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last, huh? She’s clever and takes advantage of situations.
She got hold of Snorri’s share in the ice-house for a bargain
two years ago, tossed him a pittance of a payment, he was
and is no man to make stipulations and was surely
overjoyed to get at least something out of it, while she
tightened the noose around the ruffian’s neck, and is likely
lying in wait now for his schooner, the Hope, if she hasn’t
already secured it; in her own opinion, adds Friðrik. Has
Tryggvi got his eye on Snorri’s company?, asks Jón; he has
to ask, has been ordered to ask. Friðrik looks at him,
smokes, the rain beats down on the house, it’s a June
evening.
It’s the very start of June, yet it’s still dusky between the
mountains. Gloomy weather. The wind picks up, the
saltfish stacks are tied down tightly. There’s hardly anyone
out and about in this tempest, despite the day beginning
beautifully, the sky full of sun and blue promises of calm
and comfort, birdsong audible far and wide, nothing to
hinder the transparent, motionless air. Flies buzzed over
flowers and grass, saltfish covered the spit, the drying lots,
much had turned green and beautiful in the mountains. In
the Village itself, all was astir, naturally; there were shouts
and cries and laughter and cursing and hands that moved.
Lúlli and Oddur were on a tear down in the hold of a ship,
its captain rode off with Geirþrúður; I could love this
country, he said. They rode up onto a heath, down into
another fjord and into an empty, grassy valley.