by Caroline Lea
But Birgit was entirely besotted with him. She and Egill had no children of their own and she set her heart on caring for him. Egill was against it, but she pleaded until he relented, and they took Pétur in. Everyone in the settlement was appalled and delighted in equal measure.
I was overseas at the time, and thought little of the wild-eyed boy who could barely speak. He ran around ragged and barefoot, while people laughed at poor Birgit, who pursued him with shoes, and kissed him when she caught him.
Katrín told me that, over the next five years, the boy seemed to calm and grew fond of Birgit, though he and Egill clashed: there were often shouts of anger from their croft, then cries of pain as Egill beat Pétur into submission.
He grew more compliant with age, and, by the time he was eighteen summers, he could pass for Egill’s natural son, bar his dark hair and eyes. But that particular summer, Pétur and Egill were heard bellowing, and Birgit screaming.
Then there was a long silence.
I tried not to listen to the village gossips, but Katrín told me that Pétur wasn’t seen for days afterwards; people rubbed their hands in glee, agreeing that Egill had killed him. Egill, however, came to my croft, pale, saying that the boy had fled. He believed Pétur had travelled south on one of the merchant ships. Would I help to find him?
‘Why me?’ I asked. ‘Should you not fetch your boy yourself?’
‘He will not listen to a word from my lips. But you are a man of standing. And you are skilled at . . .’ His mouth twisted in distaste. ‘. . . persuading others.’
I laughed. ‘This is not a trading agreement, Egill. Pétur is not some Dane I can charm with an ell of cloth or a cut of mutton. Send one of the boy’s friends.’
‘He has no friends. The villagers loathe him, and he them. I . . . beg you, Jón.’
Egill pleaded and bargained. He would sing my praises at the Althing. They might grant me lands elsewhere on the Snæfelles peninsula, once they heard Egill laud me as a wise and capable goði.
‘They may allow you to trade on lands to the north too, Jón.’
I nodded. ‘You make a good case, but I can’t force him to return. Besides, I hear that matters have been . . . discordant between you for some time.’
Egill’s mouth distorted. ‘I have tried to change him – to save him. The devil has a hold on him. But now Birgit misses him.’ Egill’s eyes slid from mine, but not before I saw, just for a moment, a flash of something like pain. As though the boy’s absence caused him genuine grief.
I sighed. ‘I will try.’
It was not difficult to track Pétur down: rumours of the half-savage dark Icelander led me to the north coast. I was weighting my boat to the sand with rocks when I saw Pétur running along the beach. He was taller than I remembered, and thin-limbed – he looked half starved, like a colt that had grown too quickly.
Then I saw that two burly men were chasing after him. They were laughing and shouting. At first, I supposed it was a game, but Pétur’s face was taut, his eyes wide. He has the most unusual eyes: the bronze of beaten copper, fringed with long, dark lashes. But that day they were filled with panic.
‘Stop!’ I cried, and stepped in front of the pursuing men. ‘Leave the boy be. He’s terrified, any fool can see that.’
‘Careful who you call a fool,’ one of the men sneered.
‘Cut out his impudent tongue,’ the other growled, his hand at his belt.
I put my own hand to my belt, where my knife was ready.
‘Wait!’ called the first man, his hands outstretched. ‘You are Jón Eiríksson from Stykkishólmur.’ He swayed slightly – clearly he was drunk.
I nodded curtly. ‘The same.’
The man turned to his accomplice. ‘Jón brings good meat and grain to these parts, wood and linen from the Danes too.’ He hiccuped. ‘Drop your knife, Bolli.’
Bolli grunted and let his hands fall back to his sides. ‘He’s getting away,’ he complained, nodding at Pétur’s sprinting form.
‘What has he done?’ I asked. ‘He is barely more than a boy.’
‘He is an outlander – can’t even name his parents. All in these parts know he’s a foundling brat,’ growled Bolli.
‘He is the son of Egill and Birgit of Stykkishólmur.’
‘Egill!’ the man spat. ‘Worse and worse.’
‘You can’t beat a boy for his pabbi’s crimes.’
‘We don’t beat him,’ chuckled the first man. ‘And we will feed him after.’
‘Hush, Thorolf!’ hissed Bolli.
‘No, Bolli,’ Thorolf said, a sly smile playing on his lips. ‘Jón has bread – there, in his boat.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Share the bread and I will give you something.’
‘Thorolf,’ Bolli whined.
‘Quiet!’ Thorolf turned back to me, grinning. ‘Jón may play the saint, but he is a man like any other.’ He leaned forward, lurching a little. ‘And unmarried, they say.’
‘What of it?’
‘You have been at sea for some weeks?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘So long unmarried, Jón, there are whispers of what you are.’
I reeled and took a step back.
‘No fear. We won’t tell a soul if you help us catch him. We’ll bribe him with your bread. It will be easier with two to hold him, while the other goes at it.’
My jaw dropped. ‘You . . . I –’
‘You can thank us later. And no one will know. There is a crack in the ground where we can throw the body when we’re finished.’
I stepped back again, shaking my head. ‘I am goði . . .’
I had meant it as a threat, but Thorolf misunderstood. ‘Don’t pretend you are pure as the snow, man. Besides, it is no more sinful than using your hand, and better than catching a disease from some peasant girl, eh?’
They laughed. In that instant, I could have slit their throats.
I drew my knife. ‘Get away from me, you filth. You fiends!’ I jabbed the blade at them, nearly cutting Bolli’s face. They turned and ran. I stood, trembling, unable to erase the image of Pétur being held down and savaged by those brutes.
I spent the whole day searching and into the evening.
When I found him, it was the shadowy time when the sun has just dipped below the horizon. I heard the noises before I saw him.
Grunting, and a cry. Then a long, drawn-out groan.
I knew what it must be, but I was still unprepared for the horror of it.
They had cornered him where some rocks met a deep fissure in the ground. Pétur must have tried to squeeze himself into the crack in the earth, but had become wedged, and then the two men had caught him.
Bolli was pinning Pétur’s arms and held a knife against his throat, while Thorolf stood behind him, thrusting.
I was frozen in horror. Then Thorolf cried out and collapsed forward, panting. Both men laughed. Pétur lay as if dead, his eyes blank.
Bolli stood behind Pétur, untied his trousers, then spat onto his palm.
I ran forward, bellowing, and thrust my knife into Thorolf’s thigh. He screamed and crumpled, clutching his leg; Bolli yelled and jumped back, scrabbling about for his own knife, but he was too slow. I stabbed hard and Bolli’s shouts became gurgling yelps.
‘You’ve cut his throat!’ Thorolf lurched over to where Bolli lay gasping and holding his neck. Blood bubbled out over his fingers.
My own blood was sudden ice. Already, Bolli’s cries were weaker. I stepped towards Thorolf, who wept with fear and fumbled about until he found a stone.
‘I’ll bash your skull in!’ he snarled. Blood streamed from the gash in his leg.
I stopped short. It would have been easy, weakened as he was, to slit Thorolf’s throat and let him bleed to death too. I lifted my knife, then let it drop, shaking.
I crouched next to him. ‘If you live,’ I growled, ‘you will tell no one of my part in this. No one will believe anything you say. I will spread word that you are a sodomite – that I saw you mur
der Bolli. Run far away from here.’
Thorolf nodded mutely, but his breathing was shallow and rapid as he tried to crawl away. I had seen animals die from blood loss: further threats would be unnecessary.
I walked over to Pétur, who gazed up at me wide-eyed and unblinking. I reached to help him up; he growled and snapped his teeth at my hand, like some feral creature. I flinched. Perhaps he truly was more animal than human.
I eased my hand towards him, crooning, as if he were a wild dog. ‘Steady.’
Pétur stared at me. ‘I know you. You are Jón Eiríksson.’ His voice was deep and melodious, his words perfectly comprehensible.
‘I am.’
He nodded wearily, then lay again across the rock. ‘Be quick. I want bread and meat. And set your knife down, so you cannot stab me after.’
My mouth dropped open. ‘I would not . . .’ I raked my fingers through my hair. ‘Stand up.’ I turned away while he stood and pulled down his tunic.
Behind us, Thorolf breathed his last and slumped, his blood dripping off the rocks around him. My heart clamped in my chest. I had murdered a man. Two.
I swallowed, but my mouth was dry, and my heart was a clod of earth beneath my ribs. I closed my eyes and tried to mutter a prayer but could not force the words past the pain in my throat.
I felt a hand gripping my arm. Pétur’s face was close to mine. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered.
Rósa
Stykkishólmur, November 1686
After Pétur has picked up the key and wiped off the blood, he turns to Rósa and Páll.
‘I must give Jón more water. Stay here.’
Rósa worries that she has left some sign of her presence up there. But she cannot follow him without raising his suspicions.
He climbs the ladder and she imagines him in the dark room above, crouching next to Jón, walking over to the gyrfalcon, perhaps giving it a chick or a rat to eat.
She remembers the creature’s uncanny eyes upon her and shudders.
Páll sits next to her on the bench. ‘Pétur has told me what is in the loft room.’
Rósa starts but attempts to sound casual. ‘Oh?’
‘Some papers of Jón’s concerning the farm and the people here. He is particular about keeping them private and Pétur wants to follow his wishes.’
She opens her mouth to say more.
Pétur crashes down into the baðstofa, his cheeks the colour of curdled whey. Before they can ask, he snaps, ‘Jón is worse. Much worse. The wound . . .’ He lets out a cry of anguish and punches the croft wall so hard that one of the boards splits.
‘Show me.’ Rósa stands and walks to the ladder.
Pétur moves to block her way. ‘No, you cannot.’
‘Show me. He is my husband. Or would you let him die?’ She looks into Pétur’s strange eyes, aware that Páll is standing behind her, so close his breath brushes her neck.
‘Now!’ she growls, in a tone she has never heard from her mouth. ‘If you value his life.’
He closes his eyes, inhales, then climbs the ladder.
She follows, her legs shaking. Páll is behind her.
The loft door is open and the room is as dark as before. Pétur lights a candle and the flickering flame throws shadows up the walls. It is impossible to see into the gloom at the far end of the loft, to the crib and the gyrfalcon.
Jón’s rattling gasps fill the room. His skin is paler than it had been earlier and is pulled tightly over his bones.
But before she can go to him, Pétur mutters, ‘Stay here.’ Then he takes a woollen blanket and drops it in the corner, in the shadows beyond the candle flame, near to the crib and the gyrfalcon. The gesture seems too odd to be motiveless. She squints into the darkness. The floor, half hidden by the blanket, is scored with deep grooves. As though something has been carved into the wood.
Pétur stares at her, as if daring her to ask, then says, ‘Stay in this part of the loft. No questions.’ Then he beckons her and kneels beside Jón. Her husband is slick with sweat. His blank eyes roll back in his head and he whimpers.
She kneels beside Pétur. The wound seeps a pinkish liquid and bulges horribly every time Jón inhales. Páll brings fresh moss tea and linen, but they all watch helplessly as his breathing becomes more shallow and rapid and Rósa realizes that she has argued her way into her husband’s loft simply to watch him die.
There is a sudden flare of white in the darkness.
Páll leaps up, wide-eyed. ‘What was that?’
‘Nothing,’ replies Pétur, looking narrowly at Rósa. And she knows she should have jumped, should have reacted somehow, but it is too late.
‘There is something there,’ Páll hisses. The gyrfalcon flutters its wings again. ‘There, look!’ Páll steps further into the loft.
‘Don’t move!’ barks Pétur. ‘Rósa?’ His gaze is hard.
She swallows, then closes her eyes and whispers, ‘It sounds like . . . like a bird.’
Pétur leans towards her, his breath hot on her face. He whispers fast and low, so that Páll cannot hear, ‘What have you seen?’
Rósa’s heart batters frantically in her ribcage as she thinks of the clothing, the letters, the stones . . . the crib. She turns to Páll, her face smooth, her voice level. ‘There is a bird. A gyrfalcon. It is easily startled. You should stay away.’
‘A gyrfalcon?’ Páll’s voice is full of wonder. ‘I would like to see –’
Pétur’s whole body is rigid.
‘No. You will frighten it,’ Rósa says. ‘Now, come and help me hold this cloth over Jón’s wound.’
Páll hesitates, then sits next to Rósa, casting a reluctant glance in the direction of the bird.
Pétur’s body uncoils and he gives a low chuckle as he stands. ‘Sensible man, Páll. It is a dangerous bird and tends to go for the eyes. Valuable creature, though. I would not want it to attack you: it is more worthwhile to preserve the bird’s wings than your face.’ He laughs again, but Páll’s eyes are flint.
Pétur’s lip curls. No one moves for six heartbeats.
Then Rósa puts a hand on Páll’s arm, indicates the cloth, and he takes it. His hands shudder with repressed rage.
Pétur turns away, then moves into the darkness at the back of the loft.
Rósa and Páll look at one another and listen to Pétur’s crooning as he approaches the bird. Then there is the sound of objects being moved – the rasp of linen, the flutter of paper, the rattle of stones.
Páll’s eyes are wide, but Rósa has no answer for his questions – or no answer that will not make him launch himself at Pétur or think her a madwoman.
Time slews past. They watch the flickering shadows and listen to the rattle of Jón’s teeth, observing the judder of his muscles; they avoid looking at one another. At some point, Rósa dozes, her chin on her chest, but she jolts awake.
Pétur is standing over her, his expression grim. His hand is at his belt and, for a moment, his are the eyes of the creature that will rip out her throat. His gaze is implacable, brutal, like that of the gyrfalcon, which has no feeling but only the compulsion to kill. She shakes her head minutely. No! Please, no! She opens her mouth, but she can’t gather the breath for speech. He watches her for three shuddering inhalations, until she looks away. Then he returns to sponging Jón’s forehead.
Páll stirs, glances at Pétur, then flashes Rósa a quick smile, which she can’t return: her face is a frozen mask.
Pétur rubs his face with his hands and stands. ‘The animals . . . And the path must be cleared again. Páll, come.’
‘I’ll stay with Rósa.’
‘You will come with me.’ Pétur’s voice is flat and hard. To Rósa, he says, ‘If Jón worsens, you will find me.’
Rósa almost asks, ‘And what will you do then?’ But Pétur’s face as he looks at Jón is so desolate that she merely nods.
Pétur throws himself into the snow again; after casting a last brief, desperate glance at Rósa, Páll follows. The world is a blizzar
d-blurred huddle of white drifts and blank hillocks, made of nothing more than ice and air. Everything has reduced to an arm’s length away, as if life beyond the croft no longer exists. Rósa watches from the doorway, shivering: the men are shadowy outlines within two paces. Within four, the snow has swallowed them.
Rósa knits, hoping the clacking of her needles will cover Jón’s wheezing, but she cannot stop herself waiting for every new breath. She wants to go to the gyrfalcon again, to see that strange collection of objects, but her limbs are as immobile as rock.
Jón’s exhalations grate with the groaning wind and he hunches like a child curled around the cramping pains of a stomach sickness. She lays a hand on his shoulder. His flesh is scorching. She presses a cloth to his forehead, then wipes it over his cheeks, his chin and his chest.
There is a startling intimacy in these movements. This is the man who has lain atop her and possessed her. And yet it is as if she is touching him for the first time, feeling his hot skin, examining the pitted and knotted scars that mark his chest and back. What made him bleed so that his skin has never healed, but has formed these ridged calluses?
She brushes back the hair from his face. He looks small and shrunken.
Slowly, she presses her mouth to one of the scars on his chest. Beneath her lips, she can feel the strain and clamp of his heart, the heave of his lungs within the cavern of his ribcage.
He twitches. She jumps back, but he doesn’t wake.
Deep in the darkness, the bird ruffles its feathers; Rósa startles again. The gyrfalcon shrieks and Rósa shivers, thinking of the other myths about gyrfalcons: once, long ago, the plump ptarmigan and the gyrfalcon hunter were sisters, but in a flash of vicious rage, the gyrfalcon murdered her flightless sister and devoured her. Then the gyrfalcon gave an anguished cry, which echoed across the land. The gyrfalcon has hunted the ptarmigan ever since. She shrieks because she cannot help but be a murderer.
Rósa’s legs are stiff and she is filled with a creeping dread, but she takes the candle, stands and walks towards the bird, as if tugged by some invisible thread.
With each step, her fear blossoms. Four paces away from the gyrfalcon, she stops, looking for the objects she had seen previously.