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Image from Flickr via Simon Morris. Up there, not far from Greenland, north is not quite north. Rob has been reading about it. Rob likes how dense this fact seems, even though it implies a sort of leak in the world. He has always been this way. This is maybe still too big for him to know right now, the image too hard for him to see, but eight days ago his father Gerald was found dead in Greenland.
He has no idea why anybody would go to Greenland. He likes to believe that somehow, things would be clearer to him if he were thrust backward in time. During his library visits, he reads about explorers who once believed in a magical magnetic mountain hidden in the ice, one that floated and moved. These men believed their compasses worked because of this magic. A floating, enchanted mountain.
And actually, what is wrong with you, person? Of course those explorers, whoever they had been, went looking for their magic mountain and found nothing. This is the third day in a row Rob has come to the library to read about Greenland. What few sounds there are in this place—chair scrapes, coughs, footsteps, the zipping of backpacks, the click of the plastic bar on the water fountain when it is depressed by a drinker—penetrate his concentration.
She would be sad about Gerald if she knew he was dead, would ask Rob if he was okay, would want to know the details, would offer to fly out.