You and Sunrise

“Alright. How about him?”

“No, he’s… I don’t know, you know… too burly.”

“Huh. Yeah, I guess I see what you mean. Oh! There’s Heiðar! He’s a friend of mine. What do you think of him?”

Jónsi looks at Heiðar as we pass by, the low-sinking sun flickering between buildings and almost silhouetting him in front of the car’s window as we move, but he simply shakes his head.

“You’re too picky,” I say and Jónsi makes an offended sound.

“You’ve only given me four choices since we got here!” he says, but then seems to notice something outside the car. “Oh!”

He whips around in his seat, staring at something we’re passing and managing to keep the car in control simultaneously. I turn and follow his good eye to see a blond boy my age or a little older. I don’t know him, but I’ve seen him around.

“Is he your type?” I ask, an amused smile on my face.

Jónsi just nods through the silly grin that’s taken over his face and I laugh, leaning back in my seat and stretching my legs forward.

After a nice, long, six-hour drive from Reykjavík, we’re finally in Höfn, and just seeing the familiar buildings has put a smile on my face. We’ve already taken a detour around the peninsula, specifically to see the run-aground boat Jónsi hasn’t stopped talking about since I asked him if he’d like to accompany me back here, and now that we’re heading to my house, I find myself fidgeting in my seat. I’m impatient to see my parents again and also to simply get out and just move.

Soon enough, we’re on my street, Kirkjubraut, and I point out my house to Jónsi – the second one on the right – who smiles and turns into the driveway.

“Very homey,” he says and I nod, grinning once again at the house’s cracking blue paint and burnt red roof.

“Wait ‘till you get inside. It’s not your style, but it’s definitely welcoming,” I say, opening the door and slipping out of the car.

Jónsi follows and we both make our way to the little house. Without knocking, I open the back door leading into the kitchen and beckon Jónsi to follow me in, which he does. We slip our shoes off at the door and I smile at the sight of the brown wooden coat rack on the wall – my hook is left empty and I shrug out of my cardigan to hang it up.

“Mamma? Pabbi? We’re here!” I call into the silence and at once, I hear movement from the sitting room.

“Mm, smells good in here,” Jónsi murmurs, his nose in the air and I chuckle at him – at the way he looks like my grandpa’s old dog, Grá.

He’s definitely right though; I can smell bread toasting in the oven and coffee brewing in the maker on the kitchen counter. Oddly, though, my mother is nowhere in sight.

“Halló Lára!” my father says, a small smile on his face as he comes over to give me a hug. It’s one-armed and short and I smile at the familiarity – my father has never been very good at being sentimental.

“And you must be Jónsi,” he says, nodding in Jónsi’s direction and coming to shake his hand.

“Yes sir. Jón Þór Birgisson,” he says, stepping forward and returning the handshake.

“Sævar Einarsson. It’s a pleasure to meet you – thank you for offering Lára a place to stay,” my father says and Jónsi smiles sheepishly.

“Well it started that way, I’m sure you know. Then she was so pleasant to have around that I wanted to keep her with me. She’s become a good friend of mine,” Jónsi says and I grin at the revelation.

My dad manages to crack a little smile as well and then we all stand in silence for a couple of seconds.

“Well that’s good,” he says and Jónsi begins to wring his hands together, a nervous habit that I’ve come to recognize.

My dad seems to realize something then. “Your mother is changing clothes. She’ll be out in a minute or two.”

As if on cue, my mother breezes into the room, clad in khakis and a lopapeysa.

“Lára! I thought I heard you talking, but I was afraid I was just being too excited…” She trails off as she reaches me and wraps me in a hug, and I can’t help the smile that finds its way to my lips.

“Mamma mín,” I murmur, and she squeezes me.

“Mmm. It’s been too long, Lára. You tell your boy to stop keeping you from us,” she says, releasing me, and I smile as a subtle look akin to horror passes over the watching Jónsi’s face.

“He’s not my boy, Mamma, I’ve told you. He’s in the market for boys himself,” I say and Jónsi clears his throat, obviously uncomfortable as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Anyway, he can hear us.”

My mother gives a lighthearted laugh and even my dad smiles. “It’s alright, we’re just teasing him, really. Jónsi, I’m Rósalind Jónsdóttir. Please excuse us for our lack of manners and my partner’s general awkwardness,” she says, a merry twinkle in her eyes and Jónsi relaxes like everyone else she meets seems to.

My father scoffs. “I’m not that bad, am I?”

At this, I suppress a giggle and my mother just shrugs, a smirk in place as she holds out her hand to shake Jónsi’s.

“It’s very good to meet you all,” he says quietly, unintentionally allowing a hint of shyness to show through.

“And we’re thrilled to meet you! But you must be hungry from being on the road all day. We’ve got potatoes, spaghetti, peas, bread, and coffee. I hope you like that kind of stuff – I really have no idea how to cook for vegetarians,” my mother says, gesturing to several pots on the stove and Jónsi smiles politely.

“That sounds delicious. Lára tells me you eat meat quite frequently, so I really do appreciate this,” he says and I can tell he’s loosening up a little.

“You’re very welcome! I just hope it tastes good,” my mother replies, and that’s about the time that I begin to wonder exactly how it is that I’ve come so far, how so many things have changed.

Trying out for Sigur Rós had been one of the scariest things I had ever done. Scarier than my first time on a horse, scarier than going in to school for my matriculation exam, scarier than being lost in a foggy winter night. There were four seasoned musicians sitting with their arms crossed, telling me to prove myself with only one of them on my side. After I had played a couple of songs for them, they had picked up their instruments, and I had played with them as an extra band member. “Just a jam,” they had said, and I had heaved a shaky sigh. I was better at this.

But even then, Jónsi had to work to convince them. At that point, even I didn’t know why he wanted me and not someone more skilled, but he did – he said he saw something in me – and that was it. With some arguing and a staring contest, he won Orri and Georg over, but Kjartan was firm in his opposition to the idea. Still, Jónsi had the majority on his side and that made me the new bassist of Sigur Rós.

After I had gone to Reykjavík to meet with Jónsi the first time and try out for the band, I had returned here to Höfn to finish my last semester of school. As soon as that was done, I had packed my things and moved to Reykjavík, where I now live with Jónsi. At first, it was only meant to be temporary – just until I found an apartment for myself – but after about a week, Jónsi had just waved it off and told me to stay, that he didn’t like being alone anyway. So I had stayed.

“Lára, aren’t you hungry?” my mother asks and I snap out of my thoughts.

“Oh, yes, sorry,” I say, grabbing the last remaining plate from the counter and moving to take some food from the pots on the stove.

After filling my plate, I go to the living room, where my mother and father sit on the sofa, and Jónsi sits in one side of the cushy loveseat across from the big picture window – the one my brother and I used to sit in. I sit next to Jónsi.

“So when are you guys leaving for the tour?” my mother asks, and I glance at Jónsi.

He glances back at me before deciding to speak. “Five days. We’re all really excited, except for maybe Orri.”

My mother nods as she uses her fork to cut her spaghetti into manageable sections. “He’s the remaining family man, right?”

“Right. Orri has a wife and daughter,” Jónsi confirms, watching me as I busy myself with trying to roll my spaghetti around my fork. “But Kjartan is engaged and Georg also has a stepdaughter and wife, who is pregnant.”

In fact, that’s the only reason I’m in the band now. Georg is the original bassist of Sigur Rós, and had he not wanted to spend more time at home and therefore tour less, Jónsi wouldn’t have asked me to come try out for filling in Georg’s spot in the first place. The official arrangement is that Georg will still play bass for recordings, as his home is walking distance from the band’s studio, but I’ll be the one playing the shows live. It’s fine with me – Kjartan probably wouldn’t be satisfied with any bass line I could come up with anyway.

“That’s interesting. How long are you gone touring usually?” My father speaks up and I know he’s wondering how the time away from family compares with being a fisherman.

“Well for this tour, we’ll be gone about three weeks. Really, the tour length varies a lot – from about one to two months on the road – but this will be shorter than usual.”

It’ll be a “feeler” tour – a “we’re back” tour, as Jónsi says. We’ll hit ten cities across Europe and North America and I’m excited out of my mind – it’ll be my first time outside of Iceland, first time on an airplane, first time really onstage. I simply can’t wait.

But at the same time, I can’t wait to get out of this house.

It’s nearly four o’clock and the sun is finishing its shallow arc over the horizon – the land is preparing for the temperature plunge that’s sure to come, and I still want to go see my grandparents and the horses. A pair of winter-lingering seabirds frolic in the air and I watch from the inside side of the picture window, slightly very jealous. I eat just a little faster.

“So how about you, Jónsi? Have you found the boy of your dreams?” my mother asks, her voice mischievous as she brings back the previous conversation regarding family.

Jónsi blushes, then runs his tongue over his lips. “No, I… I guess not. No one who is willing to stick around,” he answers, and I can see the hint of sadness on his face.

My mother is silent for a moment after that, and I can tell she sees it too – for a split second after that, it’s reflected in her face before the seemingly default mischievous smile slips back to her lips. “Well Lára has yet to hook up with anyone around here, so you’re not alone.”

Her statement is supposed to be encouraging and I’d scoff if I didn’t have spaghetti in my mouth. As if Jónsi or I never get laid. He shoots me a brief amused look before shrugging and saying something intelligent about how we’re still looking for our perfect people. After that, I definitely tune out of the conversation, hoping she doesn’t accidentally [on purpose] reveal anything embarrassing about me.

Instead, I look back out the window at the houses across the street. Two are painted white, but the third is a vivid blue; the blue one has a darker blue roof, and the two white houses have a dark green roof and a bright orange roof respectively. You’d think the corrugated metal roofs and concrete sides would be cold and uninviting, but in my opinion they’re more homey and cozy than all of the beige and brown wood and shingles in America.

“Right, Lára?” my mother says, and I’m dragged out of my thoughts, into the conversation once again.

“’Right’ what?” I ask.

“I’m right about ‘you and Bjarki should get together,’” she answers and I immediately make a face.

“No, Mamma, that’s just…. It’s Bjarki! I’ve known him forever!” I argue and she dismisses my response with a wave, much to Jónsi’s amusement. Said singer makes a weird sort of chuckle.

“So what? I’ve heard that’s the kind of relationship that lasts!”

I roll my eyes, shove the remaining bit of bread into my mouth.

“It’s not as exciting as meeting someone new.” Jónsi shrugs as he says this and I shoot him a grateful look.

“Mamma, can I go now?” I ask before she can get out a response. “I want to go see Amma and Afi still.”

She thinks about it for a second. “I guess, but… Jónsi, would you like to go with her, or do you want to stay?”

“Stay. I want seconds, definitely.” Jónsi turns to me then. “You can take the car if you want.”

“No, I’m alright – I’ll bike,” I say, standing carefully from the loveseat.

“Your hip?” Jónsi murmurs, reaching out to catch my hand before I walk away.

“It’s not a long ride, and biking isn’t as bad as walking,” I tell him, and he nods.

“Don’t get back too late. Wear a coat, alright?” my father says, stern, and I nod as I practically run for the kitchen.

I set the plate on the lightly speckled countertop, glancing briefly at the picture of Kristján and I that Mamma keeps on the windowsill above the sink. There’s a little vase of dried wildflowers sitting next to the frame and I smile a little at the familiar sight, but my expression quickly dims when I remember the circumstances I picked them in – it was just after my grandmother died last-last summer. Just after she died and Kristján still wouldn’t come home.

I turn to find my shoes in the pile by the door, then jam my feet into them and pluck my cardigan off of its place next to where Jónsi’s is on the coat rack. I shove my arms through the sleeves as I bolt out the door, then make a bee-line for the old bike propped up against the side of the house.

By the time I coast into my grandparents’ driveway, the pink and orange glow of sunset is beginning to fade down behind the mountains and glacier to the west. A childish kind of excitement erupts in my chest and I don’t try to hold back the smile that finds its way to my lips as I dismount the bike and head to the barn, hoping sort of desperately that Bjarki is inside eating dinner with my grandparents. There’s no light coming from the barn, though, so I assume he’s currently taking a break from his job of helping my grandfather manage the horse farm.

As soon as I step inside and turn on the light, several cats make themselves scarce and I smile, remembering the times I’d chase them when I was younger. Specks of dust drift through the air, catching the incandescent light, and straw crackles under my feet as I make my way to the tack room – everything is just how I remember it.

When I push open the tack room door, the smell of polished leather hits me full on, and my smile grows. I take what I need and leave both the tack room and the barn.

My steps are quick, but careful as I head out to the pasture, and when I get there, I bring my fingers to my lips and manage to produce a shrill whistle. In the distance, one horse’s head shoots up from the rest of the grazing herd. The horse trots a few steps in my direction and I nearly laugh at the confusion that is evident in his movements. Before I can utter a sound, however, the gelding breaks into a full run toward me and several of the other horses in the herd raise their heads to see what has Sót so riled.

In no time, he’s reached me and I slip lithely between two strands of barbed wire to meet the horse that was my childhood best friend.

“Hey boy,” I say affectionately, scrubbing my hand through his thickening coat, and he bobs his head as if to ask for more attention.

“Nope, not tonight. Right now, you’re going to help me meet Loki.”

The horse just looks at me through steady eyes, and for a moment I simply stare back. The sunset is reflected there in his large eyes, and I try to memorize the cloud mottled purple glint over the familiar brown. The horse blinks when I reach up, glide my fingertips over his lashes, then he shakes his head.

“Alright, alright,” I murmur, then move to the horse’s side and clamber up onto his back. Sót just tosses his head as I get settled, and turns back toward the rest of the herd when I apply pressure to his side with my leg. I don’t need a saddle or even reins with him – I’ve been riding him for years, and I trained him well.

The other horses give me wary looks as Sót and I make our way into their midst. Kraftur is eying me suspiciously, nostrils flared and head raised high as if expecting a challenge. But Sót and I give him none; we’re not looking for a fight – we’re looking for a young, still “green” gelding named Loki.

Soon, I spot the spunky horse my grandfather had told me about over the telephone a few weeks ago. The gelding is a delicate sorrel with a flaxen mane, and no other markings. He’s perfectly content to be grazing on drying November grass, and I steer Sót to sidle over beside him, then I dismount.

Loki looks up then, taking in all he can of the girl and horse beside him, and then craning his neck and stepping forward to see more of me. He’s got the same suspicion in his eyes as the stallion Kraftur does, but none of the defiance. Only curiosity is present and I smile when he reaches out to sniff my now outstretched arm.

He snuffles at my hand, and I smile when he tries to take the reins in his teeth.

“No Loki,” I giggle, and the horse shakes his head, reminding me of Sót a little while ago.

I step forward then and slip the halter onto the horse’s surprisingly fine boned head, loop the reins back around his lightly muscled neck. The only reaction I receive is a brief snort, and I take it as simple annoyance. I jump when the gelding reaches down and nips my leg.

“No wonder they call you Loki,” I murmur, repositioning myself to stand beside the horse. After all, in Nordic legend, Loki is the god of fire and mischief.

As quickly as I can, I throw my leg over the horse’s back. He’s a bit taller than Sót’s 13.2 hands, but not quite as tall as Kraftur’s 14.3. Still, he’s lanky for an Icelandic horse, and at 14 hands he’s a bit taller than the average. Surprisingly though, my scrambling doesn’t faze him hardly at all. He simply waits, perfectly still, as I get situated on his warm back.

I wriggle around for a bit, getting used to his slight boniness compared to Sót. I add handfuls of thick mane to my hold on the reins and cluck a little, wondering absently if he’s trained to move in response to noise yet. He doesn’t budge, so apparently not. When I take the next step and tap his sides with my heels, though, I don’t exactly expect his reaction.

Loki leaps forward, skipping tölt and canter, and launches into a full gallop. I gasp in a breath as I try to keep my position on his back, then smile goofily when I regain balance. Afi was right – I love him.

Adrenaline flows just as freely as Loki’s mane does as the horse tosses his head in pure excitement, and I pull in a breath, awed as I watch the scenery blurring before my eyes. It’s weightlessness, I decide – weightless freedom. The suddenly freezing wind rips through my cardigan and shirt – was I supposed to wear a coat? – and over my rein-tangled hands as we ride a steady run into the dusk.


Later, when Loki and I have slowed down, I look out over the glassy fjord. The water is reflecting the sky like Sót’s eyes were before and I smile, remembering the orange and pink clouds that were scattered across the heavens. They’ve blown over now, and the dusk has deepened slightly, turning the oranges a shadowy pink and the bright pinks purple. To the east, the sky is a darkening blue and when I sigh out a breath, it comes in a vaporous cloud, then dissipates into the cold air.

What if I don’t like it? What if the tour is awful? What if I mess up, or miss home too much, or get lost somewhere Jónsi or John, the band’s manager, can’t find me? It definitely isn’t all excitement that I’m feeling – I’m scared as well. What if I forget or lose my passport in another country and can’t get back home? What if I prove to be a bad investment of sorts – what if I can’t hold my own with the rest of Sigur Rós?

My teeth clack together a little as I shiver, both from the cold and from the nerve-wracking thoughts that are flitting across my mind. Loki seems to sense my nervousness and begins to toss his head and prance, pulling at the reins and shaking his head. I take a deep breath, try to calm my thoughts.

I should be enjoying my brief time at home. It’s a beautiful, clear evening out and even though it’s quite chilly, the young horse under me is warm and the breeze is light. The temperature isn’t too harsh – only my extremities are uncomfortable – and the sound of light waves lapping against the nearby shore is just so calming.

But inside, I’m far from still.

Even as I calm, there’s a spark deep inside of me, that silent hope or longing, one that fuels a constant I wish, I wish that doesn’t have an ending. I don’t know what I long for – I never have – I just know that the longing is there and that I’ve never been fully content.

It’s a pent up feeling even as Loki and I are in the widest open of spaces. It’s a suffocation even as the fresh, crisp, wild air moves constantly in an out of my lungs. It’s this wish.

The sunset is finally giving into the cool velvet blanket of night, and as I give the worn reins slack, Loki eases into tölt. And as the breeze ghosts across my face, lifting a corkscrew strand of hair over my shoulder, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll maybe find my wish on the tour, or if maybe it’ll find me.