"Ó shit, ég svaf út!" (Oh shit, I slept in!) I exclaimed, staring at the time in horror. "Fokking fram yfir 10!" (Fucking past 10!) My eyes widened as I realized how late I was for my trip. Why today, of all days? You had one job alarm clock – to wake me up.
Frustration fueled my rush to the shower, skipping my morning routine. I hastily braided my hair, tossed on black shorts, a sky-blue shirt, a warm-colored scarf, and my trusty adventure boots. Grabbing my backpack, I checked off the essentials: camping tent, canned food, toiletries, Poetic Edda, and a few changes of clothes.
I burst through the door like a kid who'd lost their candy. "Taxi!!" I hailed, waving my arms to flag one down. A cab stopped earlier, but the driver refused to go to Sprengisandur. "Deserted wasteland," he muttered, shaking his head. "No one goes there."
I cursed under my breath as the cab sped away, then directed my frustration at myself. "Fókka þessa!" (Damn it!) Why did I oversleep?
Finally, another taxi stopped.
"Veistu hvernig á að komast á Sprengisand?" (Do you know how to get to Sprengisandur?) I asked the driver, who smiled and nodded kindly.
"Já, ég veit." (Yes, I know.)
As I settled in, he asked, "Sæll, af hverju ertu að fara þangað?" (Dear, why are you going there?) His eyes scanned me through the rearview mirror.
I hesitated, wondering if I should answer. His elderly demeanor made me opt for politeness. "Í rannsóknarskyni." (For research purposes.) I replied, gazing out the window.
Undeterred, he asked, "Hvers konar rannsókn þyrfti þú til að leggja af stað í slíka ferð?" (What kind of research would require such a journey?)
I rolled my eyes inwardly; I paid him to drive, not life-coach. "Ég er goðafræðingur og verkefnið mitt krefst slíkra aðgerða." (I'm a mythologist, and my project requires such action.) My tone conveyed: no more questions, please.
The driver smiled warmly. "Vertu öruggur, elskan. Gangi þér vel." (Be safe, dear. Good luck.) The kindness sent shivers down my spine.
As we drove, I gazed out the window, watching the landscape transform from lush green to rugged, barren expanses. We passed glacial rivers, their icy waters carving through the rocky terrain. The sun beat down relentlessly, casting a golden glow over the desolate landscape.
After 10 hours on the road, I just had to ask.
"Langt þangað?" (Far to go?) I asked the driver.
"Einungis tíu mílur." (Just ten miles.) He replied.
10 miles! I exclaimed inwardly. That's a whole day, all because I slept in.
The ride grew increasingly turbulent, bouncing me around the cab like a rag doll. Rocks and potholes pockmarked the dirt road, jolting me awake whenever I dozed off.
Eight more hours passed, the driver's frequent breaks and my growing fatigue stretching time.
I stepped out to stretch my legs, noticing a store nearby. My stomach rumbled, betraying my earlier denial of hunger.
"Þú ættir að fá þér eitthvað að borða, við eigum langan dag framundan." (You should get something to eat; we have a long day ahead.) The driver said with a smile.
How can someone smile so much? I wondered, entering the store.
I bought hotdogs and two bottles of chilled orange drink.
"Borðaðu þetta, herra," I said, offering him food. "Mín leið til að þakka, svo vinsamlegast þiggðu það." (Eat this, sir, my way of saying thank you, please accept it.)
"Þú þurftir ekki," he replied, smiling. "Og vinsamlegast kallið mig Paul, herra lætur mér líða aldur minn." (You don't have to, and please call me Paul; 'sir' makes me feel my age.) We shared a laugh.
We settled back into the car, and exhaustion took over. I dozed off, oblivious to the bumps and potholes that jostled me as Paul drove.
Hours later, I stirred as the car slowed. As we approached Sprengisandur, the harsh desert landscape unfolded before me. Endless dunes of golden sand stretched towards the horizon, shimmering like a sea of gold. The air reeked of dust and desiccation, choking me. Sandstorms obscured my view, reducing visibility to mere yards.
I wrapped my scarf around my face, shielding myself from the stinging sand.
Paul stopped the car at a place that seemed almost surreal.
"Sprengisandur," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the howling wind. "A place of old legends and hidden truths."
I stepped out, into the unforgiving desert. The silence was oppressive, punctuated only by the wind's mournful sighs.
As I shouldered my backpack, Paul's parting words echoed in my mind: "Vertu öruggur, elskan." (Be safe, dear).
With each step, the silence deepened, swallowing me whole. I clutched the Poetic Edda tightly, its worn pages a tangible connection to the myths that drew me here.
"You've come this far, Astrid; you can't turn back now," I told myself, steeling my resolve.
The mist swirled around me, beckoning me deeper into the heart of Sprengisandur.
My journey begins now. With each step into the desolate wasteland, my heart grows heavier, and doubts creep in. I question my decision to keep Helka and Akira in the dark about my location and the true purpose of my trip.
Regret, however, is a luxury I can't afford. I must press on, driven by the hope of uncovering the secrets hidden within Sprengisandur.
The arduous trip, spanning a day and a half, has taken its toll. I glance at my watch – 11 pm. No wonder exhaustion weighs me down; it's well past my bedtime.
Setting up camp, I long to start a fire, but the scorching heat stays my hand. I fear the flames might spread uncontrollably. Instead, I focus on erecting my tent, frustration mounting with each fumbling attempt.
"Af hverju gistirðu ekki á einhverjum stað?" (Why aren't you staying at a place?) I mutter to myself, exasperated.
Finally, the tent stands, and I collapse into my fluffy sleeping bag, tired but uneasy. This is my first night so far from home, and I'm torn between excitement and fear.
Sleep, however, proves elusive. I wake up feeling unrested, the heat suffocating. "Nice one, Odin," I quip, "never knew we had hell on earth." Coffee would be a blessing now; I regret not packing some.
After a refreshing stretch, I retreated back into my tent, seeking respite from the scorching sun. I opened a can of mashed potatoes and began eating, simultaneously diving into the mysteries of the Poetic Edda.
As I delved deeper into the ancient text, a hidden map caught my attention. The cryptic markings and symbols led to a location I couldn't quite pinpoint. Frustrated, I reminded myself that my goal was to find the mask, not embark on a perilous journey to the devil's mouth.
With my hunger sated, I packed up my tent and continued trudging through the wasteland. The landscape transformed around me, the desert sand shifting from its usual brown hue to a reddish tint. Mirages taunted me, conjuring illusions of oasis lakes and rivers. I wondered if the relentless sun and dehydration were playing tricks on my mind.
Taking a brief respite from walking, I settled onto the sand, analyzing the surrounding rocks. Their unusual appearance captivated me – unlike any I'd seen before. The crimson red color, infused with subtle silver veins, was breathtaking. I marveled at the natural forces that had crafted such beauty.
The endless expanse of desert stretched before me, an unrelenting canvas of sand and rock. For two days, my journey remained eerily routine: walk, eat, read, sleep. The only constants were the unforgiving temperature fluctuations – scorching heat by day, biting cold by night.
I felt like the merciless weather would claim me before I reached my destination. Yet, I clung to a defiant mantra: "What is life without a little risk?" The words became my rallying cry, fueling my determination to press on.
With each step, I repeated the phrase, embracing the uncertainty. Surprisingly, it worked. The mental resilience I cultivated helped me push through the physical toll of the desert.