Kalle is on one of the new ships paid for by trade with the British, fishing somewhere off Greenland outside Færingehavn. 126

And Jegvan—no one’s heard from him in over a year; Jesus only knows where he is.

The letters from Fritz are few, but he seems to be getting on down there among the Germans.

Such is the conversation while the men’s feet shuffle.

Enough, thinks Ragnar. It’s time they began.

Readjusting the fuse, he’s struck by an icy jolt beneath his chin. As though a cold black gaze has shot up through the earth and straight into his gorge. His hand rests on the stone. It seems to be knocking against his palm. Three short raps.

Suddenly he straightens, mumbling, ‘Come to think of it, perhaps it’s better to let stone be stone.’

From more than one throat comes an instant åh ja. Red Ragnar isn’t the type to believe in pixies and trolls, everyone knows that, but few among the gathered brothers doubt that there are more things in heaven and earth. If he wants to change his mind, he won’t get any grief from them.

At that very moment, as chance would have it, Beate appears in the doorway of the new, virginal house. She glides out onto the step, framed in pistachio-green, and stands there upright and expectant with her shawl like a fishing net around the whiteness of her shoulders. An icy blue gaze melts over the paralysed menfolk.

‘Well, since we’ve got this far,’ mutters Ragnar, sensing himself grow warm under the hat.

*

127Abbe told me the rest of the story so many times that at last it took on a colour scheme, a materiality, like flashes of memory: while the weather was mild and bright over Vágur that day, a storm raged off the west coast of Greenland. The sky shrieked, the sea shrieked. Heavy clouds writhed above the water. Waves smashed against each other, breaking apart and spewing white.

For the unlucky fishermen aboard Kalle’s boat, all they could do was hold on tight below deck. Everything not lashed down went skittering about pell-mell.

Back home, outside the pistachio-green house, Speedy Arni lit a fuse then sprinted off as fast as his strong legs could carry him.

Off the coast of Greenland, some inner voice whispered to Kalle that he’d better get himself on deck, and bloody quick at that.

The little gathering of men waited for the bang.

Kalle was clutching a hammock pole and chewing his tongue to ward off the mad impulse.

Nothing happened. The flame went out.