Snorri though, he broods on the past. He’ll sit there on the porch when it’s cold enough to freeze waves in place, wrapped up, axe across his lap, staring at that key. Now I like keys by and large, but that thing, that piece of obsidian – that I don’t like. You look at it and it makes you think. Too much thinking isn’t good for anyone. Especially for a man like Snorri ver Snagason who’s apt to act
