The Glass Woman

by Caroline Lea

  ‘You know that was not true.’

  He licks his lips. ‘Not true? Then she is alive?’ He eyes the knife. ‘But you are angry. You must not shout at me, Jón, if you cannot keep your own wife.’

  ‘She appeared in Stykkishólmur.’ I watch his face. ‘Some weeks past.’ I pause. ‘Do you not wish to know where she has been between times?’

  His hands clench, but he says nothing.

  ‘She had been here, in Thingvellir,’ I hiss, watching his expression carefully. ‘All that time, I thought her dead. Yet she was sheltering here. With you.’

  His eyes widen. ‘She was not! I have not seen her since you married her.’ He is a skilled storyteller, his face full of shocked innocence. ‘Believe me, Jón.’

  ‘Lies!’ I put the knife to his throat and press inwards, hard enough that I can feel the hammer of his pulse echoing up the blade and into my hand. ‘God hates liars, Oddur. Will you die with the burden of deceit to add to your other evils?’

  His eyes roll and his breath comes in gasps. ‘I swear I have not seen her.’ He gulps. ‘The knife . . . it pains me.’

  I press harder. ‘Who fathered that child?’

  He blinks and stares, so I increase the pressure on the knife again. I feel his skin break, and a drop of blood trickles down the blade.

  ‘Who?’

  He gulps. ‘What child? I know nothing of a child. Don’t hurt me, Jón.’ He begins to weep.

  I slump and drop the knife. ‘She was not here?’

  Oddur rubs his throat. ‘She returned to you safely, you say?’ he whispers. ‘And . . . the child?’

  ‘They are both dead,’ I snarl. ‘The child was crosswise in the womb and misshapen. It had to be cut from her. Anna bled to death.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ His face sags and his voice cracks. ‘Did she suffer?’

  ‘Yes.’ A fierce rage bubbles up in me – I see no need to spare Oddur. ‘She was fearful and in agony.’

  ‘I had hoped . . .’ He draws a shuddering breath.

  ‘How do you dare to weep for her? You made her miserable and desperate.’

  ‘Do not try to blame me.’

  ‘You poisoned her childhood.’ I indicate his broken-down croft.

  ‘If you must place fault, then look to yourself, Jón.’

  My mouth drops open.

  He leans forward, his pouchy face eager and sweating. ‘What sort of man makes his wife so desperate that she abandons him?’

  I shake my head. ‘You neglected her.’

  ‘I neglected her?’ He laughs. ‘You did, Jón. She longed for a child, but –’

  ‘Do not push me, Oddur.’

  ‘You want truth?’ he sneers. ‘You drove her from your bed because you are no man. I hear you cannot have a child because your eyes look elsewhere. I hear –’

  I strike him before the thought has even occurred to me. His head snaps backwards and my knuckles sting. I expect rage, but he smiles, and I long to punch him again and again, until his face is a bloody pulp.

  But my old restraint takes over. I steady myself and force out a slow breath.

  Oddur chuckles quietly. ‘Your blood is too thin for violence, goði.’

  I imagine taking my second knife from my belt and slitting the man’s throat. But before I can move, Oddur surges forward and knocks the knife from my grasp; it clatters into the dark. Then he launches himself at me. His bulk sends me crashing to the floor, and before I can draw breath, he is atop me, grunting.

  He brings up his bound hands and fixes a meaty paw about my throat. I cannot breathe. I try to clout him, but it is like lifting the crushing weight of the ocean. Every movement threatens to rip open my stomach wound.

  The strength drains from my muscles; darkness creeps into my vision. I buck my whole body in one final, desperate attempt to shift him. The wound in my stomach radiates pain. My world shrinks, then dims. I know that I will die with Oddur’s face filling my gaze. I try to pray, but God is silent.

  Then, suddenly, my scrabbling hand finds my belt – and my second knife. I use the last of my strength to roll a little to one side and grab it.

  He leans in close, his expression one of growing menace as he feels me weakening. And his face, in that moment, reminds me not of my pabbi’s but of my own: haunted, terrified and distorted with hatred. From deep within the heart’s still pool, I feel the twist of that frayed old rope of revulsion and fear.

  ‘You are as weak as she said.’ Oddur laughs. ‘A miserable worm, that’s how she said you were.’

  The words ring through me. The same words Anna had used: miserable worm. But how had he known, unless . . . The knowledge sinks into me like a sharpened blade: she had returned here.

  My rage gives me the sudden strength I need to force him off me. He rolls to one side, his trussed hands underneath him. He is laughing still. I press my blade against his neck again.

  ‘She was here! Admit it, or I stab you now.’

  He hesitates then nods. ‘She crept into my croft one night, not long after the Solstice.’

  ‘And you hid her?’

  He nods again.

  ‘Why did she leave?’ A creeping dread prickles my scalp. I can already imagine what Oddur would have demanded as payment for shelter and silence.

  His eyes flick left and right and his tongue wets his lips. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Liar!’ I cuff him about the head and he grunts. ‘You wanted her. Did you force her?’

  He shakes his head, but not before I see his eyes widen and, in that moment, like a glimpse into a stinking crypt, I know I’ve seen the truth.

  I collapse back against the wall, retching. My wife so feared me that she had returned to this?

  I look up at him slowly. ‘When you saw she was with child, you sent her back to me?’

  ‘How could I have kept a child hidden?’

  My thoughts unspool. He had sent her out into the snow, weak and with child as she was. He had sent her to her death.

  He smiles at me. It is like a gaping chasm opening up in the earth. ‘She is better off dead, Jón. You must know that. You are safe from rumours, and I am free from whatever poison the little slut might have whispered.’

  I roar and cuff him. His head snaps back and I hit him again. And then again.

  He laughs.

  After confessing to his villainy, then learning of Anna’s death and the baby, he laughs.

  Some age-old savagery surges through me and, suddenly, I cannot stop. I pick up a hearthstone and slam it into his face.

  There is a crunch and his laughter is cut off. I pound the rock against his skull and am filled with a fierce, wild exultation, as if I am God’s own hand, beating down the devil that has plagued the world for so long.

  I throw the rock to one side and stagger backwards, away from his bleeding, twitching form. My wound has broken open and my seeping blood mingles with his. I lean against the wall, shaking, and watch him until he stops moving.

  My veins buzz with fierce life and I think of Anna’s smile, half-wild, as she was when I first met her. And over the sound of my ragged breathing, I think I hear the sound of her laughter.

  ‘God speed,’ I whisper.

  I sit with Oddur until his body is cold, until my muscles have stiffened and I can see the black imprints of his hand burgeoning under my skin.

  A grey, gloomy light seeps into the room. I stand and stretch my aching limbs, then walk back up towards my cave. My body is racked with exhaustion but my thoughts soar above, weightless.

  Someone will find me, Egill’s men or the outraged people of Thingvellir. And I will lay my head upon the block without protest.

  Rósa

  Stykkishólmur, November 1686

  In the days after Anna’s sea burial, a muzzled, threatening peace encloses the croft. Pétur and Jón talk in strained whispers, falling silent if they note Rósa listening.

  Jón sees her watching and raises his eyebrows. ‘You know how to be silent, Rósa? If they return? The danger
otherwise. For all of us. For you . . .’

  She nods. If. She tries not to imagine Páll’s body, frozen and ice-laced in the snow. Every time the thought comes to her, she feels she might vomit.

  She cooks and sweeps and knits in a daze, unable to forget the slick heat of Anna’s blood, the way she had writhed and groaned in pain, the terror that had made caves of her dark eyes. She struggles out of shadowy dreams, sure her arms are weighted with the shrivelled little thing she had pulled from Anna’s body.

  When Jón notes her weeping, he squeezes her shoulder. Once, he kisses her cheek. But her soul is a stone, sealed within the rigid shell of her grief.

  Pétur says, ‘You did well, Rósa. She could not have been saved.’

  The words seem muffled, as if she is underwater, listening to his voice echoing from fathoms beneath the sea. His attempt at kindness cannot touch her.

  Outside, the snow continues to blow lazily from the sky and the wind sweeps over the croft, piling the whiteness into strange shapes: a mountain range of ice is growing up around them. Once, she would have marvelled at its threatening beauty; now she sits and imagines Katrín and Páll, freezing and starving in the blizzard.

  On the third day after Anna’s death, the snow stops, the wind drops, and the sun glows through the clouds. The world is bathed in an eye-stinging, orange luminosity.

  Rósa stands in the doorway, squinting at the bright beauty of the land.

  ‘They may yet be alive,’ Jón says, behind her.

  She turns, and he takes her hand. His rough fingers feel clumsy, but she does not pull away.

  ‘Remember, I warned you. If they return, you must . . .’ He sighs and his mouth crumples. His cheeks are sunken, his eyes red-rimmed. ‘You should not tell. It would distress Katrín and –’

  ‘I am not a fool.’ She turns away.

  All day, she stares out at the flat blank of snow, and all day it remains as empty as a sheet of parchment. Darkness drops early, and then she hears a cry from outside.

  Pétur and Jón both rush to the door. Then Pétur gives a shout of laughter. ‘The Lord bless that meddling old witch!’

  Rósa strains to see past them and, dimly, through the gloom, she can make out the shape of two people on horseback. Before them bustles a flock of bleating sheep and a herd of cows. Rósa’s whole body is suddenly numb. She cannot move and grips the door to stop herself falling.

  Jón and Pétur stride out to greet them, laughing.

  ‘How did you find the animals?’ Jón shouts. ‘Is that all of them? Are they unharmed? And the horses too! You will have people accusing you of seidr!’

  As they draw closer, they dismount. Katrín leans on Páll’s arm: she is limping and Páll has to half carry her. They are both haggard and gaunt and, in the spill of light from the croft, look like translucent spirits that have wandered from the hills.

  Rósa ushers them inside while Pétur shoos the animals into the barn.

  They sit, blinking at the orange warmth of the fire, flinching at the light.

  ‘It’s a miracle,’ Rósa chokes, pressing bowls of stew into their hands. They are shivering and their hands seem too stiff to hold the bowls. Rósa shakes Katrín’s shoulder. ‘Can you eat? Are you hurt?’ She can’t look at Páll’s drawn face. She recalls stories of people who return mad from the hills.

  Katrín coughs. ‘I can conjure myself a new leg.’ She directs a crooked smile at Jón, who rolls his eyes.

  Breathlessly then, between sips of stew, which Rósa spoons into their mouths, Katrín and Páll explain how they survived. They had started searching for the animals, and found them all together, far up on the hillside. It was already dark and they were exhausted, so they drove the animals to a cave Katrín knew. They ate strips of dried fish and smoked mutton, and the beasts licked the moss from the sides of the cave.

  ‘They were so hungry, I thought they might turn carnivore,’ Páll says.

  He is safe. He is alive. Rósa’s legs are shaking. She almost reaches out to take Páll’s hand, but Jón is watching them thoughtfully.

  Pétur is standing in the doorway. ‘You are as strong as the ice, Katrín – stronger.’

  Katrín’s expression is suddenly calculating. ‘We thought we saw you, Pétur. On that first day, when I feared we would become lost and freeze. Do you remember, Páll? I saw a figure, broad as you are, Pétur, dark and tall. But when we called, the man turned back down the hill.’

  Pétur’s face is smooth. ‘The snow makes all manner of monsters appear real. Still, you are safe now. Have more stew. You must warm your bones.’

  He ducks his head and busies himself filling their bowls. But Rósa is suddenly wary. She remembers the time that she was alone with Anna, while Pétur was out on the hill, searching for Katrín and Páll. Surely he would not have left them to freeze.

  Pétur glances at Jón and inclines his head. The briefest of expressions, yet it sends Rósa’s heart thudding into her boots.

  He saw them! He saw them and walked away.

  If Pétur had been happy to watch Katrín and Páll walk to their deaths, then what would he do to them if they learned of Anna’s fate? She must never let them suspect the truth.

  And now, with the knowledge she has, Jón will certainly never allow her to leave. He wouldn’t be happy to pretend that she was dead, as he had done with Anna. He would hunt Rósa down and make sure of it.

  The day after the thaw begins, Jón and Pétur go to the barn to feed the animals, and Páll comes to find Rósa in the kitchen. He smiles when he sees her, but she turns away and his smile fades.

  ‘Let me help,’ he says, trying to take the dough from her.

  ‘No.’ She snatches it away. ‘You should be with the animals.’

  Go! she thinks. Please go.

  He stands dumbly, as if she has struck him.

  ‘Go to the barn, Páll – the men have need of you there. I have none.’

  She lets him leave, the sensation a rending of her own skin. And yet she cannot risk his kindness. She imagines Jón’s hot rage if he knew she had told him anything about Anna; she remembers the clench of his jaw when he’d reminded her of the need to be silent.

  This distance from Páll is for the best. Anything closer will crack her resolve.

  She pounds at the bread dough and draws a deep, shuddering breath.

  On the fifth night, Rósa is alone in the croft. Katrín and the men are in the barn. Tomorrow they will deliver food to the settlement and help to rebuild the crofts. Rósa is exhausted after spending the day baking loaf after loaf of rye bread. Their flour is almost gone, but Jón seems unconcerned. Rósa wonders if his generosity is born of guilt or the desire to increase the villagers’ debt to him.

  Rósa pulls the last loaf from the hloðir and sits down with her knitting. She hears footsteps outside the door. She expects to see Jón or Katrín, but it is Páll again.

  ‘I have finished,’ she says, before he can speak. She expects him to leave, but he stays in the doorway. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Don’t.’ He walks towards her, then stops in front of her.

  She raises her chin. ‘You must go.’ A burning measure of empty air separates her body from his. Then he takes her hand and pulls her close, leaning in so that his eyes are all she can see. ‘I . . .’ She pushes him away. ‘Please . . .’

  He releases her, then rubs his hands over his face. ‘I remember when I knew.’ His voice fractures. ‘When I was certain . . . that I loved you.’

  Her mouth is dry. She should stop him. If anyone overheard, these words would cost them their lives.

  Páll strokes her cheek. She flinches, but does not – cannot – move away.

  ‘We were twelve,’ he whispers.

  Twelve? He has loved her since then? But then, looking at him, she feels she has always known. He stares at her steadily.

  ‘It was the summer before I was to begin roofing with my pabbi,’ he says. ‘You were to stay at home with your father. You remember?’
r />   She nods and closes her eyes. A summer spent in the open, beneath the watchful sun, circling high above. Endless light; the gaping blue of the sky. And Páll. Swimming. Collecting bog bilberries – he had sneaked some into her tunic, then squeezed her so the purple fruit burst between them.

  They had pretended she was bleeding to death.

  We thought it funny for me to feign being stabbed, she thinks wryly. ‘It was perfect,’ she whispers. His face is close again. The set of his mouth as he smiles; the stubble on his chin; his warmth. Her skin tingles with it – her whole body hums, like one of the seashells she sometimes finds upon the beach. At first glance, they seem empty, but hold them to your ear and the echo of your throbbing blood will make them sing.

  He pulls at a strand of her hair. ‘You remember what it says in Laxdæla Saga about Gudrun Ósvífrsdóttir – the most beautiful woman in Iceland, and no less clever than she was good-looking. The Saga is wrong. You are.’

  ‘I am . . . what?’

  ‘The most beautiful woman in Iceland.’

  ‘It is cruel to mock.’

  His face is grave. ‘And you are twice as clever as you are good-looking.’

  She turns her head away. ‘I am not. And you are a flatterer.’

  ‘I am an honest man.’ He leans towards her.

  She pulls away. ‘I am –’ She is what? Married? A deceiver? A killer?

  Her stomach jolts as she remembers Anna’s blood. So much blood. ‘I can’t –’

  ‘I know.’ His voice is heavy, wretched.

  She can feel his breath on her skin, can feel the thrum of his heart. It would be the most natural thing, to hold him. Falling is easy – the constant pull of the earth tugs her ever downwards. She should leave. She should make him go. She should cry out for her husband. She reaches for his hand, holds it against her cheek and closes her eyes. ‘I am so sorry.’ And she barely knows to whom she is apologizing, or for what. But those words crack something inside her. She lays her hand upon his chest.

  Under her open palm, his body vibrates with life.

  And his breath is hot. And he kisses her mouth, her cheeks, her nose, her hair, her eyelids, her throat. Between each kiss he says, ‘Never . . . leave . . . my . . . side.’