Free Heaven and Hell by Jón Kalman Stefánsson

pushing against the wind and tide and what does one get, nothing, the fish left behind down in the sea, hanging on their hooks. Einar looks with murderous eyes at Bárður trying to punch away the cold, and at the deathly pale boy rubbing his friend, it isn’t the weather that robs Einar of fish, it’s Bárður. The sail! croaks Pétur into the wind and the ceaseless snow, one word and Einar and Gvendur pull in the oars, Bárður and the boy straighten up, the men move quickly but cautiously, an inattentive movement, ill-considered, and the boat could lose the balance that separates life from death. The two masts rise, the sail stretched between them, Pétur has set out the rudder, has had to crawl toward it, and the wind seems to attack the sail, dive violently over it, finally some resistance, finally something other than the empty air, the boat lies nearly on its side. They look straight down into the surging sea. The sky above them disappeared long ago, here there is no longer a sky, no horizon. The boat regains its balance, there are practiced hand movements and Pétur steers skillfully. The sea has started to heave, it gushes and sprays over the men, they all gasp for breath except for Bárður, who is silent and tries to bail out the boat but has difficulty holding onto the bail because of the cold that slips through his byrnie of ice, the wind whips them on, they sail with the arctic wind at their heels, the snowstorm pursues them, snow piles up on the boat and the sails and freezes there. The men try to punch the snow off, their task is to live and they all work like mad except for Pétur, who steers doubled over by cold, numb in the face, nothing ahead but the raging sea and the snow, but Pétur doesn’t need to see anything, the directions dwell deep within him and he tries to steer them on the right course, as far as the wind permits. They work like mad. Punch snow and frost off the boat. They try to punch death away and need to use all their strength and it is entirely unsure whether that will suffice, Bárður’s condition decreases the likelihood, but it would be a death sentence for them all if one of them loaned him his waterproof, even for a moment, then two of them would be unable to work, not just one. A man without a waterproof is drenched, thoroughly drenched, in the briefest space of time, the cold gets a firm grasp on him and does not let go, not out here on the open sea. Try to fight, shouts the boy at Bárður, who punches frost and snow feebly from the sail above him, stops suddenly and looks at his friend. It’s almost as if Bárður is smiling, he draws nearer, so close that there are just a few centimeters between them, one pale and weak from seasickness, the other blue-white from cold. Bárður moves his head right up next to the boy’s, his brown eyes filled with something the boy does not understand, Bárður’s lips pucker, he struggles to form words, conquer the cold, and he manages to do so, the words come, distorted of course but comprehensible to those who know whence they arise, and this the boy does know: sweet is the breath of morn, sweet the coming of day, accompanied by notes, charmed, of early-rising birds, a delight to the ears. The boy tries to smile through the seasickness and cold, through the fear. Bárður comes even closer, the brim of his sou’wester bends and their foreheads touch, nothing is sweet to me, without thee, mumbles Bárður, the line of poetry written in the letter Bárður finished last evening, addressed to Sigríður, who perhaps is standing at the butter churn in the countryside somewhere behind the storm, if something exists besides this storm, this yawl, and this snowfall that the wind tears apart and throws into their faces. The boy continues to punch the frost off the sail and the boat, it’s easier for him to breathe. The certainty that Bárður will not let the frost defeat him gives him increased strength, sweet is the breath of morn, and for