Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - The Day Is Dark

Bella agreed, and Thóra hurried to the vestibule and pulled a coverall over her dress. She didn’t have time to choose carefully and the one she ended up with was too large. Then she put on snow boots that were also too big, but at least this meant they were quicker to pull on than her walking shoes. She called back to Bella to let her know she was on her way out, and although she received no reply she had to move quickly. She would never fit through the window in this get-up, so she decided to use the door and hope for the best. If it came to the worst and the man attacked her, she would scream with all her might. She pushed aside the thought that this was a ridiculous plan – no one could come to her assistance in time – and opened the door.

It was freezing outside, but for the first time since arriving in Greenland she didn’t think about the cold; the strip of land between the office building and the cafeteria occupied her thoughts entirely. The man was nowhere to be seen. Thóra’s heart hammered in her chest. She had not expected this. She had assumed that the man was on his way over and would now have his back turned towards her so that she could sneak unseen between the houses. She tried to spot any new tracks but more or less all of the snow seemed to be tramped down on the way over to the cafeteria, making it impossible to discern which of the tracks belonged to the intruder. All she could do was keep going and hope he wasn’t lying in wait for her. She walked faster, heading straight for the entrance instead of going behind the building as she had originally intended. Since the intruder was nowhere to be seen it was just as likely that he was there. The large, awkward coverall made it difficult for her and the back cuffs of the legs dragged through the snow, meaning she didn’t go as quietly as she’d intended. Intent on the rustling noise the coverall was making, she didn’t notice the tracks that turned off from the path towards the rubbish bin and got a terrible shock when she walked past the large steel box: in its shadow stood the man. Thóra gasped.

He was wearing an animal-skin jacket and furry white trousers that looked to Thóra to be made from a polar bear pelt. The man could have been very well-built or quite puny; his clothes were so bulky that it was impossible to tell. His eyes were deep brown, almost black. Yet he was not cruel-looking, his face giving more of an impression of sorrow than evil. Thóra stood frozen, in an agony of indecision. Her original plan to scream for help was forgotten and fear was scrambling her common sense, so all she could think of to do was wish him good evening. As soon as she had said the words she could not recall what language she’d said them in. She’d probably spoken Icelandic, since the man stared at her, clearly understanding nothing. She repeated her greeting in Danish, just to be sure.

‘You must leave this place.’ The man spoke Danish, which even Thóra could hear was not his mother-tongue.

‘Why?’ asked Thóra. Although she didn’t really expect a reply, the man could hardly expect her simply to say yes, go inside and start packing.

‘Your friends are not coming back. Go home.’ The man’s voice gave no hint of whether he was threatening or advising her.

‘How do you know that?’ Thóra suddenly felt the cold that she hadn’t noticed during her initial adrenaline rush. ‘What happened to them?’

‘They’re gone.’ The man stared at her without blinking. ‘This is an evil place.’ Maybe this was the old hunter the woman in the village had mentioned. He was dressed strangely enough to be living rough in the wilderness. Thóra remembered his name and decided to ask him straight out. ‘Are you Igimaq?’ The man appeared surprised by the question, but he nodded. ‘I was told you could tell me about this area.’

‘I have told you. This is an evil place. Leave immediately.’ He didn’t ask who had told Thóra about him. ‘You don’t understand and you don’t belong here. Go and tell the others to leave. This place is evil.’

Here was Thóra’s opportunity to squeeze some information out of him about what was wrong with the place. It would be nigh on impossible to find this peculiar man again if he didn’t want to be found, and if he had had anything to do with the disappearance of the drillers or Oddný Hildur he would be just as likely to go into hiding when the police arrived. ‘You’ve got to explain this to me better. Maybe we’ll leave when we understand why this is necessary.’

The man stared at her. He appeared to be growing angry. ‘People died here.’

‘The people who first moved here?’ Thóra remembered the chapter about the settlement in which everyone had died of hunger. ‘Is that what you mean?’ The book hadn’t mentioned a direct link, but it seemed likely to her that the legend of a curse on the area had arisen in consequence of those long-ago deaths. She wasn’t sure whether this would help the bank’s case, but one never knew.

‘The people who died have no descendants, because they also died. Therefore their souls could not be reborn in their children and grandchildren and they are still here, even though this occurred many years ago. They will be here forever. This is not a good place and those who come here might never leave again.’

Thóra had grown colder than could be explained by the frost alone. Although she wasn’t religious and didn’t believe in ghosts, she felt very moved by the idea of the poor original inhabitants, who would never be free from cold and poverty even after their deaths. ‘So the souls of those who starved to death here are to blame for the disappearances?’

‘The ice preserves many things, and destroys nothing. In the end it returns what it has swallowed.’ The man took off one of his leather gloves. His hand was missing its index finger. He showed Thóra his palm, in which nestled a little square made of tiny coloured beads. ‘My wife was making this thirty years ago. She never finished it, because she lost it. Yesterday I found it in a place where I often go at this time of year. The ice is melting and revealing what it’s been keeping. It’s bad to be here, now more than ever.’

It seemed a simple yes or no was too much to ask of him. ‘I understand that you know this area better than anyone. Are you willing to tell me what’s wrong with this place? Are there often polar bears here?’

‘I was telling you. You do not listen.’ The man had become angry again.

‘Yes, I was listening but I have trouble understanding what you’re saying. We speak and think in a different way where I live. For example, our souls don’t move around after we die.’ Thóra knew she had a limited time to ask the man what she wanted to know. His eyes were starting to dart around as if to determine which way he should leave. To Thóra it was all one endless ice sheet that led either to the mountains or out to sea, but for him the landscape must look much more diverse. ‘We are missing two men and one woman from our camp. You said that our friends would not return. Do you mean these people, and are you implying that they are dead?’ The man did not reply, gazing into the distance. ‘Are they dead?’ For the first time since stopping in her tracks Thóra moved, stepping directly into the man’s line of sight. ‘I’ve got to know.’

‘Leave this place and tell the others to keep away.’ He stared into her eyes. ‘You will regret it if you do not.’

The man clearly didn’t intend to explain any further, so Thóra tried a different tactic. ‘What happened to your daughter? I was told that she died here in this place.’

Igimaq squinted at her. The corners of his mouth turned down. ‘My daughter is none of your business. She is no longer here.’