A dull rain pattered the ground soggy when Tristan pulled into the village. The temperature hovered above the freezing point during the day, sloshing rift-marks into mud-veins that crossed the village center. The only road that was paved in and out was the sole highway that stretched around the Westfjords like a noose. A few hours’ drive along it would take him to Ísafjörður, the de facto capital of the western peninsulas. A couple thousand people called it home, but there was also a hospital, library, even an airport. Ísafjörður was a city compared to the village in which Tristan found himself. Half a day’s walk from his house (a quarter day’s walk by horse & cart assuming all went well), placed him square into the arms of Flateyri.
Flateyri was a fishing village hundreds of years old. More trade filtered in and out by sea than by land, yet the population never swelled beyond a few hundred people. Tourists came through once in a while on their way to the cliffs to watch the puffins play at sunset. Otherwise, Tristan knew everyone. He waved at Svant, an older man that first taught him how to tie a fishing line, when he reined the horse in.
“Good to see you, Tristan,” Svant approached. He was solid and healthy looking as ever. He wasn’t a tree of a hulking man like Tristan’s uncle was, but he was strong as the rocks underfoot.
“You too, Svant.” He replied and let his horse loose into the fence. A little bag was slung over one shoulder, but his smile was warmer than the rest of him.
They clasped hands, but Svant was looking closely in the younger man’s eyes. “Look like you could use a hot drink. Come over?”
Tristan would never turn down drinks. They caught up on the walk to the fisherman’s house.
Flateyri was a fishing village hundreds of years old. More trade filtered in and out by sea than by land, yet the population never swelled beyond a few hundred people. Tourists came through once in a while on their way to the cliffs to watch the puffins play at sunset. Otherwise, Tristan knew everyone. He waved at Svant, an older man that first taught him how to tie a fishing line, when he reined the horse in.
“Good to see you, Tristan,” Svant approached. He was solid and healthy looking as ever. He wasn’t a tree of a hulking man like Tristan’s uncle was, but he was strong as the rocks underfoot.
“You too, Svant.” He replied and let his horse loose into the fence. A little bag was slung over one shoulder, but his smile was warmer than the rest of him.
They clasped hands, but Svant was looking closely in the younger man’s eyes. “Look like you could use a hot drink. Come over?”
Tristan would never turn down drinks. They caught up on the walk to the fisherman’s house.