The Puffin of Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

caves?”
    She grinned. “The heat came in handy during the winter, I hear.”
    We reached the Hótel Brattholt three hours after leaving Reykjavik, having made a couple of stops along the way. The hotel, with its nearby stables, was popular with all sorts of outdoors-loving tourists. It sat atop a steep hill, a mile back from the famous black sand beach of Vik.
    A no-frills structure, the hotel’s steeply pitched metal roof must have come in handy during the area’s rugged winters. So would its corrugated iron siding, erected to withstand any insult the weather threw at it. The sides of the hotel were painted a creamy yellow with bright green trim, and looked welcoming. The interior was even cozier than the exterior. The combined lobby/dining hall was filled with comfy sofas, booths, and chairs arranged in an arc around the huge stone fireplace. Despite the early hour, several visitors had already staked out the seats closest to its warmth.
    As I waited, Bryndis went in to speak to the hotelier, a muscular man of about forty, whose name tag said ULFUR. Like everyone I’d met so far, he spoke fluent English, and was kind enough to caution us about the weather.
    â€œA light rain is forecast for later today, so rain slickers might be a good idea. If you do not have any, you can borrow some from us.” He motioned to a collection of jackets and slickers hanging from a pegged shelf on the wall behind the counter.
    â€œWe are fine, but thanks,” Bryndis told him. To me, she said, “The food is good here, so let us have lunch after our ride.”
    â€œMy treat,” I insisted. Aster Edwina, my usually-stingy boss, had loaned me the zoo’s platinum Visa, and I planned to take advantage of it.
    Weather in Iceland is changeable. When we went back outside, a front of dark clouds had already sped inland from the North Atlantic, lending accuracy to Ulfur’s warning. But having folded a slicker into my fanny pack before we left her apartment, I was prepared for whatever the weather threw at me.
    To my surprise, the horses weren’t stabled. They ran loose in a large pasture behind the hotel, but catching them proved no problem. As friendly as dogs, they ran toward us at the sound of Bryndis’ whistle, so within minutes of our arrival, we were saddled up, Bryndis on her sorrel mare Freya, me on Ragnar’s black gelding, Einnar. The horses appeared eager to get some exercise, and we were glad to oblige.
    The riding trail led down a steep incline from the hotel toward the Ring Road. Freya’s hooves flew as she sped along, trusting my Einnar to catch up. I’d ridden most of my life, but was unused to the Icelandic horses’ unusual gaits—especially the fast tolt , a rapid gait bearing no resemblance to an American horse’s gallop. As Einnar raced in pursuit of Freya I clutched amateurishly at the pommel of my saddle. My horse, speedy despite his gentleness, caught up with Freya as we reached the highway.
    No cars were coming, so we crossed safely to where the riding trail continued on the other side.
    Bryndis grinned as I reined up alongside her. “How do you like our Icelandic horses?”
    â€œMag” puff “ifi” puff “cent,” I puffed, hoping she understood me, what with all those puffs.
    â€œOur horses, they are different than those you are used to?”
    â€œNight” puff “and” puff “day.”
    As if trying to figure out what the heck I was talking about, Einnar turned his great head to look at me, snorted, then bobbed his head at Freya. When she nickered back, I was convinced the two were sharing a joke at my expense.
    â€œCaught your breath yet?” Bryndis asked, pityingly.
    â€œI’m good for a few more miles.” Puff, puff.
    From the highway, it was only a quarter-mile further to the black sand beach, which I found terrifying in its beauty. To the east, a steep volcanic cliff almost two