Masterbakk Lake lay tranquil. Occasional little rings spread across the surface; an Arctic char came up for air. Some ravens flew over the treetops.
It was late summer, two years after. Tone had gone to bed. Gunnar was sitting up.
He felt he had failed as a dad. Something had gone wrong in the upbringing of his son. He who had taught the boy about the dangers of nature: wolves, bears, avalanches. Storms, angry elks and deep water.
It had let him down when it really mattered.
Why did he wait so long to run? Why did he stay there, lifting people down, and not get away himself? He must have realised he had to run now!
They had brought the boys up to be considerate. Help others. Let others go first. Gunnar remembered when he had been the trainer of the boys’ football team in Salangen. They had gone to compete in the Norway Cup, and Simon was angry because he did not get very long on the pitch, even though he was good. Gunnar impressed on him that they were all equal, the good players and the slightly less good. Everyone would play for exactly the same length of time, and if there was not enough match time for everybody, Simon would have to come off first. That was just the way it had to be.
Gunnar was back at his work in industrial and commercial development in Salangen. Sitting around idly did nothing to help. Tone was working three days a week with special needs children.
Håvard had got a place at a folk high school in Voss, on their sport and outdoor recreation programme.
But first he had gone to enrol for military service. When it came to filling in his personal details, he ground to a halt. Name, address, parents… siblings…
Siblings. Tick the box.
Should he tick the box?
Did he have a brother?
After Simon died, Håvard lost his foothold. The foundation was gone. The springboard on which the two boys had stood together gave way when one of them was gone. Initially Håvard was going to do it all. He took over the leadership of the Salangen AUF. He took over the homework-mentoring role for the refugees; he was going to be Håvard and Simon rolled into one. But it did not work. As the November darkness descended that first autumn, he broke down.
Every time he closed his eyes he saw Simon’s face. Even so, he got cross when his mother shed tears and had no patience with his parents when they sat indoors, staring into space. He could not bear to live at home any more, and moved in with his girlfriend.
It was so painful. Too painful.
The big blue house in Heiaveien was too cramped now that there were only three of them. ‘The House of Sorrows’, Håvard called it.
Two thousand people attended Simon’s funeral. As many people as there were inhabitants in town. Offices, shops and businesses all closed for the service. The Prime Minister had flown up, and spoke at the church.
All that summer, Simon had gone off to the churchyard in the mornings to his work as odd-job man. The very last thing he did before he went to Utøya was to cut the grass on top of what was to be his own grave. It was unbearable. Now it was his parents taking the steep path. Up the hill, round the curve in the road, and they were there.
Flowers, wreaths, hearts of roses, friends’ letters, pictures, tears. Among all the tokens on his grave, there was a small handwritten note: To Simon. My only Norwegian friend. Mehdi.
Three days after Simon’s funeral, Gunnar had a phone call from a friend.
‘I’ve heard the Dahl cabin is being put up for sale.’
‘Oh,’ said Gunnar faintly.
A month later, his friend rang again.
‘The cabin’s on the market now. You can find it on the web. You and Tone have always wanted a cabin.’
It was rare to find plots of land for sale in the Masterbakk mountains. This was Sami territory, the realm of the reindeer. The mountain areas were the preserve of the reindeer herders, and every May the herds were there before they moved off east to other grazing. The few cabins on the fells above Salangen had been there for generations. New plots were never for sale.
But now there was the Dahl cabin, with its wonderful location, that nobody used. The family that owned it had moved south and no longer needed a cabin in the middle of Troms.
Nor did Tone and Gunnar. Their days were black. Their nights darker still.
The friend would not give up.
‘Think of Masterbakk Lake when it’s completely calm and the char are biting,’ he said to Gunnar. ‘Think of Lørken when the high slopes are yellow with cloudberries in August. Think of skiing down from Sagvasstind when the sun comes back in February. Think of the northern lights in the winter, when—’
‘I know, I know,’ said Gunnar. He lapsed into silence, and then added, ‘I’ll talk to Tone.’
A month later, the family friend rang again. ‘The bidding has started.’
Okay then. Gunnar put in a bid too. But it wasn’t worth thinking about; the bids were likely to go sky-high.
It wasn’t the mountain peaks that drew them to it, or the fishing lakes. It was the prospect of getting away. Breaking free. Not free from the grief, for that had become a part of them, but perhaps the mountains could absorb a little of it.
The price rose. One last bid, they did not dare go any higher. Then the seller suddenly called a halt to the bidding.
Somebody, maybe a friend, had dropped a hint that Sæbø was among the bidders.
‘Well, I think I’ve been offered more than enough for this cabin now,’ said the seller. ‘It goes to the most recent bidder.’
It was the Sæbø family.
The Dahl cabin had merged into its surroundings, and was in the process of being reclaimed by the natural world. The juniper bushes were encroaching on the walls. The mountain grass in the lee of the wind had become a resting place for the sheep. Bilberry scrub was growing up through the front steps. It had long been left uncared for, rot was spreading through the logs and the wood panelling had decayed.
Tone and Gunnar thought they would be able to patch it up, putty the windows, weatherproof the cracks. They could manage that.
‘Let’s raze this dump to the ground,’ said their friend when he and Gunnar went up there one day to take a look. ‘You two want a cabin for when the wind’s blowing too, don’t you? For when it’s below zero? Let’s build a new one. I’ll take charge of the building work.’
That first 17 May without Simon, they were up there on the frozen crust of the snow.
The sky was clear, the wind had dropped; there was frost at nights and summer weather in the daytime. It was light around the clock.
They splashed petrol on the walls and the turf roof. Then they threw in matches. The old timber was alight in an instant. They stood watching the flames lick rapidly up the walls. Soon the roof was ablaze.
They were there with a few close friends. None of them could face being down in the town on National Day. The memories of the previous year were too raw. Tone did not feel up to seeing people. She had become withdrawn.
The snow was still piled high. Expanses of white all around them. Below the bonfire of the cabin, the water of Masterbakk Lake was still frozen, right between the twin peaks of Snørken and Lørken.
Oh, it was a beautiful place on this Earth!
But it was impossible not to think about the year before.
‘Last year, Simon was on the podium…’ said Gunnar.
‘Yes, and what a great speech he made!’ someone said.
Tone forced out a smile.
‘Imagine him telling that story about JFK,’ said Gunnar.
They nodded. ‘Yes, and to think of…’
One day Tone and Gunnar had come across the script Simon had prepared for his speech – the school president’s 17 May speech.