Rúnar speaks the final words of the second act with such passion that the crowd bursts into a torrent of applause. His mother turns her head and I see that her lips are touched with a smile that is full of pride. But it’s also full of sorrow.
Her elder son’s death remains unsolved—according to the laws of man, at least. But there are other laws.
I think back to the day, over a month ago, when I sat with her son and a story was told.
At the end of the story I held up the cell phone to show Rúnar the final entry—but without the final sentence.
“I really don’t know much about these gadgets,” I said. I selected Options.
There were several Options.
One of them was Delete note.
On the keypad, my finger somehow slipped.
“Oops,” I said.
Skarphédinn’s final comments vanished.
“Human error.”
Was it an error? Should I have allowed justice to take its course?
When Rúnar and I went over to his parents’ home that evening, I still hadn’t made up my mind. But as I observed his mother taking care of the living corpse that is his father, I abandoned my doubts.
The most painful thing of all is to find out that the one who possesses you, heart and soul, is evil was said about a lover. But what if it’s your own child? She had decided to have that child. And she decided that the child’s time had come. The season of the witch had come—and gone.
The mother embraced her younger son and wept. But her eyes were dry.
Then she said one sentence. She didn’t look at me, but her words were meant for me:
“I had no option.”
Do we sometimes have no option? I am brought back to the present when Kristín glances over her shoulder at me. Our eyes meet briefly. What passes between us cannot be put into words.
Except perhaps these words:
Holy Week calls us to join Christ on his final journey and share his pain, for suffering is part of human life. And his story assures us that suffering is not pointless—not his, not our own. Jesus said: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” And those words have meaning for all of us sinners.
Fridrik Einarsson, playing the tortured loyal friend, Ólafur, speaks the final line of the final act.
Curtain.
The gym at Hólar College erupts into applause. The ovation goes on and on. The cast, led by Rúnar in the title role, take curtain call after curtain call. Director Örvar Páll makes an entrance onstage to bow in all directions, as if he thinks he’s master of the universe.
TV cameras hum, radio station mics pick up every sound, and photographers bustle forward with clicks and flashes. Jóa’s there among the media pack and gives me a wave. Next to her is Heida, editor of the Akureyri Post, doing her job.
I have to say that yours truly, journalist on the Afternoon News—Akureyri Office—has played some part in all this media hullaballoo. My articles and features on the many and varied events of last Easter, and the hidden network of the merchants of death, was not only a hit on the newsstands. It also cheered Ásbjörn up no end. I borrowed the overall title of the series from that request on the radio the day it all began: Season of the Witch.
The premiere of the Akureyri High School Drama Group production of Loftur the Sorcerer is followed by refreshments in the college assembly hall. Ásbjörn approaches me, red in the face, clutching a glass of white wine. The reception is not—God forbid—hosted by the school itself, because alcohol is being served, and that would be contrary to all the high school rules. Instead, the drinking is at the expense of the sponsors: Bonus supermarkets and Hotel KEA. Not the Yumm candy factory, however, due to supervening events.
“Cheers, my dear old Einar,” says Ásbjörn. “And thank you for everything.” With him are Karólína and Björg, who join him in toasting me.
I lift my glass of Coke to share the toast with them, as well as Gunnsa and Gunnhildur, both drinking white wine. I made myself bite my tongue when I saw Björg discreetly passing the wine to my underage daughter: all things considered, it’s not such a big issue.
Outside, the sun is shining in a clear blue sky. Fields of grass have turned from withered yellow to rich green. The horses are no longer standing around like statues in the freezing wind, but run friskily about the verdant pastures.
“Have you heard about Dad’s sweetheart?” Gunnsa asks with a wicked little smile.
They all turn to me expectantly.
I say nothing. Glare at my daughter.
“We were getting dressed earlier,” Gunnsa goes on. “For the play. Dad had put on his good white shirt and was searching for his tie, which he couldn’t find, naturally—because he doesn’t own a tie and never has. Then Polly came swooping down off the curtain rail in the living room and perched on his collar. Dad was trying to smooth his hair down in front of the mirror, but Polly suddenly started rubbing her rump up against his collar. Back and forth, to and fro, faster and faster. She spread her wings. She trilled and squawked. She got more and more excited…”
Gunnsa stops and looks at me. I glance over the people gathered here in their Sunday best. There are many familiar faces. High school principal Stefán Már. Sociology teacher Kjartan Arnarson. Local councilmen. A handful of members of parliament—most from the majority party, thrilled to be entrusted for another term with the welfare of the country.
I look at Gunnsa and put on the gravest possible face. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a touch of suffering in my expression. Just a smidgeon.
“Then, all at once,” Gunnsa continues, “Polly stiffened up. A tiny little penis peeped out from under the feathers and…and…”
Gunnsa takes a pause for dramatic effect, enjoying the stunned expressions, then says:
“I hope I’m not offending anyone’s sensibilities here, but—she shot her load!”
The speechless silence and gaping mouths are so priceless that I simply can’t keep a straight face anymore. I grasp my shirt collar and pull it forward to display, with exaggerated pride, a microscopic speck on the white fabric.
“Yes, ladies and gentlemen,” I declare. “My sex appeal is a many-splendored thing.”
As they collapse into giggles and guffaws, I put a nuclear warhead in my mouth, seize a glass of white wine, and with a smile I stride out into the summer.
Out of the wilderness, into the next adventure.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photograph © Philippe Matsas
Arni Thorarinsson grew up in Reykjavík, Iceland, channeling his childhood interests in film, music, and writing into a career as a journalist. He cofounded and edited Iceland’s first independent weekly, and covered stories big and small, local and international, for the nation’s largest magazine and the weekend editions of two major newspapers. In addition to print journalism, he has worked regularly in radio and television. In the mid-1990s, he stumbled upon a penchant for writing screenplays and crime novels, including Blue Moon, The Seventh Son, and Angel of the Morning. Season of the Witch was nominated for the Icelandic Literature Prize.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Photograph © Eddie Lawrence
Translator Anna Yates grew up in London and Paris. After earning her history degree from Bristol University, she traveled to Iceland in search of her roots and never left. She studied Icelandic at the University of Iceland and worked for several years as a journalist and translator for the Iceland Review, the nation’s leading English-language publisher. She has translated academic writings, legal documents, museum texts and guides, arts and tourism publications, CD cover notes, advertising copy, folklore, and fiction. The author of The Viking Discovery of America, she lives and works in Reykjavík.
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