The Things Owen Wrote by Jessica Scott Kerrin

Author:Jessica Scott Kerrin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Groundwood Books Ltd
Published: 2017-09-08T19:41:16+00:00

It seems like a long time later, and Owen is about to get up and knock on the mansion’s front door to look for his granddad, when Neville emerges. He crosses the street and walks toward Owen with a slight bounce in his step, as if a heavy weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

“All set?” he says to Owen.

“So they took back the medal?” Owen asks.

“Not at first. But luckily I remembered to bring a copy of Gunnar’s obituary to back my claim.”

Owen knows that an obituary is a published story about someone who has died. He keeps a copy of his grandmother’s tucked into the last book she ever gave him, which was about a boy who loved rockets.

“Smart thinking,” Owen says, impressed that his granddad thought of bringing the obituary, just in case. “So now we’ll rent a car and head to the archive?”

“You bet,” Neville says. “But first, I think we should grab something to eat before we find a car-rental agency.”

Owen doesn’t argue. He’s hungry, too, he realizes.

They walk along the path beside the pond, towing their luggage until they reach the end and enter into the downtown streets of Reykjavík. They wheel their luggage inside the first café they come to.

It is warm and colorful. The walls are a buttery yellow with gold trim around the windows. The chairs are bright orange with black legs. The polished wood counter where they sit down is resting on bookshelves jammed with travel guides and atlases arranged by continent, and the ceiling is plastered with maps of the world from which orange lamps hang down to match the chairs. Ketchup bottles and salt and pepper shakers are grouped together and spaced regularly along the counter. Owen fiddles with the ones closest to him.

“What is a typical Icelandic breakfast?” Neville asks the server when he comes by to take their order.

“We’re not known for lavish breakfasts. Mostly we look for something easy and piping hot to be scarfed down before braving whatever storm, volcanic eruption, earthquake or avalanche that might be waiting on our doorstep.”

The server says this with a smile. He is used to tourists.

Owen’s granddad laughs.

“I would recommend our hafragrautur, or oatmeal,” the server suggests. “It’s been a staple in the diet of Icelandic families for centuries. We serve it with a sprinkle of brown sugar and raisins and a pat of butter.”

Owen likes oatmeal. So does his granddad. That is what they order. Owen sees skyr on the menu and he orders that, too.

While eating, Owen’s granddad consults Gunnar’s map of Iceland, which he has pulled from his briefcase, and traces the route with his finger.

“According to this map, Stephansson grew up on a farm on the northern coast here, where a monument has been placed. Gunnar would want us to visit it. Fortunately, the monument is close to where our archive is located.”

“Sounds good, Pops,” Owen says, his heart skipping a beat at the mention of the archive.

Owen’s granddad pays for breakfast with his credit card.

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