The Sealwoman's Gift

by Sally Magnusson

  ‘It turns out the raid was not planned by the captain of our ship but by another Dutch renegade who goes by the name Murat Reis. His real name is Jan Janszoon from Haarlem. Remember this name, Ásta. He is the man who brought us to this. The two of them operate from different parts of the Barbary, but this Murat seems to have commanded the whole fleet and … Are you still with me, Ásta?’

  ‘Ólafur, the first time you take it upon yourself to wipe a child’s backside on a rolling ship with your most intimate parts on fire, you can tell me how easy it is to attend to the finer points of privateering.’ She scoops the mewling baby to her shoulder. ‘Pray go on.’

  ‘Yes, well, Murat went first. He took the southwest. So it must have been he who captured our people from Grindavík in June and then got chased away when he tried to attack the Danish governor at Bessastadir. Apparently it was Fleming’s role to follow on and invade the east of Iceland and then come for us. Murat is based in Salé in Morocco and Fleming in the port of Algiers.’

  He leans closer. ‘Which means, dearest, that Algiers is where we’re going. I have it confirmed.’ Receiving no encouragement, he trails off damply. ‘I thought you would wish to know.’

  Ásta, not sure that she does want to know, gives the baby’s back a bleak rub. Ólafur revels so in finding out. Despite himself he is excited: she sees it in his eyes. He is probably remembering the tales he used to bring home from foreign traders, thinking about all those countries he has always longed to see. Not she. Her forebodings are only deepening as the weeks at sea pass. To put a name to where they are sailing is not exciting at all.

  On the day that Ásta finally makes it up the ladder, Captain Fleming is inspecting the rigging, his thumbs hooked on his armed sash. Not that she notices him, so dazzled is she by the light, so exhilarated to escape the shadows and the stench. Walking is painful, but her cheeks are soon tingling with the slap of the wind, her starved skin sucking up the sun with the purest delight. Her head has lightened so pleasingly with the rush of crystal air that, leaning on Ólafur’s arm, she feels a little drunk.

  Fleming turns his back as soon as he sees them. God’s blood, he can’t face another question from that priest. He is on the point of heading swiftly in the opposite direction when the thought occurs that it might, after all, be wise to inspect the wife. This is his first opportunity since her outburst at the harbour. If he is to persuade the Moor when they reach Algiers, he will need a thorough understanding of all the assets. Cilleby can be difficult.

  He makes up his mind and strolls, paddle hands behind his back, towards the couple making careful progress across the deck.

  ‘So this is your wife, Reverend?’

  The woman turns quickly. Small. Full-breasted. Smells, but so do they all. Eyes – now that’s interesting – eyes glaring up at him very hard.

  ‘Ja, sie heisst Ásta Thorsteinsdóttir,’ Ólafur replies in his best German, the nearest he can manage to Dutch. ‘You may not be aware, Captain, that husbands and wives have different surnames in Iceland. I am the son of Egill and my wife here is the daughter of Thorsteinn. Ja. Each taking the first name of the father. An old custom.’

  Ólafur knows he is gabbling. This is the man who murdered Ásta’s uncle and here she is, standing right next to him in a state it would be fair to describe as intoxicated. He is really very nervous. There is nothing she can say that the captain will understand (is there?), but even the way she is staring at him like that is dangerous. It feels provocative.

  Ásta does not move. She keeps her eyes raised to the captain’s face, which is some way above hers. Is this what wickedness looks like? Can it be that evil, so far from waving a devil’s tail and breathing fumes of sulphur, manifests itself in a pair of drooping blond mustachios and a peeling nose?

  Fleming scowls. Why is the woman looking at him like that? There is not a trace of fear in her. Not even the wary loathing you get from them all. And nothing like the uncontained fury of that madwoman the other day. He registers the searching in the look and the challenge. Challenging him to what? Moistening his bottom lip with his tongue, he studies her face. Wide-spaced eyes, frown, chin jutted up. Temper there? He knows how to deal with that in a woman. Those eyes, though – blazing away at him. A man could look at them, and look.

  The captain makes himself turn towards Ólafur, whose German is being increasingly challenged by the Icelandic patronymic system. When he looks back, the woman is still staring. At which point the captain disregards Ólafur entirely and returns the stare. Ásta sees the tongue flicking over the cracked lips. She sees the glitter as it enters the pale eyes. She senses – too late she senses it – the insipid menace that has suddenly charged the air.

  Still without making a sound, she turns and walks away as quickly as her bruises allow. Her fists are clenched. She thought she could search out the pip of evil in the core of a man just by looking. She is a fool.

  With a hasty ‘Guten Tag’, Ólafur rushes after her.

  The captain watches the grey skirts until they are out of sight.

  8

  As the ship blusters through the straits of Gibraltar, the corsairs jumpy because the Spanish have caught them here before and Margrét declaring darkly that if a sea-battle finishes them off now it can only be for the best, Oddrún Pálsdóttir is dying.

  She has been hovering for days now, drifting in and out of dreams, never sure if she is awake or asleep. From the murky deeps she has seen her sister beckoning. She has heard the sealman with the soft voice, the one she loved, calling back to her to hurry as he sinks into the midnight waves. She has felt the tides wrap her in seaweed and embrace her with kindness. So safe she feels then, she wants never to wake up. But there are other dreams, too, important things she must tell the others if she can only pull herself above the water.

  From somewhere near at hand she hears Ólafur giving the artificial cough that means he has an announcement to make. Dear Ólafur. Not once has he paid attention to a word she has said, but he understands loneliness and she has adored him. He stands up now, planting a leg on either side of his son Egill for balance, and adopts his most stentorian pulpit voice. Their captors have told him, he declares, that nobody is to be allowed out of the hold from now on because they are nearing the destination where they will be sold into slavery in whatever form this takes. He urges them not to be afraid because Jesus Christ, who knows their pain, will be with them and will bring blessings upon every one of them, even in the adversity to come.

  The dear man, Oddrún thinks dreamily. Isn’t she the one who is supposed to have lived her life on a wish and a story?

  ‘I want you to know that I have spoken to a French crewman,’ Ólafur continues, ‘a Christian yet, who was taken captive himself at sea. You need not be long where you’re going, he told me. Your king will pay the Turks and then – as he said – pouf, you will be back home.’

  This report excites a rising murmur. It is interrupted by an ear-piercing aside from Margrét to the effect that the Frenchman’s own monarch has obviously not produced such a ransom or else, pouf, he would not be here either. Einar Loftsson, half lying between a pallid wife and two drooping children, begins speculating loudly about the chances of the Danish state reaching into its pocket – ‘never mind that it’s a pocket bulging with the profits on Icelandic fish’ – to rescue anyone. It is then that Oddrún raises her head and makes an attempt to speak. The flesh is loose on her face and her eyes, deep sunk in her head, appear to Ólafur bigger than ever. The long, grey hair lies tangled around her shoulders and her cap must have been dislodged at last because he sees no sign of it. Probably swept into Margrét’s bucket.

  ‘I have a word, my friends.’ Oddrún’s voice is too weak to carry far, but the audience nudges and shushes itself to attention. ‘I have seen Ólafur in a great palace. He is kneeling before the king.’

  This occasions a pleasing intake of breath among those closest. Ólafur gives Oddrún a look that Ásta, nursing the baby on her other side, recognis
es from the night he was dragged from his bed to inspect Helgafell as it failed to erupt.

  ‘Hush,’ someone hisses further back. ‘Listen to Oddrún.’

  These are not words Oddrún has heard before and she revives further.

  ‘In my dream’ – Ólafur’s eyes meet Ásta’s and roll faintly upwards – ‘in my dream the king, a most distinguished gentleman, was dressed in a red coat with rows of fine gold buttons, and a pair of boots shiny as a black stone polished by the sea. He indicated to our Reverend Ólafur that he should rise, just as I do here.’

  A hand trails out from the mound of fetid clothing and twirls regally in Ólafur’s direction. ‘“Sire, I beg you give me money that I may save my people,” spake Ólafur to the king.’

  Everyone waits. Hardly a breath is drawn as, with great effort, Oddrún drags herself into a sitting position, the better to fix her moist gaze upon them.

  ‘And the king said …’ She hesitates. ‘The king said …’

  She stops again. Relishing the attention as she does, Oddrún has also realised the effect her word may have on people too full of fear and sorrow to want truth. They have never wanted her truth. She opens her mouth and then closes it again. She begins to cry. Some of her sprawled audience turn away, guessing what is to come.

  ‘Hear me.’ She raises her voice through her tears. ‘I cannot keep this from you. You all must know it. You must know that the king said no.’

  There is an uncomfortable silence. Oddrún has heard uncomfortable silences before but nobody breaks this one with a snigger. Ólafur moves to comfort her, but before he can squeeze to her side, she has fallen back again and turned her face to the floor.

  Egill Ólafsson is sitting with his legs crossed, attempting to twist two pieces of rope into a complicated knot he thought he had mastered. He is trying to imagine what being a slave will feel like. What will be expected of him? Will the torture hurt very much? If he is quick to his tasks and obedient, might he be able to work out what his tormentor likes best and avoid the worst? At home his father could be deflected from most beatings with a promise of keener attention to his catechism and a dewy request to hear more about Jacob’s ladder. Ólafur is no tormentor, but the principle may be sound.

  ‘Whatever befalls us when we get there, hold fast to your faith, son,’ Ólafur whispered last night, lying tight by his side, sensing the dread that will not let him sleep, the fear he cannot confess to his mother. Perhaps this is the answer. Egill must keep the Christ in a secret part of himself, as his father advises, and whatever is asked of him be the perfect slave.

  Ásta, the baby snug in her neck, watches her older son studying the ends of rope, trying this loop and that. His hair is so stiff with sea-salt that it is standing up by itself. What is going through his mind there as he concentrates with the slightly ethereal expression that has always caught at her heart?

  She wonders if Ólafur, whose thin, untidy bones Egill has inherited, ever looked that delicate and otherworldly as a child, before the priesthood brought him to earth. She smiles into little Jón’s cheek at the thought. Nobody could be less ethereal than Ólafur. How sternly unimpressed he was when he came upon her gazing at the Ofanleiti elf-stone soon after they were married, chin in hand and lost in imaginings about the hidden folk inside. She has lost count of the admonishments since. There are no trolls in the Bible. Grotesque shapes in the lava are the way the Almighty once instructed a volcano to behave and not frozen giantesses awaiting the sun’s caress. Believing there are invisible people born of Eve who live in rocks and crags all over Iceland is a scandalous blasphemy and not to be indulged for one second – especially not by the wife, daughter and niece of three reputable priests, carriers of the light of Jesus Christ, battling against ignorance … and so on.

  No, if Egill’s expression is rapt and faraway sometimes, it is certainly not his father he takes it from. Where he has gone to now, though, as he weaves his rope with those nervy fingers, she has no idea. Egill keeps his feelings close.

  She remembers once Helga rushing in to complain that Egill had pushed her over and smashed every egg she carried home. Ásta stormed outside and struck him about the ear. He received it quite still and merely looked at her without speaking, letting only his brimming eyes do the accusing. A trifling moment, but one she has not forgotten. Helga, who could never hold to a lie for long, confessed later that she had dropped the eggs herself.

  ‘Ásta,’ Ólafur is calling to her. ‘Come now. Leave the child.’

  She places Jón between Egill’s knees and steps across Margrét’s pail and around two pairs of outstretched legs to where her husband is sitting with Oddrún’s grey head in his lap. The social proprieties are so far behind them now that no one raises an eyebrow to see the priest of Ofanleiti’s arms about the island madwoman.

  ‘Our poor friend is not long for this world. She wants to speak to you.’

  Ólafur bends low to Oddrún’s ear, and his hair trails across her closed eyes.

  ‘Come, Oddrún mín. Open your eyes and see who’s here.’

  The old woman takes a few moments to focus. Her face is so gaunt that her eyes seem all that is left in it. They gaze up at Ásta with the pleading look that she and Ólafur have always recognised as a sign of danger.

  ‘Ásta,’ she croaks, ‘I have a word for you. It came as I slept.’

  Ásta is horrified to feel a tickle of laughter at her throat. All her life she has struggled with this impulse to laugh at the wrong time. Ólafur has never quite forgiven her for giggling uncontrollably the day he roared from the pulpit, ‘Suddenly there came from heaven a sound like a mighty rushing wind’, just as a large farmer at the front shifted his buttock and blasted the congregation. The worst of it was that Ólafur heard her and had to swallow twice himself. He said afterwards that he had never been so mortified and refused to speak to her for the rest of the day.

  She dares not look at him now, just in case he is so far gone in manners himself as to wink. As long as no offence to the Holy Spirit is involved, this is quite possible: it is why she loves him. But Oddrún is dying and this is not the time.

  ‘Tell me, Oddrún,’ she says, stroking a tangle of hair from the worn forehead. ‘Tell me your dream.’

  ‘Not a dream exactly.’ The words come in little, effortful gasps.

  ‘It’s all right. You can tell me later.’

  ‘No.’ Her hand reaches blindly for Ásta’s arm. ‘It’s time for me to return to the sea.’ Ólafur twitches. ‘I must give you this word at once. Lean closer.’

  Ásta moves so close that she can smell Oddrún’s sour breath and count the black teeth.

  ‘You remember Gudrún from the Laxdaela saga?’

  Of course she does. The Mosfell story evenings celebrated no more compelling heroine.

  ‘She came to me here, this Gudrún, as I was lying in and out of sleep, thinking about the sealfolk and everything I have missed out on in this life. I never knew the love of a man, Ásta. Not in this world anyway. And I never learned how to love in return. I left all my charms behind with my youthful skin under the midnight sun.’

  Her clutch tightens. ‘But hear this. Gudrún had every chance with men, though luck fell badly for her more than once. Don’t do as she did. That is my word to you, Ásta, as you face what is to come. Do not do as Gudrún did.’

  And what is that supposed to mean? Ásta stares at her in bewilderment. Really, Oddrún, must you always be so dramatic?

  Gudrún Ósvífursdóttir, most beautiful and haughty of heroines. She wed the closest friend of the man she really wanted and then – in a fit of jealousy that never failed to make young Ásta tremble – talked this husband into slaying his friend. Is that what she is to avoid? Oddrún mín, you have excelled yourself this time. The dearest friend of her own husband has already been slain in a cave – and that friend, by the by, was her uncle.

  No, either Oddrún at the end of her life is as muddled as she ever was (could anything be more likely?) or there
is something Ásta is missing.

  ‘Oddrún, tell me what it is about that story you want me to remember.’

  But the old woman’s eyes are fast shut and her hand has become limp. Ásta looks a question at Ólafur. He shrugs back. Trying to work out what Oddrún means about anything is a labour he gave up long ago.

  They sit by her as the hours pass, her head resting on Ólafur’s lap. When the last breath has gone with a sigh, Ásta places a farewell kiss on top of her head, watching out for lice. She has not the faintest idea what she is not to do.

  Ólafur and Einar Loftsson take down Ásta’s sail and roll it around the emaciated body. With the help of Margrét’s strapping son Jón Jónsson, they shuffle it up to the main deck. Ólafur and Jón push the body up each of the rope ladders and Einar hauls from above. They are not unpractised: others have gone this way before.

  They lay Oddrún down on the upper deck and Ólafur, casting aside one or two theological reservations, prays that God will take their Christian sister home. Then the men raise her over the side. With one push Oddrún Pálsdóttir, tight wrapped in grey, is sent headfirst into the deep where she longed to be. The sea closes over her, taking into itself an old woman’s hopes and dreams, and the mysteries no one will ever know.

  Next day the ship arrives in the North African port of Algiers. It is the seventeenth day of August, 1627.

  WHITE

  August 1627 – June 1636

  His first choice amongst the boys was my own poor son, eleven years old, whom I will never forget as long as I live because of the depth of his understanding.

  Reverend Ólafur Egilsson

  9

  The Moor strides across the courtyard, pausing only to admire his new fountain. An extravagance, perhaps, but the gush and fall of the water are pleasing. He plunges into the jostling streets and makes his way briskly downwards. It is always sensible to be early for the slave-market, especially when in possession of such precise instructions as Alimah has felt moved to issue this time.