The Parentations

by Kate Mayfield

  ‘Ah, yes, so you have.’

  Verity goes quiet with the sting of a bitter memory. The sisters had fought that day.

  ‘We should discuss the contents of the letter.’ Constance pokes a sizzling log.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing to be done but wait.’

  ‘You know I don’t like to wait around for something to happen. I think we should have a plan in place.’

  ‘How many do we have left?’

  ‘Three each.’

  ‘That’s fine, then. Four drops a year, and by the time we use the last phial, why, there’s sure to be more!’ Verity is unusually positive. ‘And there’s the new delivery that is promised in the letter.’ She grasps her sister’s hand. ‘Now, let’s toast a few slices of that lovely bread and not worry about it tonight. The day has been mournful enough.’

  ‘All right, Verity.’ Constance is not convinced but humours her sister. ‘You know, I’ve a strong urge for the old toasting tongs. I’ll go fetch the bread and butter, you make the … Oh … Oh, no.’

  Constance grasps the edge of the mantelpiece. Once she’s secure, she stands perfectly still, though the room still spins. She tries to gain her balance but the dizzy spell overcomes her.

  ‘Verity, it’s coming.’

  ‘All right, sister, I’ve got you.’

  Verity leads Constance to the chair and then streaks into the kitchen. She fills the kettle, flips the switch, and twirls around to the opposite counter, where a large bowl of lemons form a yellow mound. Just as the water begins to heat up, she juices half a lemon into a glass, and heads back to Constance with the lemon water.

  The tart liquid settles her sister’s stomach, but a frown of worry clouds Constance’s face.

  ‘I don’t like leaving you like this. It’s not fair that you’ll be on your own after today’s disappointment, and that blasted letter as well.’

  ‘Never mind.’ Verity masks her disappointment. ‘I’ll be fine. Let’s make sure you eat something. We’ll have that toast now.’

  With the nausea subsiding, Constance finds she’s once more steady on her feet. The sisters continue to make preparations for their small feast, fetching and carrying to prepare a table by the fire. A tray of butter and jam is brought, the kettle is on again, and the china is laid. Their shoes lie on the floor beside their chairs, a quilted throw casually drapes the table. The hour is late.

  ‘I can’t believe it’s been six months already.’ Constance says. ‘No, it hasn’t. It was only five months ago. I remember … it was July. We were in the garden and …’

  Bang! A terrible crash of iron meeting stone rings out.

  ‘Verity?’

  Verity has dropped the toasting tongs onto the marble tiles surrounding the fireplace. Her head reels back, her arms reach out searching for the chair’s support.

  ‘No. Not you as well?’ Constance untangles her legs, and kneels beside her sister. She lays the back of her hand on Verity’s forehead.

  ‘Just a bit warm. Do you need lemon water?’

  ‘Yes, please. Just a little. I can’t believe this is happening. Both of us. The timing is off.’ Verity closes her eyes.

  ‘There now. Wait until it passes, then we’ll decide what to do.’

  The sisters discovered quite by chance that warm lemon water relieves the symptoms that are a prelude to their condition. The dizziness and nausea are acute, though thankfully brief. They can only guess that the fresh lemon juice neutralizes the acidity in their bodies.

  Constance sits on the edge of her chair, turning the old toaster tongs as thick-cut bread darkens to golden-brown in the basket.

  ‘I love the smell of toast on a fire.’

  Verity feels steadier now. Now that they’ve both recovered from the warning symptoms of what is to come, they sit quietly, the shadows of their profiles drawn sharply against the wall. The day’s events are no less daunting and they weigh heavily upon the sisters.

  A chunky bit of strawberry oozes from the side of Verity’s mouth, which she lops off with her tongue, noting a hint of vanilla. She greedily dips the silver spoon in for more of the thick jam.

  Fortified by the strong tea, Constance broaches the subject that resides as a fixture between them.

  ‘Perhaps it is time, sister,’ she says.

  ‘Time for what?’

  Three pairs of floor-to-ceiling French doors stretch across the far wall, each opening onto a large crescent-shaped Juliet balcony. Drawn to the view in the glow of the garden’s security light, Constance fastens her gaze upon the seemingly endless rope swing that hangs from a massive, bare London plane. She mentally places the boy in its seat and hears his bubbly laughter and his commanding screams of ‘higher, higher’. The picture vanishes; the velvet night whispers his absence.

  ‘Time for what?’Verity repeats as she butters another slice.

  Constance turns to her, charging the space between them with her meaning.

  ‘Oh.’

  Verity dabs her mouth with her napkin and brushes crumbs from her lap before she sidles up to Constance who has wrapped her arms around herself, and welcoming Verity beside her, she slips her arm around her sister’s waist. Their temples touch while outside snowflakes begin to swirl in a breeze that sways the ferns and contrasting foliage. The tongues of the great marble sea serpents on the patio collect the precipitation in icy patches.

  ‘Perhaps the letter is a sign that our circumstances are moving towards a natural end. I’m just suggesting that we consider moving it up a bit in the calendar … to exercise the control we have.’

  ‘But Constance, you’ve always insisted, even when times were at their darkest, that as long as there was a sliver of hope, as long as there was no proof of his death, that we would not …’

  ‘It’s a damnable decision.’

  ‘Please, can we talk about it again when we wake?’

  ‘Of course. We should prepare the house now, we’ve only a short time left.’

  Snow clings to the ground of the three-tiered garden; its appearance conjures the picture of a deep woodland. Constance closes the shutters while Verity stacks the dishes on the tray. The fire is almost at its end, but Constance banks it as a precaution and places the screen in front of it. Verity scribbles a note, places it in an envelope and waves it at Constance.

  ‘For Benedikt.’

  Without bothering to throw on her coat, she scurries outside to the letterbox and drops it in.

  Between them they perform a number of chores that secure the house, checking and double-checking that alarms are set, lights are off, curtains and shutters are closed. The thermostat is set to twenty degrees centigrade.

  Once they’re ready, Verity makes a note of the day and time. She pauses in her note-taking.

  ‘I don’t want to sleep alone, not when we’re both going to be under. The Tower Room?’ she asks.

  Constance nods.

  Verity climbs the stairs to the child’s room where she drags the mattress from his bed onto the middle of the floor. Constance joins her and pulls out the futon from one of the bespoke cupboards built into the circular room. The futon conjures another memory of the occasions when they would sleep on the floor while their boy tossed in fits and woke in the middle of the night from nightmares. Lawless House swells with memories of him.

  After they build their makeshift sleeping arrangements with cushions and quilting, Verity places a bowl of dried lavender on a shelf near where their heads will lie.

  Each sister still wears her necklace and phials, which they remove now.

  ‘Where? Where should we hide them – there’s usually no need.’

  A strange moon-faced mechanical man stares at them from a shelf on the other side of the room. Their boy had been fascinated by automatons, and had just begun a collection when he was taken from them. Constance places their phials inside the compartment of the round wooden platform on which it stands.

  The sisters fall back on the mattresses in sighs, relieved the day is finall
y over and that their preparations are complete. Sighs turn to gaping yawns and now a deep weariness overcomes them. They lie, side by side, facing each other. The mattresses point their four corners into the circular room. Speaking softly with one another, as they did when they talked late into the night as young girls, their eyes become incredibly heavy.

  And then, Verity is gone.

  Constance still has a few more minutes before she too, will be lost to the long sleep. Her gaze remains on Verity, whose long silver hair fans out behind her. Only once before had the sleep overtaken them at the same time. It is just as unnerving now as it was then. She thinks again of the letter, and wonders if they are strong enough to live with the fear of their supply dwindling. Lastly, before her body commands her to fall into oblivion, the face of the boy appears, and now, lying on her back, one arm at rest upon her forehead, she reaches out to touch it. His face fades as she closes her eyes and turns on her side to face her sister again.

  Their bodies curve like parentheses, mirroring the walls of the room. For two weeks they will sleep in an undisturbed half-death. They will have no sense of adjusting their positions, though their bodies will move and stretch in a variety of scenes. Dreams will not crowd their slumber. Time will pass without the call to relieve themselves, nor will their bodies sense hunger or thirst – all functions that normally poke through the nights to remind them they are still alive will be absent for fourteen days.

  The snowfall has ceased and the evergreens no longer bend from thrusts of wind. The nocturnal animals that feed upon the garden have completed their evening business. The train tracks lie empty. A cowl of stillness descends upon Lawless House. The sisters Fitzgerald will not wake again until a new year rises.

  ICELAND

  1783

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It is the latter part of May and the spring has been mild.

  The insides of Stefán Hilmarsson’s calves and thighs ache, even though his horse maintains a smooth gait. His roan Glossi is a good tölter and Stefán hopes to break his journey at one of his southernmost farms before nightfall – if the skies remain clear. Tethered to Glossi is another horse, a black, silver-maned mare, Vinda – both horses have scrambled through the bogs and over rocks and whenever they come to dry, smooth ground they dart forward into the tölt at an explosive speed.

  Anxious to be home again after a week of travelling, Stefán makes his last official journey as magistrate. He has had enough of governing and longs to retreat from the responsibility. The crown of Denmark holds the monopoly on all trading and though he was one of few who lobbied for an open economy, it has come to nothing and only made him unpopular in Copenhagen.

  His tenant farmers, men, women and children, split the skin of their fingers and ruin their eyes to produce the coarse, dense woollen fabric, the wadmal they illegally trade with the British. He allows it, and indeed secures his own trade agreements with forbidden ships and their countries. He relishes slipping through Copenhagen’s mighty grasp – but only for the right price. The foreigners’ ships transport the wadmal to Ireland, Scotland and England where its durability is prized. Whenever the English translator complains of the inclement British weather in his patchy, laboured speech, Stefán laughs outright because the translator has never wintered in Iceland, where horses and sheep drop down dead on account of the cold.

  This wadmal, that is their life source, and the uncountable hours of tending the sheep, the endless winter days and nights of weaving and knitting, makes people touchy. Many of his farmers would rather be fishing. The truth is, they are all part-time fishermen, and the Crown continues to isolate and monopolize them, though they give their lives for a net of cod. All do what they must for one reason – to hold a begging, starving hand up to keep death at bay.

  Glossi and Vinda are slow to navigate the black steaming mud pots. Sulphur suffuses the air. Stefán’s mind wanders to the English again. Each year they make an effort to push up the prices. Their ships will be near the coast now; they may have already arrived if the winds have allowed it. Last year the foreigners complained about rotten stockfish. They whined that there was black sand in the wool; the mittens and socks were badly knitted, they’d said. In turn, the tenants accused the British of trading tainted grain laced with mites, and they railed against seawater in the wine.

  These headaches, cultivated by a pack of bickering traders and constant negotiation, are one of the reasons he will soon relinquish his position. Surely, he thinks, it is not the best use of his law degree.

  The tenants of one of his three farms welcome him this evening. He requests a simple meal of a little cheese and dried fish. He sleeps and rises early, eager to be on his way to the coast.

  When he has ridden for thirty minutes and the rhythm of the pace is well set, the earth begins to tremble. The horses stop short, and for what seems like minutes instead of seconds, Stefán and the horses are suspended in fear, standing perfectly still while the whole of the ground undulates beneath them. He’s experienced it many times and yet it is still disorienting. The helpless feeling of the earth moving underfoot and the terrifying abrupt way it takes them unaware, with no warning whatsoever. It is not the first time in his life he feels this complete helplessness. It will not be the last.

  It is the first week of June and despite a few ground trembling moments, it is with a light heart, and a feeling of happy anticipation that Stefán and his horses proceed ever closer to the sea. His only son is due back soon from Copenhagen where he has been at his studies. Stefán has been counting the months, eager to see Pétur again. The whole family yearns to be surrounded once more in his jovial presence. The void he left when he departed was never filled, because there is no person, no place, nothing at all that can equal Pétur.

  A soft wind blows the scent of fresh, fragrant herbs, and the beards of green pastures shimmer, dressed as they are in wild flowers. The mild winter has blessed them with healthy livestock, a welcome change. June’s breeze brings the news from Skálholt that even the bishop’s cattle are reported to be sleek and strong. The hand of fate seemed for once to point towards a fruitful summer and an abundant harvest.

  Stefán breathes in deeply, relishing the faintest whiff of salt that infuses the air. His favourite part of the journey lies just ahead. To the east the dirty, ancient ice of a glacier is juxtaposed against the verdant green fields. The pale blue ice formations are sculpted by nature, that greatest of artists, and sink down a hundred feet to form dangerous crevasses.

  As vast as the eastern glacier is, several miles north from where Stefán rides there is another. No other glacier in the world is as large, or as beautiful. Its majestic white body descends to black sands; hot streams erupt from banks of ice. The massive glacier has many tongues, each with their own names and characteristics. Today one of these tongues struggles more than the others within its contrasting complexion, a forceful interplay of volcanoes beneath the ice.

  Stefán stops to admire the glacier and the largest mountain in the country that presides over the deepest lake. He continues at a comfortable pace between these two wonders thinking about the possibility of a happier Christmas this year.

  But the trading season will not begin this summer. The inhabitants of this demanding land stand on the back of a giant, slumbering beast. The monstrous beast under the ice cap is beginning to wake. For just as Glossi and Vinda’s hooves plod into the path of the next farm, another violent shake of the earth brings Glossi down and Stefán with him, his legs still hugging the horse’s ribs as he hits the ground hard.

  Afraid to move, and not sure if he can, Stefán lies watching his hands rise and fall with Glossi’s breath. Vinda is frozen like one of the glacial ice sculptures. The earth is still and the air is quiet, too quiet; only Glossi’s whimper disturbs it. The horse is frightened but manages to stand, offering up a groan and a grunt. He nudges his owner.

  The monster below the ice returns to its fretful slumber.

  Stefán rolls slowly onto his back. Hi
s right side is sore and throbbing. Disorientated, he turns his head and gasps from this perspective.

  ‘What in hell?’

  A blue skein of mist floats just above the ground.

  Everyone from elder to toddler is familiar with the queer, coloured lights in the skies and the blues and greens that hover over their glacial mountains, but this pale blue fog that skims the ground is something entirely different.

  Carefully he rises to discover he is able to stand and walk, and is grateful for it. Anxious to determine how Glossi and Vinda fare, the fog swallows them into a shadowy blur. The air is death-like. As suddenly as the earth had shaken them, the eerie stillness that follows forces him to halt in a speechless and untrusting pause.

  Despite his attempts to ignore it, a feeling of dread has dogged Stefán’s journey and it washes over him now in a cold sweat. He knows that these increasingly violent series of earthquakes precede the possibility of something much, much worse.

  * * *

  It is Whit Sunday, June the 8th.

  The clear sky and calm weather is a hateful tease. Pillars of smoke rise to the sky from the hills north of the coast, and a thick, black cloud rolls south against the wind. The cloud begins its swift descent upon the coastal plane.

  For a moment Stefán is suspended in a stupor as he gapes at the black heavens. Then the wind blows the cloud mass towards him so quickly it is only a few moments before the first layer of grit rains down upon his head.

  Complete darkness envelopes him so that he cannot make out his own hands in front of his face. A looming, smoky blanket of haze obscures the sun and the sky. The cloud showers down sand and ash an inch in thickness. It continues to rush south against the wind until the whole district is blanketed in darkness.

  The cloud splits for a hair’s breadth of a moment only to reveal the appearance of fresh cones of smoke rising from the lowland hills. Stefán covers his nose and mouth with his neckerchief and helplessly watches the cloud increasing in size.