The Mist

a bit off colour, but when Hulda laid a hand on her forehead there had been no sign of a fever. She hadn’t entirely given up hope that the girl would perk up later so they could go out for a special treat after all.
She was also determined to drag Dimma along on a family expedition to Laugavegur later in the evening, to buy a couple more presents and experience the Christmassy atmosphere in the city centre, before returning home to warm up with a hot chocolate. Yes, why not get another little something to put under the tree for Dimma? She could do with cheering up. Maybe Hulda could find a new record for the smart stereo her daughter had been given as a Confirmation gift earlier that year. They could let her open that parcel this evening, after they’d decorated the tree.
One thing was sure, they wouldn’t let her get away with sulking like this right through Christmas. Hulda and Jón would have to make a concerted effort to lift their daughter out of her … well, her depression. No sooner had Hulda mentally formed the word than she rejected it. A thirteen-year-old could hardly be suffering from depression. On second thoughts, she was ashamed of overreacting like this. It would only make things worse.
Dimma was just a typical moody teenager going through a rebellious phase. It’ll pass, Hulda reassured herself.

V
There was another bout of knocking, louder than before. Again, Erla flinched.
Einar stood uncertainly by the door for a moment before opening it. Erla hung back at a safe distance behind him.
They were met by a blast of snow as the loose crystals swept in on a gust of wind, then, blinking, made out the shape of a man, well bundled up against the cold, with a thick woollen hat on his head. ‘Excuse me, could I come in?’ he asked in a low voice.
‘Er … yes, yes, of course,’ Einar said with uncharacteristic hesitation, and Erla could tell from his voice that he was afraid. Einar was hardly ever afraid. But the man didn’t appear to be anyone they knew and that in itself was almost unheard of. They never had visitors in winter. In the summers, yes, that was different: they often took in young people who worked in return for meals and accommodation.
‘Thank you,’ the man said, stepping over the threshold:
‘Thank you so much.’ He took off his backpack, dislodging a shower of snow, and lowered it to the floor, then sat down on a chair in the hall to remove his boots.
‘You’re welcome,’ Einar replied, sounding a little more confident, Erla thought. ‘We don’t get many visitors in winter. Well, I say not many, but none at all would be more like it. We’re not exactly easy to get to.’
The visitor nodded. ‘Right.’ He had removed one boot and was now fumbling at the laces of the other with numb fingers. The melting snow was dripping off him on to the floor. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should probably have taken my things off outside.’
‘Nonsense, come into the warmth, my friend,’ Einar said. ‘As if we’re bothered by a bit of snow in the house. That would be a fine thing!’
‘Thanks, I’ll mop it up.’
The man took off his other boot, then his coat. His cheeks were flushed with the cold and his eyes looked hollow and red-rimmed with exhaustion.
He’ll never be able to get home in time for Christmas, Erla found herself thinking. It wasn’t such a bad prospect – from a purely selfish point of view – since they hardly ever had any company during the festive season. According to the forecast on the radio just now, the weather was set to deteriorate, and it would be almost impossible for the man to head back to the village today. Especially as he looked so worn out, though he didn’t seem to have any injuries. Her first, automatic reaction had been to check his nose, cheeks and fingers for the telltale signs of frostbite, but they looked fine.
But she grew uneasy. She studied him surreptitiously; there was something about him that made her nervous. Something hard to define. She shrank back instinctively into the sitting room. Einar was still blocking the hall doorway. Although he had invited the man inside, he seemed on edge. After all, there was no getting away from the fact that a complete stranger had entered their home and had, as yet, given no explanation of what he was doing here. No doubt he would account for his presence in a minute.
‘We were just finishing lunch,’ Einar said. ‘Won’t you come into the kitchen and have a bite to eat? You must be hungry.’
‘Actually, I’d be very grateful,’ the man replied. ‘To tell the truth, I’m starving.’
‘There’s bread, and I think there’s a bit of stew left over too,’ Einar told him.
Erla stayed in the background.
Einar showed the man through the sitting room to the kitchen, with Erla following a few steps behind. The visitor took a good long look around him, as if it was the first time he had ever set foot in an Icelandic farmhouse. And maybe it was.
They sat down at the table. Classical music was playing on the radio, distorted by the usual interference. Their guest fell on his food and for a while no one spoke. Einar and Erla exchanged glances. Should she take the initiative and ask what he was doing there?
‘It’s nice to have a visitor,’ she ventured. ‘Makes a pleasant change. I’m Erla, by the way.’
She held out her hand and he shook it.
‘And I’m Einar,’ added her husband.
‘Please excuse my lack of manners,’ the man said. ‘I was just so tired and hungry. My name’s Leó.’
‘So, Leó, what brings you out here at this time of year?’
‘It’s a long story,’ he said, and Erla thought she picked up an underlying tension in his voice. ‘I was on a trip with two friends from Reykjavík. We were supposed to be