He must have ridden away during the night, because one morning the hammer ceased to sound from the smithy. The ax lay in the woodchips. It started raining again. Ferocious winds drove the rain on, day and night. The lakes and rivers flooded their banks. The earthen walls and turf roofs of the buildings at Bræðratunga continued to sop up the flood until they turned into mounds of mire. Emanating from these mounds was a foul, house-penetrating damp, colder than frost. Cesspools formed in the farmhouse’s passageways and entryways, making it nearly impossible for anyone to get anywhere. The housewife wrapped herself in her duvet and refused to rise, as if succumbing to eternal dusk. One night so much water leaked into her loft that she was forced to spread a horsehide over the bed. The drops kept falling, and every hollow in the hide became a pool. Then the rain stopped. One day at twilight cloudless skies returned, and the moon and stars reappeared.Later that night Magnús came home. Iron bits rattled outside—at least he hadn’t sold his horse.
