For Iceland and other Dreams

There was absolutely nothing remarkable about the small, battered black book that lay in his lap. The spine was coming apart at the edges, frayed binding and torn chips of leather telling a story of a life of use. The cover -mottled with patches of alternating rough and smooth leather worn down by years of handling, was a patchwork of history written in friction. He hadn't dared open it yet, his hands still locked around the frail, bony hand dangling off the edge of the pristine hospital bed. Like the book, the hand was worn and weathered, translucent skin clinging loosely to what remained of the once strong bones beneath. Finn could barely feel a pulse, a movement - any indication that his grandfather was more than a lifeless husk. Each ragged wheeze preceded an agonising silence, a pause that opened a gaping chasm in Finn's stomach until another whisper of air escaped those dry and pallid lips. A strained rhythm stretched across the dying hours of sunlight, hypnotic and exhausting, until the sun dipped below the faintly glowing clouds and the rhythm ended.

The orange cast of the street lamp flickered as Finn sat listlessly in the rigid chair, its warm pulses beating out an unintelligible code of darkness and light into the room. He stared at the book now gripped between his hands, the faint golden inlay flashing and burning in the artificial firelight - carving the edges of the cover from the inky blackness of the world beyond the window. With a shaky breath that almost caught in his throat, he turned the cover and revealed the unmistakable scrawlings of his grandfather's pen. At the top of the page, faded and tinted by time, were the words

"For George, my light in the dark"

followed by the familiar scratchy symbol of his grandather's initials. Underneath the original inscription, in a bolder intense black ink, clearly far newer than the first, it said

"To Finn, for Iceland and other dreams".

Peeking out below the fresh message, a thin slip of paper jutted beyond the confines of the next page. Sliding it out, Finn found himself staring at a cheque in the same script as the messages - and in the flashes of the street lamp he strained his eyes to read his own name, and next to it, the figure of £20,000.

Finn slammed the book closed, the dull thud bouncing off the long corridors of the ward and leant back into his seat - his heart hurling itself against the insides of his chest, straining to break free. His hands quivered as he tried to steady himself with a deep breath, but his body failed him and the air sputtered and broke as it left him. He collapsed forward and his tears began to break against the featureless floor.

It had been some time before Finn could bring himself to open the book again, instead it hid behind the sprawling yellow-green plant that dangled off the mantelpiece of his apartment. Eventually the tug of the book's mystery became too much and he snatched it from its hiding place and laid it out on his desk, spinning the lamp from it's position over the bed to hover expectantly over the book.

Opening the cover again and removing the cheque, he passed over the inscriptions and instead turned to the next page. Finn didn't know quite what he had expected, but what confronted him did nothing to resolve the mystery of the book - he found himself looking at sporadic clusters of words littered across the page in the same faded ink as the first inscription. Spidering and dancing across the paper in his grandfather's scratchy, cramped handwriting, they broke like waves against each other, words crashing into sentences and careening off in a new direction. They seemed to be a mix of place names, addresses and co-ordinates - each cluster it's own island of scribbles and markings. Finn turned the page, then the next and began to flick through the taut yellowed book finding nothing but more addresses, more places and no indication of what any of this actually meant.

Frustrated, he pulled out his phone and opened the book somewhere in the middle, parting the book with a dull creak as it's binding pressed against the desk. Scanning the page he began to search the addresses, finding cafes, mountains and all manner of other places. The pages and the hours swept by until Finn found himself almost at the end of the book - where he found something he had not expected. On the right-hand page of the book, surrounding yet another cluster of markings - a sweeping line encircled almost the entire bottom half of addresses, but rather than the faded ink he had been scouring all afternoon, this new line was a brilliant deep black. Holding the page with a finger, Finn frantically thumbed the book back to it's opening page and as he had thought, there he found the second of the inscriptions - in the same glossy shade. Returning to the circled page, he entered one of the addresses into his phone and up came the image of a small cottage huddled into the shade of a verdant hill, beneath which it confirmed 'Moss Cottage, Thingvellir, Iceland'.

Finn had always been close with his grandfather, despite his rocky relationship with the rest of his family. He remembered the long garden bordered by fragrant flowers and graceful trees that stretched out behind his old house where they would drink ice cold lemonade and eventually -when Finn turned 18 - strong cider made from the apples that dangled from the wizened and gnarled branches of the orchard. They would talk in the dappled light of the later afternoon about Finn's school and his interests, the teacher that had most recently annoyed him and the girls that caught his eye.

It was never easy when the conversation veered in that direction - Finn had always felt a pressing stare as he invented some surreptitious exchange with one of the girls at school (in whom he had absolutely no interest). He had never quite found the courage to tell his grandfather that it wasn't girls that caught his eye - but had always had a sneaking suspicion that his tales of romance in the schoolyard were not as convincing as he'd hoped. They would talk about his future, the things he wanted to do, the places he wanted to see. Without fail those conversations would turn to Iceland, to the alien landscapes and rough-hewn vistas of mountains and rocks, the oceans of ice and grass. His grandfather had always pressed him on travel, instilling in him the wonder at new places and the thrill of exploration that came from years of adventures in his own youth.

Finn had heard plenty of those stories, huddling around the fireplace in the cottage and imagining the scenes as his grandfather described them - bursting with colour and life. As Finn trawled through the memories of his time with his grandfather, the meaning of the cheque and the book became clear. His grandfather was sending him off on his own adventures.

Not long after, Finn found himself 30,000 feet in the air, drifting over shimmering blue water and long wisps of cloud draped like cotton over the ocean below - the book nestled into the crook of his arm as he watched the world go by. The glinting sun turned the shifting waves into a crystalline landscape, ever changing peaks and valleys flashing like beacons to the sky above. The cheque had paid for the flights and accomodation easily and Finn had spent the hours staring out of the window of the plane imagining all the things he'd wanted to do but had never been able to. A new camera was safely stowed in his bag and the new sturdy walking boots he'd bought for the trip had served him well in the long queues of the airport.

Upon arrival, the seat of the van he had rented left a lot to be desired - it seemed to produce a new way to cause him pain every time he managed to perch himself around the previous one. Luckily according to his phone, the moss cottage was only an hour or so drive from the airport so he put on one of the CDs he'd found in the glove box and set off.

Shortly after leaving the city behind, he found himself surrounded by wild, natural beauty. A blur of green gorse and bushes flashed past him as the craggy edges of streams and rivers forked their way alongside the road, chasing it in a primal dance of colour and movement. Thin, dark trees exploded from the ground at seemingly impossible angles, their emerald leaves swaying against the viridescent moss and electric blue waters.

The road forged on ahead through the valley, the horizon framed by mountains frosted with snow and dense forests that seemed to go on forever. Finn was transfixed, his mind distracted from the mystery at hand by the flood of beauty that cascaded through the mud-spattered windscreen of the tired van.

At last he spotted the small red house, perched above the road and connected only by a small dirt track that wound back on itself like a coiled snake - the crimson building a shock of contrast against the sage and olive hills. He pulled the van to the side of the road and sat motionless in his seat - the confusion and excitement swirling in a heady mix inside him. He grabbed the book from the passenger seat and got out of the car, the door shutting behind him with a solid clunk. The house was boxy and stout, with a white fence curled alongside it that Finn followed round to the front door. Stood below the arch of the house, picked out in white against the wine red walls, he took a breath and knocked.

A slightly stooped, gentle figure appeared behind the door - features distorted and warped by the patterns in the glass windows. A small man, dressed in a blue cardigan and loose brown slacks opened the door, a curious eyebrow raised at the slightly bedraggled young man clutching a small, battered black book that stood in his doorway.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

His feet shuffled in a pair of grey slippers - reminding Finn of his grandfather marching down the stairs in his oversized dressing gown and fluffy slippers - demanding a cup of tea and warm buttered toast any time Finn had stayed the night.

"I don't know" Finn said, "I had your address from my grandfather and just wondered if you knew him at all? He passed away not long ago".

The man's face slackened and a look of concern spread across his features.

"Oh I am sorry, would you like to come in?" he said, stepping back from the door and gesturing inside the house.

Finn hesitated for a moment, then stepped through the threshold, brushing his boots against the doormat and pulling off his beanie before stuffing it unceremoniously into a coat pocket. The inside of the house was warm and inviting, small but cosy. Tasteful art hung from the walls of the living room to the right, and a small corridor lined with coats, boots and umbrellas led through to a cramped kitchen. A window above the sink peered onto the lush hills beyond, framed by small plants in various coloured pots. Resting beside the plants was a framed photograph of two young men clasped at the shoulder. As he followed the corridor into the kitchen Finn stopped dead as he looked again at the photograph - and a young version of his grandfather stared straight back.

"Why don't you have a seat, Finn? I'll bet we have plenty to talk about".