Steinunn Sigurdardottir - Place of the Heart

One day, which actually existed, my dog Tryggur and I stretched out flat on the ground by the secret waterfall. A raven came and dived toward my companion. Tryggur began barking hoarsely and tried to get off the ground to grab the raven.

Yellow, red, green, and blue in the waterfall. I called it a FALLBOW. The black bird flew through the colorful bow, with a croak.

I’d started down a path that few people know about — it runs behind the waterfall, spraying those who take it. Come with me, says the waterfall to the one who looks through it into the light, eyes wet with spray, come with me, my way, my way. This way.

Come, I’ll show you something, murmured the waterfall. Come , come.

Tryggur barked and snapped at my trouser legs. I jerked from my trance and took the same path as the dog, instead of going the way of the waterfall.

This day existed. I was in that day, and so was Tryggur.

A hawk-fly had buzzed in my ear. Its buzz proved that day existed.

Before it all hit. And yet.

I was an immigrant from the very beginning, without a native country.

I supposed I should be ashamed of myself. There are people who have no roof over their head, many, many people.

But it’s also true that I don’t belong here, though I’ve had a bed to snuggle into and a quilt to spread over me. I belong in the other country, the one I do not know.

I open my eyes the whole way. The birch on the road is on its way from green to golden. At our destination the seasons are correct.

Big boulders scattered across the scrubby slopes. Everything rolls on.

Two birds in flight, to warmer lands

quickly over sheep at the crest.

Fog beasts of the wood.

Part of the very sky has sunk and laid itself over the mountain.

Damn, I’m disappointed not to see this properly, now that I’m finally here, says Heiður, giving the dashboard a whack.

We can come back here tomorrow, before you leave, and have a closer look, I say.

This damn fog could still be here.

We can always watch video of the place. Andey’s been videotaped, like everything else in Iceland.

Heiður guffaws.

Oh my God, what’s that? shrieks Edda.

Heiður slows down, grinding the gears.

The fog at the foot of the slope is moving, and within it something also moves, very slowly. Rocks covered in white sheets.

Haunting cliffs.

In the fog everything moves hauntingly.

The shifting rocks moo, and one has horns. They dance a clunky little waltz in the sheets, and their tails swing in a slow rhythm. DANCING COWS IN EASTFJORDS FOG.

At the gate stands a giant, swinging a hammer.

Can that be a human? says Heiður.

My cousin Ingólfur is big and certainly doesn’t grow any smaller in the fog.

Three black dogs come rushing toward us, barking zealously. I see them as parents and a naughty son uniting to defy the white car that would be suitable for use as an ambulance for medium-sized animals. Today all it transports is incredible women.

The dogs rush to meet us and run alongside the car, getting in the way of the wheels as movie stuntmen would.

The white wall blocks the view of the abandoned farm Strýta, but the roots of the slopes of Andey are visible ahead, the lowest of the waterfalls, and rapids from my childhood memories. The white farm of my dreams, the old stone house with the green butterfly roof, a lamp lit in a window. Mom’s house.

This is where she started to become who she was. In this house she nearly died, a five-year-old girl with acute appendicitis, if it hadn’t been for her foreign lifesaver. She found this fact so exotic that she never got over it.

Not until she met another foreigner. Who gave life to her daughter.

The fence around Grandma’s Grove is visible, as are the lowest of the big birch trees. They’ve grown taller since last time. In Grandma’s Grove nothing stands still, though some things move at a crawl.

I hear the bleating of strong-voiced autumn lambs, but their snouts can’t be seen, not a trace of a tail or tuft of wool. The wool and the fog are one. The only color in the fog is violet pink — in the dwarf fireweed that stretches over the islet in the Andá River, and in a cloud that has fallen from the afternoon sky, bathed with water on the one side and haze on the other.

Ingólfur, dearest cousin, hello.

He greets me with open arms, and then stretches into the car to kiss the monster. Not only does the monster kiss him back, she also puts her arm around my cousin’s neck.

Ingólfur greets Heiður next. Tells her that he’s seen her photo in the paper, heard her play on the radio.

I feel a stab of pain, unlocalized. It must be a pain in my soul. A stitch of jealousy of a woman who can do something. Who is something.

Ingólfur is in no hurry. He takes time to chat, holding a hammer in his hand. Mostly with Heiður, because she’s guest number one.

Good Lord, he’s cool, she says as we continue to the house.

Careful not to drive off the road, I say.

His voice, his presence.

He’s taken, Heiður.

He’s just like a movie star. Black hair, blue eyes, and a Roman nose. Such a muscular body. And he’s so incredibly nice.

Just as well we’re not staying overnight in Andey. I’m worried about you, dear.

So am I.

Fortunately, the man’s happily married. A beanpole like you wouldn’t tempt him.

Whores, says Edda from the backseat.

Heiður clenches her hands around the steering wheel, turning her knuckles white.

You should do us all a favor and shut up, says Heiður.

Edda laughs obnoxiously and says: Thould-thavor-thutup.

Is that the thanks Heiður gets for driving you all the way here?

I didn’t ask to come, says Edda. You forced me.

Don’t be ridiculous, says Heiður. Of course you’ve come of your own free will.

Courth-comth-fownthree-fill.

Shut up, Edda, I say.

I’m sick of listening to her. She’s so pretentious, says Edda.

You’re one to talk, says Heiður. All you are is attitude.

I’m never speaking to you again, says Edda. You’re the most boring old cow I’ve ever met. Nothing but bossiness. Mom says so too.

What sort of bullshit is that? I exclaim, in a tone that’s God-fearing and gruff at once.

You did so say it, you liar! screams Edda.

She’s telling the truth, absolutely. I did say Heiður was bossy, though I would never admit it. I’m sure Heiður knows in her heart that at some point I must have blurted it out, but as long as I don’t confess, she can still have a tiny bit of doubt.

When we reach the farmhouse, I hurry to leap out of the car, in terrified flight from this feud, nearly breaking the leg of a crazy dog. Three dogs circle me and the car in a little pack until Edda and Heiður get out. Then they split up their team and fawn over us, one dog each. It would make a decent act in a little circus, but Heiður and I aren’t fond of our roles and try to get the bastards off us. Edda, on the other hand, seems quite happy; she pets her dog, then heads to the door, howling along with the four-footed choir of friends as her mother had done when she was in her prime, as the foster daughter of wolves. The circus animals abruptly cease harassing Heiður and me and run after Edda instead, taking turns barking away.

Margrét comes to the door with her youngest child on her arm. It’s Unnar, two years old, named after his dead uncle. I freeze the image for long-term storage: Margrét with smooth, shiny brown hair, delicate cheeks, wearing a light-blue linen dress, with a barefoot baby in her arms, a happy-looking boy with long curls. A Madonna image on a remote farm, her farmwife hands like those of Mona Lisa, her fingers with knuckles that barely show, rosy-pink fingers and nails that are nearly merged, arching around the plump thigh of the Son of Man.