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THE SAGA OF OLAFUR AND INGIBJORG

There was a man called Olafur Sveinbjornsson. He was the son of Sveinbjorn the Rednose, who was son of Birgir Half-Witted, son of Brynjar Slightly-Hunch-Backed, son of Hjalmar Who-came-from-Norway-to-claim-a-stake-of-land-in-Iceland-because-he-heard-reports-that-there-was-good-land-to-be-had-for-free. Now Hjalmar Who-came-from-Norway-to-claim-a-stake-of-land-in-Iceland-because-he-heard-reports-that-there-was-good-land-to-be-had-for-free had a sister called Asta Finnbogadottir, whose son was Bjarni Skulason, who had a son called Eyjolfur Bjarnsson who was as nimble as the salmon in the river and as handsome as the day was long (unfortunately it was a day in winter, which, in Iceland, isn't very long).

This tangled web of family relations should be carefully studied, memorized by heart, and then chucked out the window, because this saga concerns none of them, only Olafur himself and the few people he meets in the course of his quest.

Olafur's quest began at the Althing. The Althing was a once-yearly gathering of Icelanders for the sake of law-making, settling of disputes, renewing acquaintences, making alliances, wooing intended brides, catching up on gossip, and having a good mutton BBQ with mead on tap.

This ill-fated year, Olafur arrived at the Althing from his home in the east at Vopnafjordur, along with his brother Thorstein the Likely-to-be-Killed and a good company of men. His intent was to seek out and propose marriage to Ingibjorg the Not-So-Pretty-But-Boy-Was-She-Wealthy. Olafur was tired of boiled fish for dinner every night, and was desperate to get rich quick and have something more interesting on his plate.

Now Ingibjorg had a brother called Ragnar Death-Dealer. He too was at the Althing, clad in a blue kirtle underneath a rough cloak, and he carried in his hand a large axe with gold inlay on the hilt. The axe was called Headsplitter. Ragnar was a large man with dark curls and crooked teeth. He didn't show them often unless he was snarling.

Ingibjorg's father was dead (it had nothing to do with Ragnar; at least that's what he said. Loudly. While brandishing a bloody spear). So Ragnar was responsible for negotiating the terms of his sister's disposal. That is, marriage.

Olafur and his brother Thorstein paid a visit to Ragnar and hammered out all of the details in as amicable a manner as possible when one of the parties is a grunting, leering savage. They then called forth the bride-to-be. As they caught sight of her beady eyes, prognathic jaw, wiry hair and large brown wart on the prime real estate of her oversized nose, Thorstein let slip an involuntary "ugh."

Ragnar whirled to face him and growled, "Do you have something to say about my sister?"

"I...I....think she's very....striking." stammered Thorstein.

"Striking?!" spat Ragnar, "I'll show you striking!" and he smote Thorstein over the head with his axe, which, true to its name, clove into Thorstein's skull so deeply that his molars fell out onto the grass.

"Ugh." Said Ingibjorg.

"You be quiet!" Ragnar snapped at her.

Needless to say, this put a bit of an awkward cast on the proceedings. But they were at the Althing, after all, where difficulties such as this were brought to be settled. Olafur took his argument before the gathering of the 36 Priest-Chieftains who were the power centre of the parliament, and since there had been many witnesses, the judgment was swift. Ragnar was to hand over to Olafur the large chest of gold and treasure that he had recently attained in a raid of the Scottish Hebrides and of Ireland, in recompense for Thorstein's murder. Plus, he was to say "I'm sorry" and sound like he really meant it.

Ragnar agreed swiftly to these terms, and the matter was put to rest. But the next day when everyone awoke, both Ragnar and his chest of treasure had disappeared, and he had left behind a note that said, "Come find me at Iceland's most famous waterfall and take this money from me.....if you dare!" Most of the words were spelt wrong.

Ingibjorg was put into the unenviable position of having to cast loyalty either towards her brother or her betrothed. But as she was none too fond of her brother, and as her prospects for marriage other than Olafur had been - to this date - nil, she decided to help him track down her brother and avenge Thorstein's rather grisly murder.

"I've decided to help you track down my brother and avenge Thorstein's rather grisly murder," she said.

"Then you know where he is hiding?" asked Olafur. "You know where the most famous waterfall in Iceland is?"

"No," she answered brightly, "but I know someone who can help us. Gisli Brynjolfsson the All-Knowing. Let us go to Reykjavik."

Olafur instructed his men to stay at the Althing until he returned, which they were more than happy to do; they had indulged greatly on the mead the night before and couldn't walk straight, let alone get up on a horse. He joined Ingibjorg and they headed west from the fertile grassy plain, Thingvellir, where the Althing was held.

As they rounded Lake Thingvallavatn, Ingibjorg brought her horse to a sharp stop and gazed fixedly into the near distance, her jaw thrusting out - more than usual - and her brow furrowed.

"Do you see them?" she whispered to Olafur.

"Who?" he asked, seeing nothing but grass, sheep, and more grass. "Do you mean the sheep?"

"No!" she hissed, "The three of them. People. They are clad in rough blue leggings and colored tunics with hoods, made from a material that looks smooth though it isn't silk, and tough, though it isn't wool. The tunics seem to have protective runes on them, which read: 'The North Face' and 'Outdoor Scene'. And they have...a BOOK."

Ingibjorg's eyes rolled up into her head and she tilted sideways in her saddle. Olafur adroitly caught hold of her by her cloak, and kept holding it firmly as she slid out of it and flopped to the ground. He let out a yelp, and leapt off of his horse to revive her. She was a robust woman, and woke almost immediately, without bruise or ill effect.

"I have the second sight," she told him straightforwardly as he held her head in his lap. "I'm the only one in my family with this talent, which is odd, because it's usually inherited. I can often see the misty forms of those who've come before, and those who've yet to come, but never before have they appeared so solid, so present!" She sat up and looked to where she'd seen them. "They're gone now." She arose, brushed off the dust, and strode over to the place they had been. Olafur hovered around her protectively, ready to catch her better this time.

When they got to the right spot, Ingibjorg knelt to examine the area, which was mostly dust with some tufts of grass. Olafur leaned over her and got in her light.

"Why don't you go see to the horses?" she suggested firmly.

"Right. Good idea," he answered, and did so.

She looked back at the ground, and noticed that there was a foot-shaped mark in the dust, with strange patterned indentations, and what looked like runes in the middle. She leaned closer, trying to read the rune-marks (it looked like "EKIN," which had no meaning for her) when she saw a dull, brass-colored earring sitting in one of the grass tufts, right near the footprint. This alien object called back the people's presence so strongly that she thought they might be watching her over her shoulder. She looked up sharply. No one was there except Olafur, stealing a snack from one of the saddle bags in a conspicuously surreptitious manner.

She picked up the earring and inspected it. It was a loop of metal with several straight pieces hanging from it, and a complicated hook the likes of which she'd never seen before. She put the earring in her pouch, marvelling that she had in her possession something that belonged to one of the "other" people. She went back to Olafur, saying nothing about what she'd found.

The rest of their journey towards Reykjavik was uneventful. Olafur had never been to Reykjavik, and was surprised when Ingibjorg announced, "we're here." All he saw were a few boats in the harbor and some lumpy, grassy hills. She steered them towards one of the hills and it suddenly dawned on him that it was a house. What he saw was a wooden door, just big enough to walk through, if he stooped. On either side of the door were dirt walls, built of "bricks" made of densely packed soil, each brick some 4-8 inches thick, and extending for 4-6 feet on either side of the doorway. From the ground to knee height they were laid flat, one on top of each other, then there was a layer of bricks set diagonally one way, then a layer set diagonally the other way, making a herringbone pattern. They were arranged this way for several layers, and then above the herringbones the bricks were horizontal again, reaching higher than Olafur's head. The walls were constructed so as to make an uninterrupted "A" with the roof, which was turfed and grassy, with egg-yolk-yellow dandelions sprinkled on top, making a tempting smorgasbord for four-legged creatures.

Olafur suppressed a snort. "This is where the infamous Grisly--"

"Gisli."

"Gisli the Know-it-All lives? It just looks so.... cute."

Ingibjorg squinted her beady eyes at him in warning, and then, leaving their horses to nibble at the roof, they creaked open the crookedly-hung door.

Inside was as dark as a cave. Likewise cool and clammy. Olafur felt the sweat on his back bead up and run together for protection and then trickle down into his undershorts where it was safer. He could see nothing except one glowing red eye at what he assumed was the back of the cramped dwelling. The red eye brightened, and a slight burning smell reached his nose, followed by a stream of smoky air. He blinked it away, and when he looked back, his eyes had adjusted enough to make out the form of a man's face behind the burning red spot. The spot dove towards the ground, but its plummet was halted abruptly at about waist height, where the light was extinguished, with a sound of grinding, like a charcoal-ashed twig twisted into a stone.

"How can I help you?" came an unexpectedly pleasant baritone voice.

"Uh, yes, well, my brother...that is, her brother.... that is, well, it all started when--"

"My brother Ragnar slew the brother of my fiancé here, and we are trying to track him down and avenge the murder." Ingibjorg said smoothly.

"Yes, that." Olafur added lamely.

"He left a note saying that he was to be found at the most famous waterfall in Iceland, but he neglected to mention which one that was. We were hoping you could tell us."

"Well," began Gisli ruminatively, "There is Dettifoss, which is thought to be the most powerful waterfall in all of Europe. Then there is Gulfoss, the Golden Falls, said to be greatest in volume and the most beautiful. And then there's Godafoss, made famous by Thorgeir the Lawspeaker a few years back when he tossed the idols of the Nordic gods into the falls, cementing our conversion from paganism to Christianity."

"Well which--" began Olafur.

"And then there's Svartifoss, the Black Falls, famous for its hexagonal basalt columns that project from the cliff like an enormous pipe organ. And Hengifoss with its alternating layers of red clay and basalt; that one's just beautiful! Plus there's Skogafoss, which legend claims has Thrasi's chest of treasure behind it."

"Treasure!" bleated Olafur, "That's just what--"

"And of course you wouldn't want to miss Seljalandfoss: 40 meters high, and with such a wide spill that you can walk behind it without getting wet. And no tour of Iceland's waterfalls would be complete without Hraunfossar, the Lavafalls, low to the ground, but beautiful as they well up from springs under the Hallmundarhraun lava field and form a wide cascade of scintillating rivulets."

"We--"

"Oh, and don't forget neighboring Barnafoss with its spectacular stone arch, carved out by the flow of water underneath."

Olafur held his tongue. There was a pause. "Oh" ventured Olafur, further words hiding behind his teeth like rabbits in a burrow, unsure if the way was really clear or not. The silence lengthened. Olafur's brain was still spinning from words like "Europe" and "pipe organ," but he valiantly marshalled his few undizzy wits and asked, "Which one should we go to? Which one is the most famous?"

"They are all famous in their own rights, you'll just have to visit them all. I can make a great package tour for you, with an optional side-visit to the famous horseshoe-shaped Asbyrgi canyon; formed when Odin's horse, Sleipnir, pushed off the earth with one of his eight hooves, while dashing through the sky."

"That would be lovely," Ingibjorg said, "Thank you very much."

"No trouble at all," Gisli responded, taking a long swig from a mug containing a dark, steaming drink which gave off a rich, roasty aroma. He put down the mug with a blissful sigh and plucked something out of the darkness, which he then handed to Ingibjorg. It was a piece of vellum, which, in the dim light, looked to have a map drawn on it.

She put it into her pouch and pulled out a small stone, which she handed over to Gisli.

"In thanks for your help," she said. "It isn't much, but I've had this stone ever since I can remember, and it's always been special to me."

"Spar!" he exclaimed, "This stone can polarize light, so that you can navigate a ship even in heavy clouds." He didn't explain how he could tell, since there wasn't enough light entering the abode to observe a polar bear, let alone to exhibit polarization. "This is more valuable to me than you realize, and in return I will answer the question that you are dying to ask but don't dare."

Ingibjorg blinked twice, taken aback by his prescience, and then said, "You're right, I do have a question. It's about the vision I had. I've always been able to see people who weren't there, but these three were so clear. And I felt drawn to them, in particular to the book they were carrying. It was named something like 'A Friendless World.' Who are they and what is this book? I feel that they hold grave importance for our quest."

"'The Lonely Planet'" Gisli breathed out in wonder. "A guide to everything you could ever want to know about travelling in Iceland. If you were to look in that book, you would know where to find your brother, guaranteed. And the people...they must be Tourists." He lowered his voice and leaned closer, "Nowadays we have to go on perilous and risk-fraught raids of other lands if we want to acquire bounty. In the future, our descendants will convince foreigners to come to us and give us their hard-earned money. And be glad for the privilege! Tourists" he repeated again, in awe of the concept, "They will have your answer."

Ingibjorg thanked him for this further guidance, and they felt their way towards the door. As they left, Olafur heard a rasping sound, followed by a soft crackling, like tinder catching alight, and when he looked back, a red eye was glowing in the darkness.

Olafur and Ingibjorg made their way back to the Althing (still in full swing) where he instructed his men to pack everything up and take it all home, since it looked like his quest would take longer than expected. They nodded their agreement, and then groaned and held their heads. One of them turned green.

The two questers set off towards the closest waterfall, Gulfoss. As they neared it, Ingibjorg squinted into the distance and thrust her lower jaw out, which Olafur was beginning to recognize indicated deep thought. She pointed, "There" as a burst of steam or water shot up over a nearby hill.

"Wow!" said Olafur, "How did you know it was going to do that?"

"I didn't," she said, somewhat shocked herself. "I was pointing at the Tourists going behind the hill. Let's go get that Book!"

They set off towards the hill at a gallop, and when they came around to the other side, Ingibjorg breathed in sharply. "There are so many!" She exclaimed, "So many Tourists!" To Ingibjorg the ground was thick with vaporous people in strange clothes, murmuring in strange tongues. To Olafur, all that was visible was an empty plain, rocky and barren, crusted with yellow and light orange in places where steam was billowing out of pits in the ground.

He dismounted and walked over to look at the pits. Some were thick and muddy with bubbles occasionally forming on the surface and then popping with a splurt to add more specks of mud to the goop on the sides of the hole. Some were filled with clear water, which was roiling and bubbling like a cauldron in which to boil fish for dinner. His stomach churned at the thought of boiled fish. It also churned at the smell of the steam. Like eggs gone rotten, he thought. He moved quickly upwind and found himself at another pool; the water in this one was rising and falling repeatedly (like his stomach). All of a sudden it heaped up into a big lens-shaped bubble of clear blue water and exploded, casting a spume of water and steam 10 meters into the air with great hiss and fuss and drama. From her horse, Ingibjorg heard the semi-visible crowd go "Oooooh!"

Olafur was aware of a big stupid grin on his face, and realized that the echo of "Ooooh!" in his ears had come from his own mouth. He greedily waited for the show to repeat itself, which it did, roughly every six minutes. Half an hour later, Ingibjorg finally managed to pull him away, ignoring his, "just one more time?" pleas.

She got him headed towards Gulfoss, the Golden Falls, informing him once they were underway that in the crowd of misty Tourists no solid ones were to be seen, so there was no other option but to press on with Gisli's map of the waterfalls.

Gulfoss, true to its name, was stunning. Wide and wild, the water flung itself over the cliff edge, ran eagerly to the next cliff, which was at an unexpected 90 degrees to the first, and hurled itself off to a deep chasm below, where it then hurried downriver looking for more excitement. Olafur scanned the empty horizon for any sign of Ragnar while Ingibjorg peered and strained through all the misty Touristy bodies, looking for the solid ones she recognized: a man with dark hair and a grey beard and two women who bore a more than usual resemblance to each other.

Olafur came up empty handed. He saw neither large, angry man (at which he was somewhat relieved) nor bulky chest of treasure (at which he was somewhat disappointed) nor any place nearby where they could be concealed. Like most of Iceland there were no trees to hide behind, and the ground was flat and empty.

Ingibjorg had better luck. She saw the three solid Tourists disappearing and reappearing as other, less substantial Tourists passed in front of them. Olafur returned to her side to find her staring resolutely, jaw clenched, face white and glistening with sweat.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I see the three of them. They're standing at the edge of the falls. And they're looking at the book."

"Great!" he replied, "Go get it."

"I...can't," she mumbled in a small voice. "I'm afraid of heights."

"Oh I'm not," he said, "I'll get it," and set off towards the edge, going several paces before realizing that he had no idea where they were, nor would he be able to see the book if he was standing right next to it. "Hmm," was his constructive contribution.

He returned, and they sat next to each other, unsure of how to proceed. Ingibjorg gave a small gasp, "They're all fading" she said, and soon the plain was as empty to her as it was to Olafur. She shrunk into herself, dismayed that her weakness had caused them to lose their chance. He was moved, as it was the first time he had seen her display anything but stout capability and enthusiasm. He put his arm around her, and they sat that way until....well in most stories, it would be "until the sun went down, casting a golden glow on their pensive faces." But as this was summertime in Iceland, the sun never really sets, and so they sat that way until they got hungry and brought out some (ugh) dried boiled fish to gnaw on for dinner.

They slept somewhat fitfully that night, under a light sky, curled up next to their horses. Although it was the height of summer, a chilly wind was blowing, and they were grateful for the heat radiating off of these compact, shaggy, docile animals, who, like other animals, preferred to sleep lying down. Halfway towards morning Ingibjorg found herself awake, and stroked the mane of her horse while she ruminated about how her betrothal was not going the way she'd always pictured it. Setting aside the matter of the murder, she had always hoped for a man who was stronger, smarter and more capable than she was. Olafur was....well-intentioned, but a bit clueless. She sighed, and eventually fell back to sleep.

Dawn - as it was - found them in a better mood. After a breakfast of barley cakes and more dried fish, they set off towards the next destination on the map, Seljalandfoss. This was the falls that they could walk behind, and Olafur had great hopes (and great trepidation) that Ragnar would be waiting there, bloody axe in hand, treasure at his side. Ingibjorg watched him as he screwed his courage to the sticking point and crept along the path behind the falls, sword outstretched in front of him. It was dark and slippery, and the going was slow, and in the end, Olafur emerged from the other side, alive and shrugging his shoulders. No Ragnar. No treasure, either.

And no luck at the next falls: Skogafoss, the one with the supposed chest of gold within. The two of them stood at the base of the thundering waterfall, which drenched them with spray and made hearing each other difficult, and they concluded that no chest dropped in there was ever going to come out in one piece, nor would they, if they dove in to look for one. So they stepped back and called for Ragnar to show himself. To no avail.

"I could say a lot of nasty things about my brother" Ingibjorg began, and then bit her tongue to keep from saying them, "but coward he is not. If he were here, he would come out."

So they pressed onwards, eastwards, towards the Black Falls, Svartifoss. The way was long between each of the destinations on their map, and they needed to stop often to rest their horses and check their progress across the lava-strewn plains. Olafur found himself watching Ingibjorg while she was engrossed in the map, noticing how the wart on her nose made a shadow across her cheek, prominent enough to indicate the time. He began to appreciate her features as remarkable, impressive...but still not anywhere near to pretty. Ingibjorg revised her estimation of Olafur a bit; he may not be competent, she thought, but he's committed, and he never complains. They settled into a comfortable travelling rhythm.

Days passed, and eventually they arrived at Svartifoss. It was a steep climb up the hill to reach the falls, and, unlike most of Iceland, there were small trees growing along the slope. The steep angle and the vegetative cover meant that they were nearly upon the Tourists before Ingibjorg heard them. She grabbed Olafur's arm and pulled him to a rough halt.

"Wha--"

"Shhh!" she hissed, "It's Them. We have to be careful. I'm sure that one of them looked straight at me last time."

They ducked down and crept forward, Ingibjorg keeping her tiny eyes fixed on the slope ahead, where the sound of the Tourists' voices were coming from, and Olafur keeping one eye on Ingibjorg and one eye roving around to look for Ragnar, who might come charging out at any second from among the thin trees, swinging his Headsplitter and foaming at the mouth. He began to get a headache from making his eyes move in different directions, so he held onto Ingibjorg's shoulder to keep pace with her, and let both eyes search for Ragnar.

She stopped abruptly when she saw the Tourists, sitting on a bench, and Olafur stepped on her heels.

"Sorry," he said, sheepishly, and then looked to see what she was seeing (well, all the bits that weren't the people from a different century, that is).

On the other side of a small valley were the impressive basalt columns, hanging suspended from a cliff at the top of the valley, looking very much like organ pipes indeed - if you happened to know what those things were - with a thin stream of water spilling over the middle and vanishing out of sight into the valley below. Both Ingibjorg and Olafur took in a breath at the sight, and then held it, waiting for a raging ogre with dark curls and crooked teeth to descend on them. No ogre appeared, so they let out their breaths and crept forward again. The Tourists were facing the falls, and didn't seem to notice the pair slinking stealthily up behind them.

"...the most amazing falls," the younger of the two women finished, reading from the Book.

"Where is that?" the older woman asked.

"Ingolfshofdi," she replied.

"We'll be going there tomorrow," the man interjected, and the three of them lapsed into silence, appreciating the splendor of Svartifoss.

Ingibjorg pulled Olafur back down the path, and shared what she had overheard.

"Ingolfshofdi isn't on our map," she said, excitedly, "I knew that they would be the ones to lead us to the right place."

They hid behind some scrubby bushes just off the path and waited for the Tourists to descend the hill so that they could follow them.

"You know, I just realized something," Olafur mused as they waited, "You understood what they said. How is that possible?"

"I don't know," she replied, scratching her wiry head, "I never thought about that. Maybe I have second hearing, too..."

Their metaphysical speculation was curtailed as the Tourists came barrelling past. Our heroes stole out after them. At the bottom of the path the three Tourists turned and entered a hotel (which wasn't there for Olafur, and only a shadowy form to Ingibjorg) behind which rose the impressive Vatnajokull glacier, the largest in Iceland.

Olafur and Ingibjorg made camp, but barely slept, for the anticipation of finding the most amazing falls in Iceland, and with it, the conclusion to their quest. Their horses, sensible as they were handsome, slept soundly and dreamt of carrots.

The next morning Olafur prepared breakfast - dried boiled fish and barley (no carrots for the horses; they bore the absence stoically) - while Ingibjorg kept watch for the Tourists. Around 10am by the wart on her face they made their way out of the hotel and set off in a contraption that she could just barely make out. Her second sight applied much more strongly to people than to things, and so it appeared to her that they were whizzing through the air in a seated position, with a roughly cube-shaped fog slightly obscuring their features.

"We're off!" she whooped, and leapt on her horse to gallop after the people hurtling through the air so strangely. Olafur stuffed the last bit of fish into his mouth with a grimace, and chased after her on his horse. He caught up to her as she caught up to the Tourists, when they stopped zooming about crazily and stood up like normal people. Ingibjorg could see that they were milling about with other, mistier people, who began to step up into a much larger foggy contraption. She caught the words "tractor" and "haycart."

The misty people and the three solid Tourists floated off across a wide, flat wasteland of dark black sand (bouncing up and down oddly every now and then as they crossed over a low dune or a small streamlet making its way out to the sea). Ingibjorg followed at what she deemed to be a safe distance, Olafur lagging behind her with a wrinkled brow and a slight frown. He looked at the flat, black sand beneath their feet. He looked ahead to see a distant crag rising from the sand at the edge of the ocean. It was the only feature on the horizon, and their logical destination. He turned in his saddle to look behind them at the mountains with their glowing white glaciers spread on top like cream. Then he looked forward again at the crag and his frown deepened. He said nothing.

They arrived finally at the crag and Ingibjorg had them wait until the Tourists struggled up to the top, via a slope of sand that had been piled against the side by the strong winds which were even now gusting across the desert. He tugged on Ingibjorg's sleeve as they huffed and puffed up the slope themselves, and said, "I've been thinking: We know that...well, we don't know, we think that...I mean...."

"Spit it out, Olafur."

"It's just - not that I don't trust you and your second hearing - but, well, I just don't see how there can there be a waterfall out here on this rock, far away from any mountains with their melting glacier water..."

Ingibjorg stopped. This was something important that hadn't occurred to her, and it crossed her mind to be impressed with him. They were nearly at the top, though, and she heard a low "oooh" issuing from just over the crown, so she shrugged, gave him an encouraging smile, and kept going. They halted at the lip and cautiously peeped over. No one was looking in their direction. They were all staring at the hundreds of little birds perched on the seaward edge of the cliff, dressed in smart black coats with white bellies, bright orange bills, and lines around their eyes that made them look like they were apprehensive about having possibly committed a faux pas.

"Puffins!" Ingibjorg exclaimed in a whisper.

"Yum!" agreed Olafur.

They clambered onto the top of the crag, fairly confident that the tourists were going to pay them no heed, engrossed in the comical, jostling birds as they were. Also quite certain that they weren't going to run into Ragnar (or, more to the point, that Ragnar wasn't going to run into them), but confused about the Book having claimed that there were waterfalls on this rock. The group of Tourists had wandered further along the cliff edge, so Ingibjorg followed them to eavesdrop while Olafur set about catching dinner.

As Olafur approached them, the puffins sitting on the edge of the cliff shuffled nervously, and then hurled themselves down towards the sea, fluttering their stubby wings furiously. It was an impressive sight to view these suicidal leaps that at the last minute turned into triumphant aerobatics: flying away, rather than plopping into the ocean like orange-beaked rocks, and drowning. The cliff edge clear, Olafur turned to the holes burrowed under the tufty grass. As he began to reach into one of them, a puffin exploded out of it and plummetted over the edge. He approached the next one more cautiously and reached his arm into it, up to his armpit. He smiled. They wouldn't be eating dried boiled fish tonight!

Meanwhile Ingibjorg trailed nonchalantly behind her Tourist family (seeing them close-up for the first time she could tell that it was a married couple, perhaps in their sixties or so, with their grown daughter). The daughter was again reading from the book:

"'Ingolfshofdi was named after Ingolfur Arnarson, the first settler, who lived on this cape his first winter in Iceland, before creating a permanent home at what is now Reykjavik.' It's a good thing he moved!" she commented, "Didn't they say at the museum yesterday that the local volcano repeatedly erupts under the Vatnajokull glacier and melts huge amounts of ice which then floods this entire area?"

"Mmm," agreed her mother, "Look!" she pointed to the edge as dozens of puffins leapt over, one after another. The daughter smiled to see it.

"This book was right," she said, "Those puffins really do make the most amazing falls!"

Ingibjorg's jaw fell open, revealing two rows of square, grey teeth. And perhaps coincidently, perhaps fatalistically, the Tourists faded away to nothing as they meandered further away along the cliff.

Ingibjorg slunk back to Olafur and gave him the upshot of her eavesdropping. He wasn't too downhearted, since his belly was happily digesting a few puffin eggs, and several of their parents were roasting away on a small fire.

They slept soundly that night, their blankets ever so slightly nearer to each other. The horses, disgruntled at having been left at the bottom of the crag, slept poorly, dreaming of tiny biting horseflies whenever the wind flung bits of volcanic sand against their tender flanks.

In the morning they packed a peck of puffins to take with them, and set off. The next waterfall on the map was a long, rough journey to the north. Navigation was easy: keep the vast blue of the ocean on their right hand side, and the towering peaks of glacier-topped mountains on their left, and just keep going forward.

They passed through lava fields: flat plains scattered with chunks of black, sharp-broken rocks - fist-sized, foot-sized, head-sized, and horse-sized - like a table strewn with crumbs of dark bread that had been hacked at with a blunt knife.

In some places the lava boulders were all heaped together, making a three-dimensional terrain, like furrowed earth to an ant. The boulders were blanketed with what looked, from a distance, like a layer of ash. Up close it could be seen that it was a spongy plant, grey-green on the top layer, with orange-brown dead layers underneath. Fortunately there had been a narrow path cleared between the substantial boulders; this was evidently a main route of travel.

Other places were green and fertile with sheep and horses grazing, and the rare human habitation. These were occasions to stop and spend the night in friendly company, sharing news and having something to eat other than dried roasted puffin or dried boiled fish.

At one point they came across a lagoon of bright blue water with icebergs floating in it; some the size of ducks, some the size of houses, and some vast and sculpted, twisted and hollowed. Their sturdy horses forded the chilling water with only a brief hesitation as if to say, "you owe us carrots."

They stopped briefly at Hengifoss, the falls spilling over the alternating layers of red clay and basalt. It was pretty, but not spectacular enough to be the most famous waterfall in Iceland, and they held little hope that it was the falls they were looking for. Indeed, there was no Ragnar, no treasure, and no Tourists.

Finally they came to the fjords: huge inlets of water guarded by high mountains on either side. The mountains were piled up to the knees with loose scree, and had substantial scars gashed horizontally into their bulk, as if used by giants to test the edge on their swords. Travel in the fjords was majestic but slow, as they had to follow the looping coastline around each finger-shaped projection.

The slowness of travel didn't worry Olafur, in fact he welcomed the time to ruminate. They were in his home territory now, and he recognized the path that would lead to Vopnafjordur: to his homestead, his family, and the comforts of his known, predictable life. He was struck with overpowering nostalgia, and as they reached the turn-off point he went slower and slower until finally he pulled his horse to a halt, staring off into space in indecision.

His intense contemplation rendered up an unpleasant truth: that he perhaps wasn't quite the man he thought he should want to be. He knew he should be burning with a desire to journey into the dangerous unknown and prove his manhood, returning with tales of valiant deeds and hordes of precious goods. Instead he found himself longing for a warm fire, a full stomach and some children playing at his feet while he dozed in contented domesticity. He hadn't bargained on this quest, and for the first time he questioned whether he was capable of pulling it off. Ragnar Death-Dealer wasn't like the friends he'd tussled with in his youth - Sturla Sparrowarms and Runar the Nice were two of his closest pals. And Ingibjorg...well, she wasn't everything he was looking for in a wife, but she was right there by his side. Wouldn't the sensible thing be to cut his losses and take her home right now, instead of traipsing across the country on some mad treasure hunt, risking both wife and life?

Or was that "the cowardly thing"?

That was the trouble: he didn't know. Olafur was much better with a simple, specific plan like: go to the Althing. Get wife. Return home. Ever since it had gotten more complex than three sentences he'd lost the hang of it and he was just following behind Ingibjorg, trying not to get in her way. He got the bright idea to ask her what he should do now, but when he glanced over at her she looked so rocky and formidable that he slumped back in his saddle. That was another prickly truth he acknowledged: he was a bit afraid of her.

He took a deep breath and tried to puzzle it out on his own. He thought about Thorstein. His love for his brother and his sense of honor demanded that the murder be avenged. He thought about the treasure - and the comfort it could provide - if he found and (ulp) slew Ragnar. He thought about Ingibjorg and how disappointed she would be in him if he gave up. And he thought about the unvaried diet of boiled fish that awaited him if he went home empty-handed.

A decision clicked into place, and he straightened up in his saddle. He looked over at Ingibjorg and saw her smiling at him. Her smile softened the jutting underbite of her jaw somewhat, and put a twinkle into her eyes, and he found himself almost enjoying looking at her.

"Well," he said. "We have a date with a waterfall." And they turned west, away from the fjords.

The next waterfall on the map was Dettifoss, arguably the most famous of them all, due to its sheer size and power. Bolstered by his new resolve, Olafur fairly charged alongside the valley cut by the river Jokulsa a Fjollum, humming to himself as he caught sight of the waterfall's spray rising up in a rainbow-streaked cloud. Ingibjorg was pleased to see his newfound strength of purpose, and thought that maybe, just maybe he could become a hero and a leader of men after all.

The sun glinted off of something in the landscape and propelled itself stabbingly into Olafur's unshielded eyes, causing him to stop his horse. The information carried by the light pierced further into his brain to tell him that reflected sunlight meant metal, metal meant manmade, and manmade usually meant man-nearby. Ragnar. He roared his best war-cry, which came out a bit thin and phlegm-y. So he coughed and hawked a few times to clear his throat, spat a globule to the ground in his most macho manner, and roared again. Loud and resonant this time, he kept up his cry as he urged his horse into a charge towards the glinting light. Ten paces closer, he saw that it was attached to a square-ish object, close to the ground. Twenty paces, he identified that object as a chest. Nearing the chest, he recognized it as Ragnar's, because there was a crude picture of a snarling face hewn into the lid and a splintery channel hacked out to indicate the size of his axe blade.

Olafur galloped in wide circles around the chest, roaring and swinging his sword, calling for Ragnar to show himself. Ingibjorg headed straight for the chest, and pulled out one of her hairpins to try to pick the lock. The unpinned lock of wiry hair sprang out sideways and one strand curled into her ear and made it itch. She scratched it testily as she inserted the pin into the lock and jiggled it about. She had little luck engaging the tumblers, so she thought to try the hasp. It opened easily. It was never locked.

She lifted the lid and peered into the chest, as Olafur continued to whoop and holler. Stale air met her nose, carrying the ghosty tang of gold and silver, but no treasure was left to stimulate any of her other senses. The box was empty, save for a note in the bottom. She snatched it up and waved to Olafur.

"Stop!" she called, "Stop! He's not here."

Olafur was riding the wave of excitement, thrilled that for once in his life he was going to do battle, and maybe even enjoy it. So it took a while for him to notice Ingibjorg's frantic signallings and put them together with the observation that Ragnar had still not made an appearance, and then to wind down his galloping circles to a trot, then to a walk, and finally to a stop. The ground hadn't noticed that he stopped, though, and it kept going round and round. He held still and waited for the world - and his stomach - to settle. They did, and he turned to Ingibjorg.

"What's that you were saying?" he asked, panting slightly and sweating like a horse. His horse, in comparison, was knock-kneed, with its eyes crossed and its tongue hanging out.

"Ragnar isn't here," she answered. "He left this note which says, 'I told you to come to the most famous waterfall. You'll have to do better than this. Ha, ha, ha.'"

"Ah," said Olafur. "Right."

He was reluctant to give up on his newfound enthusiasm, and kept a purposeful look on his face even though he was at a loss as to how to proceed.

"Let us..." he began strongly, hoping it would encourage his brain to complete the sentence, "Let us....continue on to the next waterfall!" he finished. Proudly.

"A good idea" said Ingibjorg, who had taken the map out, found the next falls, and determined their route, all while Olafur was still trying to make the world stop spinning.

"Lead on," he said decisively, feeling in control of the situation.

She did.

She took them westward, following a long row of rock-pile cairns set up to indicate the route. Olafur put a stone on top of each one. For luck. He got ambitious and hefted a good-sized rock to the top of one of them, promptly collapsing it, so they halted their progress while he rebuilt it. Ingibjorg shook her head slightly, but said nothing.

There were some columns of steam rising in the distance, and they curved their trajectory towards them. The steam revealed more mudpots and hot springs, and Olafur jumped to the ground to inspect them, to see if any might burst, heaving water spectacularly into the air. As he headed towards them, he tripped over something on the ground and turned to curse it. He stopped when he saw that it was a plank of wood, with a wisp of steam now escaping from where he'd knocked it slightly aside. He lifted the plank up completely and found a hole in the ground, with a pot inside and warm steam eddying up around it. He reached in for the pot, scorched his fingers, sucked on them, and then reached in again holding the edge of his cloak as a buffer.

He pulled out the pot and opened it to find a loaf of still-baking bread, dark brown and moist-looking. He ripped off a piece and popped it into his mouth, rolling his eyes in delight at its sweet, molasses-rich chewiness. He offered a hunk to Ingibjorg and she accepted it gladly. There were dozens of planks strewn about the ground, each covering a hole in which the steam from the earth was cooking bread, so they took three loaves, and left a heap of puffin as payment.

They travelled a bit further, nibbling happily at the bread, and saw a large, shallow pool of water off to the left, steam rising from its surface, but no hissing and bubbling. Ingibjorg looked closer at the pool as they passed, and saw that there were three forms lounging in it, shrouded by the steam and murmuring quietly to each other. There were scattered heaps of clothing at the edge of the pool, and on top of one of them was the Book!

Ingibjorg dismounted and threw the reins to Olafur, giving a hasty description of what she saw and what she was about to attempt. Given the lack of any sort of concealment, Ingibjorg figured her best bet was to stay low to the ground. She began crawling towards the edge of the pool on her belly, her fortuitously lumpy posterior resembling a small cairn. The steam was heavy, and the bathers were luxuriating in their bath quite absorbedly, so her stealthy advance went unnoticed.

She breathed heavily through her generous nostrils as she closed the gap; three meters, two meters, one meter.... then the daughter opened her eyes and stood up from where she'd been lounging in quiet conversation. Ingibjorg froze, thinking rock-like thoughts (it didn't occur to her until later to wonder about the curious undergarment the woman had on. It fit her torso like a second skin; how did she get it on and off?). The daughter reached over and grabbed the Book quickly, then turned around and slid back out of the chilly air into the warm water, holding the Book up so it didn't get wet.

"I think it was called something like Hursafjordur or Husadalur..." she said, flipping through the pages while Ingibjorg tried not to breathe, "Ah, here it is, Husavik. It says: a medium-sized fishing town with first-rate whaling museum and something called the Phallological museum."

"Fa-la-logical? A singing museum?"

"No, even weirder: a museum devoted to the phallus. Apparently there's a collection of penises from scores of animals, from a humpbacked whale (11.8 meters long) to a hamster's penis bone, the smallest of any mammal."

The three paused to consider this information, and Ingibjorg blinked back the sweat streaming into her eyes.

"And then it's the next day we head west, to Godafoss."

Hearing the name Godafoss brought to Ingibjorg's mind huge floods of water spilling over and tumbling down and churning about. And the image of all of that rushing water brought to her awareness a very pressing need of which she had hitherto remained oblivious, in her concentrated horizontal assault.

Huge gobs of sweat dripped from her pronounced chin, as she lay there immobile, caught between her desire for the Book and her need to make a foss of her own. Nature won, and she shimmied backwards, even more awkwardly than before. At the soonest possible moment she leapt up and scurried behind a nearby boulder. When she dashed out again the Tourists were, of course, gone.

"Thor's Nipples!" she swore. "I was this close!"

Olafur eyes widened but he held his tongue. His fingers tasted dusty, so he let go.

She jumped grumpily onto her horse, her face set in a conversation-withering scowl, and they swung west, towards the not-setting sun.

By the time they reached Godafoss, several days later, Ingibjorg had recovered her equanimity, and was even slightly hopeful about the fame of these falls. She saw crowds of misty tourists pointing towards the gushing water, and others lifting small boxes in front of their faces in what she supposed was a ritualistic acknowledgement of the religious importance of the area. After all, the pagan idols that Thorgeir the Lawspeaker had thrown into the falls were still lying down at the bottom, or perhaps roiling and churning in the turbulent water at the base, and they deserved respect. She said a quick prayer to them under her breath; she had been rooting for them to win the Pagan/Christian face-off. Olafur was still game for heroics. He had even sharpened his sword. In what was becoming a routine, he began shouting for Ragnar to show his "big, ugly, hairy, smelly, what was that word again, Ingibjorg?" "Pugnacious" "Pugnacious, fat self!" There was no reply. "Please?" Nothing. His sword began to droop. "With sugar and bearberries on top?" Just the roar of water tumbling ceaselessly over the cliff. "Shucks."

They kept their thoughts to themselves as they left Godafoss to the gods and headed further west.

"There's only one more waterfall on the map" mused Ingibjorg, as they stopped for the night. "Well, two; right next to each other. That had better be the place..."

Olafur had wandered out of her hearing, and now called, "Hey, Ingibjorg! Come look at what I've found."

His voice was echoing strangely, and she discovered him in an underground grotto, a series of boulders leading step-like into the depths.

"There's a pool down here," he said, "Crystal-clear water, and it's nice and warm. How 'bout we take a little soak?"

Ingibjorg thought about the undergarment she'd seen the Tourist woman wearing. She didn't have one of those, which meant.... She looked towards the ground and fingered the wart on her nose shyly. She'd never bathed in a pool with a man before. But after all, this was going to be her husband... She felt her ears grow hot as she imagined bathing in a pool with him. She hesitated, unsure of what to do.

"It's okay," he said abruptly, his voice a bit thick in his throat, "Never mind." He climbed out of the cave without looking at her, and started yanking the blankets from the saddlebags, blinking rapidly and sniffing a bit. She didn't even have time to say, "but...."

Sleep eluded her that night, and she lay there watching Olafur breathe in and out. Her Olafur. Her husband-to-be, Olafur Sveinbjornsson. She tried to make her heart leap at the words, but it just kept thumping along quietly, pulsing with amiable fondness, tender concern, and gentle exasperation at the man.

She rearranged the pouch under her head and then jerked back as she felt something sharp stick into her ear. She opened up the pouch and found the earring that she'd plucked from the ground all those weeks ago when she'd first seen the Tourists. It felt like another lifetime. She dangled the earring, making the metal spokes tinkle against one another, and wondered again whether They held the key to the puzzle. Then she tucked the earring safely away at the bottom of the pouch, closed her eyes, and waited for morning.

The final two waterfalls on the map lay far to the west, and there was much ground to cover. They dug in hard and pushed their horses as fast as they could go. Pushing them was much slower than riding them, so they gave that up and got back on. Summer had already crested the hill and the days were getting shorter - which meant, well it meant that it was still light all the hours that they were awake, and many in which they weren't, but they could sense the sun packing its bags and getting ready to head south to the celestial Althing, where it would be so busy socializing with the planets and the other gods that it would only have time to check in on Iceland for a few hours in the middle of each day. Time was running out.

As they were passing through the town of Akureyri, which seemed strangely abandoned for its size, Ingibjorg's nostrils started twitching.

"I smell something rotting," she said.

"I'm sorry," replied Olafur, "It's all this puffin we've been eating; it gives me gas."

"No, it's not that. It's fishy."

They followed her nose far out of town and along the coast, and it led them to a small beach. There on the beach was an enormous sperm whale, stranded and dead, and all of the townsfolk were hopping around it excitedly, as the meat would provide them with sustenance through the winter, and the bones would be useful in all sorts of tools and buildings (in a land without trees, whale ribs make great rafters).

Olafur and Ingibjorg greeted the townsfolk and were enthusiastically recruited to help with the carving up and hauling back to town. They stayed until nothing was left but a huge stain in the sand, like the shadow of a whale falling out of the sky, contemplating its imminent demise.

In return for their generous labor, they were given as much whale meat as they could carry. Olafur, predictably, was in seventh heaven. Seeing his excitement, one of the townsfolk offered them some hakarl as well, and they agreed to try it. The putrid smell hit them as soon as he opened his sack, and when he brought out the flesh Ingibjorg suddenly remembered a pressing need to do something (anything) on the other side of town. She disappeared. Olafur was proud of his stomach and its capabilities, though, so he took a chunk of the hakarl and popped it into his mouth. As it slimed down his throat, coating his insides with rancid gobbets, he began to regret his naive gusto. The man pressed a flask into his hand, and Olafur emptied it greedily, the homebrewed alcohol tasting almost as foul as the meat, but stinging and numbing his throat mercifully.

He handed back the empty flask and exhaled mightily, withering the few hardy stalks of grass at his feet.

"What..." he heaved "was that?!"

"Hakarl." The man answered. "It's just shark meat. Shark meat that's been buried underground for half a year and allowed to decompose considerably."

"Why on earth would you do that?"

"Well -- obviously -- it lets all the poison rot away. You wouldn't want to die, would you?"

At that precise moment Olafur wasn't sure he could answer in the negative so he declined to reply. He thanked the man for sharing his...food, and then scurried away before he was offered the opportunity to cut off his left foot to prevent a painfully stubbed toe.

He found Ingibjorg in town, chatting with some of the women about their gardens - some amazing plants and flowers flourished here, only a stone's throw from the Arctic Circle. They said their goodbyes, and the townswomen gave some crisp carrots to Olafur and Ingibjorg, who munched them feverishly as they left, having been some weeks without fresh vegetables. The horses salivated to hear the crunching, and they looked over their shoulders expectantly, but neither of the humans got the message, so they went tuberless. They sighed and got on with life.

"I've been thinking," interjected Ingibjorg, as they rounded the northwest shoulder of Iceland some weeks later, "that it might be a good idea to pay a visit to Snorri Sturluson in Reykholt. He's my father's cousin, and he may be able to give us some advice or help. At the very least he will shelter us, and he lives not far from our final waterfalls."

"Okay."

"The only thing is...well...he's a bit of a tough character. He...well, I won't say any more. Just...try not to make him angry." She broke off uncomfortably, remembering the last encounter between their two families.

Olafur swallowed resolutely. This would be a chance to test his budding herodom, and he vowed to live up to the challenge.

They arrived in Reykholt early the next morning, and were greeted warmly by Snorri and his retinue. Olafur made him a gift of most of their whale meat, which scored him high points and a seat of honor next to Snorri at dinner that night. They were shown to their separate rooms, and promptly collapsed with exhaustion, not having seen a bed for weeks (requiring the servants to pick up their unconscious bodies from the floor where they'd collapsed, and heave them onto the beds).

Dinner was expertly prepared and well attended. The hall was packed with beefy men; scarred and missing teeth, bodies encrusted with knives, swords, daggers and thick reindeer-leather vests. The decorative theme of the room included spears, shields and axes on the walls, which were battle-stained and well honed, and ready to be snatched up and employed.

Olafur barely breathed for fear throughout the meal, and though the table was set with delicacies beyond his dreams, he found himself - for the first time in his life - unable to eat.

"What's the matter," Snorri growled when he saw that Olafur was only poking at his plate, "My food isn't good enough for you?!"

Olafur jumped in his seat and panicked. Then he remembered the breathing exercise that Ingibjorg had taught him. He took a long inhalation, held it for three counts and then exhaled for ten counts. He did it again, all the while imagining butterflies dancing around buttercups in the bright summer sun.

Snorri's frown deepened and he barked, "You'd better not be sick on my table!"

Olafur saw his life flashing before his eyes. When he got to the part about the hakarl, he dimly recognized an opportunity and before he knew it, he was speaking.

"Forgive me, generous Host. I would never think to dishonor your feast by either abstaining from it or casting spoilage upon it. The reason for my hesitation is due to an unfortunate encounter with a very dubious character, which caused a great indignity to my tender palate."

He was as shocked as Ingibjorg at the lofty words that had flowed so smoothly from his mouth. He carried on with an embroidered description of his run-in with the rotten shark, receiving huge laughter and applause from his audience throughout the tale, and at the end his host clapped him on the back and said, "You're a braver man than I."

The tension was broken. Olafur cleared his plate and went on to second and third helpings. His stomach was quite satisfied at this denouement, but his heart was still fluttering, and he was glad when talk shifted to local politics and he was ignored for the rest of the evening. He tried to catch Ingibjorg's eye, but she was further down the table, looking very self-absorbed and small. This boisterous company seemed to press in on her and squash her indomitable nature.

After the meal, Snorri told them, "You'll join me in my hot tub." They felt it was an offer they couldn't refuse. His servants gave them special underclothes to wear; not as remarkable as that second skin Ingibjorg had seen, but they served the same purpose.

Snorri's hot tub was four meters in diameter, lined with expertly hewn blocks of stone. There was an underground stone conduit, bringing piping hot water from a nearby thermal spring, with another channel leading from a cool spring, so that the temperature could be adjusted with precision. It lay in a hollow, protected from the wind, and had a stunning view over the local scenery.

Olafur and Ingibjorg changed into their borrowed garments, and when they arrived at the pool, they found Snorri already soaking, his chest hair stirring as the water bobbed, a gold chain tangled slightly in the thick fur. He lifted a ring-encrusted hand to beckon them over, and said, "watch yourselves, it's hot." He chuckled as they dipped their toes in and saw them turn red and lobster-y. He lifted the stone which let cold water into the pool, with an attitude more of condescension than of mercy, but it did enable them to immerse their bodies without being boiled.

They sat in his presence for half an hour, listening to the stories of his recent escapades which were, admittedly, impressive. He had been to Norway and back several times, first in close cahoots with the Norweigan king, and then in dangerous defiance, as he promised the King influence in Iceland that he, Snorri, never had any intention of delivering.

King Hakon now wanted him back, either dead or alive, and more likely dead, confessed Snorri with droll equanimity. He didn't seem too worried about the influence of the foreign king (which led directly to his gruesome downfall; but that's another saga). He was a good storyteller, even mixing in some extemporaneous poetry, which surprised Olafur. Well, Odin himself was both a warrior and a poet... Olafur had a brief retrospective panic at how badly he might have cocked things up if his hakarl story had been poorly received.

Finally they got around to the reason for their visit. Ingibjorg gave Snorri a quick overview of the events (he laughed heartily when she mentioned Thorstein's molars falling out, which made Olafur's entire body try to crawl into his belly button to hide). She sketched out their waterfall hunt - leaving out any mention of the Tourists - and revealed that they only had one place left to try, the neighboring pair of falls, Hraunfossar and Barnafoss.

"I don't know much about waterfalls," Snorri admitted, "But if it's your brother that's involved, then you can be sure he'll have some wicked scheme waiting. He's one mean bastard." This in a tone of heartfelt praise. "No offense to your brother, kid." Olafur grinned placatingly and this time tried to hide his entire self behind his own back, with as much success.

"I'm sorry to say," he continued, "that I can't be of much help to you. I haven't seen Ragnar since he left for the Althing, and I don't have a clue where he may be hiding. You're welcome to stay here as long as you like, though, and if you need anything, just ask."

He pulled himself out of the tub and a young, attractive woman appeared out of nowhere with a towel. He wrapped it around his shoulders, pinched her bottom, and the two of them disappeared into one of the buildings.

There was a long pause after his departure; as there usually was when Snorri left anywhere. Finally Ingibjorg broke it.

"I want to apologize," she said, sounding more subdued than Olafur had ever heard her. "I never told you how sorry I am that it was my brother who was responsible for...for your brother's death. I'd give anything for that not to have happened." She blew upwards at a springy lock of hair hanging in her face. "Actually, I want to apologize for my whole family. They're not very nice people." Her face twisted in consternation, and she looked out over the countryside.

There was another pause; this time Olafur broke it.

"I accept your apology, Ingibjorg. And I have something to apologize for, too. I...ah...when I asked for your hand in marriage it was only because I...well......" he looked down at the glimmering surface of the pool, "I was only interested in your money. But now that I've gotten to know you, Ingibjorg, I really, really like you! I'm sorry I was so small-minded. But I've learned so much since we've been together, and now I want you, not your money. So I want to ask you again:" He took a deep breath. "Ingibjorg, will you marry me? Do you think that you could be happy living with me and being my wife?"

She tilted her head to look at him. "I truthfully don't know," she answered. "To be honest, I've never really felt like I belonged anywhere. My family feel like strangers to me; unpleasant ones at that. Even my name doesn't feel like it fits me. The only time I really feel like myself is when I'm walking alone in the hills. So I don't know if I can be satisfied - happy - living with other people, any other people, no matter how much I like them." She gave him a small smile. "Now what say we get out of this lobsterpot before we become tomorrow night's dinner?"

He smiled and helped her out of the pool. He only realized later when they went to sleep - in their separate rooms - that she'd never answered his first question.

The next day they were up early and out to the waterfalls with a packed lunch of sheep's head and ram's testicles. Snorri was nothing if not generous.

They could see the falls from far away: Hraunfossar was spectacular as promised, with its miraculous cascades seeping out from under a water-less lava plain; low, but pretty, and stretching widely. Barnafoss, off to the right, was a white-water chute of rapids, thundering swiftly through a narrow canyon, and passing under a stone bridge that it had hollowed out by force of its passage.

They moved steadily towards their goal, Ingibjorg's pulse rising when she saw the semi-transparent bodies of tourists wreathing the falls like mist. Olafur scanned the treeless lava field, his feelings a jumble of contradictions. His macho spirit had been dampened considerably when held up to that of the ubermales of Snorri's household, but then his protective feelings towards Ingibjorg (and his commitment to prove himself worthy in her eyes) had infused him with purpose and were bolstering up his confidence. Stirred into the mix was an intuition that they wouldn't find Ragnar today - surely if he were residing here, so close to Snorri's land, someone would have seen him and recognized him before now - which allowed him to relax a bit.

They let their horses graze on the sparse grass they had been traversing, and crossed the barren part of the landscape on foot. They reached a rocky platform, which made a sort of natural viewing ledge from which to overlook the falls. There were a few large boulders at the edge of the ledge with narrow spaces between them, making a rough wall to lean on. They did. And waited. No Ragnar. And no Tourists, either. They waited some more.

Ingibjorg sighed. "This is it," she said sadly, staring at the ceaselessly falling water, "the end of the road. A lovely waterfall to end our quest, but no more fruitful than any of the rest of them." She chucked the map over the edge in an uncharacteristically impulsive gesture of pique. It landed on a rocky outcrop, just on the other side of the haphazard barrier. Olafur cried out in alarm and clambered over to retrieve it, to keep as a souvenir. Ingibjorg turned away crankily, and saw, heading directly towards her, the Tourists. Forgetting her fear of heights, she leapt over the boulder to join Olafur, and crouched behind the large rock, her heart leaping at this eleventh-hour resurrection of their chances.

The crunching footsteps and waterfall-appreciatory oohs and ahhs got nearer and nearer until they stopped, providentially, at the rock which hid the hunkered-down pair. Olafur began to stand up, and she yanked him down, putting her finger to her lips, and then making "Book" motions with her hands. He shrugged and said, "Well, I'm not really hungry yet, but okay." He pulled a sandwich out of his pack and put it on her opened palms. She glared at him. He said, "Oh, I'm sorry, did you want the ram's testicles?" She shoved the sandwich back at him and hissed, "Tourists!" He put it away with an enlightened "ah," and sat back to watch her interact with the invisible people.

She risked a reconnaissance maneuver, peering around the base of the rock at foot-level. The Three were standing in front of the rock, looking out at the falls. The father said something about a picture, and motioned the other two to stand a few paces away. The daughter put the Book she was carrying down on the rock, and they set off in the direction indicated, the father turning away from the rock to face them.

Ingibjorg's tiny eyes widened at her good fortune, and she sprung into action, getting her feet under her on the far side of the rock from where the Tourists now stood, and slowly lifting herself up to an even position with the Book. With one quick glance towards the Tourists, still occupied with their box-in-front-of-the-face religious ritual, Ingibjorg took decisive action, snatched the Book up, and slithered back behind the rock next to Olafur. At least that's how she saw it happening. In reality, her hands passed right through the Book and she grazed her knuckles on the coarse surface below. Staring in disbelief, she tried again. More bloody knuckles. She poked at it with her fingertip, and sure enough, her finger went right through.

The Tourists were returning, but she didn't even hear them as she slumped down next to Olafur in a daze.

"I couldn't pick it up," she said to him perplexedly. "It's not real after all..." She shook her head slowly back and forth as the two strong notions in her brain did battle: the rock-hard certainty that the Tourists' Book would lead them to the right place, and the unavoidable truth that she couldn't get her hands on it.

A memory wriggled into her thoughts like a tadpole just out of its eggsack, and her confusion deepened. It was the memory of a small metal hoop with a complex hook at the top and lots of tines dangling from it. She dug into her pouch and pulled out the earring, showing it to Olafur.

"I found this..." she began.

"You found the earring!" he said delightedly.

"Yes, that's what I just said. I found this earring next to their footprints. So if I can hold this, why can't I touch the Book?"

Instead of replying, Olafur reached into his own pouch and pulled out an earring identical to the one Ingibjorg had. "I bought them as a betrothal present for you. But then I lost one. But you found it! So now you have the pair." He smiled as he handed her the one he was holding.

"But.... I was sure this belonged to Them. This hook; it's so cleverly made, so foreign."

"Well, they were specially imported, all the way from Asia. Made in Taiwan!"

Ingibjorg held up both earrings next to each other, confusion melting away into simple despair, so strong that she almost didn't hear the Answer when it came singing over her head.

"Ragnarfoss," the daughter read from the Book, "notable for being the puniest, least interesting waterfall in Iceland; like a thin trickle of sugar leaking from the bag onto your kitchen floor. Don't bother going.

"Nearby is Berudalur, an impressive crater with a flat floor and a large breach in one wall, resembling a huge, natural amphitheatre. Located on the Snaefellsnes peninsula, under the watch of Bardur Snaefellsnes, a demigod and guardian of the region. This guardian, half-giant and half-troll, is said to live in Snaefellsjokull, the glacier on top of the mountain."

"I know where that is!" shouted Ingibjorg, and then clamped her hand over her mouth. Then it occurred to her that she didn't need to worry about scaring off the Tourists anymore. They had given her the answer. Of course Ragnar would be so conceited as to think that any falls with his name were the most famous falls in Iceland. She berated herself for not having realized it earlier. Then she chuckled in glee, knowing in her heart that this time that they were on the right track.

She stuffed the earrings into her pouch - they would have to wait until she had the time to poke holes into her earlobes - and turned to Olafur. She planted a big kiss on his lips (which nearly knocked him off the ledge) and said, "Olafur, my darling, we're going to Ragnarfoss!"

Bewildered and bemused by this act, and caught up in her enthusiasm, Olafur quickly opened the map on his lap and scanned its brown, handlettered text. "I don't see it," he confessed, offering the map for her to have a look.

"That's because it's the most miserable waterfall in Iceland, and not worth going to!" she replied with a grin. "But I happen to know the Berudalur crater that's right near it. We went there once when I was little, and I fell in love with the whole region: the Snaefellsnes peninsula. It's about as far west as you can get before falling into the ocean."

They clambered back over the rock and Ingibjorg stopped short, finally grasping the fact that she had been scampering all over an unprotected ledge that was inches from a perilous drop into raging water. The blood drained from her face and pooled in her bulbous toes, and she pitched forward. This time Olafur caught her, and held onto her tightly until she awoke.

She blinked her eyes a few times, and looked up into Olafur's face, inches from her own, trying to figure out where she was. He noticed that her eyes were really very dark, almost black, and quite prettily fringed by her thick lashes. He leaned in closer. Her eyes narrowed as she tried to recall the Very Important Thing that she had been thinking, and then widened as the blood rushing back into her head brought the answer with it. He shut his eyes and puckered his lips, and as he aimed for her mouth she cried out, "Ragnarfoss!!" gave him a big squeeze and jumped onto her horse. His puckered lips made smacking noises in the thin air, and he opened his eyes, saw that she'd gone, looked around to see if anybody noticed, straightened his kirtle, and then rushed for his own horse as he realized she was leaving him far behind.

They stopped briefly at Snorri's to stock up on provisions, and then set off for Snaefellsnes. On their way they passed the holy mountain, Helgafell, and Ingibjorg suggested a slight detour.

"This hill was sanctified by Thorolfur Mostrarskeggi," she told him, "and it is said to grant you three wishes if you climb to the top under the right conditions. First, you must climb up the southwest slope without speaking or glancing backwards. Second, the wishes must be for good and made with a guileless heart, while facing towards the East. Third, you must descend the eastern slope and never reveal your wishes to anyone."

This seemed like a worthy endeavor, so they made the climb. Since they never told their wishes to anyone, no record has been made of what they were, but we can guess that they had to do with success in their campaign, prosperity in marriage, bounteous food well cooked (for Olafur), and perhaps a sense of belonging somewhere (for Ingibjorg). There was a vote for "lots of carrots" from the horses, but as they hadn't climbed the hill, their wishes weren't taken into account by the resident spirits.

Thus fortified, they headed west to Berudalur and destiny.

Olafur and Ingibjorg could see the crater from miles away, though they still didn't see any sign of a waterfall. They advanced more and more slowly as they neared the crater, their normally obedient horses balking and shaking their heads. Still no sign of Ragnar, though they were both scanning the terrain furiously.

They had reached the open side of the crater, and Ingibjorg was peering into the three-quarters-enclosed arena while Olafur, looking the opposite way, noted a tiny trickle of water dribbling down the side of the mountain. A massive, dark boulder next to the trickle suddenly exploded into motion and headed straight for him, roaring, swinging an axe, and getting larger by the second. Olafur had drawn his sword ages ago, so he was saved those precious few seconds, but he was still woefully unready. The rush of adrenaline pinned his body to the saddle, and it was only because his horse panicked and threw him off that he missed being hacked into by Ragnar's fearsome swing. The fall woke up his muscles, and he ran blindly away from Ragnar, ending up in the worst possible place, in the center of the crater. The walls rose majestically on all sides and blocked off any escape. He whipped his head around, looking for a place to hide, but there was nothing. He turned and faced the angry man who was still barrelling towards him.

They engaged with a clash. Olafur fought well. He was, after all, an Icelander, from a not-too-terribly-unfamous line of Vikings and heroes, and he had been trained to fight. But he was not as large, as mean, or as smelly as Ragnar, and he was sorely outmatched. He ducked and dodged, swung and stabbed, and managed to block the brutal attempts to slice open his skull. But there was no gap for an offensive attack, and Olafur's arms were slowly turning into porridge.

Ragnar's breath was a putrescent weapon of its own as he howled, "You made me wait a long time!" and he increased the ferocity of his assault. Olafur's blocks became mere deflections, and the axe grazed his flesh on each swing, removing several layers of skin and causing his blood to ooze stingingly. Olafur cried out in desperation, gritted his teeth, and redoubled his efforts.

Ingibjorg, meanwhile, had run into the crater and was watching the melee with great concern. She opened her mouth to call encouragement to Olafur and this is what came out:

Great Bardur Snaefell, guardian and god,

Hear my heart-chant, my hope that you'll grant me

One wish: to witness your thunder

Rumbling and roaring, as from under the ring-bright

Portals of your ice-palace you pour out

Elements mighty, to eliminate my enemy.

Cloud-towerer, whose clout and power

Gives rescue to the righteous, I NEED YOU NOW!

There was a loud cracking noise as of a huge block of ice breaking off of a glacier, and then a dull roar, like avalanching snow.

Startled by the din, Olafur skidded in the dirt and fell hard on his back, flinging his sword behind his head. It was as good as miles away for the use it was to him now. Ragnar smiled a terrible, crooked, snarly, triumphant smile, and raised the axe above his head, preparing to embed it in Olafur's heaving chest.

Olafur forced his sweat-stung eyes to remain open and fixed on Ragnar - the bravest thing he'd ever done - and so he saw the entire sequence of inconceivable events. As Ragnar's axe descended, a howling wind tore into the Berudalur crater and whirled around Ragnar, freezing his arms in place, arresting his forward motion, and causing him to rapidly petrify, turning not into ice-hardened flesh, but into a fossilized statue!

The avalanche roar continued to thunder towards them, growing louder and deeper and more resonant. Olafur grabbed his ears to shield them from the noise, and became aware of it vibrating through his body, almost viscous in its intensity. The deep booming was joined by a higher, piercing noise, and Olafur could see that Ragnar's axe blade was blurred with the vibration, emitting a painful overtone to the avalanche's booming. The noise reached a crescendo, all of the sound waves beating down on Ragnar at the focal point of the circular crater. He seemed to lift off the ground, and with a huge CRACK! he burst into hundreds of fragments, showering out beyond Olafur's body to land in a scattered circle of rock-shards.

The echoes faded rapidly to an ear-throbbing silence, and Olafur dared to remove his hands, sit up and look around.

Everything seemed sharper and bigger and stiller than reality. Each rock, each bit of dust floating serenely down to the ground, each huff of his slowing breath was a part of an indivisible everything, a crystalline beingness of the world that was at once urgently vivid and undeniably mundane. Similar to deja vu, but instead of seeming like it had all happened before, he felt an overwhelming sense that it was all happening right now. He sat and looked and breathed.

Ingibjorg ran over to him, and as he tried to focus on her the spell gradually faded away. Practical and clear-headed as always, she ripped his cloak into strips and bound up the worst of his wounds. She had brought a flask of water from their supplies, and as she handed it to him, a huge shadow fell across them both.

They looked up into the imposing countenance of Bardur himself, who was striding ominously towards them, icicles crystallized into his beard and hair, broad shoulders covered with snow. Olafur fainted, and Ingibjorg stood up, placing herself protectively in front of Olafur.

"Skipa!" Bardur cried, and swept her up in a bone-crushing embrace.

"Skipa," she wheezed in return, endeavoring to salute the demigod in the appropriate fashion.

He laughed a basso profundo laugh and plopped her back down on the ground.

"Skipa," he repeated again. "Don't you recognize me?"

She looked at him squarely, trying his features against all of the faces stored in her memory, looking for a match. His face was square and brown, with deep creases in his forehead suggesting intense thought or stern wrath. It was both a young face, full of heartiness and life, and an ageless face, as befitted a demigod. His nose was large and knobbly, his eyes small and deep-set, blazing underneath his commanding brow. His mouth was crammed with teeth in various shapes, sizes and angles. And his chin protruded substantially, though the effect was somewhat softened by the nimbus of his bushy beard. He had long hairs coming out of his ears. She found that her head was getting deliciously dizzy, her chest was tight, and her stomach full of wriggling worms. But she didn't find a match for his extraordinary appearance.

She shook her head, not knowing what to say.

His smile dimmed a bit, but then brightened again as he bellowed, "Well, I suppose even trolls don't start remembering things until they're at least two years old (though you did remember the summoning chant; well done!). So I will tell you your history: You were born on Snaefellsnes, daughter to Saemundur Skarphedinsson and Sigurlaug Torfadottir, of the mountain trolls of Mt. Maelifell. You arrived during the Great Famine, when ash from the volcano Eldgja spewed out for months, blocking the sun and poisoning the earth. Saemundur and Sigurlaug fostered you to a wealthy family in Reykholt; wisely, as they and the rest of your family perished in the famine. Your foster family brought you to Snaefellsnes once when you were small, but left quickly when they learned of the devastation. We have kept watch over you as you grew up, waiting for you to return and take up your rightful place, Skipa Saemundursdottir. "

Ingibjorg was struck speechless as the pieces slotted into place. No wonder she had never felt like she belonged in her family. No wonder she had taken an instinctive liking to Snaefellsnes. And no wonder this magnificent man inspired in her a passion unlike anything she'd felt for any mere human.

He held out his hand to her and she took it boldly, looking him straight in the eye while she went weak in the knees.

"I would be honored," he continued softly in a voice so low she almost felt it with her skin rather than heard it with her ears, "if you would consider remaining here with me and being my consort."

Ingibjorg wanted to say "No. I care for Olafur and I can't just abandon him, after all we've been through together. He needs me." Skipa wanted to say, "Yes, I will stay. This is where I belong."

She said, "Return tomorrow and I will give you my answer."

Bardur nodded solemnly, squeezed her hand tenderly, and departed.

Olafur was unconscious for several hours, and when he awoke he wished he hadn't. His whole body ached, his arms shrieked in agony every time he tried to move them, and he could feel his pulse throbbing in all of the places where the skin was flayed from his body. Still, he bore his injuries nobly, not complaining or expecting pity. Frankly, he was just glad to be alive. And there were still wisps of the experience he had had, of the world being enough just as it was -- rocks, dirt and sky. That feeling lingered in the back of his mind and gave an ease to everything that he had never felt before.

Ingibjorg was preparing supper - boiled fish - and he stared at her for fully five minutes before saying anything. When he did, it was:

"Ingibjorg, you've...changed. You look," he paused to consider what it was about her that was different, and finally came up with the answer: "happy."

She smiled broadly at him, showing her grey teeth. He winced and was warmed at the same time. And then she told him who she was and what she had learned. And what she had been offered. And she asked him what he thought she should do.

He was flattered that she'd asked him. He thought for a long while and then he said, "When I first met you I wanted your money. Then I got to know you and I wanted you to stay with me always and spur me on to do things I wasn't capable of doing by myself. Now I realize that what I really want is for you to do what is best for you and what will make you happy. I love you, Ingibjorg."

"Skipa," she said, quietly but resolute.

"Okay." He answered, accepting her choice. "I love you, Skipa."

They ate together, Ingibjorg feeding him because he couldn't lift his arms without whimpering slightly. Then they sat together for a while, comfortable in each other's company. And when the hour grew late, she held him close, kissed his forehead, and tucked him into his blankets.

The next day, at the appointed time, one of Bardur's minions arrived and led them up the mountain to Bardur's palace. The mountain was grand, but not particularly steep, so they were able to ride up to the edge of the glacier, and then walk their horses over the ice and down into a large crevasse, which led to Bardur's main hall. The hall was vast and bright; light came in through the ceiling, which had been carved to just a thin layer of ice, and branched icicles hung down like chandeliers. There was a blazing fire at one end of the hall, fine wooden tables, and brightly woven rugs.

Bardur appeared and greeted them warmly, welcoming them as honored guests to his home. Olafur thanked him profoundly for having saved his life, and vowed to be of service, if ever there was need.

Skipa said, "I have made my decision. My place is here. I will restore the line of my family, and I will stay here with you." She left Olafur's side to stand next to Bardur.

They had a tremendous feast that night in celebration. The horses had been stabled with Bardur's own steeds, and they shared in the plenty, getting as many crisp, crunchy, sweet carrots as they could eat. They overindulged, and spent the next day with an orange-tinged hangover, but they didn't regret it one bit.

Bardur invited Olafur to spend the winter with them in Snaefellsjokull, but he expressed his desire to get back home and see his family again, and to give a proper funeral feast in honor of his brother.

Ragnar's treasure was never found. Olafur didn't feel he really deserved it, since he had neither killed Ragnar nor married his sister. But he was well recompensed anyway. Skipa gave him treasure aplenty from her re-acquired family fortune. And as he gave her a farewell embrace he noticed that she was wearing the earrings he had given her. He smiled and she smiled back.

Bardur gave Olafur sturdy horses to carry the home the treasure that Skipa had given him, and men to help him transport it. He also gave him a magic horn-of-plenty that would provide him with whatever foods he could imagine, and offered his maidservant, Gudrun Zophoniasdottir, to prepare the food on the homebound journey.

Gudrun emerged from the crowd, and as Olafur stepped forward to greet the plump, blond, ruddy-cheeked, white-toothed vision in front of him he tripped on the rug and fell sprawling at her feet. She reached down to help him up, accidentally tipping out the horn-of-plenty that she was holding under her other arm, which spilled forth several ripe tomatoes, a half-bushel of flour, a squawking chicken (which fluttered confusedly among the throng) and three raw eggs, which broke on top of Olafur's head. They got along just fine.

After Olafur, Gudrun, and the rest of the party had left, Skipa went down to the crater and looked at the circle of rocks that had been her brother. She had some men assemble them into a sculpture in Ragnar's image. They couldn't tell which rocks had been him, though, and which were just rocks, so he ended up a bit larger than lifesize. But much more gentle than when she'd last seen him. Looking at him that way, fossilized and lifeless, she at last felt freed from his domineering influence, and she breathed a long sigh of relief. And then she had them move the sculpture down the coast, so she didn't have to look at it.

As she was returning back up the mountain she caught sight of three people gazing at the landscape, as if soaking it up into their memory. It was the Tourists. The father said, "Take your last look. We head home tomorrow." The mother remarked that she was sad to leave without having seen any of the seals that were supposed to be basking in abundance on Iceland's coast. The daughter said that she felt filled with the riches of the country, almost as if they'd plundered it, like Vikings, and were hauling the loot home with them.

The Three got into their peculiar, foggy vehicle. The daughter looked straight at Skipa, winked, and then closed her door. The vehicle sped away, fading into the distance, and she never saw them again.

Here ends the Saga of Olafur and Ingibjorg. That is, Skipa. Well, the woman who thought her name was Ingibjorg, but really it was Skipa all along, she just didn't know it, but when she finally did know it, then she really was Skipa.

Olafur was just Olafur.

Andrea Blumberg

Copyright © Andrea Blumberg 2016