Trafika Europe 1 - Northern Idyll

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.

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