Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

Suddenly his thoughts were sent spinning in all directions by a terrible surge of pain in his legs. At first it was so intense that Eiríkur had trouble locating it precisely. Were both his ankles broken, or had some other part of his legs been injured? Then the pain eased slightly and he realized that it was a burning pain on the soles of his feet. What had happened? Was he at the hotel?

Eiríkur was lying on something warm but hard. He felt around himself on both sides and decided it felt like grass or hay, though that disgusting smell suggested that he wasn’t outside. He could hear a strange sound, but couldn’t place it. Was it breathing? Was someone else there? Cautiously, he opened one eye and saw that he was indeed indoors. It was quite dark, but there was a dim glow somewhere behind him. He didn’t have the strength to turn around and see where the light came from—even breathing was hard work. He inhaled and exhaled cautiously—in, out, in, out—and fought the nausea that was worsening by the minute. It seemed stupid, but he didn’t want to vomit before he found out where he was and what had happened. A vague recollection fleetingly entered his mind, reminding him not to move. It was gone before he could recall why he should stay still. Then he realized.

The cards. The King of Pentacles, or money, and Death. His heart pounded in his chest and he turned his head as slowly as he could, hoping his memory was deceiving him, but it wasn’t. He was in the stables. There was no money in sight, but he had a feeling death was close at hand. He lost control of his breathing and vomited copiously, unable for a while to focus on anything else. The sickness soon passed, and when it did he was gripped by terror again. He heard a loud neighing, followed by the heavy clatter of hooves. Which direction had the sounds come from? Where was the horse? Eiríkur made a huge effort to prop himself up and open his eyes. That made him retch again, but the first bout of vomiting had been so powerful that almost nothing came up. When the spasms receded, he managed to get up on his elbows and take a cautious look around. He looked down at himself and, in spite of his confused state, realized where the unbearable stench was coming from. He fought to suppress the scream that rose in his throat. Then he forced himself to look away from what was tied to his chest—the bloodied fur, the gaping mouth, the dangling head—and focus instead on what stood over him. He was desperate to untie the rough cord binding the horrible thing to him, but the urge to live was stronger. He raised his head slowly.

Legs. Four slender but powerful legs stomping up and down in an agitated manner. What had he been told? That everyone would think it had been an accident. A bizarre case of death through misadventure. That couldn’t happen. People had to know that this was murder, not a stupid accident. Over the years, Eiríkur had had to put up with enough jokes about his work. He was suddenly determined to ensure that mockery would not follow him beyond the grave. He felt an urge to communicate this, almost as strong as the desire to stay alive. Now that he knew what was happening to him, he had to find a way to make it known.

Eiríkur tried to concentrate but it was almost impossible to keep the panic that threatened to overpower his senses at bay. He was in a confined space, so he didn’t have many options. The horse was throwing its powerful head back and forth, a white foam bubbling at the corners of its mouth. Eirikur fought off panic. He needed to get his message across. But how? He could hardly spell it out with pieces of straw, because they wouldn’t still be in place when someone finally turned up. No, he had to write it. He had to find a surface that would be safe from the animal’s hooves. His eyes darted around the stall and his gaze fell on the nearest wall. With a determination he never knew he possessed, he managed to keep sickness at bay long enough to drag himself closer to it. The mighty animal neighed and increased its stomping. There was no denying that it was preparing to attack and Eiríkur fought off the urge to cry. Instead, he prayed to God that he would manage to scratch a few letters on the wall with his ring before it was all over. The animal’s breathing quickened and Eiríkur froze. His bloodshot eyes locked with those of the animal’s. There was no kindness to be found in the depths of the dark brown pools. He had been told that the moment the stallion looked down and noticed him on the floor, it would realize what was causing its agitation and trample him to death. It was clear this was imminent. Although the animal’s breathing had suddenly slowed it was merely the calm before the storm. Muscle spasms rippled the horse’s sinewy thighs and the animal appeared to be mentally preparing itself for the attack. As if it could end but one way. Eiríkur pushed himself up against the wall in one quick movement. He was absolutely incapable of standing up; the pain in his feet was so intense it felt as though the skin had been burned off.

Eiríkur’s shoulder bumped against the wall and the horse shook its head and neighed. Preparation was obviously over. Frantically, Eiríkur stretched out his hand and began scratching his ring against the paneling, but the stallion snorted angrily as soon as it heard the ring scrape against the wall. To his horror, Eiríkur saw its mad brown eyes roll toward him. It whinnied angrily and took a step forward. Eiríkur tried to scratch letters into the wall as fast as he could, but dared not take his eyes off the beast. He was transfixed; the last thing he really wanted to see was his death approaching but he was powerless to look away. The animal’s eyes told him that the wait was over and death would soon replace life. Instinctively Eiríkur covered his head, as if that could save him. The horse pawed at the ground, then turned and kicked at him with its back hooves. While Eiríkur let out a scream unlike any that he had so far made in his sorry life, all he could think about was whether his scrawlings would be enough to expose his murderer. He kept screaming while the relentless animal slowly battered his bones and flesh to a bloody pulp. The agony was so overbearing that his thoughts were those of a basic life-form; no words were formed in his brain nor were images. His gray matter was too overflooded with pangs of agony to allow for anything other than primordial cognitions.

When his spine broke and the pain disappeared as if by magic, Eiríkur’s mind snapped back. This did him no favor as he spent the brief interval before consciousness left his body for good in disappointment. If only he had had a little more time—no one would understand his writing. A fearsome sound came from the horse and Eiríkur pleaded pitifully with the frenzied beast to spare his life, hoping to evoke its sympathy.

But that was as futile as believing that the creature could read what was written on the wall: “R E R.”

The stallion belongs to my wife. I’m not fond of horses,” said Bergur, staring at the floor.

Thórólfur leaned across the old kitchen table, taking care to keep his sleeves out of the coffee Bergur had spilled when he filled his cup with shaking hands. “So what were you doing in there, since you claim you’re not much of an equestrian?”

“The horses have to be fed every night. That’s my job,” Bergur replied without looking up. “You don’t have to be a horsey person for that.”

In his many years in the police force, one thing Thórólfur had learned was that he could trust his intuition in interrogations. He had a very strong feeling that the man hunched in front of him had something to hide. God alone knew what it was, but Thórólfur was determined to find out. “No, I suppose you don’t,” he agreed, then continued. “How come you still have your horses stabled? I understand from my people that they’re normally put out to pasture in June.”