Steinunn Sigurdardottir - Place of the Heart

When I came to the Deep Ditch, over which there was no plank, I stood for a while on the bank, gathering my courage to muck through it. When I finally did, my feet got all wet and muddy, and I scraped my knees as I groped my way up the opposite bank.

Now I was on unfamiliar ground. I didn’t recognize a single pipe, stone, or stick. I’d gone past the last landmark, the hut that the sixth-grade kids had cobbled together and named the WILD HUT. Rumor had it that the Wild Ones took shelter there on stormy nights.

In this new territory I transformed myself into Kamala, the foster daughter of wolves. Mom was always talking about her. Wild Kamala from India, who’d sucked the teats of she-wolves rather than her mother’s breasts and preferred to play with young goats instead of children after she was captured and kept in the orphanage of Reverend Singh. I scurried around on all fours between pipes, sniffing the dock and snapping at it with a howl.

I wasn’t a whit afraid of the Wild Ones anymore. I felt a strange sympathy for them, and could hardly wait to meet them.

As soon as I caught a glimpse of them I’d say: I’m not Harpa. I’m the foster daughter of wolves. May I join you? You poor Wild Children, who have no beds to sleep in, no dad to read to you, no walls to shelter you from the wind, no roof to protect you from the rain.

If they allowed me to join them, I could teach them to sew so they wouldn’t always need to wear skins. Under the cover of night, I could make off with my mom’s hand-crank sewing machine and bring it to the Wild Children. Mom wouldn’t miss it, because she had a brand-new Pfaff machine that did embroidery and all the other tricks.

If it were true that they just shrieked and couldn’t produce any words, I would also teach them to speak. I would point at myself and say: Girl . Point at some dock and say: Dock . Point at the sky and say: Cloud .

I sat down in half a concrete drainage pipe not far from the ditch, a genuine rocking pipe in which I rocked myself, pretending it was a fishing boat in Grandmafjord. I looked forward to going to the countryside and getting to travel alone on the coastal ship Esja or Hekla , all grown up, with a malt drink and a banana for a snack. To going east to my fjord, Fáskrúðsfjörður, and feeding milk from a bottle to the orphaned lamb, greeting new calves, and visiting with dear Grandma, who was always warbling fee fie fiddle-ee-i-o as she worked in the kitchen and slipping me hard candies and blood pudding with raisins.

I tore off a strip of orange peel and bit into the fruit so that the juice ran down my neck. I tried to wipe it off, but my hands were muddy and just left a dirty smear. Besides that, I was all caked with dried blood from the scrape on my knee. My appearance suited me well, because the Wild Children would probably be bolder about approaching me looking like this than if I were clean and tidy. They might also be less shy if they saw that I ate everything like them, so I gobbled down a dock leaf and some orange peel.

Just then, I heard a shout, and three boys leapt up out of the Deep Ditch. One had a crew cut and was wearing a feather headdress and brandishing an ax; another was wearing a cowboy outfit and carrying a gun; the third had on shorts but no shirt.

Wild One! shouted the Indian with the ax. Surround it!

Two of the boys took positions at either end of the pipe and one next to it, staring at me in terrible surprise. I imagined that they must be from Langholt School, since I’d never seen them before.

I told you it was true. The Wild Ones do exist.

No one ever said they ate dock.

Yes, they do.

She’s all smeared with rat blood.

Damn, she’s disgusting, and black.

My name is Harpa, and I live on Hrísateigur Street. The blood is mine. I fell and hurt myself.

This one speaks. I was told they didn’t know any words.

Of course I speak. My dad teaches shop class at Laugarnes School. His name is Axel, and he lets the kids make leather folders.

There’s a shop teacher there named Axel, supposed to be a really good guy. How does she know that?

Maybe she’s telling the truth.

No, no, this is a genuine Wild One, said the Indian. Let’s attack.

I cried out as he swung his ax to strike, aiming at my head. I just barely managed to twist away, and the ax thwacked my upper arm. In my nightmares I still hear the scream that came from me following the blow in Dock Wood.

Girls never eat dock. Let’s kill the Wild One! He swung his ax again, but the blow missed and hit the edge of the pipe.

Help me! I cried to the cowboy and the boy in shorts, who both stood there paralyzed, frightened. At the same time, I jolted myself into action and jumped up out of the pipe, screaming loudly. But I only managed a few steps before the Indian caught hold of my hair and shoved me to the ground. They all stood over me, the Indian still brandishing his ax.

Let’s finish off the Wild One! he howled, kicking my thigh. Otherwise, it’ll kill us!

What if it’s a girl? said the cowboy. She spoke. I’ve also heard of a little black girl at Laugarnes School — I just didn’t know if it was true.

She has a gold chain around her neck. That’s not like a Wild One.

Let’s check if she has a belly button. Wild Ones don’t have belly buttons.

The Indian bent over me and yanked off my shorts.

Help! I screamed as loudly as I could.

The Indian said: Hold it, and cover its mouth.

Are you crazy? exclaimed the boy in shorts. A Wild One can’t be wearing a swimsuit. They’re always in skins.

In a frenzy now, the Indian shrieked: Hold the Wild One! It’s dangerous!

The cowboy covered my mouth, and the other boy crossed my arms and held them. I struggled and prayed Now I lay me down to sleep for what I thought was the last time. As long as I live I’ll never forget the frenzied hatred in the eyes of the crew-cut Indian, and the terrified hatred in the eyes of the other boys.

Then from not far off, Heiður shouted: Harpa, Harpa, where are you, Harpa? Hearing her, my strength doubled and I kicked the boy covering my mouth, making him lose his grip. I squeezed out a gruesome wail that stunned the boy.

She said her name is Harpa! shrieked the boy in shorts. Someone’s calling for her! This is just a girl, who speaks and everything. You’re crazy, Bragi.

I heard Heiður approach, hurriedly pushing her way through the thick dock, swish-swash. The hatred in Bragi’s eyes transformed into sheer terror.

I’ll kill you all! screamed Heiður, swinging a long piece of nail-studded wood.

As the boys ran away, she screeched: I’m calling the police! You’re going to jail!

I came to my senses on the stretcher as it was slid into the ambulance. A sharp pain shot through my twisted arm. I said, “Arm,” and thought at the same time how shameful is was to be wearing nothing but half a swimsuit. It had been pulled down to my waist. Even today, I still have nightmares about being half-naked, wearing torn shorts in public.

I’m certain they would have finished me off, those fucking pricks, if you hadn’t come with that nail-board, Heiður.

You’ve never told the story that way before, Mom, says Edda, thrusting her face, and her bad breath, toward the front seat.

I suppose it was only to be expected that something would happen. I looked like the first immigrant.

How did you actually get to be like that, Mom? asks Edda, in a genuine tone of surprise. She who’s lived with my looks all her life.