The Parentations

by Kate Mayfield

  The sisters’ gazes remain focused on the river. Lanterns have been placed behind them on the ground. In their glow, Verity rests her head on Constance’s shoulder.

  George Fitzgerald has sent both carriage and boat for Francis Lawless. In this weather, there is no guessing which will reach him first, or how long it might take his dear friend to arrive. And still, the sisters stand on the river stairs.

  ‘Would you like to come with us to chambers? You will be more comfortable while we await your father,’ he asks the girls.

  ‘Constance and I will not move from this place until Mammy returns,’ Verity says.

  ‘My dear Verity … Constance …’ George hesitantly takes their hands.

  The girls do not avert their gaze from the water.

  ‘Your beautiful mother is not coming back. The Thames has taken her. She is with God now.’

  Verity’s chest rises as she takes a deep breath and finally turns to look into George Fitzgerald’s kind face. Constance, too, cuts her eyes to the man who smells of ink and parchment. This mention of God has sparked life from the girls.

  ‘Why?’ Constance asks. ‘Why did God take her from us? Why would he do that?’

  ‘Darling girl, your mother fell. It was a terrible, terrible accident.’

  ‘Might God give her back to us?’

  ‘No,’ George says softly. ‘She is dead and with Him now.’

  ‘But if God is truly God, then is it not within his power to return her to us?’

  George thinks very carefully before he replies.

  ‘I do not know. I simply do not know.’

  ‘Thank you for your honesty.’

  Constance takes hold of her sister’s shoulders and turns her. Then, with gentle hands, she lifts Verity’s spectacles from her face. Verity squints, and Constance passes her hands over Verity’s eyes to close them.

  ‘Shhh,’ she says to her younger sister. ‘Shhh.’

  Constance leans in and kisses Verity’s pink eyelids.

  ‘We are motherless now, Verity. With your pitiable eyes, look to me for our future.’

  William and Sterling had remained nearby during the whole ghastly affair, and both are shaken to such a degree that their blotched and tear-stained faces pulse with heat. William squirms in frustration for not knowing how, but desperately wanting, to be more useful. He has fetched cool drinks, handkerchiefs, and stayed alert to any miraculous news of sightings, or the discovery of a body floating in nearby water. But the black-hearted Thames released no such secrets.

  When Francis Lawless arrives his pallor is grey, and there is something behind his eyes that threatens madness if he does not learn to live with his loss. The sight of his daughters seems to stabilize him, and finally they turn from the stairs and run to his outstretched arms and sink into them.

  ‘I cannot thank you enough, George, for the care you have shown my daughters today. I shall never forget it.’

  ‘I am so very sorry, Francis. My dearest and most loyal friend. Wretched, wretched day. I would like to help you in any way, please do call upon me. If it is any consolation, your wife’s affairs are in order,’ George tells him.

  ‘The girls are protected then?’

  ‘Yes.’ George shakes his head in sad disbelief. ‘Only moments before the accident.’

  ‘Well, that is some small relief. Thank you. I really must get them home now.’

  What remains of the broken Lawless family sways to and fro in the coach until they are swallowed by a dim twilight.

  ICELAND

  1830

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The sun gleams on the glaciers to the south and to the east. Jón Eymundsson and Elísabet Ingólfsdóttir hear the waterfall crashing down, though they are miles from it. Each plod of their horses’ hooves brings them closer to its thundering roar. The spray looks like thick smoke from where they ride. The curlews wing overhead, moving south, the white bog cotton slants in the wind.

  The path is rough with tremendous ruts, full of holes and stones, but their sure-footed horses pull ahead as if to defy each patch of ragged earth. Their load is lighter now; two days ago their carrying horses bore the weight of Elísabet’s knitting and weaving work. Every piece was sold or traded giving them a heady sense of relief and pleasure at their luck that the merchant sailors had survived another journey from England.

  When they arrived at the trading settlement, Elísabet faced the hard stares of the men whose wives were at home with their children. Thus far in her marriage of five years, she has been unable to produce a child, and for this she blames herself. Each month that passes brings an unspoken sorrow to her, and a burden to her husband. How will they survive the future of their old age without the help of sons and daughters?

  Jón never mentions the night he found her in the traveller’s shelter, bleeding, almost to her death. On that day, returning home from a long walk, she felt the beginnings of her loss. She did not know the pain of childbirth, but surely it was not as painful as this. Her breathing became heavy, laboured from fright. There was a seat in the shelter, a bench-like seat made from the vertebra of a whale, and someone had left a coverlet of three folds of wadmal. She threw it on the cramped earthen floor and knelt down on all fours. After what seemed hours, a horrifically slow pace set, gravity won and the bloody mass fell from her. The baby she held in her hand, a sac with a complete foetus inside it, was conceived before she met Jón. The blood flowed on. Dusk fell as her blood seeped under the crude door. She’d never felt so cold. Then, hope. She heard hiking steps, plodding along. They stop. Through the crack of the door, a woman’s skirts. But Elísabet is fevered now and cannot trust the vision, for Koldís is not due home until tomorrow. Yet, with her face resting on the frozen floor, the tips of the boots stay in her sight.

  ‘Help. Help me.’

  The skirts remain still.

  ‘Please. Help me.’

  The shadow in the crack of the door disappears. It was then that Elísabet knew she was going to die, as her mother had; bleeding to death after expelling her baby. It was just before full dark that Jón noticed the dark, wet blood soaking the ground as he passed the shelter.

  Elísabet draws up on her saddle, her face lifts to the bracing air. A return to the trading settlement always reminds her of this for it was here that the waves had washed up the English ship that carried her misery.

  The skies were clear two days ago when their horses entered the seaside camp. The ships’ sails billowed above the sand and shared the same breeze that carried the pungent scent of trade. There are but three months of harvest and trade, and these must be worthwhile or starvation and death come as surely as the sun sets in a purple glow.

  The camp trading was brisk, and the temporary makeshift settlement throbbed with the day’s work. The island’s livelihood was piled on slabs of lava rock – Icelandic fish for barter.

  Jón worked near Elísabet as he always does, ready to enforce respect. The English sailors and traders are too free with their eyes. Not an innocent grunt of admiration, nor compliments on her beauty will go unchecked. The older women gravitate to her, drawn by her warmth, they admire her knitting and weaving work.

  On this late August day, on their journey home, they venture off the sand path to explore a suitable place for their second meal of the day. Walking along a rough pathway of high ferns, bilberry plants and a few birches, they veer towards the rushing of a small waterfall that plays against the sound of murmuring springs.

  Elísabet tears off chunks of sweet bread that she had baked at home in the hot springs. She unwraps fresh angelica stems spread with butter. Earlier in the day the trade of two pairs of mittens procured pork and stale beer. The meat is salty and though the beer is good, it is not enough to quench their thirst.

  ‘We did well. Thank you for working so hard,’ Jón says, as he moves towards the hiss of bubbling water.

  ‘It comes easy to me.’ She would like to say more, to tell him that when she knits, her busy hands and the cl
icking of the needles quieten her mind. She wishes to confide that with each row she weaves, her worries cease, if only for a few moments, and that a terrible and inexplicable sense of foreboding is released and evaporates. Knitting satisfies, like a dusting of sugar after the shock of something bitter.

  Several small pools ripple where they stand. Two are washing springs, the water a perfect temperature for laundry and bathing. Clouds of smoke rise above hissing streams. The waterfall, set within a rock formation, trickles down to form a pool. Elísabet unwraps horn cups while Jón tests the bubbling water, letting it run through his fingers. He notices another pool hidden behind the waterfall.

  ‘Look, Elísabet.’

  He kneels beside a small pool full of queer, green-coloured, slightly iridescent water. He tests the temperature with his hand. Tepid.

  ‘It smells fine.’ He cups his hands and drinks.

  Elísabet kneels beside him and scoops up two palms full.

  ‘It’s thicker than spring water. Strange.’ She sips. ‘It tastes cleaner than it looks.’

  ‘I feel as though I drank a whole pail of it,’ Jón says.

  ‘Yes, so do I.’

  Sated, they suddenly feel forced to sit, desperate with an overwhelming urge to sleep. Jón tries to stand up, but he cannot.

  ‘Elísabet?’

  She has fallen back on the blanket. He shakes her but she doesn’t wake. It is an effort for him to focus on her chest, to make certain that it still rises and falls, because now he too is groggy and collapses beside her.

  Jón and Elísabet do not stir at the sound of Stefán’s approaching footsteps. Many things register at once as his attention darts back and forth from the pool of water to the couple, who look as if they might be dead. The pool is full again. He surveys the surround to make certain no one else is about and then fills one of the wooden barrels he carries.

  Only when his two barrels are full does he kneel down to more closely observe the couple. Their breathing is shallow and faint, but they still live. Two more, he thinks. He sits on the ground next to them, patiently waiting. She is stunning, beautiful in an earthy way. Her face appears chiselled from some flawless white stone, with dark streaks of brow and lashes accenting her milky skin. A plaited thick rope of hair, the colour of roasted coffee beans has been blown across her mouth. Her black, woven tail-cap lies next to her, its long tassel spread in silky threads.

  The man is red-haired. A massive spray of freckles covers his face and hands and gives him a boyish look as he sleeps unawares. He and Stefán wear the same sort of breeches and stockings, both black. Jón’s dark blue vest rises with his breath.

  Stefán moves away so as not to frighten the couple when they wake. He hopes it is soon; he must persuade them to return to the farm with him. The Watcher has not appeared and perhaps will not show himself today. He closes his eyes to help him concentrate on the task at hand – how to tell them what has happened, what has changed for them both. It is the most difficult and dangerous of beginnings. It always is.

  Jón wakes first. Disoriented, he rolls slowly away from Elísabet. It takes him a moment to notice his surroundings and then finally to register Stefán, who raises his hands in surrender.

  ‘Greetings. I came upon you almost one hour ago.’

  ‘Why are you still here?’ Jón moves in front of Elísabet, blocking Stefán’s view of her. ‘Why do you stay?’ he asks again.

  ‘Please, I mean you no harm. I must speak with both of you. Something has happened.’

  ‘Jón?’ Elísabet, still drowsy, sits up and peers over Jón’s shoulder.

  ‘It’s all right, Elísabet. This man …’ Jón now addresses Stefán, ‘I saw no signs that we are trespassing. I hope …’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that …’ Stefán assures him. ‘Though I’d like to know how you’ve discovered this area.’

  ‘Our horses rest on the path over … well, I’m not sure now. I don’t see them.’

  ‘I rode past them, they’re just ahead and safe. Did you see anyone else here? Anyone at all?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘It would be better if we could speak somewhere else, would you follow me to my farm? It is near and you are welcome to have coffee with me.’

  Jón and Elísabet see no reason not to trust this man. It is the custom to offer hospitality to travellers. They have done the same for many.

  Stefán glances once more at the pool beneath the waterfall. ‘Did you drink from any of the pools?’ he asks, though he knows the answer.

  ‘Yes,’ Elísabet says. ‘The one behind the waterfall.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Stefán nods, revealing nothing in his expression. ‘How much did you drink?’ He knows the answer to this as well.

  ‘That’s an odd question.’ Jón looks up at him as they gather their belongings.

  ‘Yes. I agree … it is. And it is why I need to speak with you.’

  ‘Have we drunk from a poisoned pool?’ Elísabet smiles, but then feels awkward when the man doesn’t respond. There’s something odd and heavy in his pause.

  Stefán places the two barrels on either side of his horse, checking that the lids are secure.

  ‘Why don’t you ride Glossi? Your husband and I will walk alongside. We’ll collect your horses,’ he offers.

  An hour later they arrive at what appears an ordinary scene, a farm like any other of the scattered settlements throughout the country. The one-storey group of buildings gives it the appearance of being the humblest of villages, if indeed such things exist, but there are no villages, no towns, except the single street of Reykjavík to the east.

  Here, on this farm, the earth is domed with turf huts that look like fresh mounds of graves waiting for their headstones. Sheep and cows, horses and ducks encroach upon the living quarters as they meander through the breaks in the low stone walls. Fermenting shark hangs dark and shiny outdoors.

  Elísabet has the feeling she’s being watched. Dark pathways run crookedly between the sod-covered huts, one of which hides a man she catches peering out at her. Then a woman appears, then another, until slowly, and disturbingly, the people come out of hiding. Jón and Elísabet glance at each other, their brows knitted. The people follow their movement with unblinking stares, offering no greeting, or friendly wave. Stefán nods at the people and they recede back to their various corners. There is an absence of laughing children, and also missing are women of childbearing age. In fact, Elísabet notes, in the short glimpse she had of these people, they all look older than those of the normal family-run farm. Where are the young, hired help, why aren’t they working alongside the older and middle-aged people?

  Stefán leads them inside his house through a dim, narrow passageway; its walls are composed of lava rock, the intervening spaces stuffed with moss and earth. Bridles, hanging herbs, outer clothing, a saddle, these protrude from pegs thrust into the crevices. Sweet-smelling turf burns in the fire and marries with the rich aroma of an earlier coffee-roasting session, the remnants of which linger in the common room. Jón and Elísabet glance at one another; these signs of luxury register immediately. This is not a poor peasant hut where one is greeted with the unpleasant fumes of smouldering fish bones that choke the visitor, and the stench of farm animals that sleep just a room away. Stefán had thrown a large handful of dried herbs on the fire earlier in the day. It is a friendly and inviting welcome. But for all the luxury, Elísabet senses Jón’s body tensing beside her. He overworks his jaw as he is wont to do when nervous.

  The common room is neat and clean, and there is no evidence of any other inhabitants, save a pair of knitting needles and wool that lie on a driftwood bench to suggest perhaps a woman might live here, though it is common during the endless winter nights that many men also knit, spin or weave. Tightly packed on shelves of lava rock, books line a wall.

  Stefán emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray laden with a small plate of sweetmeats, a coffee pot, cups and saucers. Elísabet wonders at this somewhat formal note to a farme
r’s hospitality, but the coffee is strong and reviving and produces a familiar sharp lift in their senses.

  ‘How long have you farmed here?’ Jón asks.

  ‘A long time. A very long time.’ Stefán replies.

  Rain begins to thump down upon the brushwood and turf roof. Stefán glances at the small round window hole.

  ‘Fog. No rush to take up the rest of your journey I hope.’

  ‘No,’ says Jón. ‘We had planned to pass the night north of here in a traveller’s hut where we have stayed before.’

  The rituals have been performed and still the man fails to enlighten them after his seemingly pressing need to speak to them. They look at Stefán expectantly through an awkward silence. He sits on top of a wooden chest with his back against the wainscoted wall. Again they notice the luxury of this feature in a farmer’s home. Wood is scarce.

  Stefán notes their anxiousness, and that he can no longer evade his duty.

  ‘Jón, Elísabet, how old are you?’

  Jón laughs nervously. ‘I don’t understand …’

  Elísabet places her hand on Jón’s.

  ‘Jón is twenty-nine. I am twenty-eight,’ she says.

  A weak, half-smile crosses Stefán’s face and he nods. The youngest, he thinks, the youngest of them all.

  ‘What I am about to tell you will sound fantastical.’

  They nod, wide-eyed, more than ready for the mystery to end.

  ‘The legends we are taught … the stories we tell children … that elves, trolls, dead spirits and the supernatural are inherent in our culture … this is not … well, what I will tell you is nothing to do with that.’

  Twenty-five times he has performed this unenviable task. He can never guess what kind of reaction he might receive, and has learned he must never assume anything. His friend Halldór had thrown a horseshoe at him, and then rolled his anger and disbelief into a ball of defiance. Halldór committed suicide on the longest day of the year. It was one of the worst days of their lives in a string of worst days.