by Arthur Slade
I suddenly thought of the state of my hair. I wasn't going to answer the door. Not with Mordur on the other side. "Uh, excuse me," I said, making a b-line for the bathroom.
Sarah's voice followed me. "Don't forget to wet down the rooster tail on the back of your head!"
I closed the door to the bathroom, shutting out her and Michael's laughter. I took a good look at myself in the mirror. It wasn't as frightening as I thought it would be. I used a damp face cloth to rub water on my hair, an old trick my mom had taught me. It wets all parts of your hair evenly without soaking it. I found a brush in the cabinet and a few seconds later my red mop looked passable. Even a few curls had shown up. I washed my face and cursed the fact that I'd left my make-up bag in my room.
Michael and Sarah let out a huge guffaw. I hoped they weren't laughing about me. I wiped the face cloth across my face once more. I decided not to worry about my make-up, it was still pretty dark out. I checked my hair for about the fifth time, breathed in, and opened the door.
In the hallway a framed picture caught my eye. It was a large photograph of Uncle Thordy and his wife Kristjanna with mountains in the background. It was hung so that the light in the ceiling lit the image perfectly. Kristjanna was beautiful, a sturdy woman with strong cheek bones and long blonde hair, like she'd walked out of the pages of a saga. And Uncle Thordy, with his arm around her and a smile on his face, looked like a different man. About twenty pounds thinner. No bags below his eyes. His beard trimmed. And no scars above his eyebrow. It nearly brought tears to my eyes, just to see them together. The picture couldn't have been much more than three years old. Uncle Thordy probably stopped and stared at it every day.
Michael, Sarah, and Mordur were standing in the front doorway. I joined them. Mordur was dressed in a thin, grey winter coat. He was an inch or two taller than Michael, with slightly wider shoulders. He smiled at me, showing white straight teeth. "Ah, Angie, right? Welcome to my group tour. You had good sleep?"
"I did. I had a perfect sleep. One of the best I've had in ages. It sure was a good one."
Sarah gave me a discreet kick, her way of telling me not to babble.
"So no thirteen Santa Clauses visited last night?" Mordur asked. "I am disappointed. I guess you were all good. Any gifts in your shoes?"
"I did find some lint in mine," Michael said. "What does that mean?"
Mordur feigned sadness, wiping away an imaginary tear. "It is going to be a skinny Christmas."
"Lean Christmas," I corrected, softly. "I think that's what you mean."
"Yes." He patted my shoulder. "Thanks. A lean, skinny Christmas for you, Michael. Sorry."
Uncle Thordy came out in fresh clothes, his hair combed back. He smelled like he'd dived into a tub of Brut. Maybe depressed people didn't bathe much.
He winked at us and did up the buttons on his collar. "I've got to make the banker think I'm a dependable businessman."
Mordur spoke to him in Icelandic. It sounded like a question. Uncle Thordy narrowed his eyes slightly, looking a little angry. He snapped three words, glanced at us, regained his composure and said, "Bless." Which meant goodbye, in Icelandic. And with that he grabbed his coat from the closet, gave us one more wave and was gone out the door. A moment later his truck started up and roared away.
"What was — " Sarah began to ask.
"No time for talk! Not now!" Mordur said quickly. He seemed to be forcing his lips into a smile, pretending nothing was wrong. "Let's get going. Not much light." He clapped his hands together. "Chop! Chop! Chop it! Dress hot, with big layers. You can peel them off if you get toasted."
Sarah narrowed her eyes then went to the closet, came out with her thick coat. I grabbed my own and slipped it on, along with my black mittens.
"You'll need something for your head," Sarah reminded Michael.
"Yes, Mom," he said, stuffing his headband into a pocket. A few moments later we were all dressed in our warmest winter clothes, standing at the door.
13.
Mordur escorted us into the yard. It wasn't dark out any more, but it wasn't day either, just some kind of state between the two. There was enough light to turn the snow yellowish. One edge of the sky was brighter than the other, so I assumed that was east. I now saw that Uncle Thordy's farm was in a valley, surrounded by big hills and two rows of cliffs.
"Our lunch!" Michael suddenly exclaimed and rushed back into the house.
"That's Michael, always thinking with his stomach," Sarah said. We laughed.
Remembering the tuft of hair I'd seen earlier in the morning, I walked around the side of the house to our bedroom window. There were tracks in the snow below the sill, but it was hard to tell what had made them. The grey hair I'd seen stuck to the window was more like wool. I picked it up, let it float from my fingers.
It landed beside a small cloth sack that had been bound at the top with a string. The side was ripped open and the contents were gone. There had been something red inside.
"Ready for big tour, Angie?" Mordur shouted. They were already walking across the front yard, away from me.
"Uh ... Yes!" I looked down at the bag again then rushed to join them.
Uncle Thordy's house was the newest part of the farm. The whole yard was an odd mixture of new and old, like there were three different time zones here: kind of old, really old and ancient. We passed a small, crumbling home, which was about fifty yards from Uncle Thordy's and built into a hill. It was made of wood and sod.
"Do you like my house?" Mordur asked.
"You live in there?" Sarah asked. "Do you have hairy feet?"
"Hairy feet? No." He looked confused. "Why?"
"It's just like a hobbit hole," she explained. "You know from The Lord of the Rings. They were these — uh — little people who had hairy feet. Imps, sort of."
This information didn't end his confusion. "I have simple needs," he said, finally. "I do not own phone. No television, only radio. I like my home. It has history. And my feet are not hairy, I swear."
He flashed a smile and lead us through the yard. We stopped in front of a rectangular building with a pitched roof that sagged towards the ground. It had seen more than its share of winters.
"Is this the barn?" I asked. "It's kind of old, isn't it?"
"Why build a new barn?" Mordur said quickly, sounding almost insulted. "This one still stands." It was like I had just asked the stupidest question in all of history. Or perhaps whatever he and Uncle Thordy had quarrelled over was still bothering him. "This is more than a barn," he explained, his voice softer, "it is the old home, too. No one is sure when it was built. Uncle Thordy said his grandfather arrived in 1912 and this was here, made by first crofters. It may be two hundred years old and is still strong as the first day it stood." He opened a wide door at one end. "It is our sheep shed, now."
He flicked on a switch and four dim bulbs glowed from the ceiling. Inside, huddled against each other, were about fifty sheep, their coats a dirty grey. An overpowering stink of manure hung in the air, accompanied by a feeling of moistness, like all the sheeps' exhalations were filling up the barn.
"I assume that's the sweet smell of sheep dip," Michael said, one eyebrow raised. The expression made him look like a really young version of Grandpa. I couldn't help but remember Grandpa's words: we're all like beads on a string, going on forever, Asmundson after Asmundson.
"Yes, stinky sheep dip," Mordur answered. "Watch your feet cause it will stick like glue to your boots. This is where our flock winters. The goats and the sheep. They do not get out until after the lambing season at the start of May."
"Not even for a breath of fresh air?" I asked.
"No. Snow comes down hard here. And no warning either. Letting them out during winter is a good way to kill them. Just ask the crofters who were slow with bringing in their flock this fall. They had big problems."
Sarah leaned over to pet one of the sheep, its coat was so thick it looked like a frizzy ball with match sticks for legs. "They seem friendly enough.
"
"They think you will feed them." Mordur led us further into the barn. The sheep parted and formed into groups, watching us like curious children. There were a few bearded animals, nowhere near as fluffy — goats. It was warm inside the barn, so I unzipped my jacket.
"Hot, right?" Mordur unbuttoned his coat, revealing a thick, grey sweater. "This was home to people back in the old days. Before we got heat from the geothermal pools at Laugarbakki."
"They'd live with their sheep?" Sarah asked.
"And cows. The bunks were right above the cows' stalls. It made smart sense. You keep a good eye on the animals. And they gave off warmth. And you didn't have to walk far to get milk."
I couldn't imagine having to fight my way through a crowd of livestock every time I needed to go outside to the bathroom. It'd be even worse getting ready for a date with all those sheep staring at you.
Mordur opened a gate into another pen. "Wait until you see the old croft house in the far pasture. Compared to it, this barn is heavenly."
"It sounds really baaaaaaahhhd," Michael said, doing his best impression of a sheep.
Sarah looked supremely annoyed. "Even you shouldn't sink so low, Michael."
"Never underestimate how low I will go, sweet sister." Michael bowed.
Mordur took us into the far corner of the barn where two ponies stood, staring at us. "This will be our transport."
Grandpa often spoke glowingly about the Icelandic pony. He called it the most dependable four-legged vehicle in the world. They looked like normal horses compressed into about only two-thirds of the size. One was brown and the other grey, their manes dark and wild, their long tails flowing down to the straw covered floor.
We helped Mordur bridle the ponies, then led them out into the fresh, open air. They followed without the slightest bit of fuss. "Don't we need saddles?" I asked.
"Bareback riding is not hard. Right, Sleipnir?" Mordur patted the grey pony's forehead. "We will trade turns. It is a long way and there is just four hours of good light, so we had better be quick. I will give you hand up."
He stood beside the pony and cupped his fingers into a stirrup. I'd ridden horses a couple of times before at Michael and Sarah's place, so I knew what to do. I put my left foot in his hand and grabbed the reins. He lifted me carefully and I was surprised at his strength. Then suddenly he lost his footing and slipped to one knee. I fell against him but he was able to hold me up. I had to put my hand on his shoulder to balance myself. "I have got you," he said, gently raising me up again.
The horse stayed perfectly still. I slid my right leg over it, holding the reins in my left hand.
Mordur backed half a step away, keeping one hand on the horse. "Sorry," he said quietly, grinning, "your hair made me — how you say — blinded?"
Was it a compliment? "It does that sometimes," I said and returned his smile.
"You get better grip if you hold the reins in the other hand," he suggested.
"I'm a south paw. This is my best hand."
Mordur gave me a cute but bewildered look. "South paw?"
"It means I'm left handed," I explained, pretending to write with my left hand. "South paw is just an expression from back home."
He stared at me blankly. "Well, use either your north or south paw. Just hold tight."
I grinned. Sarah was already on the second horse. She sat up straight, her legs came down past its belly, about two feet from the ground.
"They have seven speeds," Mordur explained, "none very fast. This way." He motioned and started walking towards the hills, with Michael plodding along beside him.
"Giddyup." I shook the reins and the horse paced behind them. I stroked its neck and it raised its head in a sort of salute.
"What are their names again?" I asked.
"That is Sleipnir and the brown is Nonni." Mordur was powering his way through the snow, which was getting deeper the further we got from the buildings.
"Sleipnir?" I said to Sarah, who was riding right beside me. "Isn't that the name of Odin's horse?"
"Yeah, Sleipnir had eight legs and could travel through all the worlds, even down to the underworld." Her ponytail barely bobbed as she rode. It was a smooth ride. "Remember the story of how Baldur died from a poisoned dart? And Baldur's brother, Hermod, borrowed Sleipnir and rode all the way to Niflheim, the land of the dead. And he begged Hel, the female keeper of the underworld, to let Baldur live again."
"I remember," I said, "that's when Hel said Baldur will only be brought back to life if all the creatures in the world weep for him. But Loki wouldn't shed a tear, so Baldur had to remain in the underworld." I ran my hand across Sleipnir's mane. "There were a couple of other stories about Sleipnir, too, weren't there?"
"Odin races Sleipnir against a giant with a horse named Gold Mane," Michael added, "and he wins hands down."
Mordur was looking at us with open wonderment. "I'm impressive!"
"You're impressed, you mean," I corrected.
He immediately covered his face with one hand, as if to hide his shame. "Yes, I am impressed. You three know a great much about the old myths. And Uncle Thordy said you all are somehow related to Grettir. He is a big hero around here."
"We're Asmundsons through and through," Michael said.
"Except me. I'm a Laxness," I added. "I get my Asmundson blood through my mom. And with a grandfather like ours you have to be able to quote from the myths or the sagas till the cows come home." I paused. "Or should I say till the sheep come home?"
Mordur chuckled, Sarah and Michael groaned. You can't please everyone, I thought. Mordur gave me another of his perfect smiles. There was something about him being out in the open with the landscape all around that made him appear even better looking. He belonged in a painting. "Laxness?" he asked. "That is not a common name."
"It was easier to say than Svéinurdarson, our family's original last name. When my great grandfather landed in Canada, they asked him what his last name was, and he thought they asked him what farm he was from in Iceland. So he said 'Laxness'. And the name has stuck ever since."
We headed through the valley, most of it desolate and covered with a thick layer of snow. Soon the farm was far behind us. The mountains loomed on the horizon, never quite letting us see the sun. The light was so different here than back in North Dakota. It was like being in another world entirely.
"Hey, isn't that Uncle Thordy's truck?" Michael pointed to the road, which was far below us, now. A white truck was parked in a turn off.
"It is. But I do not see him. Maybe he had a problem," Mordur said, squinting his eyes. "He is close to home. If it is a deflated tire he will be able to fix it on his own."
We turned and continued on. Soon the hills blocked out our view of the road. Mordur didn't ask to ride any of the ponies and when I suggested he should take a turn, he said he was used to long walks.
Michael wiped his forehead. "Well I'm ready to take a pony for a spin."
I surrendered Sleipnir to Michael, but not before patting the horse on the neck and thanking him for carrying me. Michael launched himself on Sleipnir's back. He looked rather comical, his legs hanging so low his boots dragged through the snow. "Does this thing have power steering?"
We ignored him and plodded along. Soon we were at the end of the valley and climbing towards a plateau.
"The summer pasture is high up but not far," Mordur explained. After about forty minutes or so, we passed within a few hundred yards of a tiny church set into the side of a hill. A large stone cross stood near the front door like a guardian.
"Who would build a church out here?" Michael asked.
"The old crofters," Mordur said. "There are many churches in Iceland. It was a sign of your goodness to build a church on your land. And wealth."
"Can we go see it?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Not today. Too far long. It looks near, but there are hard paths. And it is high up. It is built so the back overhangs a cliff."
We slogged through the snow. My le
gs were aching slightly and my toes felt a little frosty, but it wasn't anything I hadn't experienced before. A little farther on I saw the glint of glass high on a plateau above us. An old, grey house stood on the edge of a large cliff overlooking the ravine. I stopped and pointed at it. "Who lives up there?"
"Gunnvor and her son. That house is made of huge stones. The only stone home in this area. Gunnvor is the one Thordy spoke of last night — very odd, very mean woman. They have no church on their land."
"What's that mean?" Sarah gently pulled back on the reins to get Nonni to stand still.
"There has not been a church built. Their family did not want one. They rarely come down from their place. Who knows what they eat. And when they do show up in town, it is at odd times. Funerals, weddings, town meetings. Always angry and never invited."
"They? How many are there?" Michael asked.
"Gunnvor and her son. Her husband died a long time ago. Gunnvor believes Thordy and his farm are too close to hers, that he is really a sitter — uh — a squatter on their land."
"But hasn't our family owned this place since before the twenties?" I said. "They must have if Grandpa was born here."
"Yes, but Gunnvor's kin were up there lots of years ago. They were first to arrive. They do not care about government-made maps or land titles." Mordur made an odd motion with his hand, like a sign to ward away evil. "I dislike to talk long about them. I get the feelings Gunnvor is staring at us right now." He stepped up his marching speed and led us higher, onto flat land. I kept glancing over my shoulder until the house had disappeared.
"These are the grazing flats." Mordur motioned like a tour guide. From this height the farm houses were out of sight. The land here was smooth and rounded like the inside of a shallow bowl, made white with snow. "In the spring it is green with grass and marshes and a bright sun. I spend many hours out here watching our flock, daydreaming, reciting the sagas."
"I bet you'd kill for a t.v.," Michael said.
"There's no reception. It is too far from transmitters," Mordur replied.
"Actually, I was just kidding," Michael said. "A joke."