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A löngu síðan á Íslandi ..... [4]

 
Silja Henningsdottir's picture
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Frú Morstensson’s mind was full of concern as she watched the grey/white 6x4 bounce through the gate and turn right onto the Reykjavik road. But, she could not help smile though as she watched Silja chasing the truck, jumping up and down, waving at the squad of soldiers who waved back at this thin happy child in her big boots, big orange coat and the red pom-pom hat atop a mass of blonde curls.

Silja stopped and watched the truck until it turned out of sight. She turned and ran back toward Momma, her left hand clutching a few chocolate bars. Her right index finger raised to show Momma where she had touched Pfc. Buchannan’s face

“Momma !  Momma ! Svartur maður !” , she shouted excitedly as she ran into Momma’s arms giggling.

Momma gathered up Silja and carried her back into the warm farmhouse and helped her out of her coat and hat, scarf and boots. As she did this, the concerns crept back across Momma’s face, the frown became very obvious, even to Silja who by now had unwrapped a chocolate bar and was chomping into it. Silja ceased chomping and looked at her Momma.

“Hvað er rangt Mamma? She asked, with half a mouthful of chocolate.

Momma began her explanation with a long tight hug. Silja sat in her little red rocking chair and listened, taking the occasional bite from her chocolate.

Momma had had it explained to her by the soldier that during the winter, criminals, outlaws and revolutionaries had  banded together in the north, looting and killing in the farms and hamlets there. The multi-national company, Global-Tech, had kindly built a residential facility in Reykjavik to house civilians deemed to be in danger until the danger had passed and the army had restored peace.

Although Frú Mortensson had found this hard to believe, after all Iceland was a small country and the challenge of survival in such a unforgiving place had bred an extremely strong community and identity over the many hundreds of years since Viking explorers had colonised the rocky volcanic island in the North Atlantic. But the Sergeant had shown her footage and photographs of devastated farms and villages, streets running with blood and bodies strewn in the roads. He had also shown her the facility they would be taken to, it looked more like a mid priced hotel than a refugee camp.

After long thought Frú Mortensson had decided to accept the offer. After all, Henning had left her four months ago and she had a daughter approaching her eighth birthday. She could not put Silja in the line of such danger. How on earth could she possibly keep her child safe, alone, with no man around.  

For her part, and due mostly due to the way Momma had presented the idea to her, Silja thought the whole idea very exciting, a big adventure. The big truck would come tomorrow and take her and Momma down the valley and into Reykjavik. There would be a nice place to stay, new friends to meet. It would all be so wonderful. And very soon they would be able to come home, Slija thought to herself, ‘Hey! Maybe even Poppa would be back by then!’.

Silja rushed off to tell Teddy all about the great adventure they would be going on. Silja and Teddy helped Momma packed their things into the huge packing case that that funny man with the black skin had dropped out of the truck for them. Silja took a long time to go to sleep that night, so full with excitement she was that night.

Frú Mortensson did not sleep however. Once the packing was done she roamed her home, her mind swaying from acceptance to doubt about the arrangement. She sat in her armchair as the fire faded out its last embers. Her eyes flicked between the cosy little room in the home she had made with Henning. To the photo of a happy grinning Henning, five year old Silja atop his shoulders, giggling with excited fear as she clung into Poppa’s head, her mop of gold hair flying in the breeze.

Frú Mortensson sobbed quietly to herself. Henning’s photo fell from her hands.

 

“þú vansæll áfengi óþokki. Hvernig gastu gert okkur þetta, ég hata þig...”

Comments

Joe Spivey's picture

((Awwwww. I'm really starting to feel sorry for little Silja. If the ominous fears of her mother come to fruition then her world is going to be torn away. *gets a box of tissues ready*

Stick with me kid and you'll be farting through silk.



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