Her days were spent staring out of the window, where the neighbourhood kids would see her as they passed and shout obscenities at her. When they went too far and threw stones, Snædís would storm out and drive them away, screaming even fouler words at them, sometimes swiping at the kids with a broom if the mood struck her. Garún was often afraid and embarrassed, but she also felt warm seeing her harsh, distant grandmother standing up for her. Garún knew that she was different and that her grandmother didn’t like it, even though Snædís pretended not to mind. But she still stood up for Garún. They were still family.
Sometimes Garún was home by herself when the kids came along and she would hide under her bed until they gave up and left. She was always terrified that they’d break in and beat her up. A few times they went too far and broke a window, for which Garún was scolded and sometimes beaten when her grandmother came back home. If her mother came home first, she would find her in her hiding place and hold her tight for a long time. She showed how afraid she was in front of Garún. Her mother cried later, when she thought Garún was asleep.
When Garún’s mother had first taken her to church the reverend had tried to eject both mother and daughter. Garún couldn’t remember it, since she was just an infant, but her mother repeated this story every time Garún kept dragging her feet when she was getting ready for church. As soon as they entered the deacon had fetched the reverend in a panic. The priest came partially dressed, with only his cassock on and the collar not properly attached. Her mother had heard people whispering disapprovingly, but she didn’t care. She’d come with her newly born daughter and wanted her to be baptised. She deserved to learn the history and customs of her people. The priest did not agree with her on that and said that Garún did not belong to the old world – she belonged to this world. She was tainted by it and should be cast out.
“And you?’ Hulda had asked, shaking with anger. “Were you born in the old world? Do you not belong to this world? What makes you any different from my baby girl?’
Two adult men started to escort her firmly out, taking care not to use force to injure a woman holding a newborn, but still not giving way.
People just watched them throw us out, Hulda always said. The hurt of the betrayal had not softened with the years. It had made her harder. The next week they came again, but this time she brought every single blendingur in town who wanted to attend. There were around ten of them, mostly kids or young people who lived in the halfway house old Fjóla ran. Fjóla and Hulda teamed up to tear into the priest, the deacon and the people who sat by while kids were denied basic decency.
“These are your children,” they said. “It takes a village. And by shutting your doors to them you might as well leave them out in the freezing cold.”
A quiet fell over them. A chilling reminder of the methods used by Hrímlanders in the past, both human and huldufólk. There was too little food on this barren island and oftentimes too many mouths to feed. Livestock fell sick and died, or were mutated horribly by the sorcerous land they fed upon, long winters and cold summers rendered crops useless. Infant mortality was more common back then, so why waste the resources in bringing up yet another child when there were too many working mouths to feed already? Many of whom were as likely to die from disease or hunger, anyway. Back then, blendingar had frequently not even been given the benefit of the doubt. And in reminding them of that unspoken, buried past, the two women conjured up a deep and hurtful shame, especially in the older members of the congregation, some of whom had lived through the last days of those long, dark times. Perhaps some had even carried out those bleak, cold sentences of death on crying infants. The lava fields were said to be riddled with the spirits of children dead from exposure – called útburðir in Hrímlandic. But such angry spirits would be the least of the dangers found lurking out there in the sorcerous, jagged terrain.
The people joined Hulda and Fjóla in their protest. Let the children in, they said. Let them be baptised and hear the holy word. Let them know the history and downfall of their people. They had to know their past so it could not be repeated.
It felt like the worst kind of winter storm, Garún’s mother had said, when the huldufólk reached out to each other back and forth, giving in to feedback loops upon feedback loops, trying to reach a consensus. Trying to understand and empathise.
They could attend Mass, the reverend finally agreed when the overwhelming feeling of the congregation had settled, as long as they stood at the back. Blendingar were not to be seated.
This, too, would change in time. But one step at a time was what Garún’s mother used to say. A phrase Garún started to loathe as she got older. She wanted to take leaps and bounds, not baby steps. She wanted to run, to soar.
The church in Hamar was a tall rock at the centre of town, as great and imposing as the grandest cathedrals built by humanfolk. Or that’s what the huldufólk said. Garún had never seen such a building. She wondered what kind of buildings her father’s people had. What was there inside the towering city walls. The houses in the village were
