The Mist

above sea level? She smiled a little wryly: this was no place for people, not at this time of year. The stubbornness of Einar’s ancestors was admirable in its way, but now Erla felt as if she were being punished for their decisions. Thanks to them, she was stuck here.
The farm had to be kept going, whatever the cost. Not that she meant to complain – of course not. Several farms in the neighbourhood – if she could call such a wide, sparsely populated area a neighbourhood – had been abandoned in the last decade, and Einar’s reaction was always the same: he cursed those who moved away for their cowardice in giving up so easily. And, anyway, if they gave up the farm, what would they do for a living? They couldn’t be sure the land would be worth anything if they tried to sell it, and other job opportunities were thin on the ground out here. She simply couldn’t imagine Einar wanting to work for somebody else after being his own master for most of his life.
‘Erla,’ she heard him calling from the bedroom, his voice hoarse. She was sure she’d heard him snoring earlier. ‘Why don’t you come to bed?’
‘I’m on my way,’ she said, and switched off the lamp in the sitting room, then blew out the candle she’d lit on the table beside her to create a cosy atmosphere while she was reading.
Einar had turned on his light. He was lying on his side of the bed, ever the creature of habit: the glass of water, alarm clock and Laxness novel on the nightstand. Erla knew him well enough to realize he felt it looked good to have a classic like Laxness by the bed, though in practice he never made much headway with it in the evenings. They owned most of Halldór Laxness’s works and she had read and reread them herself, but what Einar really looked at these days were old newspapers and magazines, or articles about the paranormal. Of course, their newspapers were always out of date, some much more so than others: at this time of year, months could pass between papers. Nevertheless, they kept up their subscription to the party mouthpiece, copies of which piled up at the post office in between their visits there, and to several periodicals as well, like the Icelandic Reader’s Digest.
Although Einar’s interest in current affairs was perfectly understandable, she couldn’t for the life of her see the attraction of ghost stories or books by psychics about the spirit world, not when they lived in an eerie place like this.
In winter, not a day passed when she didn’t witness something that sent a shiver down her spine. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but the isolation, the silence, the damned darkness, they all combined to amplify every creak of the floorboards and walls, the moaning of the wind, the flicker of light and shadow, to the extent that she sometimes wondered if maybe she should believe in ghosts after all; if maybe that would make life more bearable.
It was only when she sat reading a book by candlelight, immersed in an unfamiliar world, that the phantoms in her head lost all their power to frighten her.
Erla climbed into bed and searched for a comfortable position. She tried to look forward to the morning, but it wasn’t easy. She wanted to be as enchanted by this place – by the solitude – as Einar was, but she just couldn’t make herself feel it, not any more. She knew that tomorrow would be no better, that it wouldn’t be very different from the day which had just ended. Christmas brought a slight variation in their routine, but that was all. New Year’s Eve was just another day too, though they always had a special meal then as well, smoked lamb, like on Christmas Eve, but they hadn’t let off any fireworks for donkey’s years. Since fireworks counted as hazardous items, they were on sale only for a limited period, which meant they were never available when she and Einar made their pre-Christmas trip to the village to stock up. This was usually in November, before the worst of the snow set in, and it would be hard to justify making another special trip in the depths of winter, just to buy a few rockets and sparklers. Besides, they both agreed that letting off fireworks in the middle of nowhere was a bit pointless. At least, that’s how Einar had put it, and she had humoured him as usual, though in her heart of hearts she missed the explosion of colour with which they used to greet the New Year.
‘Why are you up so late, love?’ he asked gently.
She saw from her alarm clock that it wasn’t even eleven, but here in this perpetual darkness, time had little meaning. They lived according to their own rhythm, going to bed far too early, waking up far too early. Her silent rebellion, which consisted of staying up reading, didn’t achieve anything.
‘I was finishing my book,’ she said. ‘I just wasn’t sleepy. And I was wondering if we should ring Anna to see if she’s all right.’ Answering her own question, she added: ‘But it’s probably too late to call now.’
‘Can I turn off the light?’ he asked.
‘Yes, do,’ she said reluctantly. He pressed the switch and they were engulfed by darkness. So uncompromising, yet so quiet. Not the faintest light to be seen. She could feel the snow coming down outside; knew that they wouldn’t be going anywhere soon. This was the life they had made for themselves. There was nothing to be done but endure it.

II
It was long past 10 p.m. Hulda was standing outside the front door, fumbling in her bag for the house keys and cursing under her breath. She couldn’t see a thing. The light bulb over the door had blown and the glow of the streetlights was too faint to be much help.
Jón had