The Glass Woman

by Caroline Lea

  ‘Gudrun, enough!’ Katrín rubs her temples. ‘Rósa must take Jón his food and we shall make her late. It was a joy to meet you, Rósa. Bless.’

  ‘Bless. And you, a joy.’

  Katrín leads Gudrun away, the older woman still mumbling, the words lost in the wind.

  Rósa walks up the path to the field, counting her steps to still her thoughts.

  Stykkishólmur, September 1686

  Rósa hurries along by the grey sea, watching puffins diving from the cliffs into the water below and surfacing, beaks crammed with tiny fish. A ptarmigan flares up from the grass at her feet, wings thudding in the air, like heartbeats. Her own frantic heart thrums in her chest.

  She sees the men, at last, in the middle of a hayfield. Jón raises his hand and beckons her over; she waves back vigorously. She will tell him what the women said and about the noises she imagined in the croft: they will laugh, and his amusement will chase away the seeping fear lodged in her stomach.

  But what if he realizes she has climbed the ladder? As her husband and goði, he could have her flogged for disobedience.

  She picks a path down one of the gaps between the tall grass stems. It brushes her skirts and hisses as she passes.

  Jón lays down his scythe, his smile wide and open as he indicates the field. ‘A crop to be proud of – yes, Rósa?’

  Here, with a smile on his face, eyes bright with sunlight and joy, he looks as mild a husband as any woman could wish for. Rósa almost leans into him, almost says, I heard strange noises. Why is the loft locked?

  But under his searching gaze, her mouth feels stuffed with linen. She swallows. ‘You work hard,’ she manages to croak.

  He nods. ‘Most folk don’t seed the big fields – they keep them for grazing sheep, then rely on dried fish through the winter. But as a boy I was always hungry and sickened by the dried fish. It’s like sea-brined tunic – endless chewing!’

  Rósa smiles at the apt comparison.

  Jón’s eyes brighten. ‘Stykkishólmur was poor, everyone sickly and living from hand to mouth. I worked from dawn until dusk farming, and spent nights at sea, catching more fish than all the other boats together. I tilled the soil with dung until I could grow barley, and I nurtured my herds until they were the largest for miles. And then the gyrfalcons – they are worth thirty cows each, more, if a king from another land desires one.’

  ‘It is . . . marvellous.’ This time the admiration in her voice is unfeigned.

  He waves away her praise, but flushes, suddenly boyish. ‘I will not see people starve. I allow them certain freedoms, where other goðis flog and tax their people to death. But I am no tyrant . . . although there are those who would paint me as one.’

  ‘Egill?’ she murmurs, remembering the black-cloaked figure.

  Jón scowls. ‘And Olaf, Egill’s lackey. They call me a villain.’

  Pétur grunts. ‘Egill is so crammed with dung it clouds his vision – everything looks like shit to him.’

  Despite herself, Rósa giggles.

  Jón smiles at her with new warmth. ‘Farming is unforgiving work. The soil is mostly ash and sand. But it is worth the sweat. Otherwise our jaws cramp from chewing dried fish.’ He scatters a handful of sulphurous black soil into the breeze. ‘You like the fish?’

  ‘I like it well enough.’

  ‘Ha! It is a sin to lie.’ But he is beaming and he looks much younger. ‘It’s disgusting. I am glad when we have mutton.’ He leans in conspiratorially. ‘As a boy, I trapped rats to avoid eating the fish.’ He chuckles. ‘Look at her eyes, Pétur! You will not have to eat rats, Rósa.’

  ‘I have never been rich enough to be particular about food.’

  He touches her fingers. ‘Wait until you taste the hay, Rósa. Like sunlight. My sheep and cows are the strongest for miles – Danish traders pay double. Here.’ He snaps the golden head and lays it on his palm. ‘Eat it.’

  He cannot expect her to eat hay like one of his sheep. She stares at him. He looks back, unblinking. Slowly she puts the grass head on her tongue. It is like a spiked beetle, clawed legs scrabbling at her throat. Jón keeps watching her, until she chews, then swallows.

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘Well?’

  ‘I can taste . . . the sun and the sea in it.’ She tries not to cough.

  Jón claps his hands and laughs, like a child. ‘Pétur! Pétur, come here. The hay – she loves it.’

  ‘She will be a cheap wife, if she likes the sheep fodder.’

  They laugh. Rósa’s throat feels as though it has been scraped with a blade.

  Jón insists on giving her a scythe. He is a different man from the one who glared and forbade her to venture into the loft. He holds her hand gently and shows her how to sweep the scythe in wide arcs, swinging back and forth, building a rhythm so that the blade slices through the stalks, like butter. She can feel the length of his body pressed against her back and legs; it sends a confusing heat through her.

  Pétur follows, tying bundles of hay with a longer stalk, then leaning the sheaves against each other to dry, ripen and gather richness from the sun.

  As they walk, Jón lays his hand upon her arm, puts his hands around her waist. When he touches her, she freezes, her whole body humming, like a wind-scoured shell. She exhales slowly and closes her eyes, but she cannot make sense of the jumble of sensations and the roiling in her gut.

  Jón seems not to notice her confusion. He exclaims in delight when he unwraps the dagverður, although he tells her she must be more frugal tomorrow.

  ‘We mustn’t eat everything, or we’ll be forcing down dried fish all winter.’

  In her chest, Rósa feels the fist of fear unclasp. Jón smiles at her and laughs with Pétur. Still, when her husband reaches out to brush the hair back from her face, her own laughter dies and her breath is tight in her throat.

  A muscle in his jaw pulses, but he allows his hand to drop to his side, then turns away.

  Rósa whispers an apology, which hangs on the air between them.

  Pétur collects his scythe to continue reaping. Jón squints and looks out at the sea. Rósa searches desperately for something she might say that will chase away the darkness on her husband’s face.

  But instead she finds herself saying, ‘I met two women, while I was walking.’

  ‘Who?’ Jón’s voice is like a whip.

  ‘Gudrun and Katrín.’ Rósa twists a stem of hay around her fingers, pulling it tight until her fingertips sting.

  ‘Gudrun is a troublemaker, and I wouldn’t trust Katrín as far as I could . . .’ His hands are clenched into fists. ‘They are not suitable company for the wife of the goði. You should not speak to them – they have upset you.’

  Rósa twists the hay tighter. Her fingertips turn dark red.

  Jón takes her hand and unwinds the hay. His fingers are rough, his big hands shaking with restrained strength. ‘What is it?’

  ‘They said . . . They said –’

  ‘What did they say?’

  She flinches at the iron in his voice.

  Jón sighs again, and rubs his hands over his eyes. ‘Rósa, I have a whole field to harvest. What did they say?’

  ‘They said that . . . you will not allow anyone into the croft.’

  ‘I cannot have the whole settlement in my home.’

  She bites her lip hard to stop it trembling. He reaches out and pulls her lip gently from between her teeth. She finds herself frozen, waiting for his hand to move.

  ‘You will not invite the women back.’ His voice is soft, almost tender as he strokes her cheek. ‘Will you?’

  ‘But how am I to find companionship?’

  ‘Look at me, Rósa,’ Jón says, his voice laced with steel.

  She pulls her gaze away from the sea, which stretches endlessly into the distance, and focuses on the chipped flint of his eyes. ‘I have seen gossip corrode a person. You must understand . . .’ He sighs. ‘Anna . . . I warned her. She should have listened.’

  When she says noth
ing, he leans in closer to her. She edges away.

  ‘Rósa, a life in the church would have meant an existence of solitary prayer and study. I thought you would be content –’

  ‘I am content. It is simply . . .’

  ‘What else can be the matter?’

  ‘No matter, except . . .’

  ‘What is it?’ he growls.

  ‘I . . .’ Her voice is tight and high. ‘I thought I . . . heard something.’

  ‘Heard something?’

  ‘It sounded like – Well, I thought I heard something.’

  Jón swallows, audibly. ‘Where?’

  ‘The loft. But the door was locked, so I didn’t –’

  ‘You didn’t go in? I forbade it, Rósa! You gave your word.’

  ‘I didn’t go in! But –’

  ‘But?’

  She flinches. ‘I was frightened. I thought an animal might be trapped.’

  He gives a sudden laugh, startling her. ‘Ah, yes, a rat, perhaps! We will go back to eating them, if their scrabbling scares you.’ His laughter is hollow, his eyes sharp and watchful. ‘You didn’t go up the ladder?’

  Mutely, she shakes her head.

  He pats her hand. His skin is cold. ‘Rats!’ His jaw is rigid and his laughter doesn’t touch his eyes. ‘Rats can be vicious. They might have hurt you.’

  Under her dress, Rósa’s legs tremble.

  He picks up his scythe. ‘Stay away from the loft. Rats are dangerous.’ He turns away. ‘I will return after dark and we will eat nattverður together. You would like that, yes?’ She can feel his gaze upon her, like a touch.

  She keeps her head down, but risks glancing at his face: all the child-like mirth has gone. His lips are pressed into a thin, pale line. He clenches the scythe with white-knuckled hands and attacks the hay.

  She runs back down the hill and fills a pail with water from the stream. For the rest of the afternoon, she cleans the croft with noisy urgency, filling the air with the sounds of sweeping and scrubbing and her own panting breath. It had been cleaned recently, but already a fine film of dust had gathered on the scrubbed wooden table. Seeds from the hay fly from the blankets like fleas when she shakes them out.

  Her husband’s world follows her everywhere, it seems.

  She walks down the path to the barn, telling herself that she must tend the animals, but when she passes the pit-house, she stops. Pabbi used to scold her for her curiosity. It would lead to trouble one day, he’d warned.

  The door to the pit-house is locked, and when she tries to peer through the gaps between the wall and the window, she can see nothing but darkness. The back of her neck itches but, when she turns, no one is there. Only the village at the bottom of the hill, with its bustle of bodies. As she watches the people going about their business, she notices that, every so often, they will stop and glance up the hill, shading their eyes from the glare of the sun. As if they, too, are searching for something. She watches them for some time, but the busy chatter and commotion make her feel more alone than ever so she traipses back to the croft to continue her tasks.

  So far north, darkness eases itself through the sky early, leaching the light from the air and gradually turning everything a monochrome grey. Rósa only realizes how dark it has become when, in the middle of scrubbing the floor, she stands and bangs her head on the table. The night has brought fingers of cold and, rubbing her head, Rósa lays down her cloth and lights the tallow candles, warming her hands in their meaty flame. The smell makes her stomach gripe – she has hardly eaten since the bits of bread she sneaked while making dagverður for the men. She slices a thin sliver of bread, smears it with honey and eats with her back against the hloðir. The warmth of the bread reminds her of the hay fields.

  Rósa goes to the door of the croft and peers out. No sign of Jón. Nothing but the blank darkness, the closing hand of the night.

  Quickly, she lights a taper, then hurries through the croft to the ladder. She climbs awkwardly, holding the flickering taper in one hand, careful not to quench the flame with a sudden movement. When she reaches the door, she holds the taper close to the lock, then reaches out and pulls on the metal. Her hand shakes, the flame trembles, her breath is noisy in her throat.

  The lock won’t move. She examines the hole where a key should fit, then presses her fingers against it. Perhaps if she could find a broken spoon or some other piece of metal, she might be able –

  There is a sudden noise, a rustling, then footsteps and the rumble of voices; Rósa freezes, then realizes that the noises are coming from down below, from outside.

  Jón!

  She blows out the flame; sudden darkness swallows her and she must scrabble her way down the ladder in the pitch black, heart clattering, blood ringing in her ears and her hands slipping on the rungs – where are the rungs? – and then she is in the baðstofa and running through to the kitchen and the voices are closer as she lights a candle, then sets out the mutton and the skyr and the bread. She drops the bread and has to brush the dirt off it, so that, when Jón and Pétur walk into the kitchen, she is wide-eyed and breathless, holding out the loaf like a shield.

  ‘There is no more meat. I’m sorry, I had thought . . . This is not enough. I will walk to the settlement tomorrow, and see if one of the other women will trade some mutton for bread or fish.’

  A hot pulse thrums behind her eyelids.

  Jón shakes his head. ‘This is enough for now.’ His gaze travels over her hot cheeks and heaving chest. ‘Are you unwell, Rósa? Has something happened?’

  She shakes her head vehemently. ‘I will get more meat tomorrow. Perhaps Katrín –’

  ‘No!’ She jumps at the steel in his voice. ‘No,’ he repeats softly. ‘I won’t have you knocking on doors, trading food, like some Danish sailor. Pétur will slaughter a sheep.’

  ‘I am used to trading with other women. And I would like to explore –’

  ‘You’ll grow to know the place soon enough. It is full of gossips, without you encouraging them by knocking on doors.’ Jón gives a quick, taut smile. ‘You have everything you need. If you want meat, you shall have it. You will be happy.’

  ‘But . . .’ She clutches her skirts and draws a breath. ‘. . . I would like the company, not to gossip, of course, I would not say anything about you, but only –’

  ‘Enough!’

  His gaze is iron. ‘You will do as I say, Rósa.’

  She nods. She is so weary. A tear splashes onto her hand; she dashes it angrily away.

  He squeezes her fingers. ‘No need for tears.’ He drinks some brennevín, then takes a savage bite of his bread and chews noisily, staring at his plate. ‘You are tired, Rósa, so not yourself. But I forgive your curiosity. It is natural. I understand. And I will not be angry as long as you do as I say.’

  And that is when it hits her, like a fist in her guts: a sudden and visceral longing to be curled in her cramped home in Skálholt, huddled under a blanket with Mamma. They used to laugh at each other’s icy toes. Hungry and cold and content.

  As if he senses her thoughts, Jón says, ‘Pétur is to travel inland tomorrow, to trade. He will also go to Skálholt to see your mamma and give her more food. You can write her a letter, telling her you are happy and safe. I have paper and ink.’

  A strange peace offering. Rósa doesn’t ask if she can accompany Pétur, although she would happily endure that terrifying ride to be back at home with Sigridúr.

  But she must stay, be a good wife and obey her husband if she wants Mamma to survive the winter.

  Rósa feels like a trout she had seen Pétur impale upon a fishing spike when he fetched her from Skálholt: she may flap and flail, but she cannot work herself free.

  She stands stiffly, clears and washes the plates in the bucket of water from the stream, then tiptoes through to the baðstofa, where she pulls off her woollen dress, tugs on her night shift and crawls beneath the knitted blankets.

  The bed has absorbed the chill of the dark. Rósa shivers and waits for J
ón to slide in next to her. She counts her rapid breaths, which sound as if they belong to someone else; she twists the corner of the blanket and resists the urge to chew it, as she used to when she was a child. Silver moonlight spills through the tiny sheepskin window and fills the room with sharp shadows. Anything could be lurking in the darkness behind that slick of gleaming light. Her teeth chatter.

  Noises from the kitchen. The rumble of male laughter, loose with drink.

  She squeezes her eyes shut and pulls the blanket so it covers all but the very top of her head. Then she takes the tiny figure of the glass woman and curls around it, holding it close to her chest, as if cradling her own throbbing mind.

  She slips into a gritty unconsciousness, where everything is made of shadow and sounds are like snagged fragments of wool. She is herself, and yet, at the same time, she knows she is Gudrun from Laxdaela Saga, torn between her two lovers. Jón grasps one hand, Páll the other, and as she strains to escape Jón’s grip, she finds herself pulling him closer. She cries out, but when she opens her mouth, no sound emerges and then, when she chokes, she vomits up stone after stone, each one inscribed with a runic symbol. She kneels to gather and hide them from Jón, but then his hand is under her chin, forcing her to look him in the face, and when she meets his eye, his mouth twists into a snarl.

  ‘Anna!’

  Rósa bolts upright into wakefulness, clawing at her throat, where she can still feel the pressure of Jón’s fingers, can still hear his growl of Anna’s name.

  The bed next to her is cold and empty and the slash of moonlight from earlier has faded; the croft is muffled by the night. There are no noises from the kitchen. The men have gone, somehow, somewhere. Out to tend the animals?

  Suddenly she remembers the piece of paper she had found, with the strange runic symbol on it. She slides her hand under the mattress, but her fingers clutch empty air. She sits up and lifts the mattress, peering into the space and patting with her hand. But there is nothing.

  Strange. Her mind playing tricks on her again? She had been so very tired when she arrived.