Where the Shadows Lie (Fire and Ice)

you?’
    ‘He did. It was in the afternoon, I think.’
    ‘Did you know Agnar?’
    ‘No, not at all. That was the first time I had met him.’
    ‘And what did he want to discuss with you?’
    ‘Saemundur the Learned.’
    Vigdís recognized the name, although history had not been her strongest subject at school. Saemundur was a famous medieval historian and writer. Come to think of it, it was Saemundur who was on the back of the seal in the print on the wall of the study.
    ‘What about Saemundur the Learned?’
    The pastor didn’t answer for a moment. His dark eyes assessed Vigdís. She began to feel uncomfortable. This wasn’t the usual discomfort she felt when Icelanders stared at her as a black woman, that she was used to. This was something else. She was beginning to wish that she had brought a colleague to accompany her.
    But Vigdís had been glared at by all kinds of unsavoury characters before. She wasn’t going to let a mere priest disconcert her.
    ‘Do you believe in God, my child?’
    Vigdís was surprised by the question, but was determined not to show it. ‘That has no relevance to this inquiry,’ she said. She didn’t want to cede control of the interview to this man.
    The pastor chuckled. ‘I’m always amazed by how officials always avoid that simple question. It’s almost as if they are ashamed to admit they do. Or perhaps they are ashamed to admit they don’t. Which is it in your case?’
    ‘I’m a police officer. I am asking the questions,’ Vigdís said.
    ‘You’re right, it’s not directly relevant. But my next question is this. Do you believe in the devil, Vigdís?’
    Despite herself, Vigdís answered. ‘No.’
    ‘That surprises me. I thought your people would be comfortable with the idea of the devil.’
    ‘I think if there is part of me that is superstitious, it’s the Icelandic half,’ said Vigdís.
    The pastor laughed, a deep rich rumble. ‘That’s probably true. But it’s not superstition, or at least it’s more than that. The way people believe is different in Iceland than in other countries, it has to be. We can see good and evil, power and peace in the country-side all around us. Not just see it, we hear it, smell it, feel it. There is nothing quite like the beauty of the midday sun reflecting off a glacier, or the peace of a fjord at dawn. But as a people we have also experienced the terror of volcanic eruption and earthquake, the fear of becoming lost in a winter blizzard, the bleak emptiness of the lava deserts. You can smell the sulphur in this country.
    ‘Yet even in the most barren lava fields we notice those first little signs of life through the ice and the ash. The mosses nibbling at the lava, breaking it down into what will become fertile earth in a few millennia. This whole land is creation in progress.’
    The pastor smiled. ‘God is right here.’ He paused. ‘And so is the devil.’
    Despite herself, Vigdís was listening. The slow deep rumble of the pastor’s voice demanded her attention. But his eyes unsettled her. She felt a surge of panic, a sudden desire to bolt out of the study and run as far and as fast as she could. But she couldn’t move.
    ‘Saemundur understood the devil.’ The pastor nodded to the print on the wall. ‘As you know, he was taught by Satan at the School of Black Arts in Paris. According to legend, he tricked the devil on many occasions, once persuading him to change into the shape of a seal and carry him back from France to Iceland. Yet he was also Iceland’s first historian, perhaps its greatest historian. Although the work itself has been lost we know the saga writers used and admired his history of the Kings of Norway. A fine man. I have devoted my life to studying him.’
    The pastor indicated a row of twenty or so thick exercise books on a shelf right next to the desk. ‘It’s a long, slow process. But I have made some interesting discoveries. Professor Agnar wanted me to tell him about them.’
    ‘And did you?’ Vigdís managed to ask.
    ‘Of course not,’ said the pastor. ‘One day all this will be published, but that day is still many years away.’ He smiled. ‘But it was gratifying that at last a university professor recognized that a mere country priest could make a contribution to this nation’s scholarship. Saemundur himself was a priest at Oddi, not far from here.’
    ‘How long did this conversation take?’
    ‘Twenty minutes, not more.’
    ‘Did Agnar mention an Englishman named Steve