The Fox Read online

  ‘I need a little time to sort things out.’

  ‘That’s no problem,’ Selma said quickly as she turned to go. ‘Make yourself at home and you can rest. There are visitors downstairs who will be leaving shortly, so there’s no hurry to come down.’

  It was astonishing how life could take a new direction so quickly. A rocky shore and the grey sea could be seen out of the little gable window. Only the day before yesterday she had left her basement room in Reykjavík. From there she had seen feet pass by, young and old, some young, some old. Occasionally a cat had come up to the window, rubbed itself up against the glass and tried vainly to get in. Life on Snorrabraut was so completely unlike what she had grown up with in Sri Lanka where most houses were open and there was little to separate what was indoors from the world outside. Icelandic houses were shut up tight and she had the feeling that this house with its grey concrete walls was shut tighter than most.

  She leaned against the old woodwork of the window frame and looked out. The expanse of the ocean in the distance sparked mixed feelings inside of both freedom and confinement. This was a step in the wrong direction, but hopefully something positive would emerge from this unexpected turn her life had taken. It was far from being her dream job, but at least she would have free board and lodging. After everything that had happened, things could have turned out worse.

  There was a corner shelf in the room, and this was where she placed the Buddha. He was the most important one. Next came the statue of Ganesh, whom she asked to bless the change in her life’s fortunes. After a moment’s thought, she added the figurine of the Virgin Mary to the shelf. A woman she had once worked for had given her the little statue as a parting gift, and Sajee was fond of it. She stood back and smiled as she looked at the group. She would bring them an offering when she had found out what kind of food there was at Bröttuskriður. Food for the gods shouldn’t pass through ordinary people’s kitchens, so she would ask Selma to let her bring a little fruit or vegetable upstairs.

  Once she had put the room in order, she rubbed avocado oil into her hands and feet. The oil always reminded her of the happy time when she had worked at Lakmal’s salon. They had laughed good-naturedly at the owner’s foibles and swapped stories. After work they cooked together in the back garden and Sajee felt her mouth watering at the thought of the food they ate there.

  She massaged her cold feet with soft, quick hands, and pulled on her socks before she stepped onto the cool floor. Then she padded carefully down the stairs and along the gloomy passage towards the loud voices.

  7

  The house was old and it was obvious that it hadn’t been looked after. Shabby walls could have done with a coat of paint and the grubby sockets and switches needed a good scrub. Sajee stopped for a moment outside the closed kitchen door before opening it. The chatter ended abruptly as she appeared in the doorway. As well as Selma, there were a man and a woman, both past middle age and noticeably skinny. The woman sat on a chair at the end of the table and the man on a white wooden bench by the wall. They looked in surprise at the unexpected visitor, while Selma’s eyes narrowed in displeasure.

  ‘This young lady is going to give me a hand for a few days,’ she explained shortly, hands on her hips.

  ‘Well, is that so? Pleased to meet you,’ the man said as he ran a hand over his bald head. ‘My name’s Karl and that’s Marta,’ he added, nodding to his wife. They both continued to look her up and down without trying to hide their curiosity.

  ‘My name is Sajee…’

  ‘These are our neighbours, but out here it’s a long way between farms,’ Selma interrupted before she could say any more. ‘Take a seat, now that you’re here.’

  Sajee looked around curiously. Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was shabby, but most of the kitchen implements were new and some of the better brands. On a side table stood a red kitchen mixer and a blender of the same make. Sajee had seen the same machines in one of the mansions she had cleaned in Reykjavík. The coffee machine on the worktop was a big one, offering endless combinations and it wouldn’t have been out of place in a restaurant. The air was heavy with the smell of cooking and she glanced at the window. It was shut. A blizzard again raged outside, hurling snow at the glass. There were two candles in holders on the windowsill. Selma noticed where she was looking, but instead of opening a window, she struck a match and lit the candles, releasing a strong aroma of fruit that quickly filled the room. For a moment Sajee felt that she was back home and closed her eyes. In her thoughts she could see the bustling crowds and hear the blare of horns.

  ‘Are you tired? Marta asked.

  She wore a silver bracelet, and fiddled with the clasp, opening and closing it. Sajee opened her eyes.

  ‘No, not at all,’ she said, and sat up straight in the chair. The stuffy atmosphere was making her drowsy and she tried to shake it off. Everything about this house seemed to oppress her, but maybe that was just the outcome of yesterday’s disappointment. By now she had already had more than enough of cleaning other people’s houses.

  ‘How do you like being out here in the country?’ Selma said, fiddling with the coffee machine. ‘Don’t you feel it’s a little isolated?’

  She pressed buttons here and there, finally gave up and filled an old-fashioned kettle from the tap.

  ‘I couldn’t see much because of the weather.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Karl grumbled. ‘Our electricity went off, so we came out here.’

  ‘As we drove up here I saw a little garden by the mountain, with trees around it,’ Sajee said.

  ‘Did you see the cliffs above the road as well?’ Karl asked and Sajee looked at him in confusion, wondering what he was talking about.

  ‘No,’ she hesitated. ‘I just saw the garden. Is it for growing vegetables in the summer?’

  They looked perplexed and she repeated words several times to make herself understood, until Selma anger burst out.

  ‘Vegetables in the family plot!’ she snapped, her face flushed as she waved the dishcloth. ‘Vegetables! What the hell are you talking about, girl?’ She threw the cloth into the sink, and stretched for scissors and a bag of coffee from the shelf. ‘Planting cabbages in the family plot,’ she said through teeth clenched. ‘The thought of it!’

  She tapped the scissors several times on the worktop as if to add emphasis to her words before she snipped open the packet.

  ‘Ridiculous,’ Marta muttered, snapping her bracelet closed, while Karl seemed to relish the furore and grinned to himself.

  ‘You mean it’s like a churchyard? Where people are buried?’ Sajee asked nervously, looking from face to face. Selma’s anger had abated and the couple acted as if nothing had happened.

  ‘Yes. But just our people,’ Selma said in a dry tone. ‘All my people are there. Mother and father, my grandparents, and others.’

  She pushed the ash-grey hair back from her low forehead and her blue-grey eyes looked searchingly at the foreign guest.

  ‘Oh, I understand,’ Sajee said, a hand to her mouth. ‘I didn’t mean to … I’m so sorry.’

  ‘The dead are in the family plot, but the cliff to the east is where the hidden people are. Believe me, they’re more than just folk tales,’ Karl said in a hushed tone of voice, lounging in his seat.

  ‘Of course,’ said Sajee, who had no idea what was being discussed.

  ‘You know what kind of people they are?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Sajee said cautiously, with a polite smile and wary of upsetting anyone a second time. ‘Would you explain for me?’

  ‘The hidden people are people like you and me.’ Karl patted his chest with the palm of his hand, leaned towards her and his voice dropped as a secretive expression appeared on his face. ‘But we don’t see them. At least, most of the time we don’t, because we humans have our limits in so many ways. Our senses are very poor unless they’re carefully trained.’

  ‘What on Earth makes you think she understands all that?’ Selma said. She seemed
to have regained her equilibrium after her unexpected outburst and now she looked at Sajee with concern. ‘Please, help yourselves,’ she said, placing a bowl of pastries on the table.

  ‘The hidden people are called that because they’re hidden from us, they aren’t visible and can’t be seen be seen by normal eyes,’ Karl said, his explanation accompanied by hand gestures. ‘They’re not elves, because that’s just rubbish. But the hidden people exist and they live among us.’

  ‘Do you mean spirits?’ Sajee asked with interest. She pushed her hair back behind her ears and paid attention. There was no mistaking her curiosity. ‘Good spirits or evil ones?’

  ‘Not exactly. The hidden people are like us, except that they’re taller, more dignified and in every way more handsome that we humans are. They dress in shades of blue and they live in the rocks. That’s not in every rock, but just in some places.’

  ‘Have you seen hidden people?’ Sajee asked in excitement.

  ‘Of course he hasn’t seen any hidden people,’ Marta sniffed. ‘Don’t listen to his fairy tales. These are just old folk tales that people told in the dark before we had electricity. Back then people had to have ways of explaining things they didn’t understand.’

  ‘The hidden people are usually good, unless they’re mistreated. If you harm them in any way, they’re merciless in getting their own back,’ Karl continued, not inclined to let his wife spoil his tale.

  ‘How do they do that?’ Sajee asked ‘Like evil spirits do? I know a lot of stories of that happening.’

  ‘They do, and they can be both very cruel and without a shred of mercy,’ Karl replied quickly. He spat the words out and a vein in his neck pulsed as he spoke.

  ‘He’s trying to frighten you,’ Selma said. She stood in the middle of the room with the coffee pot in her hand. ‘That’s a fine sort of reception you’re getting here.’

  ‘I understand well. At home in Sri Lanka we also have spirits,’ Sajee said. ‘Some are good and others are terribly evil. My grandmother believes in many spirits. She’s old and…’

  ‘The hidden people aren’t spirits,’ Selma said, her voice again harsh. ‘They are people like us. But they have a higher consciousness and they watch us humans. Sometimes they come to our aid when it’s needed, but if they’re wronged then their revenge can be bitter.’

  She banged the coffee pot down on the table so hard that boiling droplets erupted from the spout. Sajee watched in astonishment. It was difficult to get the measure of these people, what they meant and what they didn’t. Just a moment ago Selma had talked as if the hidden people didn’t exist, and now she seemed to be saying the opposite.

  ‘Well, no more of that superstitious claptrap, Karl. What’s got into you?’ Marta said to her husband as she jabbed him with one elbow. ‘Let’s just have coffee and talk about something pleasant instead.’

  She lifted the ancient coffee pot and poured into four cups. Droplets continued to fall from the spout, collecting in little puddles on the flower-patterned plastic tablecloth. Sajee looked around for a cloth and her gaze ended at the magnificent coffee machine that stood unused in the corner.

  Karl didn't seem to notice Selma’s and Marta’s words and he continued speaking. Nothing seemed able to interrupt his flow. He planted his elbows on the table and his chin on one hand. The index finger of his left hand was missing the tip.

  ‘There are many tales of the hidden people helping people in trouble, and that’s something the people here at Bröttuskriður know very well,’ Karl said slowly, crossing his bony arms and catching Sajee’s eye meaningfully. ‘On this farm they know about hidden people who not only provide help in need but who spirit problems away … yes, and there are other kinds of hidden people as well. Those are the up-to-date ones who bring all kinds of presents.’

  ‘Shh! Stop that stupid talk!’ Selma snapped, pacing the floor. ‘It’s not good manners to frighten folk, especially disabled people who don’t have the wit to know what you’re on about!’

  Karl bubbled with laughter, as if he had been playing a complex game and had won.

  ‘There, there. Calm down, Selma. Your new little friend needs to get to know us better,’ he said, purring with suppressed anticipation. ‘You know the hidden people can also make unpleasant people disappear from our world.’

  ‘Where do they take them?’ Sajee asked, her heart in her mouth.

  ‘Into the rocks,’ he replied quickly.

  ‘Karl! Stop it, will you? Are you losing the little sense you had?’ Marta said sharply. ‘What’s got into you, man?’

  ‘Nothing at all!’ he said, glancing from Marta to Selma. ‘Nothing,’ he repeated, placing a finger on his lips as he turned to Sajee. ‘Nothing at all, but whenever the hidden people have to do an uncomfortable task, then they leave behind them some mark that’s difficult to erase.’

  ‘Of course,’ Selma said, as if she had experienced a revelation. ‘That’s the way of it.’

  She stopped her pacing and stopped in front of Sajee, grey eyes inspecting her.

  ‘Stop this rubbish right away, Karl,’ Marta snapped. ‘You’re frightening the girl.’

  ‘I’m not frightened,’ Sajee said. ‘How do the hidden people make bad people disappear?’

  ‘Isn’t that just it?’ he whispered to her, his eyes on Selma. ‘Sometimes they just go up in a puff of smoke, but there are others the hidden people drive completely mad.’

  The outside door banged and the floorboards creaked. A fair-haired man with startlingly thick, dark eyebrows and who looked to be somewhere between forty and fifty made a sudden appearance in the kitchen. He was heavily built, with broad shoulders that slumped. He and his mother were strikingly alike.

  ‘Is this her?’ he asked, slouching forward as he picked up a crocheted red cloth from the table and used it to wipe oil from his grimy fingers. In a moment the cloth was black with oil.

  ‘Who else would she be? Won’t you wash your hands at the sink, Ísak?’ Selma said tenderly, putting out a hand to stroke his cheek. ‘Did you lock the cellar?’

  Ísak nodded, but the look on his face indicated that any further questions would be unwelcome. Selma smiled affectionately and poured more coffee into everyone’s cup without asking if they wanted more.

  ‘Do you have tea?’ Sajee asked, but nobody replied.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Ísak demanded. His eyes flashed across all the faces in the room, but the question was clearly meant for the couple from Gröf.

  ‘They came because the power went off,’ his mother replied. ‘But she,’ Selma said, nodding towards Sajee, ‘is going to help us for a while, and as I said earlier, she can do massage and do my old feet some good.’

  ‘Yeah. All right. You do massage too? I thought you were just here to clean,’ Ísak said. He glared at Sajee, and helped himself to a pastry.

  ‘What have you been tinkering with?’ Karl asked.

  ‘Oiling the transmission,’ Ísak replied and his expression lightened.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘It just needs attention and a bit of a massage,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘I learned massage,’ Sajee broke in, eager to tell them what she could do.

  ‘You all do massage, don’t you?’ Karl muttered with a gurgle of laughter.

  ‘Massage and a bit of oil does the trick,’ Ísak said, laughing at his own joke as he caught Karl’s eye.

  ‘Stop it, will you?’ Selma said. ‘You’re talking as if every woman from Asia is some kind of whore.’

  The silence that fell was deafening. There was something behind their antics that couldn’t be said out loud. Sajee sipped her coffee and her hand shook. She had experienced all this before, in another place. She reached into her trouser pocket for her phone. If she were to feel genuinely uncomfortable here, then she could call Thormóður and ask him to fetch her.

  ‘Of course not,’ Marta said after a long silence. ‘Who on Earth would suggest that?’

  ‘Don’t take it
personally, my dear. They’re just making fun,’ Selma said as she poured more coffee into Sajee’s cup, even though she shook her head and raised her hand to stop her, but was too late. The coffee was almost spilling onto the table.

  ‘Making what?’ she asked, looking in dismay at the coffee.

  ‘A joke,’ Ísak explained. ‘You can take a joke, I hope?’ he asked with a bark of nervous laughter.

  Sajee forced a smile.

  ‘There was a bit of a wild one turned up in Djúpivogur a year or two back,’ Karl said.

  ‘Wasn’t that one from the Philippines?’ Marta asked. ‘She liked a good time and had a child with some lad from around there. Or was she Thai? I reckon all that went on somewhere near Breiðdalur…’

  ‘The one you’re talking about wasn’t in Djúpivogur,’ Selma said, wiping up spilled coffee with the crocheted cloth her son had used. ‘She was somewhere further east, wasn’t she?’

  Sajee stared at the greasy cloth as it swept across the table.

  ‘Asians are there for anyone,’ Karl said, licking his lips. ‘They just laugh and take it, these girls.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Ísak said with unexpected determination. ‘The power must be back on at your place by now. The wind’s dropped so you’d best be on your way.’

  There was silence again as they stared out of the window. Selma put down the cloth and offered the dish of pastries to Sajee, who declined.

  ‘Don’t take their talk seriously, my dear. Boys will always be boys. They won’t be told and the whole lot of them are as stubborn as any donkey.’

  She poured even more coffee into Sajee’s cup, which had hardly been touched, and pushed the pastries again towards her. She shook her head again, but Selma appeared not to notice, so she took one of the twisted doughnuts and took a small bite. Greasy and with a cardamom flavour, it stuck to her palate.

  ‘Where are you from?’ Marta asked.

  ‘I come from Sri Lanka. It’s an island, like Iceland, in south-east Asia,’ she said gabbled. She spoke too fast, but made herself intelligible all the same.