The Mist

the same reverence for her own forebears. She seldom spoke of them. Her parents, who were divorced, lived down south, and she hardly ever saw her three sisters. Of course, distance played a part, but the truth was that her family had never been that close. After her parents split up, her sisters had stopped making much effort to stay in touch, and family get-togethers were few and far between. Erla didn’t shed many tears over the fact. It would have been nice to have her own support network to fall back on, but she had become a member of Einar’s family instead and focused on cultivating a relationship with them.
She didn’t stir from her chair. She didn’t have the energy to get up quite yet. After all, there was nowhere to go but to bed, and she wanted to stay awake a little longer, savouring the peace and quiet. Einar had fallen asleep hours ago. To him, rising early was a virtue and, anyway, he had to feed the sheep. But at this time of year, just before Christmas, with the day at its shortest, Erla could see no earthly reason to drag herself out of bed first thing, while it was still pitch dark. It wouldn’t even start to get light until around eleven and, in her opinion, that was quite early enough to wake up in December. Over the years, the couple had learned not to quarrel over such trivial differences as when to get out of bed. It wasn’t as if they received many visitors out here, so they had no choice but to get on with each other. They still loved each other too, perhaps not like in the old days when they had first met, but their love had matured as their relationship deepened.
Erla rather regretted having devoured the book so fast; she should have spun it out a little longer. Last time they drove to the village together she had borrowed fifteen novels from the library, which was over the limit, of course, but she had a special arrangement, as was only natural in the circumstances. She was allowed to keep the books out on loan for longer than usual too, sometimes for as long as two or three months, when the weather was at its worst. Now, though, she had read all fifteen; this had been the last one. She had finished them unusually quickly, although God only knew when she would next make it to the library. It would have been unfair to ask Einar to fetch more books when he skied to the village the other day, as they would only have weighed him down. She was overwhelmed by the familiar feeling of emptiness that assailed her whenever something ran out and she knew she had no chance of replacing it. She was stranded here. To describe the feeling as emptiness didn’t really do it justice; it would be truer to say she felt almost like a prisoner up here in the wilderness.
All talk of claustrophobia was forbidden on the farm, though; it was a feeling they had to ignore, because otherwise it could so easily have become unbearable.
Suffocating …
Yes, it had been a really good book, the best of the fifteen. But not so good that she could face rereading it straight away. And she’d read all their other books, the ones they’d either bought or inherited with the house; some of them over and over again.
Her gaze fell on the fir tree standing in the corner of the sitting room. For once, Einar had put some effort into selecting a handsome specimen. The aromatic scent filling the little room was a cosy reminder that Christmas was coming. They always did their best to banish the darkness, however briefly, during the festive season, converting their loneliness into a welcome solitude. Erla relished the thought that during this season of peace and rest from their labours they would be left completely alone, quite literally, because no one would ever make it this far inland in the snow, unless they were unusually determined. And so far, that had never happened.
The tree hadn’t been decorated yet. It was a family tradition to do it on 23 December, St Thorlákur’s Mass, but there were already a few parcels arranged underneath it. There was no point trying to hide the presents from each other, as they had all been bought ages ago. After all, it wasn’t as though they could run out to the shops on Christmas Eve to buy any items they’d forgotten, like last-minute gifts or cream for the gravy.
There were books under the tree, she knew that for sure, and it was awfully tempting to open one early. Einar always gave her at least a couple of novels, and the thing she looked forward to more than anything else at Christmas was discovering what they were, then settling down in the armchair with a box of chocolates and a traditional drink of malt brew to read late into the night. All the preparations had been done. The box of chocolates was lying unopened on the dining table. The malt and orange brew was in the larder and no one was allowed to touch it until the festivities officially started, which, according to Icelandic tradition, was at 6 p.m. on the twenty-fourth, when the bells rang for the Christmas Mass. It went without saying that they would be having the customary dish of smoked lamb, or hangikjöt, for their main Christmas dinner on the evening of the twenty-fourth. Like last year, and the year before that; like every year …
Erla stood up, a little stiffly, feeling the chill striking into her flesh the moment she emerged from her warm cocoon. Going over to the sitting-room window, she drew back the curtain and peered out into the darkness. It was snowing. But then she knew that. It always snowed here in winter. What else could she expect in Iceland, living so far inland, so high