The Parentations

by Kate Mayfield

  His dear friend Margrét had laughed in his face. He thought she was laughing at him – he understood the absurdity. She confessed that she had recently been worried that she had the cancer, and was naturally giddy for days thereafter to discover that she was not ill, until, finally, the reality of her new life sobered her.

  Out of all of those in their group, it was Múli who spoke of enchantment, who insisted that this was the work of the trolls and elves that permeate their lore. He believed that a reward was finally his and he had entered another realm through a dream, a gift that stemmed from his devotion. It was for Stefán to convince him otherwise.

  At present, the room grows darker as the fog rolls in, accompanied by the low whine of a wind. Stefán can delay no longer.

  ‘The pool you came upon – the pool that is different from all the water sources where you took your lunch – its water has … properties. We are unsure if it is water, or another form of liquid.’ He pauses. ‘The liquid has changed your body, your very existence.’

  Elísabet and Jón sit silently, waiting to hear more.

  ‘There must be some sort of scientific explanation for this, but we have not yet discovered it,’ Stefán continues. ‘We try. We work every single day towards understanding. ‘So. How has your body changed? This is your first question. We call it “extended mortality” and it will seem to you, a miracle. I suppose it is, until the day we discover otherwise. You are not immortal, but now that you’ve ingested the liquid from the pool, the only way you will die is if you drink from it again.’

  The couple stare blankly at him.

  ‘If you return to the pool and drink even a handful, you will die instantly,’ he repeats.

  ‘It makes no sense,’ Jón says.

  A loud banging on the door startles them. Stefán hesitates, and then hurries through the passageway.

  ‘He is mad,’ Elísabet says.

  And perhaps dangerous, Jón thinks.

  ‘What will we do? Do you think we should leave straight away, in the storm? Is it too late now?’ Elísabet whispers.

  Stefán returns and notices the couple hold hands whilst they stare uncomfortably at the floor, their bodies rigid. It is no surprise to him. He is familiar with this reaction, and the denial and disbelief. Now they will have an overwhelming urge to run from this place; he doesn’t blame them. Stefán summons an even calmer countenance.

  ‘I will continue, though I know you have questions.’ He pauses; the slower he goes, the better, otherwise he knows a quick barrage will further unnerve them. ‘We have discovered through bitter experience, through trial and error, that too much of the liquid will kill you.’ In his narrative Stefán omits the horror of the very early days, the burial mounds of those whose lives were lost from ignorance, greed and experimentation, and the stories of the Watcher who guards their secrets.

  ‘You will not age, but you will not become any younger. You will be the most vibrant, healthy, strong and fit as you can be for your current ages. If an accident befalls you, you will recover; however, you will not live without physical pain. Deformities have occurred. One of our group’s …’

  ‘Group?’ Jón stands.

  ‘Wait, Jón. Let him speak,’ Elísabet says.

  Jón sits again, and Stefán acknowledges Elísabet with a grateful nod.

  ‘One of our group’s hand was mangled in an accident. It has healed, but not perfectly. Normally, he would have lost the use of it. These are small things, considering. Believe me, the physical challenges are few. It is the mental and emotional toll for which you must prepare.’

  ‘We have heard enough. Thank you for the coffee. We will prepare the horses.’ Jón stands again and motions for Elísabet to join him.

  ‘Please, wait! There is much more to tell you,’ Stefán says. ‘You really must not leave here before you’re fully prepared. It would be dangerous.’

  ‘Wait, Jón.’ Elísabet turns to Stefán. ‘There are no children on this farm. At least, none came out to greet us.’

  ‘Yes, you are right.’ Stefán is eager to engage her.

  ‘And the people who live here, they are not your family?’

  ‘No. We are a community, made of people like you and Jón, who purely by accident, stumbled upon the pool.’

  They stand awkwardly at the door in the dark passageway, neither coming, nor going. The lava walls feel too close. There is not enough room to breathe.

  ‘I urge you to stay the night … this is no weather for travelling. I can try to answer all your questions.’

  Jón exchanges a look with Elísabet. ‘Very well,’ he says reluctantly. ‘Until the weather improves.’

  Greatly relieved, Stefán tosses a brick of turf into the fire and blows. Then he pulls on an outer coat and steps out for a few minutes to round up food from a neighbour.

  Jón paces. His thoughts lead him back to his first reaction, one of utter disbelief.

  ‘Has your curiosity been satisfied, Elísabet?’

  ‘No, Jón, it has not. I want to hear more. I don’t know what it is, but something is wrong here.’

  ‘Of course something is wrong. We’ve been unlucky to come across a farm of, I don’t know … I don’t know what they are. Surely, you don’t believe him?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She pauses. ‘I don’t think I do.’

  Stefán returns carrying a steaming pot, and the woman they met earlier, Margrét, follows him with more food. She places an assortment of bowls on the table, and then opens her arms to the couple in the customary, uninhibited way of greeting – as if things were still normal. She welcomes them both with hugs, and kisses Elísabet’s cheeks.

  Margrét serves chunks of salted mutton, swedes, a plate of hot lentils and pot bread. She passes a bowl in which a mound of chopped black potato and hard-boiled egg are covered with a brown sauce and sprinkled with pepper, sugar and vinegar.

  ‘We’re grateful.’ Elísabet smiles at her. ‘So much food!’

  ‘It is very good. Thank you.’ Jón, who thought he could not eat, is suddenly ravenous.

  ‘There is herring and cheese when you are ready. Do you have enough coffee for after?’ Margrét asks Stefán.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Margrét,’ he replies, and signals for her to leave them.

  ‘How old are you, Stefán?’ Jón asks.

  Stefán smiles at this. Jón has waited longer than most to ask.

  ‘Ninety-seven.’

  Elísabet drops her spoon. ‘It cannot be. You look … no, it is not possible.’

  ‘I was fifty when I first drank.’

  Elísabet calculates. He survived the Skaftá fires. She places her bowl on the table, struggling to keep her supper down. An acrid taste rises in her throat. Suddenly, she is fearful that everything he has told them is true.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  1831

  It is June. Soon they will again be under the spell of the salty tang of the sea. Elísabet rides comfortably enough. Jón is overly cautious and asks too often how she fares. She must stop frequently to relieve her bladder and her husband’s infinite patience verges on irritating. She might like him to sigh, or make a humorous remark, but he sits in a watchful blaze of pride and is immovable in it. It is their last journey before the birth of their first child.

  Neither Jón nor Elísabet could resist Stefán’s offer to fish from the portion of his land that borders the sea. When his letter arrived, the first personal post they had ever received, they had been discussing a way to supplement their stores for the oncoming winter. Stefán will allow them to keep what fish they need and then trade or sell any extra.

  Her body moves with her horse’s gait and her thoughts stray to a seafaring foreigner, the man who so recklessly played with her life. How quickly he lost interest in her the day he first met her sister.

  ‘Elísabet? Where are your thoughts?’ Jón beams at her. ‘We’re almost there.’

  She smiles at him, erasing the past that fretfully reappears.

  When t
hey arrive at Stefán’s farm to rest for the night, Elísabet is surprised that the buildings seem larger and more numerous than she remembered. The farmland sprawls further than she recalled from that first strange visit.

  As it is still daylight Jón gives the customary three knocks. The door opens and Stefán’s broad and welcoming smile slowly fades to that of surprise and confusion on sight of Elísabet.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Stefán recovers. ‘Please, please, come happy.’ He offers the normal greeting.

  After Elísabet and Jón are made comfortable, Stefán wastes no time.

  ‘I must speak frankly.’

  Jón nods in agreement.

  ‘I am astonished. You are the first of us to conceive under these circumstances. I am unsure what this means.’

  ‘Surely it just means we are going to have a child,’ Jón says, confused.

  ‘No, you don’t understand. Forgive me – congratulations to you both. But we don’t know what your child will … if the baby will have been affected by your condition.’

  ‘Stefán.’ Elísabet speaks carefully. ‘These past few months we’ve thought about this, and we still have not grasped the full meaning of “our condition” as you call it. It is so hard to fathom. We do not feel different.’

  ‘I understand, I do … you haven’t told anyone of what happened to you both, have you?’

  ‘No. We gave you our word.’

  ‘And neither of you has yet been taken with the long sleep I warned you of?’

  ‘No, not yet. But we remember your instructions and if this strange sleep occurs, we will follow them, I assure you.’

  ‘Good. Have either of you noticed any strangers or foreigners near your farm, or on your journey here?’

  ‘Just yesterday, we gave way to a traveller who rode behind us for a while. He gave no greeting when he passed. Elísabet, you observed his riding?’ Jón looks to her.

  ‘Yes, he seemed uncomfortable on his horse. But then he went ahead of us. Why?’

  How much to tell them now, Stefán wonders. Perhaps a small healthy dose of the truth.

  ‘There are … people … A Danish group who are suspicious of us. But you must be hungry and tired. Perhaps it is better to speak of this in the morning.’

  ‘I think Elísabet needs to rest before we eat, but I want to hear more about the Danish,’ Jón says.

  Stefán looks through the window hole to check the sun’s position. ‘While the daymark is still before mid-evening I must take my turn on watch. Would you care to join me?’

  ‘My legs are stiff and aching for a walk. But I will stay with Elísabet,’ Jón says.

  ‘No, Jón, please go. I will rest. It’s fine,’ she reassures him.

  A light mist falls as Stefán and Jón tread past a massive heap of sheep dung. Stefán points to a patch of low shrub.

  ‘Just past the shrub the path will lead to a small stream, there you will find a grassy ledge. Just beyond the ledge the mountains will appear on the horizon. They are our octant marks. Each night, before mid-evening our men walk the perimeter. We search for our enemy.’

  ‘Enemy?’

  Just as Stefán begins to explain, a man covered in blood runs after them. He shouts to Stefán.

  ‘There is trouble with the ram!’

  ‘I must go back,’ Stefán says.

  ‘Do you need help?’ Jón offers, as any farmer would.

  ‘No, thank you. Please. Continue your walk. We will speak later.’ Stefán turns to go, and then turns back. ‘Not too far, yes?’

  Jón nods in agreement, waves and sets off.

  Bright patches of bog cotton, white and spotless, shimmer through the mist. Cows and sheep graze in small familial clusters. June’s midnight sunset is still hours away when the copper-coloured head of Jón Eymundsson disappears through a meadow of brilliant yellow-green grass.

  Elísabet wakes later in a drowsy cloud, perplexed until she gains her bearings. She stands holding her heavy belly, feeling famished and nursing a strong craving for something sweet. She moves slowly down the long tunnel-like hall into the common room where Margrét greets her.

  ‘I hope you had a good rest. I am happy for you and your husband.’ Margrét embraces and kisses her. ‘What would you like to eat? I picked blueberries earlier today.’

  ‘You are a magician, Margrét. They are exactly what I want. But surely you will save them for a special occasion.’

  ‘This is a special occasion.’ Margrét serves the blueberries with a large bowl of sweetened cream. She likes this woman with her strange and handsome beauty. Margrét is somehow put at ease in her presence.

  ‘Do you know the time? Has Jón returned?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Margrét pauses. ‘His appetite will bring him back.’

  The women smile at how easy it is to guess a man’s motivations.

  ‘The evening looks promising, perhaps you’d like a bit of fresh air?’

  ‘Yes, I’d welcome that. I’ll go out and wait for Jón.’

  She steps into the evening air just as Stefán rushes by the front of the hut, followed by several other men. These men would normally be using every bit of the daylight to attend the animals and prepare for next month’s haymaking season. It is now that she realizes she must have slept longer than she thought. Jón has been gone too long.

  ‘Jón is not with you?’ she asks Stefán.

  ‘I had to come back to see to a ram. I directed him to a walking path, but he hasn’t returned yet. We’re off to search for him now.’

  ‘I will come, too.’

  ‘There’s no need. I think it would be best if you …’

  ‘No. I’ll go with you.’

  There is such finality in her voice that Stefán doesn’t argue, and when they begin walking he’s surprised that she is more than capable of keeping up. She strides in silence, eyes ahead, searching.

  The mist has cleared leaving the tall grass damp. A wind blows south and carries wafts of sweet-smelling thyme that grows in clumps along the path. After walking a short while, the party reaches the spot from where in the distance the peaks of the cold blue mountains shoot up into the charcoal cocoons of clouds.

  They call Jón’s name. Stefán entertains thoughts of what might have happened: a broken bone from a misstep, or perhaps it was time for Jón’s long sleep. He reproaches himself for allowing him to go alone.

  It is a beautiful time of day. The sky is flushed rose. The grey-leaved shrubs glisten. But as she continues forward, Elísabet sees the shrubs are smashed, dented with impressions of a struggle. She walks on. A mist has fallen in front of her like a curtain. The soles of a pair of boots protrude from the mist: they seem to hover just above ground like footprints of spirits. She edges closer to the boots, faintly hearing Stefán’s call for her to wait. She will not. Her heart rises to her throat. It looks like Jón’s body, lying near a stream of glacial water. She cannot get to him quickly enough. She thinks, hopes, he is sleeping, but the fine weave of his vest, her weave, is torn, buttons lost. Her eyes travel up his body and stare unbelievingly into his beautiful face turned ghastly. His eyes bulge and his swollen tongue protrudes from his mouth as if in a grotesque thrust. His hair has taken the moisture of the mist and matts thick and dark against his head. And now she sees that his arms lie stiff, pinned beneath him.

  Elísabet crumples beside her husband.

  ‘Search the area, I’ll stay here,’ Stefán says to the other men. ‘Be cautious.’

  The six men form into pairs and set off with grim faces.

  Elísabet removes the long muslin handling that flows down from her waist and places it over her husband’s face. Then she turns on Stefán in a fury.

  ‘What is this? How could this have happened?’

  ‘I do not know. I am sorry.’ Stefán musters a calm he does not feel. ‘Elísabet, this is very important. Where does Jón keep his phial?’

  Stunned she asks, ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘No, not by his own hand. We know
he would not have taken the contents of the phial by choice. But we also know that it’s the only way this … this tragedy could have occurred.’

  As she moves Jón’s body to search for his phial they discover that his hands are tied behind his back. Elísabet looks at Stefán wildly, her face hot and her eyes brimming.

  ‘Who would do this? Why? Why would they do this?’

  She searches the pockets of her husband’s jacket and then his trousers. She looks in his socks. Her hands move fast, patting him down, feeling every inch of him, his crotch, even his armpits, searching for the phial.

  Gone.

  Panicked, she reaches for her own phial, which hangs from a necklace hidden beneath her clothing; it feels warm against her skin; she had forgotten it was there. She clasps it now seeking further confirmation that it is secure while her mind verges on accepting the incredible.

  The outlines of black-clad figures move towards her in a dark squall. Four men approach with their hands up to signal surrender. It is an old custom, one that is still used in this sparsely populated land. One of the men looks first at Elísabet and then speaks to Stefán. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Who has done this?’ she manages to ask. ‘His phial is missing. He … he just went for a walk.’ She tries to be rational, but nothing makes sense.

  Elísabet moans as Stefán helps her to her feet.

  ‘Come. We’ll take you back,’ he says.

  ‘No. I want to go home. You must help me take Jón home. Please, untie his hands.’

  ‘You cannot travel right now and remain safe. Think of the child.’

  ‘How dare you. I think of nothing but the child.’ A flash of anger overwhelms her as she turns away from them, but the truth is that this miracle she carries weakens her resolve to bear it alone. Of course she must stay with them. She cannot manage the journey home on her own. Owing to this act of violence she assumes the mantle of their secret. Yes, she nods, she will accept their help. She would be a fool to forgo it.

  A rustle from the dwarf shrubs nearby alerts them. The other two men in their group emerge and quickly take Stefán aside. His head bowed, he listens, nods and then looks up at them, his face stamped with surprise.