filth, some people think it’s fun to throw rubbish into the wells and even to piss in them, some people are so strange it’s as if the Devil has bitten them in the ass. The boy gulps down ice-cold water. He looks out over the Lagoon and at the old Danish trading houses on the Point, the oldest buildings in the Village, from the early eighteenth century. Two storehouses, now used for the same purpose by Tryggvi’s Shop, and the Factor’s house, which has been used in recent years as the residence of the shop’s head assistant. The house is very haunted; the assistant and his wife are the only ones who have stayed there for more than one year, some say it’s only because the couple lack the imagination to perceive the haunting. The boy squints to see the buildings better, they are dark, it’s as though the air is hazy, it’s bright enough but difficult to see fine details from a distance. He resumes walking. The water has done him good, given him the strength to move his feet, and it’s also good not to have to wade through the snow, the beach is empty and quite easy to traverse, not covered with large rocks and uneven as it is around the fishing station, where it is shaped by the vehemence of the ocean. Then he recalls how it was only forty-eight hours ago that they sat together on the bed, read, and waited for Árni. He is so overcome that he walks up the mountainside, sits down between two large rocks and stares out with empty eyes while the afternoon air grows heavier and turns into evening around him.
Why go on?
And what is he doing here?
Shouldn’t he have stayed on at the fishing station, to keep an eye on the dead body and then bring it to its home, what were friends for, and shouldn’t friendship overcome the grave and death? He sighs because he has betrayed everything. He sits there for a long time and it starts to snow again. Would it snow over the valley where so many people think about Bárður, or is there a moon in the sky, wading in clouds, and has Bárður’s betrothed come out to gaze at it? Bárður always went out at eight to gaze at the moon and at the same time she stood outside the farmhouse and watched as well, there were mountains and distances between them but their eyes met on the moon, precisely as the eyes of lovers have done since the beginning of time, and that is why the moon was placed in the sky.
The boy has started walking again. He threads his way along the beach until he comes to the church, where he has to turn and wade through the snow again. He leans for a moment against the churchyard wall and looks out into the snowfall that hides the Village, catches a faint glimpse of the houses next to the church, dim lights in one or two windows, many people having presumably gone to bed, but not sleeping as soundly as those behind him. He can still make out the path of the priest, Reverend Þorvaldur, from the church and down to his street. The boy threads the path, it makes the going easier, but not by much. The street where the Café is located is covered with snow, and Þorvaldur’s path dwindles there and disappears. The boy stands in the middle of the street, snow falls on him, his left foot weighs a hundred kilograms, his right foot three hundred, and there is far too much snow between him and the Café. He could just stand there in the same place until morning in the hope that Lúlli and Oddur would come along here to cut a path with their shovels, but that isn’t what he does, doesn’t know that Lúlli and Oddur exist, even less that they work in the winters shoveling the streets of the Village, so incredibly lucky to have steady jobs from September until May, goddamn dogs, why does luck stick to some and not others? There are eight houses on the street, all stately. The boy wades through snowdrifts and approaches the houses and Geirþrúður’s café. The life he has lived until now is past, before him is utter uncertainty, and the only certain thing is that he plans to
Why go on?
And what is he doing here?
Shouldn’t he have stayed on at the fishing station, to keep an eye on the dead body and then bring it to its home, what were friends for, and shouldn’t friendship overcome the grave and death? He sighs because he has betrayed everything. He sits there for a long time and it starts to snow again. Would it snow over the valley where so many people think about Bárður, or is there a moon in the sky, wading in clouds, and has Bárður’s betrothed come out to gaze at it? Bárður always went out at eight to gaze at the moon and at the same time she stood outside the farmhouse and watched as well, there were mountains and distances between them but their eyes met on the moon, precisely as the eyes of lovers have done since the beginning of time, and that is why the moon was placed in the sky.
The boy has started walking again. He threads his way along the beach until he comes to the church, where he has to turn and wade through the snow again. He leans for a moment against the churchyard wall and looks out into the snowfall that hides the Village, catches a faint glimpse of the houses next to the church, dim lights in one or two windows, many people having presumably gone to bed, but not sleeping as soundly as those behind him. He can still make out the path of the priest, Reverend Þorvaldur, from the church and down to his street. The boy threads the path, it makes the going easier, but not by much. The street where the Café is located is covered with snow, and Þorvaldur’s path dwindles there and disappears. The boy stands in the middle of the street, snow falls on him, his left foot weighs a hundred kilograms, his right foot three hundred, and there is far too much snow between him and the Café. He could just stand there in the same place until morning in the hope that Lúlli and Oddur would come along here to cut a path with their shovels, but that isn’t what he does, doesn’t know that Lúlli and Oddur exist, even less that they work in the winters shoveling the streets of the Village, so incredibly lucky to have steady jobs from September until May, goddamn dogs, why does luck stick to some and not others? There are eight houses on the street, all stately. The boy wades through snowdrifts and approaches the houses and Geirþrúður’s café. The life he has lived until now is past, before him is utter uncertainty, and the only certain thing is that he plans to
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