Storytellers

Monday, March 8, 1920

The thud of the body landing on the good chair sent the dog into hysteria.

Gunnar’s gaze moved nervously between the usually calm dog and the unusually silent stranger, who just a few minutes ago had been screaming his lungs out as both men fought the ferociously whipping sleet and wind. The furious barking wasn’t helping Gunnar’s headache, and the blacksmith squatted with a little groan.

Come here, Ragnar, good boy. Give me a hug. Now calm down. Sshh... The dog, unused to visitors of any sort, didn’t seem placated. The blacksmith let go of him and stared at the man again. If someone really died here, there would be questions. The authorities might want to inspect the farm, the forge, they might want to look at the shed… Gunnar couldn’t think about all those horrible things now, he needed some medication first, to soothe his nerves and allow him to decide what to do next. Stay alive, he instructed the body. Watch him for a moment, he instructed Ragnar. The dog continued his furious yapping, paying no attention to the blacksmith slamming the door behind him.

Gunnar returned a minute later with the medication in hand, feeling a bit better already. He shook his head, scattering drops of water, then placed the medication on the kitchen table before entering the room again. Ragnar’s cries were hoarse now, but the dog wasn’t howling, which seemed to be a good thing. Gunnar carefully lifted one of the man’s eyelids with a blackened finger. The stranger’s wrinkled face contorted, lips opened in a soundless groan, and Gunnar let out a long breath. Alive. Good. Then he could wait.

The blacksmith knelt next to the dog again, gave him a cold, wet embrace, and stroked the mutt’s head. Ssshhh. It’s alright, Ragnar, calm down, boy. We’ll get rid of him. Go back to the kitchen. Gunnar lifted the rag dividing the living room – or, more precisely, the only room – from the kitchen, and pushed the dog out with the other hand, firmly, but gently. The muffled barking turned into quiet whimpers. The two men were now alone.

Slush started to melt in Gunnar’s bushy hair and beard, and little icy streams ran down his body. They felt like tiny knives, pressing just hard enough to leave marks on the skin, but not hard enough to cut through. He shivered and looked at the stranger with a mixture of envy and contempt. Even with that pretty woollen coat, thick leather trousers, and the fur-lined boots he still needed someone to save his life, eh? Gunnar was clad in his working pants, shoes that constantly chafed even when they were dry, and two sweaters. No part of him was dry or warm. But he never needed any help.

H-help, said a weak voice, which Gunnar ignored. It occurred to him now that he had nothing to change into. Had he expected to be out in the storm for half an hour, he would have at least worn his coat. As things were, Gunnar’s best option seemed to be keeping his wet clothes on and sitting by the fire until everything was dry. He couldn’t afford to soil the nice clothes that he wore only for his weekly visits to Doctor Brynjólf.

Help…?

Gunnar ground his chattering teeth. Do you ever think of other people? he scolded the man. I might get pneumonia and die now, and it will be your fault. He demonstratively turned away and knelt by the fire, rubbing his stinging hands, slapping his arms, attempting to force some warmth back into his muscles. Drops of water kept falling from his hair and beard, and Gunnar shivered again. Medication, he remembered, and looked longingly towards the kitchen.

My ank-kle hurts, whined the man again. Gunnar cast him a disdainful look. The stranger’s eyes opened, and his hand wandered up to cover them from the light of a single light bulb dangling from the ceiling. He took in the ursine, dark figure by the fire. It’s the devil, he whispered.

My name is Gunnar, said the blacksmith, and I saved your life. The hell are you? You’re not Uncle Theodór, are you?

I don’t know who that is…

Nay. You’re not fat enough. In any case, keep your hands off my farm. Gunnar dropped to the other chair, which creaked in warning, and started untying his shoes.

It hurts, wailed the man. He was shivering, his words interrupted by groans. If you could just p-please help…

I’ve already helped you. Gunnar put the shoes by the fire to dry, then glared at the stranger’s boots again. They looked brand new and very comfortable. Gunnar’s shoes hadn’t been new even when he got them in the first place. I had the worst day even before all this, let me tell you. What is it with your ankle?

I think it’s broken.

So now you want a doctor, grunted the blacksmith, reaching for his shoes again with a groan. This day would never end.

No, no, said the stranger, attempting to lift himself on his elbow before falling back into the chair with a groan. No… no doctor. This happened before. It just needs to be… eh… He muttered something that Gunnar didn’t quite catch. Ah! Stabilised. And iced… His entire body shivered, and the man cried out in pain again. Take my left boot off, he whispered. Cut it off.

Are you crazy? Those boots must be worth a fortune!

I d-don’t care about money. For God’s sake, I need this boot to come off and you can not tug at it. Please cut it.

Perfectly good boots, muttered Gunnar through clenched teeth as he stormed towards the forge. "Certain people can afford not to care about money," he added, picking an enormous pair of shears. He returned to the room, feeling almost tearful. His own feet were cold and rubbed raw, and those were such beautiful boots, even if they would be too small for Gunnar…

Please, just do it, said the man. Yes, I am sure, he added, even though the blacksmith hadn’t asked. Gunnar knelt next to him, then started to cut through boot and sock, grimacing in pain himself. A grotesquely swollen, purple foot emerged, with toes sticking out like sickening growths.

I am not dealing with this, said Gunnar, whose ankle immediately started hurting in sympathy. I’ll go get Doctor Brynjólf. Won’t be longer than an hour.

The stranger’s sobs stopped as though they had been clipped with the shears as well. No need for a doctor. It’s just pain. It will be alright. I’ll tell you… what to do. His breaths were quick and shallow, face a miserable mask. Just get some pieces of wood… bandage…

Gunnar shrugged, eager not to have to leave the house again. Whatever. It’s your ankle. You better know what to do though, because I don’t. Can you wiggle your toes?

The old man lifted his head a bit. His pale blue eyes squinted as he tried to focus on Gunnar’s hirsute face. What about my toes?

It’s important for… feet. If you can’t, then Doctor Brynjólf might have to amputate it, the blacksmith pointed out. But it’s your gangrene. You’re out of here tomorrow. You can stay in town.

I don’t have gangrene. Can’t I stay here until I get better?

I’m no innkeeper and this is no inn. It’s a forge. I don’t like no guests. Gunnar stopped, as a suspicion formed. There’s nothing for you to find, he added quickly, "nothing at all, especially nothing illegal…"

The man’s eyes closed again. He didn’t seem interested in Gunnar’s completely legal possessions, and the blacksmith’s shoulders relaxed. Can you please bandage my ankle now? I will pay.

Oh? How much? For what?

For your discretion, and to stay here until I recover. I gather you have no wife and children?

"Aye. How do you know that? Discretion? Who are you?"

Good God gracious… Where is my backpack?

Under you.

The man scowled. There’s money in it. You can have it.

How much then?

I don’t know exactly. About five thousand.

Did you hit your head out there? asked Gunnar when his ability to speak returned. Five thousand kronur?

Give or take. I didn’t count it. The man didn’t seem too fazed by the fortune. Gunnar, on the other hand, couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He didn’t count it? Five thousand would be enough to buy the blacksmith’s entire property and possibly some of the surrounding land…

So, I cut that off too…? The coat, the–

Oh no, exclaimed the old man. Stabilise my ankle, take off my backpack… then my coat… in that order… He ran out of breath again. Carefully, he added, his face contorting again.

Gunnar’s hands shook as he hurriedly wrapped the swollen ankle, then proceeded to handle the backpack, coat, and their owner in a way he considered incredibly gentle. The stranger in turns cried in pain and berated the blacksmith. When the coat hung from Gunnar’s own chair, backpack placed on the seat with great reverence, the blacksmith stood wordlessly next to the chair without touching anything. His wide eyes travelled between the backpack, and the stranger’s grey face.

Just give it to me, sighed the man. His hands moved slowly as he opened the backpack and fished out a black leather satchel. He handed it to Gunnar before closing his eyes again. The satchel was light, but the massive blacksmith slightly faltered. He opened it, looked inside, gasped, then clutched it to his wide chest as if it were an infant. I don’t understand, he whispered. Why is this happening?

Let’s discuss things first, said the old man. He tried to straighten himself in the armchair, then winced and returned to his previous position. I need absolute… secrecy. Nobody can become aware of my… His lips moved wordlessly again. …presence here. Not a single person. I had a twisted ankle before–

Aye, but could you wiggle your toes…?

–And it took a few weeks to recover. It will be perfectly fine. I shall, however, require help, new clothes, food–

Nay, interrupted Gunnar again, not feeding you. I am not a cook. I have a cleaning woman, she cooks too, but she cooks for one.

Oh? What cleaning woman? What’s her name and age?

"The hell you care? Better tell me what your name is."

Sigurd, said the man.

See-ge… wt? That’s not an Icelandic name.

Everybody calls me Sigurd.

Everybody being?

Just everybody. He hesitated briefly. In America.

Oh, breathed the blacksmith wordlessly. America – the escape for thousands of poor Icelanders, who only started returning when the Great War brought prosperity to their homeland. Aye. See-gewt, he said, tasting the word – so that was an American name. He wondered what Americans would turn Gunnar Karlsson into. What are you doing here? Gunnar’s forehead was wet – not from the rain anymore, but from cold sweat. The satchel seemed to be getting heavier. He needed his medication, this was way too much to take in, but maybe the day wasn’t so bad after all…

Travelling, said the old man. He glanced around – hardly anything to see in the undecorated, rock-and-turf room – then had to cover his eyes again. Can you please switch this light off? It’s giving me a headache. Make some coffee, perhaps?

Gunnar stared at Sigurd for another second or two and then bolted out of the room, nearly hitting his head on the doorframe before hurriedly returning to flip the switch. Once he was in the safety of his kitchen again, his movements slowed down. He cautiously placed the satchel on the table, shook his head in an attempt to clear his mind, and turned towards the stove. Both the kettle and the soup were still warm, they’d be hot in no time. In the meantime, he could finally shake out the contents of the satchel and messily scatter the banknotes all over the table. Colours and numbers danced in front of his eyes as he gently moved the notes around, hardly daring to touch them with his dirty fingers, wondering when he would wake up. A feverish realisation flashed in his head – Sigurd must have robbed a bank…

Gunnar’s nose wrinkled. Something was burning… He tore his gaze away from the treasure. It was the soup. It wasn’t his fault that he forgot to stir it, anyone would in these circumstances, what a day…

Here, he said a moment later, handing Sigurd a bowl and a chunk of bread. Gunnar’s body might have been in the room again, but in his mind he still couldn’t see anything but the money.

Could you turn that chair? My ankle needs to be elevated. Sigurd paused. Meaning, it has to be higher than…

I know what ‘elevated’ means, barked Gunnar. I’ll bring you a stool. No wet feet on my chair.

This soup smells odd…

You’re welcome. Told you this is no inn. Eat in peace.

As Gunnar uttered those words, he was already on his way to the kitchen, taking Sigurd’s coat along, immediately forgetting about the promised stool. He silenced the whistling kettle, burned his fingers as he dropped the pot with the remains of the soup in the sink, then returned to staring at the money, entranced. A single blue 100 kronur note – he had never seen one before – stuck out between other, smaller notes, and the blacksmith had to sit down as his knees felt weak. Suddenly afraid, he jerked his head to look outside, but all he could see was darkness.

The treasure needed to be hidden somewhere safe, and fast. Maybe in the coffee cans…no, that’s where thieves would check first. Maybe under the bed upstairs, no – that would be the first place… maybe in the chest in the corner, no, too simple, not in the larder, not in the stable… Gunnar’s nervous gaze landed on the black door leading to the forge. The heavier of his two anvils stood on a hardwood box, filled with ash and sand for stability. Once you removed the anvil, the lid could be lifted…

You’re rich, his brain said in disbelief as he put the lid back on, the satchel safely stored underneath. Gunnar stumbled a bit as he walked back into the kitchen. He locked the door, then rested his hot forehead against it, waiting for his rapid heartbeat to slow down. Medication! The situation was so exceptional he almost forgot to take care of his health! Gunnar’s hands shook as he made the coffee, adding a generous amount of clear liquid from a bottle to his mug. Some of it spilled as he clumsily re-entered the room.

What is that smell? That’s not coffee.

None of your business, snapped Gunnar. He held his mug tightly in his hands, both to warm them up more and to protect it from his irritating guest’s scrutiny.

I believe there is prohibition in Iceland, Sigurd said with an unpleasant smirk. Since 1915, is that correct? Five years and counting. Didn’t you notice? Too drunk… perhaps?

It’s medication. Doctor Brynjólf prescribes it for my nerves and back pain. And lung pain, too.

You must be very ill. What exactly is it – wait, your doctor prescribes you moonshine?

The blacksmith’s face flushed. Better tell me who you are. I don’t want no bank robber here.

I paid for your discretion, said Sigurd, and a lot of money, too…

Accidents happen…

You would be required to answer a lot of questions…

Anybody could fall from such a cliff… how did you even get there…?

Stop! shouted Sigurd. A pounding headache struck, and the tormenting pulse of heat rushed back to his ankle. One thing at a time, he said, much quieter, closing his eyes again. Everything seemed to be dancing in front of him.

Gunnar took a greedy swig, then tried to scratch his chin with the hand that held the mug. I, well, uh… What were you doing at that cliff? You can’t get there without passing my house first.

I climbed it.

You climbed… from the shore to… How?

Oh, I’m good at climbing, as well as a few other things.

Like what?

Reading, for instance. Where do you keep your books and newspapers?

The blacksmith looked around, as if expecting a bookshelf to appear out of thin air. I don’t read no books or newspapers.

In a society of readers, storytellers, and writers, where even the Old Testament was considered entertaining during the winter months – almost as good as The Sagas – this was absolutely unheard of. It had been many years since Sigurd left the country, but he couldn’t imagine winters being any different than they had been in his youth, when there was nothing else to do other than keep livestock alive, spin wool, and read or write. But, of course, blacksmiths stood by a fire all day… What do you do then? You can read, I hope?

Aye. I just don’t like to. I work, eat, sleep, rest. The usual.

Yes, yes, said Sigurd. "But what exactly do you do when you rest?"

Gunnar held on to his mug with both hands as though his life depended on it. He gently rocked it, admiring the light reflecting off the surface. His hands no longer shook, and he finally started to feel warm. The medication was working. Gunnar’s eyes closed, his stiff back relaxed, his nausea disappeared.

Seriously? You live alone in the middle of nowhere and all you do is work and drink? What sort of godforsaken life is that?

Mine. I’m kicking you out tomorrow if you don’t tell me what you’re up to. Which bank does this money come from?

It’s not from a bank.

Where is it from then?

It’s my inheritance, said Sigurd.

Unnerved, Gunnar drank some more coffee, then wiped his mouth with his nearly dry sleeve. Okay… then… what are you going to do with it?

I just gave it to you.

Oh, the blacksmith scratched his head, then moved on to his chin. Lice, thought Sigurd and shuddered. So… what were you…?

Are you suggesting that you spend every evening drinking by the fire?

Aye, it calms me down. I like fire and I like drinking. I don’t like strange people who ask me questions when they’re supposed to give answers!

No need to raise your voice, muttered Sigurd, studying the contents of his own mug.

I decided. I’m going to take you to town tomorrow. I’ll give you back the money… – Gunnar’s voice wavered slightly – and deliver you to the Sheriff. He’ll decide what to do with you. I don’t want you here.

If you do that, the first thing I will tell the Sheriff is that you’re making moonshine here. I will also say that I had ten thousand kronur and you kept the rest. They’ll rip the place to shreds.

Gunnar gasped. But I didn’t do anything! You stole the money!

Inherited, corrected Sigurd with a weak smile. The coffee was surprisingly good and strong. Now that he no longer feared lonely death on the cliff, he was already planning what to do next. Gunnar wouldn’t be able to spend too much money before Sigurd was ready to steal it back and depart. The ankle still throbbed with dull pain, but his headache was subsiding.

The blacksmith ground his teeth. Why does a rich man come to a place like this? To climb my cliff with a backpack full of money just for fun?

Stop asking questions, reminded Sigurd.

To his surprise, Gunnar did. Instead, he sat in front of his new lodger, not taking his eyes off Sigurd even for a moment, taking a sip of coffee every now and then. It took maybe two minutes for Sigurd to start feeling uncomfortable under the blacksmith’s heavy stare. Every now and then Gunnar’s face seemed to double in front of Sigurd’s eyes, which made him feel even worse. Why don’t you go and do something?

I’ve got nothing to do today anymore, said Gunnar. I’ve had more than enough of today…

Yes, said Sigurd, so I heard. He closed his eyes, but still felt the weight of Gunnar’s stare. Can you stop watching me like that?

No. I don’t trust you and you don’t want to tell me anything. If you don’t like me staring, I can put you in the stable. My horse is very discreet.

I could tell you… something, Sigurd offered, weakly.

Like what?

Some sort of a story. Like in the good old days.

Your story?

Just a story. Let me see… Do you know The Sagas?

I know The Sagas back and forth, American. And I know the Holy Bible better than you do. If it got lost, I could write it down again. If you’re not going to talk about yourself, you can tell me some other story, but you better make it good.

Sigurd hesitated for a moment. Alright… There is a story you might enjoy. It’s a good one… I think.

Do people die in it?

Yes, they do.

Fire? Women? Drinking? Fights?

Plenty of everything, said Sigurd, exasperated. What time is it?

It’s dark outside, that’s what the time is. Then it’s time to sleep. Then it’s time to work. Then it’s time to rest.

So, in other words, is it closer to eight or ten? I lost my watch out there.

In other words, I don’t know nor care.

Is this some sort of nightmare? You have electricity, but you don’t own a single book? You know how to make moonshine, but you don’t know what time it is? How can you manage without a clock? Maybe he had actually died on that cliff and this was purgatory, thought Sigurd, worriedly. From what he knew, forges were dark places filled with soot, smoke, and fire. That sounded a lot like hell.

I don’t need no clock. Why would I need a clock? I go to sleep when I’m tired, Gunnar said, then emptied the mug, smacking his lips. I wake up when I wake up, he continued, his voice a rumble. I eat, take care of Ragnar – that’s my dog – feed Karl – that’s my horse – and then I work.

Surely not on Sundays?

Why the hell not? It’s a day like any other. I don’t let no calendar or clock tell me what to do. I can tell you today is a Monday, because the cleaning woman was here.

Oh yes, what did you say her name was?

I don’t know what her name is! The hell you care? She’s a mute and an idiot. You just say: woman, do this, do that, and she does. She brings groceries, does the washing, cooks, sweeps the house. Tell me your story, American.

Bring me a cup of coffee first, sighed Sigurd. "Make it hot. No medicinal additions, please."

Gunnar walked out, muttering to himself. Sigurd’s feverish gaze followed. He was now warm, relaxed to the point of nearly falling asleep, his ankle pulsating with heat rather than pain. How traditional, he thought, accepting his coffee. A lot of things have changed in the last thirty years, but stories were still being told by the fire on the cold nights when there was nothing else to do…

He watched the blacksmith make himself comfortable, closed his eyes, and started.

THEN

There was once a young, fearless Icelander named Arnar, who went to seek his luck and fortune in America…

NOW

Oh, was there, interrupted Gunnar. But later he returned with a plan, aye?

Sigurd pursed his lips and stared at the blacksmith until Gunnar muttered an apology and busied himself with his mug.

THEN

There was once a young, fearless Icelander named Arnar, who went to seek his luck and fortune in America. He found the luck almost immediately, when he got hired by a family seeking to move into their new business, dairy production. Arnar found himself with a roof over his head, food on his plate, and just enough money to start building some savings – not quite a fortune, but he was patient. Nevertheless, he felt terribly lonely, having to listen to a language he didn’t understand, surrounded by strangers. Fortunately, the family realised that in order for him to work more efficiently it would be good to teach him at least some English, and assigned the task to their youngest daughter, Juana.

The two fell in love the moment their eyes met for the first time. To Arnar, flame-haired Juana looked like summer, radiating warmth and joy. She, on the other hand, couldn’t resist the icy blue fire of Arnar’s eyes. Bit by bit, as his vocabulary expanded, she began to ask him questions about the mysterious, exotic place he came from, his family, his life. She admired his courage to leave his homeland and come to the New World without a krona…a dollar in his pocket. Arnar admired Juana’s otherness and told her so.

Until now, all the ways in which she stood out only caused her to be unhappy. She’d always been made fun of because of her red hair, her unusual name, and the fact that her sisters were already married and had left the house. All Juana had were adventure books, and her future seemed to be limited to making cheese unless she got lucky enough to find a husband of her own. Her father had ideas about who a suitable husband for his youngest daughter would be, but so did she. Their ideas were very different.

Tell me about your family, said Juana one evening. They were learning words that described family members. Father, mother, brother, sister…

I have two brother.

Two brothers. Very good! What about your parents?

They died, said Arnar, shortly. He’d found out from a letter that arrived many weeks after the funeral. A long time ago, he added quickly, seeing the smile disappearing from Juana’s face. Icelanders approached death sensibly, more focused on life and the work that had to be done. Americans immediately got upset. It’s fine, really…

Tell me about your brothers, said Juana. Are they as good-looking as you?

Arnar’s smile soured slightly. I’ve got a twin brother, Ingvar. Definitely not as good-looking as me, though. Sticks his nose in the books all day. He’ll be a bishop one day. My other brother, Bjarni, he’s a constructor, he builds houses. Nobody’s better at it. One day, he’ll build wonders no human eye has seen before, but first he’ll build my house when I go back one day…

Will you go back? exclaimed Juana, her eyes opening in shock. Why…?

I miss my homeland. I live between the ocean and mountains, volcanoes and glaciers, ice and fire… Arnar paused. This here, is work.

Am I… work as well?

No, he almost said, watching her slightly trembling lower lip. You are a treasure, a pearl, a diamond… Perhaps it was fortunate that he hadn’t learned those words yet. No. You are my best friend. It would be nice if you could meet my brother.

Brothers, corrected Juana automatically. I wish I could go and see that land of ice and fire one day…

You could, said Arnar and a silence fell upon them. Juana blushed. So did he.

Finally she spoke again, quieter and slower now. So, one is the smart one, one is the craftsman… and what about you?

Arnar’s gaze met hers. I’m the lucky one, he said.

That evening both went back to their bedrooms longing for the other. Arnar found it difficult to fall asleep. When he’d arrived in America, he had believed the fortune he would bring back would be money. Instead, he found a treasure you couldn’t put a price on. And Arnar always got what he wanted.

Juana kept thinking about her adventure books, where the heroines discovered new places, new people… sometimes very special men. Could any man really have been more special than the wild and exotic Arnar? Waterfalls and volcanoes, she thought, amazed by the very idea that those things actually existed outside the books. The ocean and the sky the colour of Arnar’s blue eyes. Icelanders called America the New World. Perhaps it was time for her to discover a new world of her own, one where she would witness wonders she had only read about… and to avoid making cheese all day under her father’s supervision.

Unfortunately, her father decided that Juana and the servant were spending way too much time together. He’s no company for my daughter, he huffed, as Juana stood in front of him, blushing, her gaze glued to her feet. Both of you have work to do. He has learned enough. You will never speak to him alone again, he continued. Juana kept staring at her feet, but… her gaze began to turn from ashamed to defiant… forbidden fruit was… much, much sweeter…

NOW

Sigurd’s words became slower, then quieter as he found himself slowly drifting into sleep. He awoke with a startle when Gunnar began to snore loudly, slowly sliding off his chair with the mug still in his hands.

Gunnar, said Sigurd. The only response was another guttural snore. Gunnar, he repeated louder. Hey! he finally shouted, a blunt headache striking again. Wake up!

The blacksmith snorted loudly, opened one eye and looked at Sigurd. The fire had almost gone out. This is not a dream?

No, said Sigurd, massaging his temples. Unfortunately. Where do I sleep?

There. Gunnar gestured sideways with his mug, then raised it to his lips, greedily swallowing the last few drops. Sigurd looked where the blacksmith was motioning, but he couldn’t see a thing in the dark room. Then he remembered and shuddered.

On that… pile?

My father slept there, slurred the blacksmith. Twice the man you’ll ever be. Or have ever been. You’ll be just fine. His eyes started to close again.

Wake up, you have to move me there!

Sigurd could have sworn that Gunnar managed to put him on the sheepskins, climb up the ladder, open the trapdoor, then disappear without opening his eyes even for a moment. The ceiling croaked above Sigurd’s head so loudly it sounded as if it were about to break, which probably meant the blacksmith had landed on his own bed upstairs. Sigurd gave the dying fire a longing look. No matter what time of year, the rock-and-turf walls were always damp and cold. A shiver brought a fresh wave of pain. All he could think of was that he had planned to spend this night very differently.

Tuesday, March 9, 1920

Gunnar threw the sheepskins aside and sat up in bed. The swift movement triggered a headache – something he experienced quite often in the mornings – but staying in the cosy warmth inevitably led to thinking, which led to a visit from the darkness…

Outside, the sun wouldn’t come up for another few hours, but Gunnar didn’t need light to navigate his house after so many years of practice. He had, however, forgotten about Sigurd and an unexpected, loud snore nearly caused Gunnar to fall off the ladder. Now completely awake, he tiptoed to the kitchen, stroking the rag hanging from the doorframe as he passed. The house was piercingly cold, and the blacksmith shivered despite the fact that he was fully clothed.

Every morning looked the same. He started with lighting the fire in the stove, as it would take a while to get going. In the meantime, he lit the oil lamp – when he had a headache the electric light hurt his eyes. Next, he brushed his teeth. Doctor Brynjólf strongly emphasised the necessity of doing so, and Gunnar followed all the advice he got from the doctor, except for the bits that he didn’t. Other than that, the blacksmith didn’t concern himself much with personal hygiene. Coal dust had eaten into his hands, arms, face, and had been ground under his fingernails. Perhaps regularly using soap would have helped, but Gunnar believed it to be a waste of money. Every now and then, he took long soaks in a hot spring nearby, but only to ease his back pain. The only other thing that helped, especially in the mornings, was his medication.

As Gunnar waited for the kettle to boil, his fingers danced around the neck of the bottle. His muscles were stiff from the cold, but soon they wouldn’t be. His mood would improve, he’d find motivation to work, he’d relax. Gunnar neither understood nor approved of the prohibition. If other people were happy to walk around cold, sore, and stressed out, good for them, he often said to Ragnar. The dog didn’t disagree. Once the coffee was ready, the blacksmith added a generous splash from the bottle, took a big gulp, then topped up the mug with some more clear liquid. The taste was awful, but the effects were worth it.

Doctor Brynjólf advised a hefty breakfast, but even the thought of food made Gunnar’s innards twist. He blamed it on the smell of the burnt soup from yesterday. In any case, he already felt warmer, his muscles relaxed, his head cleared, his headache was almost gone. Gunnar drank the coffee in big, greedy gulps, refilled Ragnar’s bowls, stroked the mutt’s head, let him out, then went to take care of Karl. As the blacksmith lovingly combed the mare’s mane, he also related yesterday’s events. Bored as she looked, Karl was a good listener. Gunnar rewarded her patience with some sugar, then decided he was ready to get on with his day. He’d eat something later.

It was time for Sigurd to wake up. Gunnar picked up a brass pan, nodded to himself approvingly, then struck it with a spoon. If the gong-like noise didn’t wake his lodger up, Ragnar’s deafening barking must have done it.

Sorry, said Gunnar to the clearly unimpressed dog, then popped inside the room, remembering to produce a friendly grin. Morning. Coffee? Breakfast? I can bring it all here.

Uh, groaned Sigurd, who had forgotten where he was and how he had gotten there. His night had been filled with nightmares. Gunnar, he said, relieved, recognising the dark, ursine silhouette. His memory began to return bit by bit, starting, for some reason, with Gunnar’s uncle Theodór needing to keep his hands off the farm. Right. Coffee – please – thank you… He instinctively raised his hand to wind his watch, then the corners of his mouth dropped further. Do you think you could light a fire and move me to the chair? That would be very much appreciated. I’m really, really cold.

Fire going all day? Like I can afford… oh. Forgot. Aye, I’ll put you in my good chair.

Coffee by the fire was delightful and it put Sigurd in a much better mood despite the dull pain in his tightly bandaged ankle. Probably only God knew how old the good chair was. The cracked leather of the heavy armchair somehow felt dry and sticky at the same time. It was, nevertheless, very comfortable. When breakfast arrived, Sigurd was less than delighted to see burnt porridge with a lump of sugar in the middle and a chunk of bread with cod liver oil. The main advantage of the clashing tastes, each of them awful, was that it took Sigurd’s mind off the potential lice and the