Málið er að ég gerði stuttmynd á Íslandi fyrir nokkrum árum, eins og bloggvinir og aðrir kannski muna. Sagan var of stór í stuttmynd, svo ég skrifaði handrit í fullri lengd. Fékk ofsalega jákvæð viðbrögð frá því fáa fólki sem fékk að lesa. Hefði hugsanlega komið verkinu í framkvæmd og gert kvikmynd, ef ég hefði ekki verið að rolast í útlandinu. Hvað gera bændur ef þeir eru langt frá sveitinni sinni? Þeir skrifa sögu, svo ég fór í það að breyta þessu í bók. Hefur gengið ágætlega, þó að daglegt líf eigi það til að flækjast fyrir.

Sagan gerist á nokkrum tímaskeiðum í íslandssögunni. Hér á eftir er upphafskaflinn úr bókinni. Gerist í þessu (eða svipuðu) húsi. Afsakið enskuna, en ég fór víst að skrifa þetta á því tungumáli. Þetta er hugsanlega klúðurslegt, en það er bara þannig með verk í vinnslu.

1947

The storm had been raging all night. Thunderstorms were rare, but tonight was different. Like God wanted to show that he wasn’t happy. Like He wasn’t ready for the gift He would receive tonight.

The big house was dark, with just a couple of table lamps keeping total darkness away. The entrance was grand. Heavy furniture that had been picked for style rather than function. She was standing on the top of a central staircase, looking like a ghost with her light silk bathrobe. One nostril bleeding, soiling the perfectly white silk. She looked back quickly, saw him approaching and grabbed the heavy wooden rail. She stumbled down the stairs, almost falling. He followed slowly, like he knew she wouldn’t get away. One foot reached the floor and she looked back. He was standing at the top of the stairs. Took the first step down. She ran towards the large front door and tried to open it. It was locked. They never locked it. She tried frantically, but there was no point. It was locked and it would have taken an elephant to force it open.

She slowly turned around. He was at the bottom of the stairs now, holding the gun at his hip like a gunslinger from a bad western. It didn’t suit him, she thought. He wasn’t the gangster type. She looked at the antique bowl on the dresser. He had bought it for her at an auction a few years back. She hadn’t liked it. She wasn’t into this over-decorated stuff, but now she wanted it more than anything. She needed the contents. The keys. It was just out of reach. If she’d run for it, he might panic. She would never make it. Get the keys, back to the door, key in the keyhole, turn, open the door and go outside. No, she had to use reason. See what he wanted. Why he was doing this? Was it for the slender silhouette, smoking a cigarette at the top of the stairs? Nothing had been the same since she arrived.

He looked at the keys and smiled. Smiled, but his eyes were not happy. Moved closer to her. She thought it was a tear in his eyes, but it never came. He wouldn’t cry for me, she thought. He wouldn’t cry for anything. Not anymore. He had changed.

Her hand moved slowly down her side, finding the pocket of the bathrobe. Her hand slipped into the pocket. He moved closer, raising the gun. Her hand found something. She raised it.

‘Are you looking for this, dear?’ she said as a single shot echoed though the hallway.