7
Amos
“Tighter,” Amos Johansen told his son, his voice rumbling in his chest. The resonant volume of his words made him sound larger than life, but he knew the baritone had more to do with his smoking than his manly stature. As Nordic men went, he was small. He stood no taller than his wife, an average Nordic woman, and only a few inches taller than Ralf, his thirteen year old son. He hadn’t weighed himself in years, but he suspected both wife and son outweighed him.
Ralf rolled his eyes and undid the pile hitch knot, tying the small fishing vessel off once more. “I know how to do this. Better than you.”
When Ralf turned thirteen, seven months previously, he suddenly knew everything about everything, including fishing, knot-tying and cooking—tasks Amos had been working on all his life, under the tutelage of his own father, Hagnar. The family had owned and operated the Fjord Sjømat Restaurant for more than fifty years, and Ralf believed himself ready to take on the mantle of owner, operator and head chef all at once.
Amos didn’t judge the boy too harshly, though. He still remembered saying similar things to
his
father, though he wasn’t allowed to get away with it. Hagnar Johansen was a hard man, who had wielded a switch the way gladiators did swords, brought in record hauls of fish and fried most dishes. Fish were more scarce these days, so Amos cooked with finesse, using locally sourced organic foods that brought in wealthier patrons from the mainland. Beneath the Fjord’s sign, in smaller text, were the words, ‘Finest Tappas on Frøya,’ which locals got a chuckle from, because there were only two restaurants on the island of Frøya—both located in the small town of Kalvåg, and the other still fried everything.
“I’m sure you do,” Amos said, sarcasm bubbling to the surface.
If there was anything Ralf loathed more than being told what to do, it was not being taken seriously. The boy stood from his knot-tying duty and thrust an index finger at Amos. “First you make me stay out all night fishing, and for what?” He motioned to the cooler resting on the dock between them. “Five cod. Then you ride me about the knot. And now you mock me? You never take me seriously. You never listen. You don’t understand.”
If Amos had ever spoken to his father in this manner, he didn’t remember it. The memory would have been knocked out of him. And that part of him that was his father’s son wanted to find a length of wood and teach the boy a lesson. But it was far too late for such things. The confrontation would be less of a discipline between father and son and more of a fair fight. The part of him that loathed his father, revolted at the idea.
He decided to wield the only real power he held. “You will do as I say, when I say it, or you will spend your summer on Frøya, cleaning dishes.”
The boy’s mouth snapped closed, but his eyes filled with fire. Ralf’s girlfriend lived on the mainland, a traverse over several islands connected by a series of bridges, and then a long drive to Haugeelva.
“Your ancestors would have traveled much further on foot to find a good woman,” Amos joked, feeling pleased.
“Maybe I will,” Ralf said.
“If you get started now, you might be there in time for dinner.”
“It won’t take that long.” The boy crossed his arms.
Amos smiled at the boy’s growing absurdity. “You’ve walked the distance before?” He patted his own slender belly and looked at Ralf’s chubbier girth. “I think not.” It was a low blow. Ralf had grown up in a restaurant, eating rich foods at every meal. While Amos’s rapid metabolism had kept him slender with little effort, the plump boy had more of his mother’s genes.
The defiance melted from the boy’s face, replaced by a sudden wash of self-degradation. Tears filled his eyes.
I’ve gone too far,
Amos realized.
Again.
While Hagnar had been a violent father, Amos made his son cry nearly as often, stinging the boy with his words rather than with his hands.
Venting a sigh, Amos walked to his son, brushed away the boy’s protesting hands and wrapped him in a hug. Ralf resisted, but the effort was half-hearted. He was as affectionate as he was overweight.
“I’m sorry,” Amos said, scolding himself, in part for speaking cruelly, but more so for losing this battle of wits with his son. Making the boy cry shifted the outcome of this argument in Ralf’s favor. Despite the boy’s rude and defiant behavior, Amos was the one apologizing. In fact, the sudden reversal got Amos thinking. With widening eyes, he leaned his face around, looking at the side of his son’s face, where phony tears framed a more honest grin.
He’s manipulating me!
Amos reconsidered the switch for a moment, but movement caught his attention. The pile hitch, tied too loose again, was coming undone.
Ralf stumbled away as Amos pushed him. “The knot, you deceptive buffoon!”
The boy looked ready to launch right back into a second round of verbal sparring, when he glanced back and saw the rope snaking free of the piling. “Shit!” He took hold of the rope, which was about to fall into the water and struggled to pull the small boat back to the pier. “Father, help!”
Amos crossed his arms. The advantage had shifted again. “You can do it without me, can’t you?”
“Help me, you asshole!”
Heat and pressure built inside Amos. He strode to his son, fully intending to shove the boy into the frigid Norwegian Sea. To teach him a lesson he wouldn’t forget. But when he saw the boy struggling to hold the boat, which was surging away as though under power, worry gripped him.
“Let go!” he shouted, rushing forward and wrapping his arms around the boy’s waist before he was pulled in the water. But it was a temporary measure. The taut rope would pull them both in. “Let go!”
“But the boat!” Ralf shouted.
“Let. It. Go.”
“It was grandfather’s.”
“He was an asshole, too,” Amos said. “It is not worth our lives!”
Ralf released the rope and both Johansen men spilled back onto the dock. Amos crashed into the cooler, knocking it off the far side of the dock. After colliding with the wood floor, he heard it land, but not with a splash. Instead, he heard a wet thud.
Confused by the sound, Amos rolled over and looked down. Where there had been water just moments ago, there was now only muddy, pungent-smelling seafloor. Exposed crabs scurried over the mud, looking for hiding places.
“Father,” Ralf said, sounding astonished. “Look.”
Amos pushed himself up and turned around, already expecting to see something strange, but nothing remotely close to what he found. The Frøysjøen strait, which was sixteen miles long and two and a half miles from Kalvåg to the far side, had come to life with a sudden, raging ferocity. The flow of water, which rose and fell with the tides, surged out to sea, fast enough to cover the small, unpopulated islands dotting the straight.
Their small fishing boat was pulled away by the retreating waters, joining a fleet of other boats, some empty, some holding crews of fishermen and lobstermen, shouting for help.
“What is this?” Amos said. His family had lived on the island for generations upon generations. He knew Frøya’s stories—the true and tragic along with the fictional and mythical. But not one of them told of waters rushing out of the strait with enough force to pull boats from piers and men out to sea.
Ralf had his own answer. “Tsunami.”
“A giant wave?” Amos asked. “That does not happen here.”
The boy dug into his pants pocket and pulled out a smartphone.
“I know the definition of a tsunami,” Amos complained, sure the boy was trying to educate him again.
Ralf held up the phone so Amos could see the screen, which was displaying a BBC news app. The first story listed under Top Stories had the headline: Iceland’s Bardarbunga Volcano Erupts. “Says it’s the largest eruption in modern history. That travel is going to be restricted across Europe for weeks. Maybe months.”
Amos held up his hands. He knew what Bardarbunga was and understood the ramifications. He’d vacationed on Iceland several times, and he remembered the fallout from Eyjafjallajökull in 2010. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Like you would have listened.”
Anger squeezed Amos’s heart, but he held it at bay. “Bardarbunga isn’t on the coast. Why would it cause a wave?”
“It released a gas cloud, too,” Ralf said. “Killed people in Scotland.”
Fear quickly overpowered Amos’s anger. “How
many
people?”
Ralf shrugs. “No one has been able to check. But a lot, I guess.”
Amos snatched the phone from his son’s hand and quickly read the article, which was scant on details and heavy on speculation. But the reality of the situation was impossible to ignore. While Bardarbunga was the first volcano to erupt, more than thirty had since the previous night.
That boom,
Amos thought, remembering the throaty reverberation that had rolled over the open ocean like a passing jet.
We
heard
it.
Prevailing winds and the eruption’s force had pushed volcanic ash and gas southeast toward the UK. He looked at a projection of how far the ash would travel. The trail skirted the southern regions of Norway and Sweden before heading into Europe, but a shift in the wind could bring it farther north.
Amos scrambled to his feet and dragged Ralf with him.
The boy pulled free of his father’s grasp. “Hey!” But Amos took hold of him again and shoved him toward the red building at the end of the pier. The first floor of the large seaside building was the Fjord restaurant. The second floor was home to Amos and his family.
“Get your mother!” Amos shouted, reaching into his pockets for the car keys.
“What? Why?” Ralf pointed to the tall hills rising up beyond the line of homes and businesses lining the road that wrapped around the island. “The open ocean is on the far side of the island. The wave won’t hit us here.”
Amos thrust his hand at the now empty strait. “Where the water flees, it will also return. You put too much faith in our seawall.” He moved his hand to the now revealed stone wall, covered in seaweed and barnacles. More than a few of the stones had slipped into the mud below. “And we’re not fleeing the water. We’re fleeing the ash. I do not wish to choke to death, do you?”
Ralf sobered, heading for the back door, while Amos unlocked the car. “Where will we go?”
“North.”
“Can we pick up Gayle on the—”
“Get your mother!” Amos shouted. “Your girlfriend has parents of her own. Go! Now!”
While Ralf disappeared into the house, Amos started the car and mentally mapped out their route, heading north to Heggelia, where his brother lived.
But what if that is not far enough?
Amos worried. He remembered an airport near his brother’s. Perhaps they could fly out if the skies were still clear?
Both passenger side doors opened. Ralf and his mother, Bitta, climbed into the car, tilting the small vehicle to the right. “What is all this about?” Bitta asked. Her hair was tied in a bun, but somehow still disheveled. She wore a flour-dusted apron and smelled of warm bread. “The loaves will be useless if the stove stays off.”
“Close the door,” Amos said and stepped on the gas.
Bitta yelped as the door closed on its own and the tires screeched over the pavement. As they tore down route 616, which took them along the coast of Frøya and across several bridges to the mainland, they saw long-time friends and neighbors cramming into their own cars, as well.
“Slow down!” Bitta shouted.