Free The Day is Dark by Yrsa Sigurðardóttir Page B

such great hope, a hope that had felt so sublime that it was bound to fail. He still recalled the little feet sticking out from beneath the blanket when he saw him newborn; the thick, broad soles that suggested he would make his mark on the world. Nothing had come of this, any more than his wife consistently seeing to his needs following each good hunt, as she had promised. Yet he had fulfilled his obligation, had given her two children who appeared healthy and had seen to it that there was always enough food on the family’s table. He had doted on the boy, but without him being aware of it. A good hunter, a real man, had to learn certain lessons on his own and build his own character through difficult experience; otherwise he would never learn the interplay between land and animals. But none of this mattered in the end. His wife and their two children were lost to him. His daughter was dead, and the same could be said for his wife and son. They would never break free from the fetters of alcohol and although it would be no trouble to visit them, he knew he never would. To him they were as dead as his daughter.
    He approached the snowdrift behind which he had hidden his sled and heard the regular breathing of the dogs. They were tired after their strenuous day, but when he appeared only one of them continued sleeping. That dog lay curled up with its tail over its nose to protect its respiratory system from the cold. The other dogs had cocked their heads and now watched the hunter with attentive eyes. They stood up, one after another, until finally the sleeping dog stirred. It immediately sprang up and growled, softly but deeply. The growl was not directed at the hunter; that much was certain. Perhaps it was to remind the other dogs that it was still their leader. It could also be that by growling, the animal was making clear its irritation at the fatigue it had exhibited. With good reason; its days would soon be numbered. It tired too quickly, and even though it was not particularly old, its behaviour was showing ever increasing signs of its age. The hunter did not know what caused this any more than he knew what had caused his son’s life to ebb away. Maybe the dog was simply one of those whose legs failed them early, or else the battles it had fought to become the leader of the pack were starting to take their toll. After its death another such conflict would begin, in which the dogs would fight each other until the strongest and cunningest assumed power with the taste of its fellows’ blood in its mouth. The hunter just hoped those fights would not cost him more dogs, as sometimes happened.
    The hunter stood and looked at the lead dog and saw in the creature’s intelligent eyes that it knew what lay ahead. He saw questions glittering in its speckled pupils: had it done a good job? Had it not led the team diligently through the dangers that accompanied the thinning of the ice? Had it not always made sure that the rest of the team behaved and obeyed his commands? If this creature could have spoken, they could have discussed its situation and he could explain to the dog why he was going to dispose of it. It was better to die as a lead dog than let the team force you out. But the connection between the hunter and the dog was not strong enough for such debate: the man understood the dog and the dog understood the man, but some things they could never express to each other. The dog would never understand this decision, even though it was more difficult for the man than the animal, which felt nothing. He had seldom or never had a better lead dog; this was the animal he had waited for ever since his grandfather had told him in his childhood that somewhere he would find a creature to whom he could speak without words. A beast that would understand him and help him through his greatest trials. That would follow Igimaq into the jaws of death without any hesitation.
    There was something in the dog’s eyes that encouraged him to