(Alrighty then. When last we met Kip and GP, they were in a pub, having being transported mysteriously from the middle of the Atlantic Ocean to a landlocked lake near a remote village in Iceland. If you need more to bring you up to speed, I recommend reading parts one, two, three and four before continuing. Thanks.
And away we go…)
CHAPTER THREE: ANOTHER WORD FOR TREASURE
Kip awoke the next morning in an unfamiliar room, pleasantly drowsy. There were sparrows in the tree outside her window, and somewhere farther off she could hear the chuckling of ducks on the lake. She sat up. In the next room, GP lay heaped on a sofa-bed, snoring like a sputtering power-saw. She dressed and eased her way out the door and downstairs.
They had rented a room above the pub for the night. Brynja Finnsdottir, who had made the lobster-tails the night before, was already working in the kitchen.
She greeted Kip with a shy smile. “Good dag,” she said, “Kip?” Kip nodded. “Ja, Kip. You, uh… eat? Morgunmatur? No, wait. Breakfast! Breakfast, Ja?”
Kip nodded. “Ja, takk,” she replied.
Brynja Finnsdottir piled a plate with smoked herring and fried new potatoes, and poured Kip a mug of coffee—extra sweet and white with cream. While Kip ate, Brynja puttered around the kitchen—scrubbing a copper sauce pan, putting plates away—and all the while trying out snippets of English conversation on Kip. Since Kip had used up all the Icelandic she had learned the night before with ‘Ja, Takk,’ they made do with Brynja Finnsdottir’s broken English.
“You sleep, Kip? Good not?” She smiled a warm, crinkly-eyed smile.
“Yes, fine. Takk. Much better than the Ballyhoo,” Kip replied.
When Kip finished her plate, Brynja cleared it away and then poured a little more cream into Kip’s cup. Continue reading “Voyage of the Ballyhoo (Part Five)”