Chapter Text
Smyril Line Ferry
September 4th, 1995.
The cool, blue-soaked winds pushed against the boarded windows of the cabin, whistling with a low hum. Mike could hear the faint murmur of the engine, could hear the waters lapping up against the body of the ferry as it slowed down in its journey between the fjord’s towering walls.
“Tell me,” Simone, the girl he had shared the cabin with since the pitstop at Faroe Islands, said with a confusing accent Mike was still trying to place. He could ask her, but he didn’t want to pry or be rude, even if Simone herself had no qualms against probing him for answers. “Will you take the bus or do you have a car booked for further travel inland?”
“Neither,” Mike said matter-of-factly and burrowed his hands into the pockets of his wool coat. The temperature was still pleasantly warm here but he knew the outside leaned much more on the cooler side. He couldn’t wait to breathe in the fresh clean air that every travelogue of the Nordic regions promised.
Simone arched a brow crisply at him, while simultaneously tying the laces of her long, black boots that almost reached her calves. “Are you planning on trekking to the other towns, then? Sorry to say, but I didn’t peg you as the adventurous, bare-foot expeditioner type.”
“No,” Mike gave her a small, subdued smile. Simone looked to be about his age, perhaps a bit younger. But she had that zeal to her that made it clear that once she was off the ferry, she wouldn’t sit still. She would set her sights on the green valleys and lush mountains and the routes that lay ahead and explore. “Not trekking, either.”
Huffing, Simone stood up and hauled out her mid-sized travel bag from the nook above and jerked her chin towards his much smaller satchel, “Do you want me to... ?”
Mike shook his head and she shrugged, easing back into her seat and eyeing him like his very existence had begun to trouble her.
“Come on, then,” she urged. “What will you do once we reach? I have a tour guide and a bus—my friends are in the cabins down the corridor. You’ve seen them before, right? At dinner last night? They’re curious about you, too, you hear? So, do tell. I need something to answer all their queries with!”
Mike felt his cheeks warm a little at this reveal. He had felt a suspicious number of gazes fixed his way at the mess yesterday, gazes that turned away from him, whip-quick, the moment he tried to catch them.
“I’m going to stay a while,” he told her vaguely, scratching his cheek, hoping that she wouldn’t send any more questions his way.
Simone nodded her head slowly, as if she was re-evaluating everything she’d assumed of him and settled into a blessed quiet thereafter. Mike could tell her inquisitiveness remained but she must have sensed his hesitation and so, chose to let it go. He sent a silent thank you to her in his head and let the gentle lulls of the vessel’s movements settle his nerves as he looked at the view from the window.
Beyond the glazed glass the veridian stretched on all ends, dull with the cold, a reminder of an autumn that would come abruptly to this part of the world. It was an hour past noon but he knew daylight would remain for quite a while during these early September days—or so the captain had warned him when he’d boarded on, all the way back in Denmark.
“Do you know any Icelandic?” Simone asked mildly.
Horns had begun to sound overhead, becoming insistent every second, a call from the crew for the passengers to start moving to the upper deck. Mike raised an arm and snatched the tail end of his satchel’s sling, pulling it down towards him. There was nothing delicate inside, just some paper valuables and other impact-resistant items.
Shouldering the satchel on, he answered a bit sheepishly, “No. I really don’t. Do you?”
“Just one thing,” Simone said with a quicksilver smile. “Bjáni.”
Mike blinked at the word. It sounded like bee-yaani but there was something off about Simone’s pronunciation. The same confusing accent twisting the lilt.
He couldn’t help himself anymore.
“Um, are you french?” Mike blurted.
Simone stared at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter, the amused kind, not the offended kind.
“Oui, oui, je suis français,” Simone replied and got to her feet. Mike followed after her as they climbed up the narrow stairs and walked to the starboard-side, breathing in the thin, cool atmosphere that carried the salty scent of the sea as well as the spice of dirt and grass from the fields they could now see appear slowly at the end of the fjord.
“How long were you sitting on that question?” Simone asked as they stood by the rails.
“Not too long,” Mike assured, mirth filling him too. “You have a unique accent.”
“So do you, Michael,” Simone said with a wink. Before he could ask, she continued, “I read your full name from the tag on your luggage. Last night. Apologies.”
Mike inclined his head in understanding and said, “You’re a backpacker, then?”
“Sort of,” Simone said. “This isn’t my first trip to Iceland but last time, I didn’t travel to the East much. Have to rectify that.”
“Your life sounds... fun,” Mike admitted haltingly. “Dramatic and eventful but fun.”
“You say as if your life is a bore,” Simone returned with a skeptical tone of voice. “You come here, in the middle of nowhere, no bus, no car, no plans. That sounds even more exciting than what I’m up to!”
Mike’s lips pulled up into smile. Simone’s eyes were almost shining with enthusiasm, reflecting the brightness she nursed within her. Something ached inside his chest as he heard her speak. She reminded him of himself in a way that felt hard to reckon with.
“If you say so,” Mike acquiesced and the ferry came to a stop in its berth, the hustle-bustle of the small party of passengers suddenly rising to a crest as the time to go their separate ways had finally arrived.
“Bye-bye, Mike!” Simone said as she gave him two solid taps on the shoulder. “Have fun!”
“Wait!” Mike called. “What does bee-yaani mean?”
“Bjáni,” Simone repeated with another laugh. “It means fool, Mike. A fool. Like you! Like me! Like all humans!”
Mike cracked another smile as Simone turned away and joined her merry bunch of backpackers and tourists as they made their way down the ramp and onto the solid earth of Seyðisfjörður’s dock.
He lingered near the hull for a little while, watching as the hundred-and-fifty or so companions of his left the ship. The luggage was lined up below on the quay’s stone, displaying everyone’s name tags in bold letters. Mike would soon be summoned on speakerphone if he was a no-show. He should descend the gangway, he knew. The sooner the better.
Mike wanted this. He had been excited and downright chirpy about this decision, egged on by his mentor and editor, supported by his mother and friends—the perfect opportunity for him to recoup and refresh after the last insane bout of novel-writing he’d been on.
There was no burn-out or muse-seeking. He’d come here to simply be. To unwind and settle in his skin that could feel itchy and ill-begotten at times. Maybe write a few more books, a few more stories, and experience the change of pace in a life that had started to feel a little too busy.
“I’ll probably go on a sabbatical after a couple years, too,” Dustin had told him over the phone, his recent peer-reviewed paper on wormholes making headlines in the newspaper. “See it that way, buddy. You’re not working now so you can eventually work better. It’s investing in your future quality of work and the time you will spend there.”
Mike had hummed non-committally, and changed the topic to congratulate Dustin instead. But that rationalisation had made sense to him and he’d immediately looked into remote but inspiring places he could spend a few months in. Off-grid, unknown, left to his own devices.
After about ten minutes, Mike pocketed his hands once more, breathing in deeply, and disembarked the ferry with careful but eager steps. A crewman shoved towards him the handle of his trolley and dropped the strap of his heavy-canvas carry bag into his bent elbow, “What in the world is in there, sir? Did you load it with rocks?”
“No, no—” Mike said, shaking his head, an apologetic sheen in his eyes. Did the man have to hold his bag this entire time? He really should’ve left sooner. “It’s just my typewriter. It’s a bit of a hassle to travel with. I’m so sorry. Thanks for taking care of it.”
“That’s okay,” the crewman said with a wrinkled smile. “And typewriter, you say? What a prudent thing to have with yourself, já?”
“Já,” Mike agreed. It meant ‘yes’. It was one of the only words he remembered from the little leaflet on common Icelandic terms he’d gotten from the sleeve of his ferry seat.
He thanked the crewman once more and shouldered the bag, the weight of his trusty typewriter settling to his side. The stone here was polished and gravel was limited, so pulling the trolley didn’t take much effort. His fellow passengers had already trickled into the waiting buses by the port or were in the process of boarding hired cars. Some were leaving on foot to visit nearby cafés and kill time before their commute began. None of them were here to stay, except the two locals who had accompanied them from their trade visits outside of Iceland.
Mike rummaged the slip of paper from the front pocket of his coat. It had an address scribbled on it. He’d already asked the captain about navigation and according to her, his home for the next six months was a ten minute walk from the dock.
His ankle boots clacked against the floor in a soothingly familiar manner in a wonderfully unfamiliar place. Through the exit, Mike was met with the sight of vibrantly coloured houses stretching on both sides of the main road that was rolled on a gentle slope uphill. So gentle it was almost flat. Grassy fields on the edge of transformation surrounded the town proper, birches, spruce, pine and lark twisting through the roads, moulded by the winds.
At the distant end, centred around which were the metal-roofed residences of Seyðisfjörður was the brilliant white structure of a church. Unmistakably grand and impressive, but still modest, still homely in a way Mike couldn’t describe. There was this restraint to every piece of architecture he set his eyes on, as if every block was put together with utility in mind but carved in a way, decorated in a way that celebrated its existence nonetheless.
He quickly dug out the small notepad from his pocket and the pen that stayed hooked on his collar, writing down a few lines that came to his mind. He didn’t publish poems—those weren’t his forté, nor what his editor wanted from him, but these snippets he wrote down were all for himself. An audience of one. The exclusivity was almost humbling.
There’s not a shoe in the world that could tread these paths without leaving a trace behind, for so remembering are these lands, these houses, these mountains; they see you before you ever see them.
Mike didn’t enter any of the cafés lining the mouth of the road. They were busy with the stragglers from the ferry and he wanted to map out at least some part of the town before heading to his destination.
He chose a side-route that was a narrow incline between a set of intriguing stores. Souvenirs, stamps, handmade utensils. Shops full of sweaters and skirts and coats made of locally sourced wool. Colourful trinkets pressed against storefronts, a blackboard with chalked on words he couldn’t comprehend leaning beside the doors.
The first café he saw was at the base of a three-storey building, the door painted cobalt blue, chipping at the very edges. It wasn’t fully shut, but slightly ajar, as if the hinge had grown faulty. The awning was made of hardwood, reaching downwards at an angle, and Mike had to duck to not hit his head as he entered.
A small bell chimed above him, and he immediately felt a welcoming warmth settle into his bones. He could feel it radiate from the walls and the floorboards and the tables pressed towards the walls and windows. Though the building was wedged between two others, the café was lit amply by the large windows out front. The whole space was unbelievably cozy, garnished by the smell of churned coffee and jam.
It was empty, too, save for a middle-aged woman who sat near a display of crockery, flipping through a magazine and sipping occassionally from a cup of tea that looked quite tepid.
Mike was about to take a step inside when—
“No shoes,” a stern voice spoke and Mike glanced at the old man behind the counter. He’d been hunched over behind the rack of bread before, so Mike hadn’t noticed.
Mike surreptiously darted his eyes to the woman’s feet and found them bare. One look to the side and he saw a pair of heels and a pair of worn trekking boots lined up neatly against the wall. He slid his own shoes off and tried to follow the queue, making sure his pair didn’t mess up the neatness.
The moment his socked feet made contact with the floor, he let out a relieved exhale. It was just so amazingly warm. His trolley made a little noise as he pulled it towards a table. Depositing his carry bag and satchel onto a chair, he approached the old man. There was no display of beverages or snacks available, just a simple but effective laminated sheet menu placed on the counter.
“Hello,” Mike greeted quietly with a smile. “Good afternoon, sir.”
The old man looked him up and down, almost assessingly, his eyes a frayed blue behind his thin-rimmed glasses. He had a lovely deep red pullover on—a petalled yoke design adorning his neckline and the space below. Mike could see the stray threads escaping the tight knit of the wool, a sign of use over the years.
“No sir. Arnar. Call me Arnar,” the old man said in a no-nonsense tone, a heavy but sing-song accent to his English. “You?”
Mike frowned in thought, “I’m Mike. Mike Wheeler. You said Arnar, right—”
Arnar’s eyes had gained a coating of recognition the moment he had uttered his name. There was his confirmation then.
“Mike it is,” Arnar said with a nod to himself. He gave Mike another once-over, as if this scrutiny of him was entirely different than the first. He was much more subtle about it, too, but Mike noticed. He’d become a little hyper-aware of every look he’s received since the start of his journey. Something about being all on his own, away from his friends and family made him on-edge. Vigilant. Even when he didn’t need to be.
“You must be Arnar Sigurðsson?” Mike asked, wondering if he’d completely butchered the surname given the twitch of Arnar’s nose. Probably. At Arnar’s acknowledging slow-blink, Mike continued, “It’s so nice to meet you, Arnar! I was going to head to your house as soon as I arrived but I figured—coffee comes first, right?”
Arnar’s face, wisened with laugh lines and wrinkles alike, smoothened into a smile that reached his eyes but not his lips, “That is true. Coffee always first. You understand that, krakki. Very good.”
Feeling pleased with himself at having found a commonality to bond over, Mike gave Arnar a cheeky grin and took a peek at the menu. Arnar shuffled to the end of the counter and Mike heard the click of a pressed-button before the upbeat melody of a song played from the boombox. Without meaning to, Mike swayed his head to the rhythm, the voice of the woman singing both haunting and appealing at the same time.
„Geturðu lækkað þetta?“ the woman spoke up, clearly addressing Arnar, looking a bit irritated.
Arnar’s face soured, almost in a way that was exaggerated, and he clicked another button till the song lowered in volume, „Þú ert gleðidrepandi.“
The woman rolled her eyes and went back to her reading but Mike could see the victorious smirk forming on her face nonetheless. He smiled awkwardly at Arnar as he climbed back onto his highstool.
“She doesn’t like your music taste?” Mike leaned in and whispered.
Arnar scrunched his nose up, “No. Not that. She is just... boring.”
Mike snorted at the straightforward comment. The whole of last week, he’d worried about getting along with hosts of the house he would be staying at. Arnar and his wife, Helga Magnúsdóttir, had a guestroom to spare and he’d taken up the offer for the next half year or so. If they started off on the wrong foot, Mike would have to make an effort to break the ice, instead of letting it happen organically.
“I, for one, think this song is spectacular,” Mike said sincerely. “Who is it?”
“My favourite,” Arnar said with a prim smile. “Björk. The song is, er, Venus is a Boy.”
“Oh,” Mike said, filing this away. He wondered if there were any music stores he could buy cassettes from. “She has a great voice.”
Arnar’s smile widened and pointedly slid the menu into Mike’s propped-up elbow. “Choose, krakki.”
Mike scanned the column of coffees, asking idly, “Krakki?”
“Kid,” Arnar said helpfully. Then, “I think?”
Mike laughed softly and looked up, “Let’s just do a filter coffee. Sugar and milk, please.”
“Okay,” Arnar said and hopped off. He was supposed to be around sixty but he looked in quite the good health, a rosy colour in his cheeks. “Cream?”
“Sure.”
“Kaka? Cake?”
Mike took a look at the trays of snacks and spotted the sponge cake Arnar was likely referring to. He nodded.
Arnar placed a small, painted tray before him within minutes. The coffee was served in a ceramic cup, hot to touch and hot to drink. The flavour sat on Mike’s tongue like a quality coat of paint, sinking into him, the aroma strong, almost heady. To contrast it, the cake was plain but sweet, interspersed with dried fruits and a little hardened. Midway through his snacking, rain started pelting on the roof, a heavy pouring that almost immediately petered out into a mild drizzle.
Mike turned in his chair and stared at the greying fonts of the buildings—the popping blues and pinks and yellows darkening under the soak of rainwater. The smell of petrichor was pervasive and welcome, reminding him of the first showers back home, of muddy earth grounding him below his sandal-clad feet, of potted plants outside doorfronts, glilttering, of the envelope of security his basement brought him as the downpour grew heavy.
“You have waterproof jacket?” Arnar queried, his hands cupped around a mug of fresh brew.
“No,” Mike said and struggled to pull out something from his trolley. “Here,” he said, placing an umbrella beside his tray, tightly twisted by the band, about the length of his forearm.
“Umbrella?” Arnar said, sounding disdainful. “Better get jacket or coat for rain, krakki. You will need it.”
Mike held his umbrella in a sort of protective embrace before slipping it into his satchel, wondering why Arnar would give him such advice but accepting it regardless. He would be a fool to not heed the locals about the weather. The last thing he wanted was to succumb to the elements and die a very stupid death that was sure to make a headline somewhere. And not the good kind at that.
The woman sitting quietly at her table stirred at last, putting away the magazine and making a frustrated noise.
Arnar quirked a brow towards her, “Hm?”
„Hún er rosalega sein,“ the woman said with a hint of annoyance, glaring at Arnar as if he was the one causing her distress.
Arnar huffed a laugh and told Mike, in a way that was meant to be conspiratorial but came out hilariously conspicuous instead, “Her friend didn’t show. Ditched her, as you would say. She’s sulking.”
“Not sulking,” the woman said, in a much clearer accent than Arnar. Mike’s eyes widened slightly—he’d thought she didn’t know English. He hoped she hadn’t heard the slight teasing from them before. “Elín has become careless.”
Mike’s heart stuttered at the name. It was stupid but he would always react to any word that held her name within it. El-leen. The woman’s friend. Before he could hide his reaction, something tightened within his chest and he broke into a cough, discomfort spreading within his body.
Arnar rose from his stool and regarded him with concern, “What happened, krakki?”
Mike pressed a palm to the centre of his ribcage, feeling the beats of his heart settle, and the earlier uneasiness fade away. He frowned in thought, shaking his head as if coming out of a thick daze, “Not sure. Um, sorry about that.”
“Odd boy this one,” the woman commented, her perfectly curled eyelashes sitting above a pair of brilliant green eyes.
“Leave him be,” Arnar hushed her and Mike fixated onto his half-empty cup of coffee, swallowing the rest in a rushed gulp. Suddenly, he felt tired, days and days of sea travel finally catching upto him. He wanted nothing more than to take a hot bath and bury himself under clean sheets, napping till he awoke fresh and rejuvenated.
“Thank you,” Mike said politely as he dropped the empty dishes onto the side of the counter. The music was much sweeter now, with an edge of melancholic violins in the instrumental. “How much... ?”
Arnar swatted the air in front of him, back-and-forth, “Don’t be silly. First meal is free. You are my guest, krakki.”
“Ah,” the woman punctuated with interest, making no effort to hide her eavesdropping anymore. Mike could tell boredom had finally gotten to her. “So, this is the American youngling you were talking about?”
“I’m not—not a youngling,” Mike said, blinking. Some affront snuck up on him and he clarified, “I’m twenty-four.”
“Hah,” the woman said, unimpressed. “A youngling is correct. Elín’s age. Look at her—tardy,” she clicked her tongue. “Hardworking that girl. Good friend, you understand, American boy? But tardy.”
“Can you please stop calling me that?” Mike said, exasperated. “My name’s Mike. Michael Wheeler.”
“And mine’s Lilja,” the woman said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Michael.”
“Is it?” Mike murmured, bringing a chuckle out of Arnar. Louder, he said amicably, “Likewise, Lilja.”
“Thanks again,” he turned to Arnar. “I’ll head over to your house, then?”
Arnar handed him a paper-wrapped package of cake on his way out, with a warning to buy proper rain gear once more. Mike assured him that he would and pulled the trolley out, struggled into his shoes—fingers hooking the back against his heels, and wore his satchel sideways. The awning sheltered him from the sharply falling rain. The drizzle had grown again, the wind chaotically sending the rainwater into spinwheel directions.
His hair flapped against his eyes and ears, uncontrollable like the breeze. He ran a hand through them, clutching the bag with his typewriter under his elbow, but it was an exercise in utter futility. Tameness for his hair was a very rare accomplishment. One he wouldn’t be achieving today.
Sighing, he adjusted his grip on the trolley handle, then clicked open his umbrella. The canopy immediately flopped to the side, affected by the strong wind, and Mike wrestled for control like one would in an intense game of tug-of-war. No wonder Arnar had been so against the use of umbrellas.
Resigned to his fate, Mike gingerly took a step outside. The umbrella provided only partial coverage and he focussed on not getting his carry bag wet. Small pebbles dug into the soles of his boots, loosened by the rain, and small puddles had begun to form in the unevenness of the road.
A vague sort of feeling arose within his gut. He narrowed his eyes at the sky, wondering what this tug in his stomach was about.
Ridding himself of the feeling, Mike took another step and—
And rammed straight into someone’s elbow, sending him off-kilter.
He lost his grip on the umbrella and it crashed unceremoniously to the ground. Without thinking, he retreated back under the awning, the rain thundering in his ears, a perfunctory apology leaving his lips for colliding with the stranger.
“Oh, no,” the stranger uttered, her voice pitched high with worry. Something nibbled in the corner of Mike’s mind. She scrambled to pick up his umbrella and Mike caught sight of the rubber red raincoat she was wearing. „Mér þykir svo leitt— ég var í flýti og sá þig ekki—“
Mike deliberately left the cover of the awning once more, his bag and trolley left underneath, blood rushing to his face, his ears, his heart. The woman stopped mid-sentence, her eyes taking him in, her lips parting in shock, the earlier good-humored apology wiping off her face, swept away by a stunned, stiffening paleness.
The world around them went deathly quiet.
He couldn’t hear the pitter-patter of the rain, the distant hum of chimneys, the vibrating noise of the radiator. All he could hear was his breath and hers, both coming out in stops and starts, meeting in the space between them.
It was like Mike was seeing a ghost.
The same doe-shaped eyes, the same rosy lips, cheeks that seemed soft to touch. The hood of the raincoat had fallen, revealing streaked brown hair tied in a messy bun, curls hanging loose against the crevice of her ears. A forest green lapopeysa below a plaid pinafore dress—coloured in shades of purple.
After eight whole years...
El stood before him, alive and real.
Tears pricked his eyes with such overwhelming force that Mike couldn’t speak a word, except stare at this shocking, mystifying figure in his sight, his brain scrambling to make sense of what he was seeing.
El stared at him, too, first in utter shock, then with rapidly increasing fear.
“El?” Mike choked out, reaching towards her with a hand, desperate to make sure she wasn’t a figment of his imagination.
El’s eyes watered and she took a step back, almost instinctively. Her hands were fisted tightly around the strap of the bag she’d brought along and the handle of his opened umbrella.
“El,” Mike urged, his throat closing against the million questions, million words, million answers he wanted to spill onto the concrete. Vomit out this sick, clawing feeling inside of him till he could look at El and only feel the love that had always been. “Say something. Please.”
El hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin, trembling line. She was coiled taut, as if she was holding her entire body in a state of tension, of excruciating restraint. She looked so, so pained to see him, a mirror of his own features he was certain.
Then, in the blink of an eye, her expression cleared, replaced with an alienating neutrality that bruised Mike’s heart.
“Elín,” El said, stern and calculated, her English accent closer to Lilja’s than it had once been to Mike’s. “Name is Elín. Move aside.”
She thrust the handle of his umbrella into his unsuspecting palm and shouldered past him, the bell chiming as she disappeared into the café, the sound of her footsteps drowning under the roaring rain.
Mike stood there, stock-still, his world thrown into a dizzying, devastating loop.
El Hopper. Jane Hopper. Jane Ives.
Elín.
El.
His El.
She was alive.
And she was here, in Seyðisfjörður, his home for the next six months.
Mike stumbled, hand clutching the wooden column of the awning, falling to his knees in a stupor.
He’d expected joy. He’d expected relief. He’d expected tears of pure happiness.
He hadn’t expected this strange, hollow feeling, as if everything that made his soul had been scraped and scooped into a bucket that someone had kicked to the curb.
He hadn’t expected anger, grief-ridden and bubbling under his skin, cracking into every emotion he had ever held towards El.
She’d been alive. All these years.
He couldn’t be happier.
He couldn’t be angrier.
Mike rubbed his eyes raw and got to his feet. He couldn’t sit here and find a divine answer to the impossible web of emotion festering inside of him. He needed to process everything. Come to terms with the fact that the one person he’d loved with all his heart was, infact, not dead. And that she wasn’t all that enthused about him knowing this reality.
Grabbing his trolley and bag, he left the umbrella behind, treading uphill, as the rain and several other realisations sunk into his clothes and then, into his bones, a chill crawling up his spine.
His theory had been right all along.