Far North - Michael Ridpath [53]
There was a story about a father and son, who lived on either side of the head, who had argued and become bitter enemies. One day they both met while riding around the headland. Neither gave way and each passed the other at a trot; miraculously neither one slipped. Afterwards, they discovered that the silver buttons that each wore at the side of their trousers had been torn off.
There was a stone on the other side that Benedikt had tapped for luck on his way out. He wished there was one on this side that he could tap on the way back.
The path wound higher and higher. Mist swirled all around them, pressing in on horse and boy in a clammy, silent grip. He was now so high up that he could no longer hear the surf on the rocks below. Just the clopping of hoofs on stone, and the trickle of water on rock all around him. He hoped to God he didn’t come across someone approaching from the other direction.
There was nothing much he could do, apart from concentrating on keeping his balance. It was all up to Skjona, and she had picked her way over this route several times before.
The path rose inexorably. They came to a section where it had completely worn away. Skjona’s hoof loosened a stone that clattered down to the sea below. The mare paused, snorting, planning her route.
And then Benedikt heard a sound. Hoofs. A boulder jutted out about ten metres ahead and in a moment a horse and rider appeared.
‘Hello, there!’ the rider called.
Benedikt recognized the voice. Gunnar.
‘Is that Benni?’
‘Yes, it is.’
Gunnar kicked on his horse who picked his way through what remained of the path and paused a couple of metres in front of Skjona.
‘What are you doing here?’ Gunnar asked, his voice friendly.
‘I’ve just been to my cousin’s confirmation in Ólafsvík.’
‘Ah, yes, your mother told me about that. Thorgils, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘All right, son,’ Gunnar said. ‘This is going to be a bit tricky.’
Benedikt winced. He hated it when Gunnar called him ‘son’. Fear fed his anger.
‘Get Skjona to go backwards. It’s not far. Just a few metres and we will be able to pass.’
‘But she won’t be able to see,’ Benedikt protested. ‘She’ll fall.’
‘No she won’t. She’ll be fine. Just take it slowly. Don’t scare her.’
But Benedikt was paralysed with fear. ‘I can’t. You’ll have to go back yourself.’
‘That won’t work,’ said Gunnar. ‘I have much further to go than you. Come on. It’s only five metres. If we try to pass right here, one of us will fall.’
Suddenly, Benedikt knew what he had to do. He summoned up his courage and tugged gently at the reins. Skjona pinned back her ears, but shuffled backwards. Another stone rattled loose down the cliff until it was lost in the cloud.
‘That’s it,’ said Gunnar, his voice calm, encouraging. ‘That’s it, Benni. She’s doing fine. You’re nearly there.’
And indeed Skjona and Benedikt were back on the path proper. It was just wide enough for two horses to pass.
‘All right, hold still,’ said Gunnar. Gently he urged his own horse on. Slowly he passed Benedikt on the outside.
For a moment Benedikt hesitated. He knew what he did or didn’t do in the next two or three seconds would change his life.
He freed his left foot from his stirrup. Placed it gently on the flank of Gunnar’s horse.
And pushed.
Saturday, 19 September 2009
He parked the vehicle at the foot of the hill, lifted the shapeless canvas bag off the front seat next to him, and set off up the side of the fell along a sheep track.
He was three kilometres from the nearest minor road, four kilometres from the nearest farm, neither of which he could see. He was a long way from any human being, out of sight,