He is anxious to be away from this place of death and walks Glossi, and Vinda with her awful load, away from the beach. The boy’s body undulates with each step forward.
A new wave of fear rises and lodges in his throat. The kittiwakes, auks and skuas – where are they? The cliffs are empty, there are no winged scavengers preying upon the wreckage. The fulmars should be out at sea circling the fishing boats, feeding off their discards. Something is wrong. Never could Stefán fathom that he is on the precipice of the fury the subglacial volcano has wrought.
He thought the eruption would be confined to the north – everyone in the south thought the same. But he was wrong, they were all wrong. In the midst of heat and haze he is struck by a raging thirst, which grows like a thorny vine with each crack of thunder. Neither he, nor his horses have taken water since morning and suddenly nothing is more important than finding it. He follows the path his horses’ hooves made in the sand only hours ago that lead to a large stream on the route home, which he should have reached by now. But there is no stream, and the path that was previously so clearly laid has come to an unexpected end, swept away, leaving no trace.
Another path appears that leads away from the beach to a sudden change in landscape from sand to grass, then to a brilliant green moss that grows over stones. This area is marshy, boggy, with large rock formations jutting out from the steaming ground. Stefán almost weeps when Glossi’s upper lip curls and he pricks up his ears.
‘Good, good. Water? Do you hear it? Do you smell it? Where is it?’
He allows his horses to lead the way until he hears it, too. A grouping of surface springs and underground hot boiling pools are just ahead of him. A small waterfall gurgles. The benevolence of precious, precious water.
The overall symmetry looks completely normal, yet here in this marshy spot of wetlands the air is too still. The ducks should be moulting, the fulmars nesting, and in their absence the land lies eerily empty and far too quiet. When Stefán lifts his son’s stiff body from Vinda’s back she makes a hoarse grunt that echoes. As gently as he tries to place the shrouded body on the ground, it thumps. Never was there an obscener sound.
Stefán directs the horses to the pools, but they will not drink. One of the water sources is the same colour as the pale blue ground mist. He looks closer. The water teems with insects he doesn’t recognize; dark-red flying insects, and yellow-and-black striped pests swimming, long and thick on the surface. He recoils from the sight of it.
The other streams and pools emit a strong sulphurous odour. Stefán dips his fingers in to find it tepid, and the taste sour and bitter. Undrinkable.
Glossi turns his head towards the small waterfall.
‘All right, you be the guide. We’ll try to drink from this waterfall.’
But Glossi inches forward and past the waterfall. Another pool of water shimmers almost completely hidden from view. An iridescent, green hue skims the surface of the pool. Stefán is so thirsty and impatient to reach the traveller’s hut that he doesn’t care about the water’s green glow and takes a quick sniff. Relieved to find it odourless, he touches the surface with his fingertips to gauge its temperature and then licks his fingers. Finding the water pleasant and with no aftertaste, he drinks a small mouthful. Glossi drinks beside him, while Vinda shies away and turns instead to the run-off from the waterfall, where she drinks greedily.
Stefán fills his travelling cup when he hears something rustling behind him. Startled by a swishing sound, he drops the cup and breathes heavily as he strains to hear it again. He senses someone watches him.
‘Do not be alarmed.’ A voice comes from the rocks.
‘Show yourself.’
‘I do not take commands.’
Nevertheless, a man steps out from a large, craggy rock formation where he had crouched unseen. Rising to his full height, Stefán staggers at the sight of him. An elderly man, taller than any he had ever seen, towers over him.
‘Drink no more from the green pool today. Only two drops must be taken after the long sleep that will come twice yearly. Two drops. Any more than that, you will die. But you must ingest the two drops. You will understand. Tell no one of this place. Follow me.’
‘What …’
‘I entertain no questions. Come.’
Stefán looks back to where his son lies.
‘He will come to no harm.’
Stefán takes four steps for the giant’s one stride. He cannot make out in which direction they tread, the fog is too thick. The great man stops and raises his arm. Like a wraith he points to turf-covered burial mounds. The green-carpeted humps are too numerous to count and the thick air disguises how far the area extends.
‘They died so that you might live. For most, the sacrifice was their choice. These dead provided our knowledge. Two drops.’
He turns and leads Stefán back to the pool.
‘Fill your flask. Mark this place in your memory. You will come here again to replenish and store the pool’s liquid.’ He points to the ground. ‘Beneath your feet lies something foul and aberrant, full of death – and yet it brings life. When nature has its way it is inexplicable. But the pool will not bring your son back. Remember this in the future when you think on this day.’
At the mention of his son, Stefán’s grief renews
