* * *
“She has to go out,” Hulda had said while stirring the pots. “She’s a child, she should be playing outside. This isn’t healthy for her.”
Garún was sitting at the top of the stairs, trying not to breathe. The entire house had creaked like an ancient mansion from the day that it was built and she was not about to alert her mother and her grandmother to her eavesdropping.
“She might get hurt. They might do something to her.”
Her grandmother’s voice was thick with stubbornness. And something else. A tone Garún was not used to hearing Snædís use. Worry.
“Keeping her locked inside will do her even greater harm.” The sound of utensils, knives in the drawer. Hulda was likely about to cut the rye bread. “Things have changed – are changing. Even the reverend knows it and has stopped trying to fight it. I won’t bring my daughter up to be afraid because of who she is.”
“What she is,” Snædís said.
The gentle sounds of cooking stopped. The pot was bubbling.
“She is not a thing. All right? I won’t have you talking like that, mamma. Not in my house.”
A murmur of agreement. The cooking resumed. The knife tapped the board as it cut through the tough brown bread. But it was sweet and delicious with lots of butter. Garún hoped her growling stomach wouldn’t alert them.
“When I’m looking over her we abide by my rules,” Snædís said in a definitive tone.
“No, Mamma. She is my daughter. She deserves a better world. And we’re making it for her. But I can’t—” A sound. Her mother swallowing a lump in her throat. “I can’t do it if you’re in our way as well. Not with everything else stacked against us. Against her.”
Quiet.
Snædís got up, started helping Hulda with the cooking. They started setting plates.
“I know, elskan, I know.” Her voice was soft now. Gentle. “I’m not against you, I just … I don’t want to see her get hurt. There is so much hurt in the world, out there.”
“I know, Mamma. But we will make it better for her. And she will make it better for others.”
Garún scurried away from the top of the stairs as her mother walked out into the kitchen doorway and called out to her.
“Garún! Dinner!’
* * *
She couldn’t remember how old she had been. Six? Eight? Too old to be going out properly for the first time by herself. Too old to play with other children for the first time, that’s all she recalled. The feeling of inadequacy and anxiety. Her heart was racing as Snædís called to her the next morning, after her mother had gone out to work at preparing the salt fish.
“Garún, get down and dressed! You’re going out to play. No sense in keeping you inside in weather like this.”
It was early summer. The sun was shining, not all through the night but still close. The days were long. Before she went out, almost running from all the excitement, her grandmother gripped her arm, hard.
“Promise me, Garún,” she said in a grave tone. “Do not play outside the village. Do not play in the lava fields – do you hear me?’
Garún nodded. Her grandmother squinted her eyes and quickly reached out for her feelings. This got her a light tap on the head.
“I said, do you hear me?’
“Yes, Amma,” she said meekly.
They reached out to one another. Found an understanding. She felt her grandmother’s worry. It felt as if it had a hundred sources, too many roots to be able to tell them apart.
“Good.”
She went outside. For the first time by herself. The first thing she did was to run towards the shore. On the bay small fishing boats were being rowed out on the glittering sea. She played in the rocky shoreline and found new, weird creatures she’d never seen before. A starfish, countless shells, limp, ugly flowers that smelled and piles of seaweed like the hair of a vættur, or maybe a marbendill. She had heard about them but never seen them. She watched over the sea, looking for movements from unfamiliar creatures, but saw none. The waves were mesmeric. They made the most wonderful, calming sound as they dragged the countless pebbles down with each small crash.
“Hæ!’
Voices behind her. Giggling and shouting. A group of children were approaching her. For a moment, she was afraid that it would be the kids who threw stones at her house. But it was another group of kids. The blendingar from church and some of the other kids from the town. She didn’t know that the huldufólk children could play with the blendingar.
“Hæ.”
Garún approached the girl who had called out. She was older than Garún, almost a head taller. She was a blendingur like Garún. She smiled.
“My name is Fæðey,” she said and beamed. “What’s your name?’
“Garún.”
The gaggle of children caught up with her and they started playing in the sand, running around, asking her questions. Where do you live? Why don’t you ever go outside? Can you read? Do you have any brothers or sisters? Garún was overwhelmed by the sudden attention. She didn’t know where to
