The Way To Aja

Chapter One: Home

    It was the period of the year when there was little daylight, but the snow had yet to arrive. When it would, little of Iceland would be spared. The stars were shining, lighting up the moonless night sky and reflecting out over the restless ocean while her ice cold waves crashed against the shore. The wind that night wasn't as harsh as it was others, but it was still freezing, like all nights in the North. The world of humans was silent, the only sounds emitted from the rushing of the wind and lapping of the waves on the beach. Along the endless black shore, often populated by puffins and other birds during summer, now barren, were large cliffs with long grass that was beaten by the relentless wind every day and night. The grass wasn't damp - it was dry- and through the light of the moon it's light green shade was visible.

A young woman, hardly out of her college years, sat with her legs folded in front of her. Her lower body, cold as ice, was only protected by thick black leggings. The twenty-three year-old ignored the numb stinging and relished in the dark and cold night, that felt nearly as alone as she. Her steely ice blue eyes watched the constant flow of the ocean as she listened to the ever repetitive crash of the waves.

When she had been a child, being here in the dead of night, stargazing and watching the waves had always been her favorite thing. Her parents would wake her on the nights when the moon and the stars were particularly spectacular, and they would bundle up in blankets and head to the grassy cliffs over the black beach twenty minutes away. The little family would watch the ocean, huddled together. Sometimes, on warmer nights they would race up and down the shore and along side the wind beaten grass. The gleeful giggles she had once made here filled her ears, reminding her of happier times. This place had once made her feel powerful, and free. Now it just reminded her that she was alone.

Her watch beeped, disrupting the silence briefly and telling her it was an hour past midnight. She had been sitting there for an hour. She sullenly rose from her spot in the grass, which was now warm from the heat from her body heat, and headed away from the ocean towards what was now her father's old, navy blue sedan. The car had once been her mother's, passed on to her after her mom left and she got her license. When she left six years ago, her father had started driving it. She opened the driver's door, giving it an extra yank. Haven driven the car for years, she had learned all of its tricks, including that the driver's side door had always been particularly stiff. Putting the key into the ignition, the car started up with a low mechanical groan. She flicked the headlights on and pushed off her hood, revealing her slightly curly white hair with somewhat visible brown roots, that stopped under her chest. Her freezing, pale hands clutched the steering wheel as she backed up and turned to the rode.

The roads were silent as she drove to her childhood home where her father still lived. Her lights illuminated the rolling Icelandic countryside and thriving ocean cliffs. There were no other people out that night, and by the time she had pulled to the house, she had only seen three cars.

The little, two-story, white house was located fifteen or twenty minutes outside of downtown Akureyri, the second largest town in all of Iceland, where there were little neighbors and the ocean could be easily seen from home. The worn bronze colored key was under the flower pot, where it had been her whole childhood. The house was dark as Rorry stepped through the threshold and shut the door. A light thumping against the rug alerted her of Max, who looked up at her, eyes tired. Crouching down, Rorry patted his head, and pressed a kiss to the old beagles head. Leaving Max to continue his peaceful sleep, the blonde grabbed the old, white, scratchy blanket from the saggy brown couch, and stepped out onto the porch. She lay back onto the cushioned swing, only removing her blue raincoat and boots, and settled in for a restless night.

Rorry was awoken when the door creaked open, and Max's paws padded against the wood floor over to her, his tongue hanging out of his mouth lazily. She tiredly gave his head a pat and helped him jump up next to her on the white flowered cushion, smoothing over her mussed hair, and gazing out towards the ocean. The sun had just begun to rise, and Rorry guessed it was around 9:00. From the house all the way to the ocean was wind beaten grass, colored every possible shade of green. The notes of Billy Joel's Piano Man floated their way out to the porch, filling Rorry's ears with the sounds of her childhood and interrupting the birdsong. Sighing heavily, Rorry glanced at Max, almost as if asking an unmentioned question of the old beagle. When there was no response, she muttered, "I wish you would understand me when I talked to you." The 23 year-old had strong silvery voice and a still present Icelandic accent. Max just gazed back up at her as if to say, I'm just a dog. Rorry pushed the blanket off of her skinny body, climbed of the swing and stretched, raising her arms above her head. Her pale, Icelandic skin shone under the rising sun and and the sunshine warmed her shivering toes, clad in blue tie-dyed socks. Rorry helped Max off the swing, and stepped inside.