Stefán leads them inside his house through a dim, narrow passageway; its walls are composed of lava rock, the intervening spaces stuffed with moss and earth. Bridles, hanging herbs, outer clothing, a saddle, these protrude from pegs thrust into the crevices. Sweet-smelling turf burns in the fire and marries with the rich aroma of an earlier coffee-roasting session, the remnants of which linger in the common room. Jón and Elísabet glance at one another; these signs of luxury register immediately. This is not a poor peasant hut where one is greeted with the unpleasant fumes of smouldering fish bones that choke the visitor, and the stench of farm animals that sleep just a room away. Stefán had thrown a large handful of dried herbs on the fire earlier in the day. It is a friendly and inviting welcome. But for all the luxury, Elísabet senses Jón’s body tensing beside her. He overworks his jaw as he is wont to do when nervous.
The common room is neat and clean, and there is no evidence of any other inhabitants, save a pair of knitting needles and wool that lie on a driftwood bench to suggest perhaps a woman might live here, though it is common during the endless winter nights that many men also knit, spin or weave. Tightly packed on shelves of lava rock, books line a wall.
Stefán emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray laden with a small plate of sweetmeats, a coffee pot, cups and saucers. Elísabet wonders at this somewhat formal note to a farmer’s hospitality, but the coffee is strong and reviving and produces a familiar sharp lift in their senses.
‘How long have you farmed here?’ Jón asks.
‘A long time. A very long time.’ Stefán replies.
Rain begins to thump down upon the brushwood and turf roof. Stefán glances at the small round window hole.
‘Fog. No rush to take up the rest of your journey I hope.’
‘No,’ says Jón. ‘We had planned to pass the night north of here in a traveller’s hut where we have stayed before.’
The rituals have been performed and still the man fails to enlighten them after his seemingly pressing need to speak to them. They look at Stefán expectantly through an awkward silence. He sits on top of a wooden chest with his back against the wainscoted wall. Again they notice the luxury of this feature in a farmer’s home. Wood is scarce.
Stefán notes their anxiousness, and that he can no longer evade his duty.
‘Jón, Elísabet, how old are you?’
Jón laughs nervously. ‘I don’t understand …’
Elísabet places her hand on Jón’s.
‘Jón is twenty-nine. I am twenty-eight,’ she says.
A weak, half-smile crosses Stefán’s face and he nods. The youngest, he thinks, the youngest of them all.
‘What I am about to tell you will sound fantastical.’
They nod, wide-eyed, more than ready for the mystery to end.
‘The legends we are taught … the stories we tell children … that elves, trolls, dead spirits and the supernatural are inherent in our culture … this is not … well, what I will tell you is nothing to do with that.’
Twenty-five times he has performed this unenviable task. He can never guess what kind of reaction he might receive, and has learned he must never assume anything. His friend Halldór had thrown a horseshoe at him, and then rolled his anger and disbelief into a ball of defiance. Halldór committed suicide on the longest day of the year. It was one of the worst days of their lives in a string of worst days.
His dear friend Margrét had laughed in his face. He thought she was laughing at him – he understood the absurdity. She confessed that she had recently been worried that she had the cancer, and was naturally giddy for days thereafter to discover that she was not ill, until, finally, the reality of her new life sobered her.
Out of all of those in their group, it was Múli who spoke of enchantment, who insisted that this was the work of the trolls and elves that permeate their lore. He believed that a reward was finally his and he had entered another realm through a dream, a gift that stemmed from his devotion. It was for Stefán to convince him otherwise.
At present, the room grows darker as the fog rolls in, accompanied by the low whine of a wind. Stefán can delay no longer.
‘The pool you came upon – the pool that is different from all the water sources where you took your lunch – its water has … properties. We are unsure if it is water, or another form of liquid.’ He pauses. ‘The liquid has changed your body, your very existence.’
Elísabet and Jón sit silently, waiting to hear more.
‘There must be some sort of scientific explanation for this, but we have not yet discovered it,’ Stefán continues. ‘We try. We work every single day towards understanding. ‘So. How has your body changed? This is your first question. We call it “extended mortality” and it will seem to you, a miracle. I suppose it is, until the day we discover otherwise. You are not immortal, but now that you’ve ingested the liquid from the pool, the only way you will die is if you drink from it again.’
The couple stare blankly at him.
‘If you return to the pool and drink even a handful, you will die instantly,’ he repeats.
‘It makes no sense,’ Jón says.
A loud banging on the door startles them. Stefán hesitates, and then hurries through the passageway.
‘He is mad,’ Elísabet says.
And perhaps dangerous, Jón thinks.
‘What will we do? Do you think we should leave straight away, in the storm? Is it too late now?’ Elísabet whispers.
Stefán returns and notices the couple hold hands whilst they stare uncomfortably at the floor, their bodies rigid. It is no surprise to him. He is familiar with this reaction, and the denial and disbelief. Now
