‘Look, Elísabet.’
He kneels beside a small pool full of queer, green-coloured, slightly iridescent water. He tests the temperature with his hand. Tepid.
‘It smells fine.’ He cups his hands and drinks.
Elísabet kneels beside him and scoops up two palms full.
‘It’s thicker than spring water. Strange.’ She sips. ‘It tastes cleaner than it looks.’
‘I feel as though I drank a whole pail of it,’ Jón says.
‘Yes, so do I.’
Sated, they suddenly feel forced to sit, desperate with an overwhelming urge to sleep. Jón tries to stand up, but he cannot.
‘Elísabet?’
She has fallen back on the blanket. He shakes her but she doesn’t wake. It is an effort for him to focus on her chest, to make certain that it still rises and falls, because now he too is groggy and collapses beside her.
Jón and Elísabet do not stir at the sound of Stefán’s approaching footsteps. Many things register at once as his attention darts back and forth from the pool of water to the couple, who look as if they might be dead. The pool is full again. He surveys the surround to make certain no one else is about and then fills one of the wooden barrels he carries.
Only when his two barrels are full does he kneel down to more closely observe the couple. Their breathing is shallow and faint, but they still live. Two more, he thinks. He sits on the ground next to them, patiently waiting. She is stunning, beautiful in an earthy way. Her face appears chiselled from some flawless white stone, with dark streaks of brow and lashes accenting her milky skin. A plaited thick rope of hair, the colour of roasted coffee beans has been blown across her mouth. Her black, woven tail-cap lies next to her, its long tassel spread in silky threads.
The man is red-haired. A massive spray of freckles covers his face and hands and gives him a boyish look as he sleeps unawares. He and Stefán wear the same sort of breeches and stockings, both black. Jón’s dark blue vest rises with his breath.
Stefán moves away so as not to frighten the couple when they wake. He hopes it is soon; he must persuade them to return to the farm with him. The Watcher has not appeared and perhaps will not show himself today. He closes his eyes to help him concentrate on the task at hand – how to tell them what has happened, what has changed for them both. It is the most difficult and dangerous of beginnings. It always is.
Jón wakes first. Disoriented, he rolls slowly away from Elísabet. It takes him a moment to notice his surroundings and then finally to register Stefán, who raises his hands in surrender.
‘Greetings. I came upon you almost one hour ago.’
‘Why are you still here?’ Jón moves in front of Elísabet, blocking Stefán’s view of her. ‘Why do you stay?’ he asks again.
‘Please, I mean you no harm. I must speak with both of you. Something has happened.’
‘Jón?’ Elísabet, still drowsy, sits up and peers over Jón’s shoulder.
‘It’s all right, Elísabet. This man …’ Jón now addresses Stefán, ‘I saw no signs that we are trespassing. I hope …’
‘No, no, nothing like that …’ Stefán assures him. ‘Though I’d like to know how you’ve discovered this area.’
‘Our horses rest on the path over … well, I’m not sure now. I don’t see them.’
‘I rode past them, they’re just ahead and safe. Did you see anyone else here? Anyone at all?’
‘No. Why?’
‘It would be better if we could speak somewhere else, would you follow me to my farm? It is near and you are welcome to have coffee with me.’
Jón and Elísabet see no reason not to trust this man. It is the custom to offer hospitality to travellers. They have done the same for many.
Stefán glances once more at the pool beneath the waterfall. ‘Did you drink from any of the pools?’ he asks, though he knows the answer.
‘Yes,’ Elísabet says. ‘The one behind the waterfall.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Stefán nods, revealing nothing in his expression. ‘How much did you drink?’ He knows the answer to this as well.
‘That’s an odd question.’ Jón looks up at him as they gather their belongings.
‘Yes. I agree … it is. And it is why I need to speak with you.’
‘Have we drunk from a poisoned pool?’ Elísabet smiles, but then feels awkward when the man doesn’t respond. There’s something odd and heavy in his pause.
Stefán places the two barrels on either side of his horse, checking that the lids are secure.
‘Why don’t you ride Glossi? Your husband and I will walk alongside. We’ll collect your horses,’ he offers.
An hour later they arrive at what appears an ordinary scene, a farm like any other of the scattered settlements throughout the country. The one-storey group of buildings gives it the appearance of being the humblest of villages, if indeed such things exist, but there are no villages, no towns, except the single street of Reykjavík to the east.
Here, on this farm, the earth is domed with turf huts that look like fresh mounds of graves waiting for their headstones. Sheep and cows, horses and ducks encroach upon the living quarters as they meander through the breaks in the low stone walls. Fermenting shark hangs dark and shiny outdoors.
Elísabet has the feeling she’s being watched. Dark pathways run crookedly between the sod-covered huts, one of which hides a man she catches peering out at her. Then a woman appears, then another, until slowly, and disturbingly, the people come out of hiding. Jón and Elísabet glance at each other, their brows knitted. The people follow their movement with unblinking stares, offering no greeting, or friendly wave. Stefán nods at the people and they recede back to their various corners. There is an absence of laughing children, and also missing are women of childbearing age. In fact, Elísabet notes, in the short glimpse she had of these people, they all look
