The Parentations

by Kate Mayfield

  Another passel of earthquakes shakes the terrain. Stefán is overcome by a sense that there is something different about this cloud, this rain of ash, these tremors.

  Weary with fear for his family, and with a sick feeling beginning to crawl up his throat, he’s unable to keep to his feet. Before the angry earth can throw him again, he falls to the ground.

  The beast awakes. A mighty and absolutely ruthless, meaningless force heaves and struggles and bursts.

  God seems to have deserted them.

  The sun neither rises, nor sets.

  These last two nights when Stefán beds down in the traveller huts it is with an anxious foreboding, and when the dark ekes out an even blacker existence, his fears oppress him, ghost-like.

  A tremendous roar awakens him on the morning of the 12th of June. Laki finally finds its voice. Yet it screams not from its centre – it is not the volcanic mountain that speaks – instead, it screams from its side, a twenty-five-mile-long fissure underneath the glacier, from which a huge current of lava bursts and begins its awful, terrifying flow. Stefán quakes with it.

  Flames burst into the air from the schism. Burning fountains of molten rock shoot up, up and up – thousands of feet high, and releasing hell on earth. The sky is painted with fire. Streaming, crashing lava rushes down the hills and threatens the low country leaving Stefán to imagine the desolation it has surely poured down upon the pastures and homes north of them, spreading its red-hot flood.

  He hears shouts – the first people he has encountered on this leg of his journey. He is stupefied to see a smattering of men and women rushing towards him. What in the world are they doing here? Have these people abandoned their livestock, their livelihood? The motley group arrive gibbering; they have been running since morning. Shouting in the gaps of crashes of thunder, they circulate breathless stories of the lava flowing in such a wide mass that it looks like a giant bolt of cloth being unrolled upon anything in its wake.

  Stefán asks each of them about his farm. Do they know if its people are safe?

  No, they do not know. They come from the north.

  The farmers report that the great river Skaftá north of them, that only days ago had been swollen with late spring’s clear water, is now fetid and filled with gravel and dust.

  ‘By the end of the day …’ A farmer spits ash, ‘… the Skaftá disappeared. It is gone.’

  When the thunder finally ceases, an eerie whistling sound fills the silence. One of the men nods.

  ‘It is the Medalland’s old lava fields. They burn again. The air trapped in their cavities makes that sound. It is bleeding ghosts.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It is the 13th of June. The waves pound furiously on the black volcanic sand. Stefán has been here before – when the sun cast a golden sheen on the basalt, infusing it with warmth. Today, in the sun’s absence, this shore littered with lava rocks is as dull and lifeless as a phantom’s kingdom.

  His stomach knots with anxiety as he draws closer to the shore where the natural chiaroscuro of the scene appears before him like an etching. There on the black sand and clinging to a smoky fog, a schooner has run aground, split down the middle.

  Empty barrels, their rims encrusted with the precious and expensive salt they once held, float in and out of the tide. As he draws closer a horrific tableau paints a beach littered with bodies. The shore’s tiny, black pebbles are embedded in the men’s bare chests. No. He sees they are not pebbles at all, but coffee beans studded into their lifeless skin. Shards from wooden planks protrude from limbs and stomachs. Everything is covered in black ash.

  Stefán stumbles, searching through the haze. The wreckage continues on down the beach. A young man’s purple face looks up to the hidden sun; his head rests on the rock that split his skull. Stefán is almost delirious with joy – it isn’t Pétur’s face.

  He wipes the ash from his face without thinking. Moving faster now, he combs the shore. Then he stumbles and falls next to the body of a young man whose mouth is open and filled with sand. Stefán focuses on the hair, then the face. A sand crab crawls out of his son’s mouth.

  Stefán retches into the sea.

  The great magistrate lifts his son in his arms and with his knees shaking and his body sinking into the sand, he carries him away from the shipwreck, away from the crashing, horrible sea.

  Stefán sits in this corner by the sea and nurses a low moan that gradually builds into a rage. It is said that once, during the crashing of rocks and sharp snaps of thunder, while the lava flowed in its hot fury, there were those in the low country who heard a wail that transcended nature. It echoed through the hills from the beach that became a graveyard. Stefán is unaware that it is he who owns this moment of grief, for he is lost to the pain of it.

  Somehow, though he is spent, he wraps the body of his son in a vagabond shroud of sailcloth, linen and cotton remnants he scavenges from a wooden box that was no doubt meant for the wealthiest in the country. He binds the makeshift shroud, which he fashions like an envelope, with straps removed from his packsaddle. Gently, gently, he drapes his swaddled son over Vinda’s back.

  He is anxious to be away from this place of death and walks Glossi, and Vinda with her awful load, away from the beach. The boy’s body undulates with each step forward.

  A new wave of fear rises and lodges in his throat. The kittiwakes, auks and skuas – where are they? The cliffs are empty, there are no winged scavengers preying upon the wreckage. The fulmars should be out at sea circling the fishing boats, feeding off their discards. Something is wrong. Never could Stefán fathom that he is on the precipice of the fury the subglacial volcano has wrought.

  He thought the eruption would be confined to the north – everyone in the south thought the same. But he was wrong, they were all wrong. In the midst of heat and haze he is struck by a raging thirst, which grows like a thorny vine with each crack of thunder. Neither he, nor his horses have taken water since morning and suddenly nothing is more important than finding it. He follows the path his horses’ hooves made in the sand only hours ago that lead to a large stream on the route home, which he should have reached by now. But there is no stream, and the path that was previously so clearly laid has come to an unexpected end, swept away, leaving no trace.

  Another path appears that leads away from the beach to a sudden change in landscape from sand to grass, then to a brilliant green moss that grows over stones. This area is marshy, boggy, with large rock formations jutting out from the steaming ground. Stefán almost weeps when Glossi’s upper lip curls and he pricks up his ears.

  ‘Good, good. Water? Do you hear it? Do you smell it? Where is it?’

  He allows his horses to lead the way until he hears it, too. A grouping of surface springs and underground hot boiling pools are just ahead of him. A small waterfall gurgles. The benevolence of precious, precious water.

  The overall symmetry looks completely normal, yet here in this marshy spot of wetlands the air is too still. The ducks should be moulting, the fulmars nesting, and in their absence the land lies eerily empty and far too quiet. When Stefán lifts his son’s stiff body from Vinda’s back she makes a hoarse grunt that echoes. As gently as he tries to place the shrouded body on the ground, it thumps. Never was there an obscener sound.

  Stefán directs the horses to the pools, but they will not drink. One of the water sources is the same colour as the pale blue ground mist. He looks closer. The water teems with insects he doesn’t recognize; dark-red flying insects, and yellow-and-black striped pests swimming, long and thick on the surface. He recoils from the sight of it.

  The other streams and pools emit a strong sulphurous odour. Stefán dips his fingers in to find it tepid, and the taste sour and bitter. Undrinkable.

  Glossi turns his head towards the small waterfall.

  ‘All right, you be the guide. We’ll try to drink from this waterfall.’

  But Glossi inches forward and past the waterfall. Another pool of water shimmers almost completel
y hidden from view. An iridescent, green hue skims the surface of the pool. Stefán is so thirsty and impatient to reach the traveller’s hut that he doesn’t care about the water’s green glow and takes a quick sniff. Relieved to find it odourless, he touches the surface with his fingertips to gauge its temperature and then licks his fingers. Finding the water pleasant and with no aftertaste, he drinks a small mouthful. Glossi drinks beside him, while Vinda shies away and turns instead to the run-off from the waterfall, where she drinks greedily.

  Stefán fills his travelling cup when he hears something rustling behind him. Startled by a swishing sound, he drops the cup and breathes heavily as he strains to hear it again. He senses someone watches him.

  ‘Do not be alarmed.’ A voice comes from the rocks.

  ‘Show yourself.’

  ‘I do not take commands.’

  Nevertheless, a man steps out from a large, craggy rock formation where he had crouched unseen. Rising to his full height, Stefán staggers at the sight of him. An elderly man, taller than any he had ever seen, towers over him.

  ‘Drink no more from the green pool today. Only two drops must be taken after the long sleep that will come twice yearly. Two drops. Any more than that, you will die. But you must ingest the two drops. You will understand. Tell no one of this place. Follow me.’

  ‘What …’

  ‘I entertain no questions. Come.’

  Stefán looks back to where his son lies.

  ‘He will come to no harm.’

  Stefán takes four steps for the giant’s one stride. He cannot make out in which direction they tread, the fog is too thick. The great man stops and raises his arm. Like a wraith he points to turf-covered burial mounds. The green-carpeted humps are too numerous to count and the thick air disguises how far the area extends.

  ‘They died so that you might live. For most, the sacrifice was their choice. These dead provided our knowledge. Two drops.’

  He turns and leads Stefán back to the pool.

  ‘Fill your flask. Mark this place in your memory. You will come here again to replenish and store the pool’s liquid.’ He points to the ground. ‘Beneath your feet lies something foul and aberrant, full of death – and yet it brings life. When nature has its way it is inexplicable. But the pool will not bring your son back. Remember this in the future when you think on this day.’

  At the mention of his son, Stefán’s grief renews like the sky’s black smoke.

  ‘How did you know who …?’

  The mountainous man lumbers away until the rocks hide him once more.

  Stefán turns back to the pool. He cannot drink another drop anyway; his thirst is queerly sated. His once parched lips are soft and moist. When he steps away from the pool he hears the same rustling, like clothing brushing against the rock. He stands motionless, waiting. Now there is only thunder.

  ‘Let’s be on our way,’ he says to his dead son.

  CHAPTER NINE

  1785

  The rain pelts down. Stefán can almost hear the clouds grumbling as they sweep past his view as he stands at his front door shaking off the wet. He removes his shoes, turns off the long hall to the kitchen and there tosses more turf on the fire until it spits flames. Coffee first, and then he inhales a bowl of fish, its sweet taste made bitter by his loneliness.

  The pounding of the rain ceases, leaving in its absence the quiet that he hates. In the sleeping room he removes a stack of papers from his wife’s trunk and returns to the kitchen’s fire where he prefers to sit these days.

  He reads the pages again, though he knows them by heart. The curled edges of the paper fold in on each other. The reading is tortuous and comforting.

  Entry, Late June 1783

  People arrive each day having fled areas just north of us, almost mad from what they have lost; they are humbled by their new poverty. Those of us by the coast and the low country miraculously survive, but the fear that our land will finally succumb to the screams of the volcano seeps into our bones.

  Entry, 20th July

  We are jubilant these last few days. Finally, we feel safe from the lava’s course. Our livestock is well. Our hay is dry. My sulphur stores are safe. We celebrate as if it is Christmas. Other survivors are welcome to the farm to dance and sing and share the food we managed to save through my wife’s clever management.

  Entry, 27th July

  The gaiety that surrounded us last week is eroded. A tenant came rushing through the farmstead shouting that the livestock has turned colour, their snouts and hooves are a queer sickly yellow.

  I am certain that a poison falls from the sky. Some toxic mist permeates the hay and the grasslands. Vegetation withers and burns. I walk across my pastures to find the grass so brittle it turns to powder under my feet.

  Entry, early October

  The monster still erupts. Our daughters are terribly sick.

  Entry, end October

  The flesh falls from our horses. The sheep are swollen with tumours. Their skin rots. One lamb was born with the claws of a predatory bird instead of cloven hooves. To see such sights – my daughters are terrified.

  By some miracle Glossi is still healthy. He never fails even though he eats much contaminated hay. Amongst the diseased and deformed animals, many men wonder that Glossi is the freak.

  Entry, February 1784

  Laki stands quiet. She has exhausted the beast within her.

  Entry, July 1784

  It has been a full twelve months since the first eruption, the plains of the Skaftá remain so hot that they cannot be crossed, steam and smoke still rise from it.

  The disaster is only beginning.

  Entry, 1785

  I do not know why I am still alive.

  There is no food, no water that is not poisoned.

  My wife is dead. My daughters are dead. Everyone on my farmstead and those on my other holdings – they are all dead.

  Their bodies became bloated, the insides of their mouths and their gums swelled and cracked. Little Mara’s tongue festered and fell off. Everyone was plagued with complete hair loss.

  The whole country, what is left of it, is on its knees. Copenhagen threatens to evacuate the island.

  And yet, I live. Glossi, still lives.

  Stefán folds the papers and holds them to his chest, and then in one swift movement he tosses them into the fire.

  For the second time this year he is suddenly light-headed. He moves away from the fire, first thinking the heat has made him dizzy, but then he remembers the last time, when he became drowsy … the way he feels now.

  He crawls to bed and within seconds the heaviness leaves him powerless and he sleeps. He is given the death he craves – for fourteen days and nights.

  When he wakes he takes two drops from the phial, eats, and packs his things. He can wait no longer. With a forced calm he folds his clothes, rolls his stockings and wipes his shoes.

  Stefán rides Glossi to the coast where he will seek the giant by the rocks near the pool. His heart is as empty as his home, his spirit hollow. His rage foments a decision. He will either take his place in the mounds of the dead, or he will find a good reason to stay alive.

  LONDON

  1783

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘All the world is in Limehouse,’ Averil Lawless announces.

  Tall, in the way a London plane reaches to the heavens surpassing others, the woman in the towering hat cuts a striking figure through the streets and narrow alleys that bustle with all of humanity.

  Found in this maritime community, this gateway to the world, in the eastern end of London are the sailors, the ropemen, the coal heavers, the lumpers, the lightermen, the sugar bakers, the shipwrights, and those on their miserable journey to the place of their execution. Dotted amongst the sailmakers, the chandlers, the potters, the merchants, the watermen and the oyster-sellers stand a smattering of rich landowners, who would rather throw themselves into the bubbling stew of the river than live too far from the source of their wealth. />
  The Japanese sailor and the Malay pass side by side with the Scandinavian and the Russian. There is little difficulty in finding the Persian, the Egyptian, or even the South Sea Islander. They all rub shoulders with the pirates, the bawdy women, thugs, smugglers, the hard-working labourers and the downtrodden. The smell of tar and rope is everywhere, and yet they do not mix with the frying oil and the burning fat, nor share their pungency with the smoke from industry or the cottage fires. Each odour saturates and overpowers, claims its particular victim, and moves on with the breeze.

  Averil grasps a hand of each of her two daughters and elbows her way through the bevy of people on the approach to the Duke Shore Stairs.

  ‘Do not remove them!’ Averil Lawless commands of Verity in her most formidable voice, which is very nearly as formidable as her bearing.

  ‘But I cannot see, Mammy!’ her youngest pleads.

  ‘Do not remove your spectacles.’

  It is, indeed, dark. It was so dark at dawn that when the maidservant opened the door to a sharp rap there was nothing but a blank space on the doorstep. Then a scrawny hand protruding from the sleeve of a black coat gave the young maid a start when it appeared out of the mist. Pale, thin fingers presented new chapel tickets and without a word, after the tickets were accepted, the hand disappeared.

  ‘It were like a ghost hand, ma’am,’ she said as she handed the new tickets to her mistress.

  Earlier this morning, when Averil heard Mass, she prayed to St Ignatius for guidance on all her decisions, as she does each day. The Lawless family make up only a handful of Catholics in Limehouse and they keep their secret close; papists on the inside, they are Protestants in public. The doorkeeper at the small mass house checked her ticket and then locked them in and guarded the door. The embassy chapels, the penny houses, none are truly safe. Since the Catholic laws had relaxed, hearing Mass had become even more dangerous.