The Sealwoman's Gift

by Sally Magnusson

  Cilleby catches his breath at the sight of her. Her face in the partially moonlit courtyard is white as bone, except where a bruise has begun to bloom under one eye, and her hair is awry. She stands before him with her head lowered, flinching slightly at the clunk of the latch signalling her kinsman’s brusque departure, but otherwise motionless. Most unlike Ásta, she is refusing to speak.

  ‘I believe you were at the home of Captain Fleming,’ he says, peering at what he can see of her face. ‘Tell me at once what you were doing there. You are forbidden to enter the home of any man.’

  She says nothing.

  ‘Ásta, I require you to answer when you are spoken to. Why were you there?’

  She mumbles something into her chest.

  ‘Speak up, I pray you.’

  ‘I was taken there at the point of a man’s knife,’ she says, louder, but with a quaver he has not heard before. ‘I went to look for Egill and stayed out too late.’

  ‘Folly, Ásta,’ he says, with a click of irritation. If she were looking at his face, she would see a familiar storm gathering at the brows. ‘That was asking for trouble. And what happened?’

  What happened? She lay under the weight of him. She heard the lapping of the water outside and began to count her islands. That’s what happened. She shut her eyes and went to another place. ‘Sudurey, Brandur, Álsey, Hellisey,’ she intoned inside her head. ‘Ellidaey, Bjarnarey.’ And when he smashed his hand into her face and told her to open her eyes, she took herself there anyway, staring right through his grimacing ecstasy to her beloved Small Isles, to Hrauney and Haena and dear old lumpy Hani that she used to call Oddrún. She made herself stay at Ofanleiti, the sun glistening on the water and the sky so clear she could see as far as Geldungur, and Súlnasker, and even little Geirfuglasker far to the south, trailing alone like a forgotten lamb.

  ‘Ásta, answer me.’

  Cilleby’s voice is impatient. But there is another note in it she has not heard before, a soft thing under the irritation. And this, at last, is her undoing. She looks up, and in the pale moonlight streaming through the galleries to the courtyard he sees the glimmer of tears.

  ‘It was my fault. I looked at him on the ship. I wanted to understand evil.’ And she begins, without a sound, to weep.

  Cilleby feels oddly and uncomfortably helpless. He doesn’t know what to do with her. He doesn’t know what to do about the flood of tenderness that has welled up in him. Nor does he know how to direct the anger that has burst into flame behind it.

  Taking refuge in formality, he says stiffly, ‘It is against the law for a man to abuse another man’s property. I will ask you one final time. Were you improperly assaulted?’

  Snuffling into her chest, she nods. Cilleby sweeps his cloak over one shoulder and strides from the house.

  The ruling council of Algiers agreed that Captain Wahid Fleming had brought much glory to the regency since offering his services to the fleet some years ago, and expressed its dissatisfaction at the lack of evidence in the case. The council heard that he had been involved in a number of separate quarrels and had many established enemies, any of whom might have paid a thug to slip in by the sea entrance and surprise him in his bed. Captain Westman, himself a valorous servant of the state, accepted under questioning that Captain Fleming, while in pursuit of his legal activities on behalf of the regency of Algiers, had caused the death of his father in Iceland, but he protested strongly that merely being in possession of a motive and in the area at the time did not constitute proof of wrongdoing.

  It was unfortunate, the council agreed, that there had been a noisy celebration on the same evening at the villa next door belonging to the celebrated admiral Murat Reis, who had earlier arrived from Salé in the sultanate of Morocco where he was ordinarily resident, leading to much coming and going all night. The slave-woman A. Th., who, the court was informed, had admitted being in the victim’s house earlier that night in wanton circumstances and without the permission of her owner, was nevertheless judged too weak to have plunged a knife into the ribs of such a large man with enough force to kill him in one stroke. One of the victim’s servants, who gave his name as Zafir Chitour, said he was asleep in the house and heard nothing; however he wished to draw to the attention of the council a number of disparaging comments that the victim had made recently about Ramadan, which he personally had found upsetting; moreover he was unable to swear that Captain Fleming had at no time disrespected the Prophet himself, peace be upon him.

  Admiral Murat Reis did not appear before the council in person, but sent a signed testimony to the effect that he had never trusted the victim and in his opinion the regency of Algiers was, as he put it in the somewhat indelicate idiom of the mariner, ‘well rid of the bastard’.

  At the conclusion of its deliberations, several members of the council expressed dismay that no perpetrator had been identified. It was felt that such a failure might cast doubt upon the reputation of Algiers as a well-ordered city, which depended for its smooth running on the rule of law and the well-judged harshness of the punishments that followed any transgression. However, after noting the views presented to the council and drawing attention to the absence of any witness to the crime, the Moor Ali Pitterling Cilleby moved that no further action be taken. The court duly accepted his recommendation.

  When Cilleby calls Ásta to his room some days later, no mention is made of the events in the captain’s villa. For this she is grateful – not only because she cannot speak of it, but because she has no curiosity, none at all, about the end her tormentor met after he fell at last into a noisy slumber and she ran from the room. Nobody more deserved to die: that is all. She survived and she will endure: that is all. Cilleby takes note of her pallor, the way she shrinks into her place across the table from him with eyes lowered. The swollen eye is a mottled green.

  ‘I have news of your elder son,’ he says, after observing her a while in silence. ‘It was remiss of me not to make enquiries earlier.’

  He checks himself. Has he just offered an apology? Amid the rumpus with the council the wish to bring her some cheer had come upon him quite suddenly. It was the work of minutes to instruct a scribe to peruse the records.

  She does not look up, but the knuckle of the hand that is gripping the other on her lap whitens.

  ‘He was sent to Tunis.’

  Tunis? Tunis?

  ‘It is not uncommon for boys to be sold among the different Ottoman regencies as the need arises.’

  She will never see him again. Not ever.

  He tries again. ‘Ásta, I can see this is a shock to you, but—’

  Her head shoots up. ‘What did Egill do to deserve being sent there? Even I know Tunis is an even worse slave-hole than this one.’ Then, in a long, hopeless wail, she clutches for her old story: ‘He was helping the pasha with his accounts.’

  With some effort Cilleby swallows a sharp retort. Surely she understands he has brought her good news? A word of gratitude might also be in order. He examines his nails briefly and decides to be direct. ‘I will say only this to you, Ásta. You should welcome the knowledge that your son is gone from the pasha. He has been away between two and three years now, according to council records. I think in your place I might be thanking Allah.’

  ‘What do you know of my place?’ she snaps, roused at last. ‘What can you ever know of me and my place?’

  He holds up a hand, vaguely relieved to be argued with. ‘Don’t allow yourself to be diverted, Ásta. The pasha is not a good man. Any boy, any boy at all, does well to be out of his way. Do you understand what I am telling you?’

  She does understand it. Only too well does she understand it. Cilleby has finally and terminally snatched away the story she made to protect her mind. She can endure what the captain did to her, but how will she endure what the pasha has done to Egill?

  ‘And think of this,’ Cilleby is saying, casting around for a way to comfort her while also being dimly aware of what an astonishing thing it is to be d
oing in his position. ‘Your boy is older now, and if he has become a faithful Muslim he could be free and living a profitable life. I grant you that Tunis is not so … developed as Algiers, but there are opportunities everywhere for a lad with a sharp brain.’

  He means well. She does see that.

  ‘Thank you for finding out for me,’ she says. Now that the trembling has ceased, there is a great heaviness upon her. ‘I would consider it a boon if you would let me leave you now.’

  When darkness comes seeping through the lattice window, it finds Cilleby in an aromatic cloud of hashish and tobacco smoke, still pacing up and down a chamber he can barely see. He is pondering why he should be missing, actually missing, the old, impudent Ásta. He is also experiencing again the disconcerting sensation of being uncertain what to do next. Somewhere in the base of his mind an idea is glimmering. But he is not sure. It would be, for many reasons, dangerous. And Cilleby, while he has courted danger somewhat recklessly of late in the public sphere, is not in the habit of inviting it home.

  22

  At a small wooden table in Skálholt, Bishop Gísli Oddsson lays down his quill and stretches his bony fingers with a sigh. A gale is thrumming outside the turf-house, sweeping rain across the flat plains between the Hvitá and Brúará rivers on which Iceland’s southern bishopric sits, its wind-bashed wooden cathedral commanding the cluster of school and sleeping quarters, farms and smithy. It is still a sizeable community for Iceland, if no longer the powerhouse it was before the Reformation and the Danish state’s seizure of church lands.

  More to the point, Bishop Gísli reflects wryly, drawing his damp robe a little tighter, it is still among the wettest and breeziest places in the country. Summer. He permits himself a small groan. This is supposed to be summer. All things made by God are good so there must be a reason for rain, but to have quite so much of it when the rivers are swollen already and the hay is ruined … Well, it is not for men to work out the purposes of God. Which is all to the good, because there is much that is perplexing in the world, not least this matter of the Icelandic hostages in the Barbary.

  There are serious problems with the new idea from Denmark, and listing them in a long letter to his brother Árni has not presented an obvious solution. The bishop rubs his nose thoughtfully. It is really very difficult to know what to do for the best. At any minute Ólafur Egilsson is going to dash in that door and there will be no stopping him when he hears about the king’s proposal. But he will have to understand that this is not a simple matter. Ólafur has always been much too easily carried away. Of course the poor fellow has suffered, God alone knows how much. But from the moment he returned home, nobody with any authority in the country has had a minute’s peace from his importunate requests for something to be done. Of course, he has never quite recovered from the rebuff he received from the Crown back in 1628 and feels responsible, although everyone appreciates that he did all he could.

  Gísli Oddsson’s fellow bishop at Hólar has, of course, complicated the issue by approving the proposal right away. Those thrawn northern Icelanders always insist on going their own way, but that does leave the southern diocese with a difficult decision.

  The bishop lets his chin dip towards his chest. He’ll have a quick doze, and by the time he wakes up will hope to have a better idea of what to say.

  Ólafur sinks wearily onto the bench. It was a long ride from the boat. His buttocks are aching and he is looking forward to his bed. He can hardly wait to throw some clothes off: the wool breeches are soaking into his legs and his wet feet are a riot of itching. A chat with the bishop, even when he is a friend not long in the job and a convivial companion, can surely wait till morning. But Gísli seems to be in the mood to talk.

  ‘I know you must be tired, Ólafur,’ the bishop says, regarding him with shrewd eyes. He takes note of Ólafur’s lank, white hair dripping miserably into his collar, the steaming coat hanging off him as if it belonged to someone else, the dark hollows around his eyes. The man doesn’t look well. ‘But before you retire, I thought I should tell you at once that the king wants to raise a ransom to bring the captives home.’

  Ólafur ceases drooping at once.

  ‘His majesty has proposed that churchmen and other leading Icelanders be consulted with a view to establishing a national fundraising effort.’

  ‘What?’ Ólafur eyes his superior hungrily.

  ‘The proposal came in a letter to Governor Rosenkrantz, which I regret to say has taken a whole two years to be delivered. Churches and hospitals in Denmark are also being asked to collect money and I dare say the king will make a contribution himself, although it remains to be seen how much. The Crown has recovered some of its lost territories and does seem to be in better financial fettle than when you last, er, tried.’ He raises a warning hand. ‘But before you become too excited, Ólafur, I have to tell you I have profound reservations.’

  Ólafur descends from his elated float around the rafters and stares at the bishop in disbelief. Reservations. After all the years of waiting to hear a word from the king – a word other than no – he is expected to sit here and listen to reservations.

  And what a no that was. Not just ‘No, there will not be a ransom’ but ‘No, a ransom is so far outside the realms of possibility, Reverend, that his majesty can’t even see you.’ Ólafur can still barely think of it without tears of shame and frustration. So full of hope he had been when he arrived in Copenhagen after those endless months of begging and walking in rags and sleeping under hedges, only to have it politely explained that King Christian had recently lost his long war with Germany and there was, most unfortunately, no money in the royal coffers for redeeming captive Icelanders such a long way from home. The guilt of that failure has weighed upon him night and day: that he should walk free under an Icelandic sky when his children cannot; that he should open his eyes to the islands slumbering in the morning mist when Ásta can only dream of it. He wakes to feel it pressing on his eyeballs. The hurt of it is the last thing he thinks about before sighing to sleep in his narrow bed at Ofanleiti. And now the bishop talks of reservations.

  ‘Let me explain, Ólafur.’

  Gísli Oddsson is alarmed by how fast the remaining dregs of colour have drained from his friend’s face and chides himself for handling a matter of such personal importance so ineptly. However, Ólafur must realise that there are wider issues here than loyalty (laudable, of course) to his own family.

  Leaning forward, he reminds his friend as gently as he can that the people of this country are desperately impoverished. It behoves every churchman to ask himself if it would not be more appropriate to feed the poor here in Iceland before trying to look after people so far away, when nobody has the slightest idea what has become of them. Indeed, might not many of those they would wish to redeem be already dead? And after so many years among the infidel, must not the Christian faith of others already have been corrupted? These are hard questions for Ólafur to face personally, as Gísli well understands, but as the superior here it is his duty to encourage him to think about them. What is more, to be more practical than Bishop Thorlákur at Hólar has shown any sign of being, what about the number of intermediaries who will all want a slice of the funds? Not just the governor’s representative but the Lord himself only knows how many agents in Denmark, the Low Countries, Italy and Algiers.

  ‘Do you understand my doubts, Ólafur?’

  Ólafur has heard him out in silence, but a growing flush high on his cheeks betrays his agitation. ‘You say Thorlákur Skúlason is in favour?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gísli concedes with a sigh. He might have known that Ólafur would make straight for this inconvenient point. ‘The northern clergy have proposed that each household contribute one pair of mittens or the equivalent and Thorlákur has approved it.’

  ‘Then let me beg you to still your doubts and listen to your northern colleague,’ Ólafur says, leaning across and grabbing his friend’s hand earnestly. ‘Think of what we are instructed in the holy b
ook of Hebrews: “Remember them that are in bonds, as bound with them; and them which suffer adversity, as being yourselves also in the body.”’

  The bishop feels suddenly very tired. He extricates his hand and pats Ólafur’s in turn.

  ‘We are also instructed to look after the poor – and there is great destitution in our land, as you well know. Forgive my scepticism, Ólafur, but if people give woollens or fish catches they can ill afford, and the money these are sold for disappears into the maws of middlemen along the way, as it surely will, how does that help anyone?’

  Before Ólafur can answer, he clears his throat. ‘And there is another important point to consider. As I’m sure you will agree as a man of Christ, those whose faith has been corrupted are no loss to Iceland anyway.’

  Ólafur winces and withdraws his hand. No loss. A picture of Egill in the slave-market rises before him: his scared eyes, the promise wrung from him at their parting, the pasha’s leering lips. Ólafur has never once allowed himself to consider that Egill might not have managed to hold to his promise to keep the faith. Sailing back from Copenhagen in that miserable summer of 1628, he made a ragged peace with the probability that he would never see his family again on this earth, but he has always refused to conjecture the possibility of not being reunited one day in heaven. He sees this now with a terrible clarity. No loss? No loss? They would be a loss to me, his love screams.

  Rising slowly to his feet, Ólafur stops himself staggering with tiredness. With an immense effort he pushes his family from him and tries to control his voice, which he is afraid is going to let him down.