Blind er feigs manns för
The fog over the cove didn’t just roll in; it seemed to rise from the cold gray water like a living thing, swallowing the docks and the shingled roofs of the town.
Eleven-year-old Birgir stood at the edge of the breakwater, staring out into the churning white mist. Somewhere out there, hidden by the fog and the crashing waves, was Blackstone Island. And on the island was the old lighthouse, dark for fifty years since the night the keeper vanished.
Local legend said the keeper had hidden a chest of gold sovereigns in the lantern room before he disappeared. Birgir didn’t care about gold. He cared about the mystery. He wanted to be the one to solve it.
He adjusted the straps of his backpack, heavy with a flashlight, a coil of rope, and a crowbar. The tide was low. A narrow, slippery causeway of jagged rocks connected the mainland to the island, revealed only for an hour each day.
"You're going across," a voice rasped behind him.
Birgir jumped. It was Leifur, the town fishermen who spent his days mending nets and muttering warnings to tourists. His face was weathered like driftwood, and his eyes were clouded.
"I'm just looking," Birgir lied, his heart thumping against his ribs.
Leifur pointed a crooked finger toward the invisible island. "The sea is angry today, boy. The fog hides the deep holes between the rocks. The tide turns faster than you think."
"I'll be quick," Birgir said, stepping onto the first slick rock of the causeway. The smell of brine and rotting seaweed was thick in the air.
Leifur didn't move. He just watched the boy with a sad, knowing expression. The old fisherman sighed, the sound lost to the wind.
Blind er feigs manns för.
Birgir didn't hear him. He was already moving, his eyes fixed on the faint outline of the lighthouse tower emerging from the mist.
The crossing was harder than he expected. The rocks were coated in black slime that threatened to send him sliding into the frothing water below. Twice, waves washed over his boots, chilling his ankles. A rational part of his brain told him to turn back, that the fog was getting thicker, making it impossible to see more than five feet ahead.
But the tower beckoned. He felt a strange pull, an obsession that drowned out the sound of the rising wind. He didn't look at the water rising around the causeway; he only looked at the iron door of the lighthouse.
He reached the island, breathing hard. The iron door was rusted shut, but the crowbar made short work of the lock. He stepped inside. The air was stagnant and cold.
Birgir clicked on his flashlight. The beam cut through the dust, revealing a rusted spiral staircase winding up into the darkness. The metal groaned under his weight as he began to climb.
Up and up he went. The wind outside was now a howl, slamming against the thick stone walls. The whole structure seemed to vibrate.
He reached the top landing. The lantern room. The glass panes were coated in decades of salt spray. In the center stood the massive, tarnished brass lamp, long dead.
And there, tucked beneath the iron housing of the lamp, was a small wooden chest.
Triumph surged through him. He had been right. He knelt before the chest, his hands shaking with anticipation. He unlatched the lid and threw it open.
It was empty.
No gold. No secrets. Just dust and a single, dried moth wing.
Confusion washed over him, followed quickly by a cold dread that had nothing to do with the temperature. He stood up and went to the glass, wiping a circle clean to look outside.
His breath caught in his throat.
Below him, the causeway was gone. The churning gray ocean had completely swallowed the path back to the mainland. The waves were smashing violently against the base of the lighthouse, sending tremors up through the stone floor beneath his feet.
He was trapped.
Birgir shined his flashlight down the center of the spiral staircase. The beam didn't reach the bottom; it just illuminated the swirling dust and the terrifying drop into darkness.
The wind shrieked around the glass room, rattling the panes in their iron frames. Birgir sat on the cold metal floor, clutching his useless flashlight. He realized then that he hadn't seen the rising water because he hadn't wanted to. He hadn't seen the danger because he was only looking at the prize.
Outside, on the distant mainland docks, Leifur finished coiling his net and turned his back to the sea, walking slowly toward the warmth of the town lights.
Blind er feigs manns för
The proverb means that when a person’s death is approaching, they lose their ability to see danger or make sensible decisions.
It explains why people sometimes make inexplicable mistakes or walk directly into traps right before they die. The idea is that Fate itself has "blinded" them to ensure they meet their end. They cannot see the obvious warning signs that would normally save them.
