Night Swim at Hveragerði – Part 1: Steam and Snowfall

The road from Reykjavík had been empty for an hour. Freya drove with the heater roaring and the radio silent, watching the headlights pick out black lava fields and drifts of snow under a sky thick with stars.

The sign for the hot spring was half buried in snow. She almost missed it. She turned onto a gravel track, parked beside a battered van, and stepped out into the cold.

The air hit her like a wall. Ten below, perhaps more, and so still that she could hear the faint hiss of steam rising from the earth. Beyond the car park, a wooden walkway led down to a pool, and the pool was glowing blue-green under the lights, a cloud of vapour curling off its surface.

She pulled on her coat, her hat, her gloves, and walked down the path with her heart thumping.

The pool was empty. Except for one man, sitting at the far edge with his shoulders bare, his head tipped back against the rocks, and his eyes closed.

He opened them as she came closer. He was tall and broad, with a short dark beard flecked with frost, and a face that looked as if it had been carved out of the same lava as the hills.

"Good evening," he said, in English, without moving. "You're brave."

"I'm freezing," said Freya.

"Then get in. It's warmer than it looks."

She laughed, and undressed quickly behind a wooden screen, and slid into the water with a gasp. The heat hit her like a blanket, deep and soothing, and every muscle in her body seemed to unclench at once.

"Oh," she said, eyes closing. "Oh, that's perfect."

"It's the best thing in Iceland," said the man, and his voice was low and warm. "I'm Kári. I work on the power station up the valley. I come here every night after my shift, and I never see anyone in January."

"I'm Freya. I'm from London. I'm meant to be writing a book about the coast, but I keep finding excuses to sit in hot water."

"That's an excellent excuse."

"It's the only one I've got."

The steam rose around them. Above the pool, the sky was dark and enormous, the stars crowded so thickly they seemed to hum. Freya tipped her head back, the water lapping at her shoulders, and let out a long breath.

"Can I ask you something?" said Kári, after a while.

"Yes."

"Why are you here, alone, in the middle of winter, in a country you've never seen?"

Freya thought about it. The water was so warm, and the stars so bright, that lying was impossible.

"Because my sister died last year," she said quietly. "And I haven't known how to be happy since. Everyone said I should travel, so I did. But I haven't found anything that feels like it's mine."

Kári was quiet for a long moment. Then he moved through the water, slowly, and sat down on the bench beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched under the surface.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be."

"I'm not sorry for you. I'm sorry you've been alone with it." He turned his head to look at her, his face soft in the blue light. "Can I ask you something else?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to watch the sky with me, for a while, without talking about your sister or the book or anything at all? Only if you want to. The northern lights come out sometimes, if you're patient."

Freya's throat tightened. She looked up at the stars, then at him.

"Yes," she said. "But only if you tell me one thing you've never told a stranger."

"Deal," said Kári, with a small smile. "Green?"

"Green," said Freya, and her voice was steady for the first time in a year. "Very green. Now, tell me your secret, and then we'll look for the lights."