The Girl Who Died

by Ragnar Jónasson

  ‘Oh, him. He’s gone,’ Hjördís replied. ‘He only spent the one night with us. He was just someone who used to be at school with me. I hardly know him. The cheeky bugger scrounged a free bed for the night. He was asking about the history of the place, what it was like in the old days when the army was here, and so on. I did my best.’ Her smile looked rather forced. ‘But history’s not my strong point, to be honest.’

  ‘Do you do that sort of thing much – rent out rooms, I mean?’ Una asked.

  ‘Yes, every now and then, in summer mainly. There’s not much else in the way of accommodation here in the village, but I’ve got plenty of room, and Thór’s in the guesthouse, so the visitors don’t get in his way.’ After a moment, she elaborated: ‘Running a farmstay is a way of earning a bit on the side, but this place is too far off the beaten track ever to be very popular. If it weren’t for the old radar station, I don’t suppose anyone would be interested in visiting us.’ She sighed.

  ‘Una, Una!’ It was Gudrún calling. ‘Could you come here a minute and give me a hand with these decorations?’

  Una got up and went over. She wasn’t sure if Gudrún really needed help or if the purpose was to make her feel involved by throwing her a last-minute sop.

  Gudrún handed her a box of old Christmas decorations, a motley collection of little Santa Clauses and other odds and ends. ‘Could you arrange these by the entrance? She pointed to a small table by the door. ‘I completely forgot. These are things that have collected in the church over the years and we always put them out during Advent.’

  Things nobody wants, Una thought to herself, but smiled at Gudrún. ‘Of course.’

  She tried to arrange them tastefully but some of the Santa Clauses were so old and battered that they wouldn’t stand up and none of the ornaments were in very good nick.

  ‘Could someone help me with the door?’

  Una recognized the loud, bass voice immediately. Guffi had materialized behind her, having entered the church quietly, though he was certainly making sure he was heard now. Ignoring him, she concentrated on arranging the ornaments. She had no desire to help him. Her visit to his house had left her feeling so intimidated that she had steered clear of him ever since. But his brooding presence seemed to hang over the village. Every time she walked past his house she felt as if hostile eyes were watching her, and from the way the locals talked about him, she felt as if he controlled everything.

  ‘Una.’ She felt a hard prod at her shoulder.

  Swinging round, she saw him standing there, scowling. ‘Una, give me a hand,’ he demanded gruffly. ‘I need someone to hold the door open for me.’

  Only now did she notice the thin, pale woman in the wheelchair sitting outside in the cold; Guffi’s wife, presumably. Una had never seen her before. She smiled tentatively at the woman, whose hollow-cheeked, heavily lined face creased in an answering smile. She looked exhausted.

  Una held the door open while Guffi manoeuvred the wheelchair with difficulty through the narrow gap, then positioned his wife at the back of the church, behind the pews, which seemed to be the only practical solution. After this, he briefly disappeared. Una stood beside the woman, feeling awkward, then held out her hand: ‘I’m Una.’

  ‘Yes, I know, dear,’ the woman replied in a low voice. ‘I’m Erika.’ Salka had mentioned that Erika must be at least ten years older than Guffi, but from her appearance the age gap could easily have been twenty.

  Una waited for Erika to add something, or ask a question perhaps, but she just sat there in silence. Una didn’t like to march off and abandon her, so she remained where she was, and was relieved when Guffi finally returned, carrying a chair, and sat down beside his wife. He didn’t say a word to Una or give her so much as a glance.

  She hurried away and slipped into the back room, where she stole a pancake from the refreshment table and sat down in a corner to think about her place in the village.

  What on earth had she got herself into?

  Guffi had made it clear almost from day one that she didn’t belong here and now she couldn’t help feeling that he was right. She sat there and ate the pancake, glad to be alone. The concert was due to begin in a few minutes, but all she wanted was to disappear. Everyone was there except Salka and Edda. The stranger hadn’t shown up and hadn’t turned out to be mysterious either. Perhaps deep down she had been hoping that he would do something to shake up life in the village.

  She waited. At least she wasn’t missing anything. The show couldn’t begin without Salka and Edda, one to sing, the other to accompany the girls on the organ. Perhaps she should go out and sit down beside Thór again. It was so frustrating that Gudrún had called her away to deal with those stupid decorations. Although Una hadn’t a clue what to say to Thór, sitting beside him had felt good. In fact, the prospect of seeing him had been the only reason she had been at all excited about this evening. No doubt there would be a chance to talk to him later – perhaps even to get him in private. Hjördís’s presence was an inhibiting factor, though. Una had sensed, not for the first time, that the other woman took a possessive interest in Thór, despite his claim that they were just good friends.

  She made up her mind to catch him, as soon as Hjördís took her eyes off him. The tradition was to hold an after-party in the church, where the villagers could socialize as they tucked into the refreshments Gudrún had provided. If the pancake Una had pinched was anything to go by, they were in for a treat.

  She rose to her feet. Best go and reclaim her seat. Maybe she’d think of some witty remark to whisper in Thór’s ear. Anyway, nothing could be more natural than for her, as the girls’ teacher, to sit in the front row.

  The programme consisted of three carols, each more beautiful than the last: first two traditional Icelandic songs, ‘One Fine Night’ and ‘A Festival Entereth In’, then ‘Silent Night’ as the finale.

  As Una emerged into the nave, she almost collided with Salka and Edda. The little girl was looking lovely with her long fair hair hanging loose over a simple white dress, with a subtle decorative weave that glittered in the light of the candles. Edda smiled palely at Una, who suddenly had the disturbing feeling that she was looking at the girl in the old photograph. It must be an illusion created by the solemn atmosphere, the white dress, the blonde hair. They all combined to strike a chill into Una’s flesh, making her shiver just as she had when she awoke in the night with that lullaby echoing in her ears. For an instant she stood quite still, and so did the child in front of her. Meeting her gaze, Una had a disorientating sense that she was looking into the eyes of the girl in the picture, as if her ghost had returned to the village, half a century later, wearing the same white dress.

  Una closed her eyes for a moment, breaking the spell, then forced herself to greet the mother and daughter, looking only at Salka. ‘Nice to see you,’ she said weakly, then, drawing a deep breath: ‘You must be excited. It’s going to be a wonderful evening.’ She tried to force her trembling lips into a smile: ‘It’s going to be absolutely wonderful.’

  XX

  Una had reclaimed her seat beside Thór and Hjördís. Twice she had been on the point of speaking to him, racking her brains for something interesting or clever to say, but both times she had changed her mind at the last minute and gone on staring down at the floor or up at the altarpiece. Thór and Hjördís sat in silence as well, exchanging no comments. Perhaps they had long ago run out of things to say to each other.

  The keenly anticipated concert got off to a reasonably good start. Gudrún stood up unexpectedly at the beginning to say a few words. This should probably have been Una’s job, but no one had mentioned anything about it to her, and, to be fair to Gudrún, she did at least thank Una for her generous help with the preparations.

  Salka then played a beautiful piece on the organ, which was followed by a reading of the Christmas story from the Gospels, an honour which by custom fell to Guffi. He read the familiar text in a mumble, tripping over the words as if he had never seen
them before and completely failing to capture the Christmas spirit.

  And then at last it was the turn of the children’s choir, as Gudrún liked to call it, though to Una’s mind you couldn’t really use the word ‘choir’ for two people. But perhaps in a community as small as Skálar, different rules applied.

  Gudrún bobbed up again and this time invited Una to the front. Una shook her head, desperate to get out of the duty, but eventually let herself be persuaded and left her place, feeling the sweat break out on her forehead as she did so. She was used to standing in front of a group of children in the classroom, but not to public speaking on an occasion like this, especially not in the company of people with whom she had so little in common; where she didn’t feel welcome.

  After she had said a few, stumbling words, the girls walked slowly but confidently to the front, and Una threw them both an encouraging smile as she slipped back to her seat, though only Edda returned it. Kolbrún looked dour, as usual. Still, at least both girls seemed ready, and Una knew the audience wouldn’t be too critical. In fact, the girls couldn’t ask for a more sympathetic crowd. If their performance fell short in any way, no doubt the blame would be laid firmly at Una’s door. As the first notes emerged a little false, she felt her heart beating faster and sent up a fervent prayer that all would go well.

  The end of the first carol was greeted with thunderous applause, and the girls’ performance of the second was as good as Una could have hoped for. The clapping resounded around the little church even louder than before, and now it was not only Edda and her mother who were smiling but also, wonder of all wonders, Kolbrún too. Perhaps all the child needed to bring her out of her shell was a little more encouragement and attention than she was used to getting. Remembering her encounter with Kolbeinn, Una reflected that Kolbrún’s family life was bound to be overshadowed by the lack of affection in her parents’ marriage. She felt a wave of pity for the girl.

  The concert reached its height as Salka played the introduction to the final carol, ‘Silent Night’. The girls stood poised, their faces radiating pride and pleasure in their own performance. Then they raised their voices again, and this time they sang as one, looking angelic in their white dresses, their voices perfectly in time, and even Kolbrún managed to avoid any false notes. It felt as if the holy season had truly arrived in the little church in its tiny village on the edge of the ocean, with the warm, soft glow of the candles, the solemnity of the audience, and the carol resonating in the silence.

  Una found herself focusing on Edda. She knew she shouldn’t have a favourite out of her two pupils, but in her heart of hearts she was much fonder of Edda, with whom she had developed more of a rapport, whereas Kolbrún remained something of an enigma.

  Edda was looking curiously strained, but there was nothing wrong with her voice as it soared to the rafters:

  Glories stream from heaven afar

  Heavenly hosts sing …

  Abruptly, Edda stopped singing and stared at the audience, straight into Una’s eyes. She seemed to sway.

  Kolbrún kept going a little longer:

  … Alleluia …

  Then she too fell silent and turned her head to look at her classmate. After that she just stood there, frozen into immobility.

  Una was slow to react and for a moment it seemed as if no one else had realized that something was wrong. Then she leapt to her feet, but it was too late.

  The little girl crumpled and fell with a heavy thud on to the floor in front of the altar.

  Una’s eyes rose for an instant to the painting of Christ gazing down from the altarpiece, and now, at last, she could see what Salka meant: it did look as though he were reaching out to his flock, spreading his arms, trying to save Edda.

  Kolbrún screamed and ran, presumably into her parents’ waiting embrace, leaving Una alone beside Edda.

  The little girl was lying, deathly still, on the floor of the church.

  PART TWO

  I

  All around Una there was a babble of voices.

  Shouts.

  Cries.

  Salka was suddenly there at her side.

  ‘Edda? Edda?’ She shook her daughter, then lifted her up into a sitting position, where her body hung, limply unconscious. ‘Edda?!’ Salka shrieked.

  Guffi now joined them and picked the little girl up in his arms. ‘We need to open the doors, give her some fresh air. It’s far too hot in here. All those bloody candles.’ Holding the child very gently, he set off for the exit.

  ‘What’s happening? Edda, darling, Edda! Can you hear me …?’ The despair in Salka’s voice was gut-wrenching.

  Una still hadn’t uttered a word. Her instinct had been to try to help the girl, though she had no idea what could be wrong with her. Of course, she knew a bit about first aid after her years studying medicine, but it was all more or less theoretical. Now she couldn’t move, just stiffened up and stood there watching helplessly. Her mind was racing, the old Christmas memories rising up, the scenes she had tried so hard to forget. The only person who’d had the presence of mind to take action was Guffi. She didn’t like him, hated him even, but at this moment she was placing all her faith in him, hoping against hope that he would be able to do something for the child.

  Then there was that strange yellow colour. From close up, Una had thought there was a yellowish tinge to Edda’s complexion. Perhaps it was her imagination, perhaps her eyes were deceiving her in the unfamiliar light of the candles.

  Una watched as Guffi carried Edda quickly but carefully to the door. Kolbeinn held it open and little by little the church emptied until almost everyone was outside, and Una found herself following. Only Guffi’s wife was left behind, alone in her wheelchair, forgotten in all the commotion.

  ‘Shouldn’t we put her down?’ Kolbeinn asked.

  ‘Somebody give me a coat,’ Guffi said. Kolbeinn took his off and spread it on the ground, then Guffi laid the child carefully on top of it, and the two men bent over her. ‘She’s still breathing, just about,’ Guffi said.

  ‘Thank God,’ Una heard a voice say behind her. It was Kolbeinn’s wife, Inga.

  Una looked round and saw Salka standing nearby, frozen in horror, watching what was going on without saying a word.

  ‘Edda? Edda love?’ Guffi said in a firm but kindly voice. He gave the child a wary nudge, then remarked to Kolbeinn: ‘She’s such a strange colour. I don’t understand what’s happened.’

  Her liver, Una thought, it must be her liver, but she couldn’t stammer out a word. All she knew was that the girl needed urgent medical attention, but there was no doctor in the village and the nearest one was a long drive away in Thórshöfn.

  ‘What’s wrong with Edda, Daddy?’ Kolbrún had come up beside her father.

  ‘Go to your mum, sweetheart,’ Kolbeinn told her, then asked quickly: ‘Are you all right? How are you feeling?’

  ‘Yes, Dad, I’m fine,’ she said.

  It was bitterly cold out there on the pavement in front of the church, but no one seemed to notice. As Edda lay on the ground in her white dress, enveloped in the icy darkness, the warmth of the candles seemed impossibly far away.

  Una’s teeth began to chatter with the cold, but all she could think about as she looked at the child’s still figure was the old photo of the girl who had died more than half a century ago.

  ‘We have to get her to a doctor,’ Kolbeinn said with decision. ‘Or straight to hospital.’

  Guffi nodded and lifted up the unresponsive girl in his arms. ‘Will you drive, Kolbeinn? With any luck we’ll catch the doctor at home in Thórshöfn.’

  ‘I’ll go and fetch the car,’ Kolbeinn said. ‘Inga, you come home with me. You can call ahead to warn the doctor we’re on our way. We need to be sure he’s there.’

  ‘I’m coming too! I’ve got to come too!’ Salka cried out frantically.

  ‘Of course you’re coming with us, dear,’ Guffi said.

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ Salka asked in a strangled
voice. ‘For God’s sake, what’s wrong with her?’

  ‘It’ll be all right, dear,’ Guffi reassured her. ‘It’ll be all right.’

  But there was no conviction in his voice.

  II

  At times during the proceedings, Una had felt oddly detached, as if watching a film rather than witnessing a real-life tragedy. The events of the evening had seemed so unreal after little Edda had fallen unconscious to the floor.

  No one seemed to have a clue what was wrong with the child. And now Kolbeinn, Guffi and Salka had vanished into the night, in search of the doctor in Thórshöfn or, failing that, to undertake the long drive to the nearest hospital, which must be at least 200 kilometres away.

  The little girl still hadn’t regained consciousness by the time they set off. The villagers had stood there for a while, gazing after the red tail lights of the departing car, no one saying a word, until Gudrún finally broke the silence. No doubt she had learned the art, after all these years with Gunnar, of filling in gaps in the conversation.

  ‘We can’t do any more now,’ she announced. ‘Let’s just pray that the dear child gets better. I’m sure Guffi will ring us when they get there. If anyone wants to wait in the church, of course they’re welcome to.’ She waited, watching the group. From their reactions, it was obvious that no one was going to take up her offer. ‘Otherwise, Gunnar and I will just go and tidy up, blow out the candles and … and, well, put the refreshments in the freezer.’ Gudrún bowed her head and went back inside the church, with Gunnar following a few paces behind, as usual.

  Una looked around and briefly caught Thór’s eye, but he immediately turned away and walked off with Hjördís in the direction of the farm. It came home to her with a sickening blow that she was quite alone in the world here, though she knew this was no time for self-pity. She should be thinking of Salka and Edda. Telling herself sternly to get a grip, she set off for home.