Table of Contents Table of Contents
Previous Page  132 / 238 Next Page
Show Menu
Previous Page 132 / 238 Next Page
Page Background


thought and tells Ingrid to go out with him to look at the

sea, so that she will learn not to fear it, now while it was at

its most tempestuous, at its most instructive.

He doesn’t know why this idea comes to him.

She doesn’t, either. But he puts on her coat, with Martin

shaking his head, and ties a rope around her waist. They go

out beneath the foaming skies dragging themselves

southwards, wading against the stream in a torrent of wind

and water, struggling over three stone walls and crouching

down in the lee to catch their breath, clambering over

another, the father laughing at each obstacle while Ingrid

has to hold both hands in front of her face so as to breathe,

up to the low hill behind the Russian tree trunk which

constitutes the last bastion against the roar that comes to

meet them – raging walls of water towering up in the black

night and crashing down towards them, smashing against

rock and beach and cliffs, sand and shell and ice lashing at

them, for this is something nobody can behold, or

comprehend, or remember, the Lord’s trumpets of doom,

all you can do is immediately forget it.

‘No need to be afraid,’ Father screams in her ear.

But she doesn’t hear. Neither of them hears. He screams

she has to feel with her body that the island is not budging,

even though it is trembling and both the heavens and the

sea are in tumult, an island can withstand everything,