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Well, there was nothing for it. I lit the lantern and thrust myself back out into the snow. Fortunately, the woodshed was easily located, tucked beneath the eaves. My heart sank, however, when I looked within. The wood had not been cut into logs, but piled up in huge chunks that would never fit into my humble stove.

I was shivering in earnest now. Shadow, perfectly comfortable in his bearish coat, grew anxious at my distress. Correctly intuiting the woodshed as its source, he proceeded to attack the door.

“Stop that, my love,” I admonished. I hefted what appeared to be a whole segment of trunk and grimly set to work. I took up the axe set atop the woodpile and placed the trunk upon a stump. Then I swung.

The first time, I missed. The second too. The third, I buried the axe in the wood, where it stuck fast and would not be dislodged.

I wrenched on it. I stuck a foot against the stump and wrenched again. And though I am not usually the sort for cursing, I’ve no doubt I withered a few weeds with the stream of filth that fell from my lips.

Eventually, weary and cold and aching in my shoulder from the reverberation of the axe, I gave up. The axe I left in the shed stuck deep into the wood, projecting what I imagined was a kind of sadistic triumph. I went into the cold cottage, added the remaining logs to the fire, and draped all the blankets I could find over the bed. I did not wish to finish the day’s entry, but habit lent me the necessary fortitude. Now to sleep.

22nd October

I awoke warm enough this morning, but only because I was thoroughly swaddled in my blankets, Shadow snoring against me. But the moment I poked my foot free, I yanked it back. The cold had claws.

I could not ignore the knocking, though, which commenced predictably at half seven. I forced myself from bed but wrapped the blankets around me, dignity be damned, and admitted Finn to the cottage.

He cast a glance at the stove, winced, but made no comment. He set my breakfast upon the table.

“What is this?” I said in disbelief.

The loaf of bread was a blackened husk. There was no goose egg, nor egg of any sort, and no butter, but there was a little bowl of something gelatinous and greyish-green.

“Ðangssaus,” Finn said. “My father thought you might enjoy it. It’s a kind of—” He searched for words. “Relish? Made from seaweed. It’s for toast.”

“This certainly qualifies.”

His face fell. “I’m sorry, Professor. My father arranged the breakfast this morning. And somehow, without my noticing, the bread was knocked into the fire.”

I sat down heavily. “Well, at least the tea is hot.”

He smiled. “I made sure of it.”

I set my head in my hand, which was pounding from the wine. “Might I enquire what I did to displease your father so?”

“It’s not so much my father who is displeased. It’s Aud.” He added quickly, “My father is old-fashioned. He does not respond well to an insult to his goði.”

“What? I said nothing to offend her.” I reviewed the events of the previous evening. “Clearly there has been a misunderstanding.”

Finn looked into the wood box. “Let me assist you with this, at least.”

“That’s quite all right.” A hard, cold anger was forming in my stomach. “I was just about to get to it myself.”

He raised his eyebrows and made no comment. Seconds after his departure, I heard the sound of an axe splitting wood in the yard.

I admit that I am disheartened by this news. My research requires the villagers’ assistance—I rely as much on local lore as the evidence gathered with my own eyes and instruments in forming an accurate picture of the Folk. That I have already managed to offend the headwoman of Hrafnsvik does not bode well.

I think I can guess the source of Aud’s anger—clearly, she is protective of her niece, and worried that I would publicize her affliction and make a spectacle out of her. I am determined to meet with her at the tavern today to plead my case.

Or perhaps tomorrow.

23rd October

I can hardly hold pen to paper, my hand shakes so. The cottage is cold as a grave, naturally, but that is not the reason.

I have met one.

I did not expect success upon setting out today—I had little yesterday, and returned home after a long exploratory ramble too wearied to do anything other than eat a bit of cheese and tumble into bed. In the morning, I obtained from Finn a detailed map of the Karrðarskogur and nearby mountains and divided it into grid sections of one square mile, extending ten miles in each direction (twenty miles being the upper limit of what I estimated I could walk in a day). Before commencing my systematic search, though, I wished to further familiarize myself with the terrain and develop an intuition for the place. Thus intentioned, I set off towards the sulphuric spring I had explored previously.