A large crowd of people waited by the pier. They were competing in assisting the ship to tether itself to the dock and put out the plank. The captain commanded the crew not to let anyone on board; they did not intend to trade.
“Are you heading to Eyjar?’ asked a gawky man, with bad teeth and covered in grime. “I’m a capable sailor, work faster than anyone and never tire. I could work my way to Eyjar and then some.”
Two women competed in showing off torn sheepskin and badly made clothing.
“Good wool, fine skin, and the best sailor’s coat you can find.”
Someone had dragged barrels of salted fish up to the pier and opened them. Flies swarmed around the reeking fish.
“Do you have any meal or wheat to trade? Or soured meats?’
“We’re not here to trade, but to unload a passenger!’ the captain shouted. “Step away from the plank!’
The villagers retreated slightly, but didn’t stop trying to peddle their wares to the crew. The captain glanced at Sæmundur for the first time. He was visibly uncomfortable.
“Grákufl – isn’t this where you disembark? What are you waiting for?’
Sæmundur nodded. Grákufl. The name he’d told Kölski to call him. How had the demon arranged this?
“I thank you for my passage.”
“Right.”
The captain stared straight ahead, down towards the prow.
Sæmundur stepped out on to the gangplank. The gathering went quiet, like a smell of rot that slowly spreads. People jumped out of his way. Bektalpher’s whispers were clearly audible, and Sæmundur was glad that he had covered his face, so people would think it was him doing the whispering. He didn’t want to deal with any trouble if these fine people became upset for no good reason. He started to walk up the stone stairway cut into the cliff. The crew rapidly pulled away the gangplank and cast off from the dock so they could get away from this wretched place as soon as possible. People stood and stared, or tried not to stare at Sæmundur. The men were gaunt and dressed in rags or torn sailors’ clothing. The women wore determined looks, in fishery workers’ uniforms, their aprons filthy and shadows under their eyes. There were stories of outlaws that hid in the rough and rocky lava wastes of Suðurnes. Sæmundur now realised that it was the people themselves who were all outlawed, cut away from the land centuries before like a malignant tumour. He smiled. It was appropriate for him to end up here. The ship went on its way along the narrow channel and Sæmundur walked with heavy steps up to Suðurnes.
* * *
If anything was comparable to the miserable hovels in Bæjarháls, it was the cursed timelessness of the Forgotten Downtown. The same feeling dominated the air in this place, the uncomfortable notion that time and the world itself had forgotten this place, that it had slid through the cracks and left nothing behind to be remembered by. Only two houses came close to being something that could be called buildings, ugly and grey houses of concrete with crumbling walls and slumping roofs. Everything else was unshapely shacks made from rotten wood and rusty corrugated iron, badly constructed turf houses, lava rocks and dead grass. One of the concrete buildings appeared to be some type of gathering hall, the other was completely dark.
He had intended to head straight into the lava fields, to start his search without any delay, but there was something calling out to him. How long had it been since he had been a man among men? Drunk beer and laughed, told stories and listened, enjoyed the heat and companionship that comes with belonging to a society? Neither thirst nor hunger, cold nor heat, were still tangible concepts to him. He knew that, just as he knew that the moon waxes and wanes, the sun rises and sets. Still he headed slowly towards the light.
The conversation hadn’t been lively before he went inside. What little there was died down immediately as the door shut behind his back. He pulled away the scarf covering his face.
Behind an old and crooked counter stood a teenager holding a large clay pitcher. Sæmundur walked up to him in complete silence. Bektalpher’s whispers surrounded him like the rustle of autumn leaves in the wind.
“What have you got there?’ asked Sæmundur.
The boy looked away, as if looking for help. Sæmundur turned around but everyone averted their gaze, acting as if nothing was amiss.
“L-landi,” the boy finally stuttered.
“I will have one glass, with thanks.”
Sæmundur’s voice was muffled underneath the scarf wrapped over his mouth. He pulled the scarf away.
The boy froze. He stared at Sæmundur as if he’d seen a ghost. Something worse than a ghost. With shaking hands he poured liquid into a grimy glass. Sæmundur picked it up and sniffed it. A potent smell of unfiltered moonshine. The landi was murky, probably borderline toxic. What the hell, all these fine people drank it. He downed the glass of alcohol.
Something was different. He didn’t feel any heat from the liquor; the taste of pure spirits wasn’t disgusting to him, as usual when he had strong stuff like this. Instead the liquid felt cold and thin, tasted like muddy water. He was about to ask for another glass when he saw that the boy was standing and whimpering in front of him, his entire body shaking.
“Ah, I’m sorry,” he said, and searched his coat pockets. “I have a few krónur hiding somewhere.”
“No!’ the boy shouted. “It’s free, do you want some more?’ He poured Sæmundur another glass. “There’s more than enough, also fish and some soured meat.”
Sæmundur felt someone sneaking up behind him. He turned around and a bent
