THIRTY-SIX

It was the first day of spring. Dawn rose low behind the dunes, and somewhere, a curlew called a welcome. The strip of white sand ran away on either hand, fading out of sight to north and south, and to the west rolled the green-grey ocean.

Two figures trod the lonely shore. One led a horse; the other held a falcon. Together they stopped. Together, they watched the pale sunlight strike the breaking waves.

‘This must be the great sea-longing,’ one said.

‘We’re free at last,’ said the other. ‘We can go anywhere. How about Iceland? You always used to go on about Iceland …’

‘“To Iceland or anywhere …”’

‘To Iceland or anywhere!’ And they laughed.

The falcon mewled, impatient.

‘Let’s let him out. He might even catch us breakfast …’

Astrid let slip the hood, and the white bird soared, higher and higher and ever higher, till white was black against the scudding clouds. Its cry was harsh, and young, and free. They watched as it wrote circles on the sky.