Season of the Witch by Árni Thórarinsson Read Free Book Online

polishing glasses with a practiced hand.
    “You’re new around here,” she smiles. I introduce myself yet again and explain what I’m doing in Reydargerdi.
    She says her name is Elín. She’s lived here all her life.
    “I was intending to take off and head for the city, but then the money came pouring in.”
    “So you’re going to stay on in Reydargerdi?”
    “I’m not planning to stay here till I die,” says Elín. “But at least now I won’t be broke when I leave.”
    “Take the money and run?”
    She gives me a sweet smile. “Pretty much. Can I offer you a beer? On the house?”
    I stop dead in my tracks. Not so long ago I’d have jumped at such an offer and wondered if she had anything more in mind. But not now. “No, thank you. Got to keep a clear head on the job.” I gesture toward the shelves laden with alcohol behind her. “You must know all about that?”
    She nods and returns to polishing the glasses.
    “It’s rather hard to get a clear idea of what happened,” I say. “Can you help me at all?”
    Without hesitation, she replies: “Just Agnar, out for a good time. Blind drunk as usual. And he’d probably smoked a few joints too and maybe sniffed something. He and two of his friends were pestering a Portuguese couple, coming on to the woman. The man tried to get them to go away and leave them alone. But they just got more agitated, and then the woman burst into tears. Three Poles from the next table intervened, and that’s when everything got out of hand.”
    “So it’s not a question of racial conflict or xenophobia or anything like that?”
    “Superficially, maybe. But one of Agnar’s gang is a foreigner. I’ve known Agnar since we were kids. He was a nice boy, a goodkid. But he had a rough time in his teens. Children of powerful people tend to get bullied. And he was victimized because of his dad and his buck teeth. They used to call him the Hansen Hare. Agnar’s been using since he was fifteen, and he’s getting worse and worse. His only real problem is that he hates himself.”
    So, equipped with all I’ve learned and quotations from Chief of Police Höskuldur Pétursson, I do my best to write a responsible article about the “Turmoil in Reydargerdi.” The innkeeper generously allows me to sit in his office, polishing my piece on the computer screen, moving sentences back and forth, changing emphasis here, adding a proviso there. It’s nearly 8:00 p.m. when I reach my final destination.
    My headline isn’t, after all,
Rage at Reydin
. It is:
    SENSITIVE TIMES IN REYDARGERDI
says chief of police
Seven in custody on the weekend after bar brawl
    I submit my piece online, and Jóa sends her photos in. I’m not looking forward to the four-hour drive in the dark across the highlands back to Akureyri. Then I remember the woman who fell into the river. I phone Akureyri District Hospital
.
The patient is still unconscious. It appears that she suffered a severe blow to the head, although she was wearing a safety helmet. She is believed to have hit the rocks face-first when she fell into the icy water. They can give no information about the woman’s prognosis, but I learn that the husband regained consciousness soon after the incident and was discharged. He is as well as can be expected and is with his wife.
    So we employ the latest technology to send our account and photos of the trip that ended so tragically. And finally Jóa and I embark on our own journey into the wilderness.

I am jolted awake as I sit in my closet with my feet on the desk, dozing. Someone’s shaking me and shouting. What’s up? Is this, finally, the End of the World?
    I swing around in my chair. Ásbjörn is standing there, his bloated face deathly pale with distress. I’m still confused.
    Are we under attack by terrorists?
    “Pal’s missing! Einar! Pal’s missing!”
    I rub my eyes. I’m dog-tired. Jóa and I took turns at the wheel on the way home. We didn’t get back to Akureyri until almost two