Yrsa Sigurðardóttir - I Remember You

‘No. Not really.’

‘No one comes here except during the summer, since there’s no real reason to be here in the dead of winter. People stay in one of the houses over the New Year, and one or two house-owners pop over sometimes to make sure that everything’s in order, but otherwise it’s empty here during the winter months.’ The man stopped and looked over what was visible of the settlement. ‘Which house was it you bought?’

‘The one furthest back. I think it must have been the priest’s residence.’ Garðar’s voice betrayed a hint of pride. ‘You actually can’t see it from here in the dark, but otherwise it’s quite prominent.’

‘What? Are you sure?’ The skipper looked surprised. ‘No priest lived in this village. When there was still a church here, it was served from Aðalvík. I think you must have been given the wrong information.’ Garðar hesitated and various thoughts crossed Katrín’s mind, among them the hopeful notion that this was all a misunderstanding: there was no house, and they could turn right round and go home.

‘No, I’ve had a look at it and it clearly used to be a priest’s house. At least, there’s a rather nice cross carved into the front door.’

The skipper seemed to have trouble believing Garðar. ‘Who else owns the house with you?’ His brow had furrowed slightly; it was as if he suspected them of having come into possession of the house by some criminal means.

‘No one,’ replied Garðar, frowning. ‘We bought the house from the estate of someone who died before he could renovate it.’

The captain tugged on the rope and then jumped up to join them on the pier. ‘I think I’d better find out what’s going on here. I know all the houses in the village and generally each of them has several owners, usually siblings or descendants of the previous inhabitants. I don’t know of any house that could have belonged to one individual.’ He wiped his palms on his trousers. ‘I can’t leave you here unless I can be certain that you’ve got some shelter and that you haven’t been fed a load of nonsense.’ He set off down the pier. ‘Point me to the house when we get to the top of the beach; we’ll be far enough there from the boat for its lights not to blind our view.’

He strode off and they followed, forced to take larger steps than they were used to in order to keep up with the man, who walked with a fast, loping gait that belied his short stature. Then he stopped as suddenly as he’d started, and they barely avoided knocking into him: they’d come to where Líf was sitting miserably. It looked to Katrín as if the colour was returning to her cheeks. ‘I think I’ve stopped vomiting.’ She tried to smile at them, without much success. ‘I’m frozen. When can we get inside?’

‘Soon.’ Garðar was unusually curt but then obviously regretted it, since he added in a much gentler tone: ‘Just try to bear up.’

He pushed Putti aside as the dog greeted their arrival by fawning over him. Irritated, he brushed sand off his trouser leg.

The skipper turned to Garðar. ‘Where did you say the house was? Can you see it from here?’

Katrín positioned herself next to the men and watched as anxiously as the old captain. Although Garðar’s description of the village was vivid in her mind’s eye, it was difficult to reconcile it with what she saw now. The little cluster of ten houses and their accompanying storage sheds was more spread out than she’d expected, and it struck her how much distance there was between them. She would have thought that in such an isolated community people would have wanted to live closer together, to draw strength from each other in times of trouble or hardship. But what did she know? She actually had no idea how old the village was. Maybe the people there needed large gardens for keeping livestock or to plant vegetables. There could hardly be a shop there. Garðar finally spotted what he was looking for and pointed. ‘There, furthest out, on the other side of the stream. Of course, you can only see the roof – on the other side of the hill with the spruce trees, which block the view a bit.’ He dropped his hand. ‘You don’t think a priest lived there?’

The old man clicked his tongue, and stared up at the innocuous-looking roof where it rose over the yellowed vegetation on the slope. ‘I’d forgotten that place. But no, it’s not the priest’s house. The cross on the door doesn’t have anything to do with a priest. The person who lived there was a follower of the Heavenly Father and his Son and thought it was a fitting tribute.’ He pondered for a moment and appeared to be about to say something, but stopped. ‘For years the house has gone by the name of Final Sight. It’s visible from the sea.’ The man looked as if he wanted to add something, but again did not.

‘Final Sight. Okay.’ Garðar tried to look nonchalant but Katrín could see through him. One of the things he had found most attractive about the house was that it had once been inhabited by one of the most important figures in the village. ‘I guess it would have been a lot to ask to have a rectory in a place this size.’ Garðar looked over the houses, most of which were fully visible from where they were standing, unlike the partially hidden one they now owned. ‘But weren’t there more houses here at one time? Some of them must have been torn down over the years.’

‘Yes, yes, quite right.’ The old man still hadn’t turned back to face them and appeared distracted. ‘There were more houses here. Of course there were never many people living here, but some took their houses with them when they left. Only the foundations remain.’

‘Have you ever been in there? In our house?’ Katrín had the feeling that something odd was going on, but that the man couldn’t express it for some reason. ‘Is the roof about to collapse or something like that?’ She lacked the imagination to come up with anything else. ‘Will it be safe for us in there?’

‘I haven’t been in there, but the roof is probably all right. The previous owners were quite enthusiastic at first about patching the place up. Everyone starts off well.’

‘Starts off?’ Garðar winked at Katrín conspiratorially and grinned. ‘So it’s high time someone got down to business and completed the repairs.’

The man ignored Garðar’s attempt to lighten the mood; instead he turned away from the little cluster of houses that could hardly be called a village and prepared to head back down to the pier. ‘I’m going to get something from the boat.’ Katrín and Garðar hesitated, taken aback, not knowing whether they should wait there for him or follow; finally they decided on the latter.

‘Where are you going? You’re not leaving me here alone!’ Líf scrambled to her feet.

Katrín turned back towards her. ‘We’ll be right back. You’ve been sitting there for over half an hour, so a few minutes more won’t make a difference. Just rest.’ Before Líf had a chance to object, Katrín hurried to catch up with Garðar and the skipper.

The skipper disappeared into the boat, then reappeared a moment later with an open plastic box containing various items she couldn’t make out. From it he pulled out a key ring holding an ordinary house key, and another that was much more old-fashioned and grand-looking. ‘Just to be sure, take these keys to the guesthouse in the doctor’s residence.’ He pointed at one of the most respectable-looking houses, clearly visible from the pier. ‘I’ll let the owners know I’ve loaned them to you. The woman who looks after it is my wife’s sister; she’ll probably be glad to know that you have somewhere else to go if anything should come up. You don’t need to worry about staying there.’

Something unspoken hovered in the air between Garðar and Katrín: they hadn’t told the man about their plans to create competition for the guesthouse to which they were being given the keys. Neither said anything. Katrín held out her hand and took the key ring. ‘Thank you.’