On the Cold Coasts

could take all night for all she cared.
    Before she knew it, they were over Hrishals Pass and into the birch woods behind it. The horses plodded through yellow and red leaves that reached up to their fetlocks. The wind picked up, whistling in the crowns of the trees and whipping faded leaves from the ground so they swirled around them. Ragna wanted to ask about what lay ahead. Would the group leave Enni as early as tomorrow morning to search for the English, and did he absolutely have to go with them? After all, he was a priest, and wouldn’t it make more sense to ride directly to Grenjadarstadur? But she held her peace, knowing that her questions would only trouble him and make him angry. It was pointless now to tell him about the blood-red moon above Hjaltadalur; everything would turn out as it was supposed to.
    They rode on in silence. Thorkell began to sing quietly, next to her ear. She listened to his dim voice, surprised and happy:
Kiss me, my true love
    The hour will surely come
    When we will not see
    The sun, together as one
    Our enemies are kin
    Cousins, mine and yours.
    May they all be thwarted
    Who wish to see us part.

    Michael’s back hurt terribly from the weight of the sack he carried. With each step of the horse, the straps cut into his shoulders, and his crotch burned where his damp pants chafed against his skin. Yet he did not slow his horse or attempt to adjust the sack; the only thing he could think of was to get to his destination as soon as possible, away from the pool of blood on the kitchen floor and the agony in Einhildur’s lifeless, staring eyes. The horse trotted the entire length of the Hofdastrond coast, past one farm after another, that he could just barely make out in the dusk. He never stopped, except to rest his horse for a few short moments at the rivers while he tried to remember landmarks and find the fords that they had crossed over a few hours earlier. The moon lit his way for the first part of the journey, but then clouds began to gather and covered it. The wind picked up. He peered into the black night. What if it started snowing, would that make it easier for the men to follow him? Oh, but surely Oswald would not let them. Oswald Miller was his friend. He repeated the statement a few times to himself and felt slightly better afterward, then spoke the words into the night: “Oswald Miller is my friend!” His own voice, cutting through the silence, startled him. It sounded croaky and strange, and he was afraid he might have woken the baby. But Ingvaldur remained quiet, and he was relieved; it was best if his little cousin could sleep for the entire journey.
    Finally, finally he arrived at the Kolbeinsa River and directed the horse downward; the ford was a short distance from the mouth. He could just make out the ships in the harborage, but only because he knew they were there. He could see a lantern in the dark, moving along like it was gliding over the sea. The surf droned as it hit the nearby shore, and the air smelled of seaweed and salt. Halfway across the river, it occurred to him that the men might be there, very near, in the dark; perhaps they had not headed north, but rather back to the ship. Maybe he had been riding behind them the entire time and nothing but God’s grace had prevented them from taking notice of him. At that thought, Michael kicked the side of the horse so hard that it started, and he nearly fell into the icy cold river. He managed to grab hold of the mane and held on for dear life until the horse had reached the other side, both of them shaking from the cold. He dismounted and patted the horse soothingly, speaking to it softly, his speech coming in spasms in the sub-zero temperatures. “There, there boy, of course they’re not here, and they wouldn’t see us anyway if they were because it is so dark. Little Ingvaldur is not afraid. He isn’t even crying. There is nothing to be afraid of anyway.” In that way he managed to overcome most of the chills and clattering of teeth; he was able to clamber back onto the horse and continue on his way. From there he only needed to cross the shallow Hjaltadalur River, and then it was only a short distance to Enni.

    They had only just dismounted in the farmyard when they saw the boy coming. His horse seemed fatigued yet began trotting up the bridle path, knowing that some hay and much longed-for rest was not far off. The dogs ran, barking and yelping, to greet the boy. Michael sat slumped over in the