Free We Shall Inherit the Wind by Gunnar Staalesen Page B

furnished differently from the first. Instead of a reception area the whole of the ground floor was a communal room that could be quickly turned into a meeting room. A broad staircase led up to the mezzanine, where there were two west-facing rooms and two facing east. I unlocked the door to mine and entered a light, rectangular room with a slanting ceiling, a bed broad enough for two people and a small, practical en-suite with a toilet, sink and shower. The window faced the sound.
    I put down my bag, took out my toiletries and put them in the bathroom. Then I changed into light walking boots with a good tread and grabbed an anorak and a camera as I left.
    It was still just as quiet outside. There were several boats moored to the pontoons in the marina. They were of various sizes, from small dinghies with outboard motors and polished rowing boats from Os, to swanky island powerboats, the kind that could be seen moored at Bryggen, in Bergen, in high season.
    I looked down at the abandoned building by the sea. I had forgotten to ask Kristine Rørdal about it, but it still looked like a fish hall whose owners had shifted their business to Poland, Portugal or somewhere with cheap labour. On Brennøy they hadn’t left so much as a fading company name. The walls were white, but the paint was peeling off, and the grey concrete was visible underneath, stained green. The windows were black. The brown door appeared to be locked and bolted.
    I set off towards the chapel. It was in better condition. The walls had been painted relatively recently, white as well. Inside the tall windows, lights were lit, and I stopped by the information board at the entrance, protected by glass against the wind and rain. There were invitations toregular meetings every Wednesday and Sunday evening, and morning meetings at the Missionary House, one of which was taking place at this very minute, if I felt a need to knit mittens in support of the missionaries in Africa.
    A poster caught my attention. The title was: WEDNESDAY MEETING. Beneath it was a quotation from the Bible: ‘ He that troubleth his own house shall inherit the wind: and the fool shall be servant to the wise of heart. (Proverbs 11:29) And after it: Hear LARS RØRDAL speak on Wednesday evening at 7.00. A warm welcome to you in the name of God .’
    I didn’t bother with the Missionary House, left the chapel and found the path leading through the wood north of the village. The last building before the copse was a little red house with white curtains. As I glanced in its direction I noticed a movement behind one of the window panes. I caught a brief glimpse of a pale woman’s face before the curtain was drawn, as if Evil in person were passing.
    I crossed through a classic tree plantation of tall, dark-green spruces, most of them far taller than Christmas-tree height. The lowest branches were dry and brown, and there was a soft covering of needles on the ground.
    Then I emerged into open country. A quartz moonscape – furrowed, weather-bitten above the water – rose to the north of Brennøy. The path disappeared. Now it was a question of following the natural grooves in the terrain. Occasionally I came across narrow patches of grass in crevices, where the path reappeared in part. The wind off the sea grabbed hold of me, ruffled my hair and swept it across my face, wantonly caressing me, panting like a paramour, immense, invisible to all.
    After five minutes I saw the cross. It towered aloft on one of the outermost crags. At first sight it resembled a mock-up of a wind turbine. But as I came gradually nearer there was no doubt. Like a local Golgotha it rose up, silhouetted against the sea, on the north of the island, a mene, mene, tekel, upharsin to wind-turbine supporters or whatever the meaning was supposed to be. When I was close it stood like a gigantic gravestone, cemented to a concrete base and so solidly constructed that it was intended to withstand even the fiercest blasts of wind.