to choose from and they pick the roof as their home. They’re like living pieces of the darkness. And what a racket they make! They keep waking Coco when she’s just settled for a nap. She’s had the pest control guy out five times now and it just seems to make them more determined to come back.
“You can open your eyes now,” Tom says, but Aurelia’s already opened them and is amazed. The house is erected on ten-foot-tall wooden pilings—tree trunks—with a winding set of stairs leading to the structure. With a gasp she takes the stairs quickly, where a huge set of glass windows throw back her reflection.
“Welcome to Basecamp,” Tom says with a grin. How he has waited to say those words to her. He pulls back a flapping sheet of heavy plastic—marking out where the front door will be—and gestures for her to walk inside. She looks down at the floor, which is just plyboard marked with large black arrows and numbers. The underfloor heating and floorboards have yet to go down. Above her are thick oak joists marking out the next floor, and a smaller floor above that one for Tom’s studio.
“Let me show you the living room,” Tom tells her, leading her along the corridor. They step over tools and loose cables and enter a long open-plan room flooded with light. Aurelia brings her hands to her mouth, rendered speechless by the view that stretches out before her on the other side of the large seamless window: the fjord, set between the valley’s green shoulders like a long black feather, bronze sky resting on distant forests, and a hairpin road winding in the distance like a mad scribble. And in a direct line from here, Ålesund, which, although she cannot see it, is positioned as though she can lift her arm and touch it with her mind. Her father’s birthplace.
When she turns back to Tom her eyes are shining. “Thank you,” she says.
He takes her from room to room, talking her through what will be where, how Derry plans to decorate, what pieces of furniture are currently being crafted from the tree he cut down. Each window is carefully positioned to frame another view of the landscape like a work of art. Gaia’s bedroom features a beautiful round window, though no glass is yet inserted. Aurelia pushes the tarpaulin forward and glances out, taking in the cliff from this angle.
“What’s that?” she asks, pointing at the splash of river slipping over the rock.
“It’s the river,” Tom says.
“It looks like oil,” Aurelia says, and Tom steps forward to glance out. What he sees makes him dash out of the room and down the steps of the house.
* * *
—
Tom stands at the river, the new, suspiciously glossy river that trickles over the edge of the cliff, looking down at the furry bodies of forest animals nearby. He suspects they’ve died after drinking the water, though some appear to have had their throats ripped out. Mauled by predators, he suspects. Shortly after he diverted the river upstream, Clive suggested that they lay a culvert so the diverted water wouldn’t seep into the soil. Tom had done his best to line the bed with rocks and natural solids, but Clive was right—the river had begun to slow down and make the land a little swampy. He left Clive to take care of it.
When he dips his hand in the river, he knows immediately what has caused the river to take on a greasy appearance and a sluggish pace, and what has likely killed the shrews and stoats—the foam compound they’ve lined the bed with has disintegrated and melted in parts, mixing with the water. In some sections, it has gone entirely, liquefied and now pouring dozens of foreign agents into the fjord.
He phones Clive.
“Tom, I did exactly as we discussed,” Clive says. “I ordered the product from Oslo. Got the team to mix it and lay a new estuary in dry conditions. They did it all. I’ll phone the company, ask for a refund . . .”
“Clive, Clive! I’m not worried about a refund, I’m worried about the water, for crying out loud! We can’t exactly filter this stuff out . . .”
A long pause. “Tom, you insisted on the foam compound, not me.”
“Derry suggested the compound . . .”
“You’re blaming Derry for this? Look, I suggested a plastic piping and you said it wouldn’t look right . . .”