“Then we seem to be at an impasse,” I said, affecting puzzlement. “Why ask for anything if you already knew what I wanted, and that you would not grant it?”
The faerie looked down at his hands, blushing and mumbling to himself. I reached into my backpack and drew out the remnants of Finn’s burnt loaf. Sighing heavily, I broke it in half and began to chew.
“That looks foul,” the faerie said. He was beside me now, his long, long needle-fingers curved over the edge of a rock.
I spat out a piece of the crust. “My host is a poor cook.”
“I’m a very good cook,” the faerie said as soon as the sentence left my lips. I smothered a smile. Many of the common fae need little convincing to aid mortals and in fact enjoy the arrangement.
“Are you indeed?”
He nodded, suddenly solemn. “I shan’t tell you my secrets. But I will bring you bread if I may have the skin.”
I pretended to think it over. “Very well.”
I rummaged in my backpack and pulled out another tin of Turkish delights. I popped one into my mouth, then held out a handful to the faerie. His black eyes bulged.
“An offering only,” I said. “Not part of our bargain.”
He swelled with pride. Ljoslanders regularly leave offerings for the common fae, but I wondered if this little faerie had ever had something left for him in particular. He speared the candy upon his fingertips and was gone, not in any direction I could perceive; he seemed to step into the landscape as if it were a door. I gathered myself and continued on my walk, already composing a description of the faerie for my encyclopaedia, as delighted with my progress as the faerie had been with his sweets.
28th October
The weather has taken a turn. Some days have proven too foul for me to set foot out of doors, a combination of hail and sleet. I have been able to explore another section of forest, where I found a smaller hot spring and—high above the village—the edge of a glacier. I spied several cavernous fissures amongst the ice where the villagers had left food offerings long ago. I wondered what faerie, or faeries, had abandoned the place.
I was not worried about missing my new friend, for the Folk are not bound by time in the way that we mortals are. He would have my bread for me whether I visited next week or next month. I sent off a letter to my brother with sufficient funds to purchase a bearskin. He will grumble and write to me with complaints that he is very busy with his shop and his wife, not to mention their four children, and that he hasn’t time to assist with my faerie escapades, but he will send it all the same.
My breakfasts continued to be burnt. One morning, my butter had tiny fish bones in it. Yet I could get no explanation from Aud as to how I had offended her. When I attempted to apologize for questioning her about Au?ur, she gave me a perplexed smile and assured me that no apology was necessary. I was beginning to conclude that the whole thing was some wild imagining of Krystjan’s, until I visited Hrafnsvik’s only shop. That is when the fear that I would freeze to death was replaced by the fear that I would starve.
I took the long way, navigating the steep switchbacks below the cottage and strolling past the Egilson farm. Krystjan and Finn have a handsome home, rustic but large, with more windows than is common in the village. It is set back from the road at the end of a meandering lane lined with many outbuildings—livestock, hay, farming implements. Sheep grazed against the tall blue mountains.
The weather had ceased its blustering storms and settled into a rainy pattern, dark clouds clustering over the mountains. I wondered if I would ever get used to them rising from the earth like a terrible wave, spitting fantastical waterfalls.
The shop, a rickety structure painted a vibrant red, was closed for no apparent reason, so I waited outside as the drizzle turned into a cold, hard rain.
Across the road was another farmstead, much smaller than Krystjan’s. A mangy goat browsed in the grass amongst a flock of chickens. At the end of the farmer’s lane was a house that had once been blue; the paint had largely peeled off, and the roof was sagging. There was something about the house that made me wish to look away. If not for the animals, I would have thought the place abandoned.
A thin hand pushed back a faded curtain in the upstairs storey. Something about the hand was terribly wrong, though I could not place it. It may have been the way it moved, a sort of spiderish twitch. For a moment, a face peeped out at me. It was so white that I thought it must have been painted, topped with a dark thatch of hair. Child-sized it was, and while I could not make out any features, I sensed it was smiling. It pressed a hand to the glass as if in greeting, and I started. The hand was covered in blood.
The figure was gone as abruptly as it had appeared, leaving the bloody handprint behind. Habit made me disregard my thundering heart and look away, and I counted to ten. When I looked back, there was no sign at all of blood.
“Hm,” I grunted aloud. I would have to make inquiries regarding the owners of the farmstead. I wondered if they were aware they had a faerie living within their walls. My inquiries would have to be discreet, as I did not like the looks of the creature.[*]
I was interrupted by the appearance of Groa, the shopkeeper. Plump and smiling, she issued a great quantity of apologies as she admitted me into the shop. Her English was not fluent, but with my smattering of Ljoslander we managed to cobble together an understanding.
The shop was cheery and warm, cluttered with an impressive assemblage of goods, from food to farming and fishing implements. I nearly tripped over a sewing machine on my way to the counter. I requested flour, milk, butter, smoked fish, and tea, and Groa also encouraged me to take a few mutton sausages and a box of fresh carrots, leeks, and cabbage.
Humming to herself, she wrapped my requests in paper. I felt warmed just being in her presence, and though I have not much talent for small talk, I found myself compelled to ask her a few questions about herself. She was older than I had first guessed, and had run the shop alone for twenty years since the death of her husband. She informed me that the blue house belonged to a young couple named Aslaug and Mord, who lived with their son, Ari. Her cheer dimmed a little when I broached this topic, and I did not press her.
“How much?” I enquired, and she cheerily named an exorbitant sum ten times what such supplies would cost in Cambridge.
I had to ask her to repeat herself. She did so, just as cheerily, seeming not to notice my consternation. She bustled about the shop, chattering absently about the buns she left outside for the wee ones—I should have pressed her on this score, but I was too flustered.
I emptied my pockets—quite literally. At this rate, I would run through the entirety of my funds in less than a month.
“Wait!” Groa said. She placed one of her small glazed cakes, wrapped in cloth, atop the bundle in my arms, and tapped her lips. “Aud says you do not wish to be treated as a guest, but to pay foreigners’ rates for everything. But I cannot resist. My mother’s svortkag is for everyone, and it is priceless. Please accept.”
I nodded, a grimness settling inside me. Shadow and I made our way back to the cottage, where I deposited our supplies. Then, the dog having settled himself in for an afternoon nap on my bed, I made my way to the spring alone.
As before, I seated myself by the water and removed my boots. I admit that I am increasingly tempted to do more than this. I continue to have difficulty with the firewood, managing to cut only a few pieces if I am lucky and relying on Finn for the rest. But Finn is not always available, and so I am hesitant to use the fire for anything other than maintaining a bare minimum of warmth in order to ration my fuel. Thus, I have heated water for bathing only once, and that a small quantity. I still feel as if I am thinly layered in salt from the voyage north, like a bookshelf that has been left undusted.
My friend was prompt in arriving. I had the beaverskin ready, and he marvelled over it for a very long time. Beneath his gruesome ravenskin he looked much like a branch, covered in autumnal moss. He discarded the raven and, after pulling and prodding at the beaverskin, folded it over his shoulders.
Noticing me watching him admire himself, he blushed. He pushed the grass aside and wrapped his sharp fingers around a fine loaf of bread. It smelled of sulphur, but was perfectly golden and soft.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. I had certainly not intended to rely on the Folk for sustenance—my bargain with the little faerie was to have been for the purposes of trust-building only.
Well. There was nothing for it. I tucked the loaf away, feeling low. I couldn’t help but worry that I was harming my scientific objectivity through this arrangement, and that put the cap on a day of frustrations. Or so I imagined then.
“When you run out, I will bring you more,” the faerie said, turning from the spring, in which he had been admiring himself.