When she was back in bed, the word of Thorgunna came to her mind, that these things were for no use but to be shown. Here she had the brooch and the shame of it, and might not wear it. So all night she quaked with the fear of discovery, and wept tears of rage that she should have sinned in vain. Day came, and and must rise; but she went about the house like a crazy woman. She saw the eyes of Asdis rest on her strangely, and at that she beat the maid. She scolded the house folk, and, by her way of it, nothing was done aright. First she was loving to her husband and made much of him, thinking to be on his good side when trouble came. Then she took a better way, picked a feud with him, and railed on the poor man till his ears rang, so that he might be in the wrong beforehand. The brooch she hid without, in the side of a hayrick.
All this while Thorgunna lay in the bed-place, which was not her way, for by custom she was early astir. At last she came forth, and there was that in her face that made all the house look one at the other and the heart of and to be straitened. Never a word the guest spoke, not a bite she swallowed, and they saw the strong shudderings take and shake her in her place. Yet a little, and still without speech, back she went into her bed-place, and the door was shut.
‘That is a sick wife,’ said Finnward. ‘Her weird has come on her.’
And at that the heart of and was lifted up with hope.
All day Thorgunna lay on her bed, and the next day sent for Finnward.
‘Finnward Keelfarer,’ said she, ‘my trouble is come upon me, and I am at the end of my days.’
He made the customary talk.
‘I have had my good things; now my hour is come; and let suffice,’ quoth she. ‘I did not send for you to hear your prating.’
Finnward knew not what to answer, for he saw her soul was dark.
‘I sent for you on needful matters,’ she began again. ‘I die here — I! — in this black house, in a bleak island, far from all decency and proper ways of men; and now my treasure must be left. Small pleasure have I had of it, and leave it with the less!’ cried she.
‘Good woman, as the saying is, needs must,’ says Finnward, for he was nettled with that speech.
‘For that I called you,’ quoth Thorgunna. ‘In these two chests are much wealth and things greatly to be desired. I wish my body to be laid in Skalaholt in the new church, where I trust to hear the mass-priests singing over my head so long as time endures. To that church I will you to give what is sufficient, leaving your conscience judge it. My scarlet cloak with the silver, I will to that poor fool your wife. She longed for it so bitterly, I may not even now deny her. Give her the brooch as well. I warn you of her; I was such as she, only wiser; I warn you, the ground she stands upon is water, and whoso trusts her leans on rottenness. I hate her and I pity her. When she comes to lie where I lie—’ There she broke off. ‘The rest of my goods I leave to your black-eyed maid, young Asdis, for her slim body and clean mind. Only the things of my bed, you shall see burned.’
‘It is well,’ said Finnward.
‘It may be well,’ quoth she, ‘if you obey. My life has been a wonder to all and a fear to many. While I lived none thwarted me and prospered. See to it that none thwart me after I am dead. It stands upon your safety.’
‘It stands upon my honour,’ quoth Finnward, ‘and I have the name of an honourable man.’
‘You have the name of a weak one,’ says Thorgunna. ‘Look to it, look to it, Finnward. Your house shall rue it else.’
‘The rooftree of my house is my word,’ said Finnward.
‘And that is a true saying,’ says the woman. ‘See to it, then. The speech of Thorgunna is ended.’
With that she turned her face against the wall and Finnward left her.
The same night, in the small hours of the clock, Thorgunna passed. It was a wild night for summer, and the wind sang about the eaves and clouds covered the moon, when the dark woman wended. From that day to this no man has learned her story or her people’s name; but be sure the one was stormy and the other great. She had come to that isle, a waif woman, on a ship; thence she flitted, and no more remained of her but her heavy chests and her big body.
In the morning the house women streaked and dressed the corpse. Then came Finnward, and carried the sheets and curtains from the house, and caused build a fire upon the sands. But and had an eye on her man’s doings.
‘And what is this that you are at?’ said she.
So he told her.
‘Burn the good sheets!’ she cried. ‘And where would I be with my two hands? No, troth,’ said Aud, ‘not so long as your wife is above ground!’
‘Goodwife,’ said Finnward, ‘this is beyond your province. Here is my word pledged and the woman dead I pledged it to. So much the more am I bound. Let me be doing as I must, goodwife.’
‘Tilly-valley!’ says she, ‘and a fiddlestick’s end, goodman! You may know well about fishing and be good at shearing sheep, for what I know; but you are little of a judge of damask sheets. And the best word I can say is just this,’ she says, laying hold of one end of the goods, ‘that if ye are made up to burn the plenishing, you must burn your wife along with it.’
‘I trust it will not go so hard,’ says Finnward, ‘and I beg you not to speak so loud and let the housefolk hear you.’
‘Let them speak low that are ashamed!’ cries Aud. ‘I speak only in reason.’
‘You are to consider that the woman died in my house,’ says Finnward, ‘and this was her last behest. In truth, goodwife, if I were to fail, it is a thing that would stick long in my throat, and would give us an ill name with the neighbours.’
‘And you are to consider,’ says she, ‘that I am your true wife and worth all the witches ever burnt, and loving her old husband’ — here she put her arms about his neck. ‘And you are to consider that what you wish to do is to destroy fine stuff, such as we have no means of replacing; and that she bade you do it singly to spite me, for I sought to buy this bedding from her while she was alive at her own price; and that she hated me because I was young and handsome.’
‘That is a true word that she hated you, for she said so herself before she wended,’ says Finnward.
‘So that here is an old fagot that hated me, and she dead as a bucket,’ says Aud; ‘and here is a young wife that loves you dear, and is alive forby’ — and at that she kissed him— ‘and the point is, which are you to do the will of?’
The man’s weakness caught him hard, and he faltered. ‘I fear some hurt will come of it,’ said he.
There she cut in, and bade the lads tread out the fire, and the lasses roll the bed-stuff up and carry it within.
‘My dear,’ says he, ‘my honour — this is against my honour.’
But she took his arm under hers, and caressed his hand, and kissed his knuckles, and led him down the bay. ‘Bubble-bubble-bubble!’ says she, imitating him like a baby, though she was none so young. ‘Bubble-bubble, and a silly old man! We must bury the troll wife, and here is trouble enough, and a vengeance! Horses will sweat for it before she comes to Skalaholt; ’tis my belief she was a man in a woman’s habit. And so now, have done, goodman, and let us get her waked and buried, which is more than she deserves, or her old duds are like to pay for. And when that is ended, we can consult upon the rest.’
So Finnward was but too well pleased to put it off.
The next day they set forth early for Skalaholt across the heaths. It was heavy weather, and grey overhead; the horses sweated and neighed, and the men went silent, for it was nowhere in their minds that the dead wife was canny. Only and talked by the way, like a silly seagull piping on a cliff, and the rest held their peace. The sun went down before they were across Whitewater; and the black night fell on them this side of Netherness. At Netherness they beat upon the door. The goodman was not abed nor any of his folk, but sat in the hall talking; and to them Finnward made clear his business.
‘I will never deny you a roof,’ said the goodman of Netherness. ‘But I have no food ready, and if you cannot be
doing without meat, you must e’en fare farther.’
They laid the body in a shed, made fast their horses, and came into the house, and the door was closed again. So there they sat about the lights, and there was little said for they were none so well pleased with their reception. Presently, in the place where the food was kept, began a clattering of dishes; and it fell to a bondman of the house to go and see what made the clatter. He was no sooner gone than he was back again; and told it was a big, buxom woman, high in flesh and naked as she was born, setting meats upon a dresser. Finnward grew pale as the dawn; he got to his feet, and the rest rose with him, and all the party of the funeral came to the buttery-door. And the dead Thorgunna took no heed of their coming, but went on setting forth meats, and seemed to talk with herself as she did so; and she was naked to the buff.
Great fear fell upon them; the marrow of their back grew cold. Not one word they spoke, neither good nor bad; but back into the hall, and down upon their bended knees, and to their prayers.
‘Now in the name of God, what ails you?’ cried the goodman of Netherness.
And when they had told him, shame fell upon him for his churlishness.
‘The dead wife reproves me,’ said the honest man.
And he blessed himself and his house, and caused spread the tables, and they all ate of the meats that the dead wife laid out.
This was the first walking of Thorgunna, and it is thought by good judges it would have been the last as well, if men had been more wise.
The next day they came to Skalaholt, and there was the body buried, and the next after they set out for home. Finnward’s heart was heavy, and his mind divided. He feared the dead wife and the living; he feared dishonour and he feared dispeace; and his will was like a seagull in the wind. Now he cleared his throat and made as if to speak; and at that and cocked her eye and looked at the goodman, mocking, and his voice died unborn. At the last, shame gave him courage.
‘Aud,’ said he, ‘you was a most uncanny thing at Netherness.’
‘No doubt,’ said Aud.
‘I have never had it in my mind,’ said he, ‘that you woman was the thing she should be.’
‘I daresay not,’ said Aud. ‘I never thought so either.’
‘It stands beyond question she was more than canny,’ says Finnward, shaking his head. ‘No manner of doubt but what she was ancient of mind.’
‘She was getting pretty old in body, too,’ says Aud.
‘Wife,’ says he, ‘it comes in upon me strongly this is no kind of woman to disobey; above all, being dead and her walking. I think, wife, we must even do as she commanded.’
‘Now what is ever your word?’ says she, riding up close and setting her hand upon his shoulder. ‘“The goodwife’s pleasure must be done”; is not that my Finnward?’
‘The good God knows I grudge you nothing,’ cried Finnward. ‘But my blood runs cold upon this business. Worse will come of it!’ he cried, ‘worse will flow from it!’
‘What is this to do?’ cries Aud. ‘Here is an old brimstone hag that should have been stoned with stones, and hated me besides. Vainly she tried to frighten me when she was living; shall she frighten me now when she is dead and rotten? I trow not. Think shame to your beard, goodman! Are these a man’s shoes I see you shaking in, when your wife rides by your bridle-hand, as bold as nails?’
‘Ay, ay,’ quoth Finnward. ‘But there goes a byword in the country: Little wit, little fear.’
At this and began to be concerned, for he was usually easier to lead. So now she tried the other method on the man.
‘Is that your word?’ cried she. ‘I kiss the hands of ye! If I have not wit enough, I can rid you of my company. Wit is it he seeks?’ she cried. ‘The old broomstick that we buried yesterday had wit for you.’
So she rode on ahead and looked not the road that he was on.
Poor Finnward followed on his horse, but the light of the day was gone out, for his wife was like his life to him. He went six miles and was true to his heart; but the seventh was not half through when he rode up to her.
‘Is it to be the goodwife’s pleasure?’ she asked.
‘Aud, you shall have your way,’ says he; ‘God grant there come no ill of it!’
So she made much of him, and his heart was comforted.
When they came to the house, and had the two chests to her own bed-place, and gloated all night on what she found. Finnward looked on, and trouble darkened his mind.
‘Wife,’ says he at last, ‘you will not forget these things belong to Asdis?’
At that she barked upon him like a dog.
‘Am I a thief?’ she cried. ‘The brat shall have them in her turn when she grows up. Would you have me give her them now to turn her minx’s head with?’
So the weak man went his way out of the house in sorrow and fell to his affairs. Those that wrought with him that day observed that now he would labour and toil like a man furious, and now would sit and stare like one stupid; for in truth he judged the business would end ill.
For a while there was no more done and no more said. and cherished her treasures by herself, and none was the wiser except Finnward. Only the cloak she sometimes wore, for that was hers by the will of the dead wife; but the others she let lie, because she knew she had them foully, and she feared Finnward somewhat and Thorgunna much.
At last husband and wife were bound to bed one night, and he was the first stripped and got in.
‘What sheets are these?’ he screamed, as his legs touched them, for these were smooth as water, but the sheets of Iceland were like sacking.
‘Clean sheets, I suppose,’ says Aud, but her hand quavered as she wound her hair.
‘Woman!’ cried Finnward, ‘these are the bed-sheets of Thorgunna — these are the sheets she died in! do not lie to me!’
At that and turned and looked at him. ‘Well?’ says she, ‘they have been washed.’
Finnward lay down again in the bed between Thorgunna’s sheets, and groaned; never a word more he said, for now he knew he was a coward and a man dishonoured. Presently his wife came beside him, and they lay still, but neither slept.
It might be twelve in the night when and felt Finnward shudder so strong that the bed shook.
‘What ails you?’ said she.
‘I know not,’ he said. ‘It is a chill like the chill of death. My soul is sick with it.’ His voice fell low. ‘It was so Thorgunna sickened,’ said he. And he arose and walked in the hall in the dark till it came morning.
Early in the morning he went forth to the sea-fishing with four lads. and was troubled at heart and watched him from the door, and even as he went down the beach she saw him shaken with Thorgunna’s shudder. It was a rough day, the sea was wild, the boat laboured exceedingly, and it may be that Finnward’s mind was troubled with his sickness. Certain it is that they struck, and their boat was burst, upon a skerry under Snowfellness. The four lads were spilled into the sea, and the sea broke and buried them, but Finnward was cast upon the skerry, and clambered up, and sat there all day long: God knows his thoughts. The sun was halfway down, when a shepherd went by on the cliffs about his business, and spied a man in the midst of the breach of the loud seas, upon a pinnacle of reef. He hailed him, and the man turned and hailed again. There was in that cove so great a clashing of the seas and so shrill a cry of sea-fowl that the herd might hear the voice and not the words. But the name Thorgunna came to him, and he saw the face of Finnward Keelfarer like the face of an old man. Lively ran the herd to Finnward’s house; and when his tale was told there, Eyolf the boy was lively to out a boat and hasten to his father’s aid. By the strength of hands they drove the keel against the seas, and with skill and courage Eyolf won upon the skerry and climbed up. There sat his father dead; and this was the first vengeance of Thorgunna against broken faith.
It was a sore job to get the corpse on board, and a sorer yet to bring it home before the rolling seas. But the lad Eyolf was a lad of promise, and the lads that pulled for him we
re sturdy men. So the break-faith’s body was got home, and waked, and buried on the hill. and was a good widow and wept much, for she liked Finnward well enough. Yet a bird sang in her ears that now she might marry a young man. Little fear that she might have her choice of them, she thought, with all Thorgunna’s fine things; and her heart was cheered.
Now, when the corpse was laid in the hill, Asdis came where and sat solitary in hall, and stood by her a while without speech.
‘Well, child?’ says Aud; and again ‘Well?’ and then ‘Keep us holy, if you have anything to say, out with it!’
So the maid came so much nearer. ‘Mother,’ says she, ‘I wish you would not wear these things that were Thorgunna’s.’
‘Aha,’ cries Aud. ‘This is what it is? You begin early, brat! And who has been poisoning your mind? Your fool of a father, I suppose.’ And then she stopped and went all scarlet. ‘Who told you they were yours?’ she asked again, taking it all the higher for her stumble. ‘When you are grown, then you shall have your share, and not a day before. These things are not for babies.’
The child looked at her and was amazed. ‘I do not wish them,’ she said. ‘I wish they might be burned.’
‘Upon my word, what next?’ cried Aud. ‘And why should they be burned?’
‘I know my father tried to burn these things,’ said Asdis, ‘and he named Thorgunna’s name upon the skerry ere he died. And, O mother, I doubt they have brought ill luck.’
But the more and was terrified, the more she would make light of it.
Then the girl put her hand upon her mother’s. ‘I fear they are ill come by,’ said she.
The blood sprang in Aud’s face. ‘And who made you a judge upon your mother that bore you?’ cried she.
‘Kinswoman,’ said Asdis, looking down, ‘I saw you with the brooch.’
‘What do you mean? When? Where did you see me?’ cried the mother.
Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson Page 394