Paradise Reclaimed by Halldor Laxness

As time wore on the folk at Hlíðar often thought they caught a glimpse of a man coming along the main track round the shoulder of the hill, particularly at twilight. He always seemed to have that circumspect, conscientious way of walking, putting each foot down twice with every step as if testing whether the ground were bearing. But it was never he. Usually it was just one of the elves. The children went to sleep tired after the autumn round-ups, only to be afflicted by the same dream night after night: they dreamed that their father was wandering along an endless road through the autumn darkness in some foreign land, and could not find the way home. The first snows had disappeared, to be sure, but the birds did not return, not even the fulmar or the skua; there was just the raven's back glinting blue in the white autumn sunshine. The berries were soft and the heather red. The land was utterly silent. The sky was also silent. There was frost at night now. The trampled turf round the farm and the tormented meadows were frozen hard. It was now November and the last autumn boat had already reached Iceland. The stones came tumbling down the mountainside at night.

The boy who had not been given a ride on the white pony was at the door, offering his hand to the housewife.