smiles and doe eyes, all reminding me of what I lack, of what I’ve lost. Or I could ditch the others and go off exploring on my own. I know what time the coach is leaving to return to the city, so as long as I’m back by then, what’s the harm?

I drop to the back of the group and wait until they’ve all entered the Visitor’s Centre. I hang around outside for a minute or so, giving them time to go in for the presentation, and then I tentatively open the door and step inside. A quick scan reveals I’ve successfully evaded my fellow tourists, so I hurry to the information desk.

After a brief chat with the park ranger on duty, whose English is probably better than mine, I leave the building armed with a map and make my way over to the start of one of the trails. According to the ranger’s instructions, this route will take me to the famous Law Rock and then on to the Öxarárfoss waterfall. Depending on how long I spend at those two sites, I may even have time to double back to the church before I need to rejoin my group.

I wander the well-maintained walkway, taking in the view. The ground away from the path is verdant—a mossy kind of grass—and rocky outcrops rise on either side of me. I can see a couple way off in the distance, but other than that, I’m blissfully alone. I attach a wide-angle lens to my camera and snap a few shots. Then I replace the lens cap and allow myself a moment to appreciate the tranquility, until a sudden blast of cold air makes me shiver and I pull the zipper on my jacket, closing it up to my chin, and hurry onward.

There are a few tourists gathered at the Law Rock, and I join them in capturing the scene for posterity. I take my photos as quickly as possible, eager to move on before someone gets it into their head to wave their camera at me, but I manage to get a few good shots. Then I continue along the trail, picking up my pace both to ensure I keep ahead of the crowd and as a way to combat the winter chill.

I find myself walking alongside a fast-flowing stream. The water gurgles as it surges over the rocky riverbed, and the sound is soothing. Then the stream turns and I am left with a steep rock face on my left and an open plain to my right. Everything is so green, and yet the scene is desolate enough to remind me of the descriptions of the moors in
Wuthering Heights
.

Farther down the path, I come across a family that has stopped to enjoy a late lunch at a random picnic bench. I hurry past, keeping my gaze fixed ahead and offering no greeting, and soon they are behind me.

When I reach a fork in the road, I pause to consult the map, checking I’m still on track, and then I bear left, ascending toward the top of the hill. A sharp left turn at the summit takes me onto a boardwalk, and at the end of it I’m gifted with a perfect view of the waterfall. There’s one other solo walker there—an elderly man I take to be a local from his manner and appearance—and I exchange nods of greeting with him.

The waterfall is beautiful, the crashing waters strangely relaxing, and I close my eyes for a moment to savor the wave of calm that floods through me. The travails of earlier in the day wash away, and I would almost describe my mood as “happy.” I open my eyes, reach for my camera, and snap shot after shot, hoping at least one will capture my current emotion so one day I can look back and remember this moment.

My tourist obligation for the site well and truly fulfilled, I glance at my watch. More time has passed than I’d planned. No doubt my group is already heading this way, and I have no desire to cross paths with them, not when I’ve finally managed to salvage my day. What if I skirt around them? I pull open the map and study the trails. Yes, if I leave the path briefly and cut across country, I can pick up another route that will take me to the church and from there back to the Visitor’s Centre. I still have a good sixty minutes before the coach leaves; that should give me plenty of time.

I refold my map and shove it into my back pocket, then pack my camera away so I can pick up the pace without it bouncing against my hip. It doesn’t take me long to retrace my steps, especially since I’m headed downhill this time. I cut across the plain and have no difficulty making it to the road that will lead me to the church. Everything is going like clockwork, and so, naturally, that’s when disaster strikes.

I’m walking fast, eager to reach the church with time to spare so I can take a few final photos, when my foot slips on some loose stones at the edge of the roadside. I twist my ankle and my balance is thrown. Before I can right myself, I fall to the side, roll down the slope, and crash through some bushes. I feel a burst of pain as my forehead connects hard with the sharp corner of a rock, and then everything goes dark.

W
HEN
I
open my eyes, I fear I’ve gone blind. Then I realize my eyesight isn’t the problem—it’s dark because it’s nighttime. My forehead feels uncomfortable, and I brush my fingertips over my brow. The right temple is tender and there’s something crusty and flaky plastered to my skin that I have the sinking suspicion might be blood. I try to push myself up, only to collapse again when I’m hit by a wave of dizziness. My stomach somersaults and I retch, the action making me acutely aware of the dry tightness in my throat.

Once the worst of the dizziness has passed, I try again, moving slower this time as I push and pull myself up off the ground, using the rock formation as a temporary crutch. My limbs are stiff and chilled to the bone, but the greater problem is my ankle. A few tentative steps reveal I can put some weight on it, but not much and not for long.
Fuck
.

I shift my weight a little, attempting to find a semicomfortable pose while I get my bearings, and it’s then that I hear the unmistakable sound of broken glass from within my camera bag. My lenses. Shit. As if this wasn’t already the most unpleasant forty-eight hours of my life.

It takes me a little while to get my memory back into gear and work out what’s going on. I was on my way to the church when I slipped. That’s a 100 percent correct fact. During the fall, I must’ve hit my head and knocked myself out. I can’t be as certain of this snippet of information as the last, but it seems a reasonable assumption under the circumstances. The real point of contention is why I’m still here. When I didn’t reboard the coach, why was I not found? Surely one of the other passengers noticed my absence, even if the guide failed to do so. Did they not look for me? Why did I awake upon the cold hard ground instead of in a warm hospital bed?

A moment later I decide I have more important things to worry about, such as what time it is, how long it will be until I can find assistance, and how I’m going to keep warm in the meantime. Now that I’m thinking about it, I finally register the bitter cold. I’m wearing a top-of-the-line padded jacket—a gift from Richard—made of the latest hi-tech fabric, but the chill is seeping through all the same. I don’t even want to dwell on how blue my legs must be with only a thin layer of denim between my skin and the Icelandic winter night. When I release a tremulous breath, I can see the vapor hanging in the air. One thing is clear: I can’t stay out here.

Now that I’ve grown used to the darkness, my eyes have adjusted enough that I can make out the road a few meters to my right. I start to hobble toward it, pausing every second step until the pain in my ankle subsides. The slight incline leading to the road proves a challenge, but with a mixture of determination and violent cursing that would make my mother blush with shame, I make it.

Racking my memory, I’m sure I fell to the right, so I turn in that direction and press on the way I was initially headed—I hope. Assuming I’m correct in the path I’ve taken, the church should be close. Surely someone will arrive there to open up early in the morning. This is Iceland, not central London, so I even hold out hope that the building won’t be locked and I’ll be able to seek shelter within its walls.

The sound of crunching footsteps approaching from my left is so unexpected, it takes a while for my brain to register the noise and relay the information to my conscious mind. I’ve barely processed what I’m hearing before a tall robed figure looms out of the darkness. I gasp and my heart pounds against my chest. For a split second, I do believe I’m standing in the presence of Death, that I’ve dropped dead of hypothermia somewhere back along the road and he’s come to collect me. But then the figure speaks.

“Hver ert þú? Hvað ertu að gera hér?”

It’s a man’s voice, and from the sound of the words I recognize he’s speaking Icelandic—so not Death, then—but I don’t have a clue what he’s asking me. “I-I… I mean….”

“Oh, you are English? Are you James Blythe?”

“What? Uh, yes. Yes, that’s me.”

“Thank the gods. We were worried.”

I hear a click, and a second later I’m blinded by the bright white beam of a torch. I raise my hand to shield my eyes, blinking rapidly. When my vision returns and I’m able to see my companion properly for the first time, I jump back, wincing and swearing as I land heavily on my injured ankle.

“You are hurt?” He frowns, and the movement emphasizes the strange markings painted on his forehead.

“My ankle. I twisted it when I fell.”

He nods. “My car is near. I have first-aid kit at my home. Come.”

Before I can even start to form a reply, he’s turned off his torchlight and his arm is around me, bearing my weight, allowing me to hop along on my good leg.

It turns out my rescuer was not exaggerating, as we do not travel far before I can discern the vague outline of a vehicle just off to the right up ahead. When we reach the car, the man opens the passenger door and helps me in before heading to the driver’s side. He pulls his door shut and twists to rummage on the backseat. As he shifts back around, he tosses a blanket into my lap.

“The car heater is broken, but my home is close. Keep warm.”

I arrange the blanket over me, tucking it around my shoulders, and I’m instantly grateful for the added layer. Meanwhile, my companion starts the car and we leave the park.

We drive in silence for a while, with him watching the road and occasionally beating the squeaky gearbox into submission, and me casting what I hope are surreptitious glances in his direction.

The guy’s outfit takes up most of my attention. I want to ask him about it… but then again, I’m not sure I do. It occurs to me that I’ve gotten into a car with this man without any idea who he is. God, for all I know, he could be a mass murderer, and rather than saving me, he’s leading me to a grisly end! Death on the cold ground in the park might prove to have been the sweeter option. For all I know, he’s going to torture me for hours, drawing it out, keeping me alive for as long as possible, the better to enjoy my screams and pl—

“We are here,” he declares suddenly, slowing the car to a halt and then killing the engine.

Killing the engine? Really? That’s the phrase my mind finds the most suitable under the circumstances?

He comes around to the passenger side and helps me out, supporting me again as we hobble to the front door of a damn spooky-looking cabin, which, judging by the absence of any lights in the vicinity, appears to be in the middle of nowhere. I can see the headlines now:
British Tourist Found Chopped to Pieces in Icelandic Hunting Lodge!
And from the way the guy’s holding me up as if I weigh nothing, I don’t doubt his ability to sever me limb from limb. Hell, he probably won’t even break a sweat.

He opens the door, and we move through the dark room until we reach a sofa. He helps me sit before turning away, and a moment later, the lamp beside me blazes to life, illuminating the cabin with a soft yellow-white light.

My expectation of lifeless bodies hanging from meat hooks along the wall is not met. In fact, the place is surprisingly welcoming and cozy. The sofa upon which I’m seated is facing an open fireplace. There’s a small table beside me, and beyond that, a kitchen comprised of a sink, hot plate, toaster, kettle, and a few cupboards. A glance over my shoulder reveals a single bed tucked into the corner, with a shelf full of books above and a chest of drawers at the foot. There’s a second door near the back of the cabin too, which I’m guessing is the bathroom. The sink in the kitchen suggests the place is plumbed and is not so rustic as to only possess an outhouse. Either way, any fears I had of homicidal maniacs wielding axes quickly evaporate, and I chide myself for my paranoid imagination. Perhaps I should quit work on my fantasy novel and try my hand at some Stephen King-style horror instead—I seem to have the mind for it.

The man squats in front of the fire and lights a match. When he steps away, the logs in the fireplace are already catching the flames, and I can feel the first burst of heat against my face.

“I fetch the first-aid kit.”

He returns brandishing a small emergency pack and kneels in front of me. I grimace when he eases my boot off, clenching my fists against the pain. He waits a moment, watching my reaction, and then slowly rolls down my sock. The way he’s pursing his lips is enough to tell me the prognosis isn’t good.