The Mist

They’re strangers too. You’ve even had guests here when you were on your own.’
‘I know.’
‘The only difference is that we’re not going to charge the poor bloke anything. It wouldn’t be fair. It’s our duty to offer him shelter. Don’t you agree? Or did you want to ask him to pay?’
‘Pay? No, of course not, that’s not what I meant at all, Einar. Are you saying you don’t find the whole thing a bit odd?’
‘We’re just not used to seeing people out here in winter, love. But that doesn’t mean it can’t happen. Please, let’s not be like this. Let’s just show the poor man some hospitality. He’ll soon be on his way.’
She nodded, resigned.

IX
Darkness had fallen outside. Einar and Erla were sitting at the supper table with their guest. The news was on in the background, the announcer’s voice crackling and distorted with static, carrying over mountain, moor and cold volcanic desert, all the way from the capital on the other side of the country. Erla saw the kitchen for a moment through their guest’s eyes. The yellow and white units, inherited from Einar’s parents, were not what they would have chosen for themselves. The heavy wooden table was an heirloom too, but Erla had bought the chairs herself. At first it had been a constant source of irritation to have to live in someone else’s home, surrounded by their taste, their furnishings, but she had grown used to it over the years. She really couldn’t care less any more.
So far, she had contributed nothing to the conversation, leaving Einar to do the talking.
‘Don’t people eat skate here?’ Leó asked, tucking into the roast lamb Erla had served up.
‘It’s not something we’ve ever done,’ Einar told him. ‘It was never the custom here in the east when I was a boy. Which is fine by me, as I have absolutely no desire to eat rotten fish!’ Laughter rumbled in his chest.
‘How’s the farming going?’
‘Don’t get me started! It’s a constant hard slog, but we struggle on. If I go, there won’t be a single farm left in the whole valley, and I don’t want that on my gravestone.’
‘Isn’t it inevitable, though? I mean, times are changing.’
‘Well, I’m old-fashioned enough to think that people should keep working the land. But I see you’re new to all this. I don’t suppose you’ve ever spent any time on a farm before.’
‘No, you’re right, I haven’t,’ Leó said. ‘But I admire your tenacity.’
Erla was sitting bolt upright, staring at Leó. She’d hardly touched her dinner. He seemed aware of her tension, flicking the odd glance at her while keeping up a friendly flow of conversation with Einar. She was fighting back the urge to interrupt their small talk to ask Leó just what the hell he was up to. Why had he come there and what did he want from them? But perhaps she ought to try and discuss it with Einar again first.
‘How often do you manage to leave the farm in winter?’ Leó asked.
‘Not often. The road’s more or less closed in the coldest months,’ Einar explained, ‘or difficult to drive on, anyway. We’re not well connected enough for them to bother sending the snow ploughs out this far, you see. And someone has to be here to feed the sheep.’
‘Nobody cares about us,’ Erla chipped in.
‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ Einar smiled awkwardly. ‘Though I’m sure if we were – oh, I don’t know – on the local council or in with our MP, there might be more pressure to keep the road open for longer. It’s all about politics – all about who you know. But then I expect it’s the same in Reykjavík too?’
Leó didn’t immediately answer, then said: ‘Yes, now you come to mention it, I suppose it is.’
Watching him, Erla got the impression that Leó was someone who had never had to worry about not knowing the right people. He looked as if he led a comfortable life, with no shortage of money. His clothes were obviously expensive and showed no signs of wear, making her acutely aware of how shabby she and Einar appeared in comparison. And his hesitation in answering had seemed genuine, as if he had never actually given any thought to how people might struggle without the right connections.
It wasn’t exactly common for city types to go on shooting trips in the mountains at this time of year. No, it was a rich man’s sport. If only she and Einar had that kind of money … Then maybe they could live somewhere else and get tenants to take care of the farm. Erla knew Einar would never agree to sell the land, but she sometimes fantasized about moving without selling up, seeing this as a compromise that he might just be prepared to accept. With this aim in mind, she bought a lottery ticket whenever she went into the village. The girl in the shop always smiled when she came in: ‘Lottery time again, Erla?’ she’d say, then add some comment like: ‘You know, I’ve got a feeling this could be your lucky day.’ Her dream wasn’t that far-fetched. A ticket with five winning numbers had been sold in a shop in the neighbouring village not so long ago. Needless to say, the winner had moved to Reykjavík.
‘Help yourself to –’ Einar broke off in the middle of what he was saying as the kitchen lights started to flicker.
‘What’s happening?’ Leó asked.
It looked as if the electricity was about to go. The lights kept dimming alarmingly, then brightening again as if nothing had happened.
‘It’s nothing new,’ Einar said. ‘Power cuts are part of our daily life out here. Well, not daily, obviously, but they’re far too common.’
‘Damn, I didn’t expect that.’
‘Welcome to the countryside, mate. We’re used to it. We always have candles at the ready and carry matches in our pockets. We use torches too, of course, but I find candles cosier.’ Einar took a box of matches out of