by Caroline Lea
I call Pétur back. ‘Leave me here.’
‘Don’t be a fool.’
‘You must go. They will catch us.’
‘You –’
‘Pétur . . . I am a dead man.’
‘You are not. Don’t say that, or I’ll kill you myself. Come, up.’ There is a tremor in his voice and he clenches his jaw as he struggles to heave me upright.
I swat him away. ‘Let me die. Take the boat. Wait on one of the islands for a trading ship, then go to Denmark.’
‘You are coming with me.’ The pain in his eyes is unbearable.
I shake my head. ‘It will comfort me to know you live. They will treat you better there, not like some monster. You can make a life there, free.’
‘I will not leave you –’ His voice fractures. I have never seen him weep. He dashes away the tears savagely with his palm.
‘You must,’ I say gently.
‘I would rather die.’ He speaks from between gritted teeth. I know that look: he will not change his mind. So I nod, slowly, and agree to rest, to sleep. We curl up together, his arms strong around me. His whole body shakes, whether from cold or grief, I don’t know.
He will never be free while I am with him. And I will bring death for him.
I rise in the dark belly of the night, when only the stars blink down. I press my lips to Pétur’s mouth. He stirs and reaches for me. I kiss his hand and place it on his chest. From around my neck I take the strip of leather, on which dangles a tiny figure, made of glass. St Jude, the trader had said, the Catholic patron of lost causes, but I didn’t care: it was beautiful.
I fold it into Pétur’s palm. Then I tie my cloak about my neck, forming a pouch – the sort of sling in which a mother might carry a child – and fill it with stones, starting with the runestone Rósa gave me. Every time I bend, the pain knifes through my side; the makeshift sack grows too heavy for my fever-weak limbs. I worry that the stones will not be sufficient. Still, I have seen enough men drowned to know: one good breath will do it.
Pétur sleeps on. I lift the sack over my head and walk forward.
The sea is cold.
I cannot.
I turn back to Pétur . . . He will hate me, curse me.
Then I imagine him rowing out across the water. I see him aboard a trading ship, the wind whipping the hair from his eyes, chasing away years of fear. I picture him in Copenhagen, moving through crowds, like any other man. He will never again hear the whisper of huldufólk or monster. Without me, he will be free.
Love opens us, as an earthquake opens the earth.
I turn to face the sea and I walk. I am overwhelmed by the sensation of lightness, as if the stones weigh nothing. It is a return to the still waters, after a lifetime of currents and drift.
And, beneath the breathing sky, I have never felt more alive.
Author’s Note
Seventeenth-century Iceland may seem an unusual choice of setting for a writer from Jersey, but as soon as I started to read about the country and the period, I found myself enthralled. Geographically isolated, Iceland has a rich cultural history and set of beliefs, which are as distinct as its compelling landscape. I was fascinated to discover that, even in modern Iceland, it isn’t uncommon to believe in the huldufólk and that people still sometimes simply ‘disappear’ – one look at the wild landscape of volcanoes, ice floes and geysers and it’s easy to see how someone in Rósa’s time would have believed in the power of the land. Increasingly, as I wrote and immersed myself in Rósa and Jón’s world, I discovered that the landscape itself was becoming a character. I was struck by how terrifying it must have been to live in a place where the very surroundings that sustained you one summer might kill you during the winter. I was also fascinated by the Sagas, which formed some of the earliest western literature. Unlike Greek and Roman myths of gods and goddesses, the Sagas are often stories about real men and women and their very human struggles – although, appropriately, they also contain references to the supernatural.
I found a number of books very helpful when researching both the place and the history: Names for the Sea: Strangers in Iceland by Sarah Moss is wonderful and compelling and proved inspirational for its sense of landscape and exploration of culture and history. Kirsten Hastrup’s Nature and Policy in Iceland 1400-1800 was a constant point of reference. Wasteland with Words, by Sigurður Gylfi Magnússon provided some useful insights, as did Gunnar Karlsson’s book, Iceland’s 1100 Years: The History of a Marginal Society. Similarly, Romance and Love in Late Medieval and Early Modern Iceland, edited by Kirsten Wolf and Johanna Denzin, was very useful. I enjoyed reading Halldór Laxness’s Independent People and Iceland’s Bell and also loved Sjón’s novels The Blue Fox and The Whispering Muse. Hannah Kent’s novel Burial Rites was also superb for its sense of place.
The short time I spent in Iceland was both enlightening and inspirational. It is a wonderful country: the landscape is breathtaking, the sense of history is mind-boggling and the people proved incredibly welcoming. Two Professors of History from the University of Iceland, Sigurður Gylfi Magnússon and Árni Daníel Júlíusson, happily gave up their entire afternoon to discuss what Rósa and Jón’s world might have been like. It was refreshing, too, that in response to one of my questions about possible attitudes to a woman knowing how to read, both professors agreed that, while they didn’t know the answer, that shouldn’t matter, because I was, after all, writing fiction, wasn’t I? I used that thought as a touchstone while writing: all novels are invented – even non-fiction books often contain elements of fiction and interpretation. I’ve tried, where possible, to adhere to my research, but have unashamedly resorted to invention in instances where the facts weren’t readily available or would have impeded the story. All mistakes are very much my own.
I loved exploring the idea of what it would have been like for a woman in this time, especially one who, like Rósa, is torn between the old beliefs and the ‘new’ religion, who is divided in her loyalties to her family and her husband, and who finds herself isolated and terrified. Even with my modern privileges of education and financial autonomy, I’ve still found myself in circumstances where, in the face of a man’s assumed dominance and entitlement, I’ve felt small and scared and have, in some instances, doubted my own sanity. In this way, at some points, Rósa’s story didn’t feel very far from my own, despite the distance in time and space. Like many women, and like Rósa, I remind myself daily to be brave. I hope for a future where my sons won’t behave as though their various privileges entitle them to everything, and where my nieces won’t have to check their armour before they leave the house.
Caroline Lea
June 2018
Acknowledgements
People believe that writing is a solitary activity and that writers are private beasts, but I couldn’t have written this novel without constant support, encouragement (and gentle criticism) from a whole host of individuals. I am so thankful and so indebted to so very many people.
Thanks first to my wonderful, fearsome and fearless agent, Nelle Andrew, whose uncompromising perfectionism guided me through countless redrafts, revisions and deletions. I couldn’t have hoped for a more talented and supportive champion for my book and my writing. You’re a phenomenon. To Marilia Salvides for all your hard work and support, and to Laura Williams for your last-minute cheerleading. Thanks to all the team at Peters Fraser and Dunlop.
Thanks also to my brilliant editor, Jillian Taylor, who fell for The Glass Woman at the first reading (and wrote the loveliest letter I’ve ever received). Your fierce belief in the novel and in my writing has been as invaluable as your insightful editorial instinct. To my exceptional copy-editor, Hazel Orme, whose sharp eye was so key in refining the novel. Thanks also to Bea McIntyre and her wonderful proofreaders, Eugenie Woodhouse and Kathryn Sargent, and to Katie Bowden and Laura Nichol. To all the team at Michael Joseph who have thrown themselves behind the novel: thank you.
Huge thanks to Sigurður Gylfi Magnússon an
d Árni Daníel Júlíusson at the University of Iceland, who were so willing to meet with me and discuss the minutiae of Icelandic life in the seventeenth century. Thanks also to Regina Hrönn Ragnarsdóttir for her advice on the layout of crofts and turfhouses.
To my family: thanks to my sister Annabelle, who read and loved a scrappy first draft and offered such great and perceptive ideas. To my lovely mum, for listening to me and supporting me, for loving everything I write and for buying me so many books. Posthumous thanks to my brilliant, misanthropic dad, whose abrasive intolerance of all noise encouraged me to read voraciously. To my sister Sophie, for her love and her special blend of sarcasm and support.
To the wonderful people who read and offered advice and feedback on drafts: thank you to Bill Gurney for your wonderful eviscerations of early drafts (most notably, for your comment that some of the first draft was ‘Like being in Iceland: the supermarket . . . ’). Double thanks, Bill, for reading and commenting on two drafts. To Nettie Gurney for your wonderful reading recommendations and insights into my short stories. Thanks to Sachin Choithramani for your discerning eye and to Robert Ward-Penny for your perceptive comments and humbling praise. To everyone else who was kind enough to read and offer thoughts on early iterations: Penny Clarke, Nicky Leamy, Adele Kenny and Katie Purser. To Cathy Thompson for talking through an early idea over wine, when I’d only written the prologue.
Thanks again to the great teachers who inspired me: to Graham Crosby, who first told me I could write; to Maureen Freely and David Morley – I’m so delighted to be teaching on the Warwick Writing Programme, which gave me such a great start.
Thank you to John Wood for support in spite of tricky circumstances, for lifts to the station and for being flexible with book-induced changes of plan, even though it drives you mad. Thanks, too, for printing off research articles and sending through useful links to interesting websites.
So many thanks to Liz Day and Doug Day for your endless support, enthusiasm and cheerleading, and for looking after my two small boys, who, rightfully, adore you. You’re both wonderful.
More than thanks to Roger Dix for everything and for being all the things. Let’s not fuck it up.
To my two wonderful sons, Arthur and Rupert. Thank you for your endless patience and love, and for sharing me with imaginary people. Every day, you make me laugh; every day, you make me proud. Every day, you teach me things about myself that I really didn’t want to know. I love you more than words can say.
Glossary of Icelandic words
baðstofa – A living and sleeping area, often with beds along the walls.
Bless – A greeting (less formal than ‘Komdu sæl og blessaður’).
brennevín – A clear schnapps, made from fermented grain or potato mash.
dagverður – Daytime meal.
draugr – An undead creature or an animated corpse. Plural draugar.
elskan – A term of endearment, like ‘darling’.
ginfaxi – A runic sign for victory in battle.
goði – The chieftain of a settlement.
hloðir – An open hearth for cooking, constructed of large stones over a fire.
huldufólk – The ‘hidden people’ or elves.
Komdu sæl og blessaður – Formal greeting to a man.
Komdu sælar og blessaðar – Formal greeting to a group of women.
lifrarpylsa – A sausage made from chopped liver.
moldbylur – Snow so heavy that it is impossible to see an inch in front of you.
nattverður – Evening meal.
seidr – Witchcraft (punishable by death).
skyr – A protein-rich fermented yoghurt.
prestur – A village priest or minister.
vegvísir – A runic sign for protection and finding one’s way.
Also by Caroline Lea
When the Sky Fell Apart
Copyright
THE GLASS WOMAN. Copyright © 2019 by Caroline Lea. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Originally published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Michael Joseph, an imprint of Penguin Random House UK.
Cover design by Caroline Johnson
Cover photographs © Glasshouse Images/Getty Images (woman’s profile); © Bill Diodato/Getty Images (hair); © bphillips/iStockGetty Images (splash); © Evelina Kremsdorf/Trevillion Images (mountains); © fotosutra/Shutterstock (stars); © Supza/Shutterstock (stars)
FIRST U.S. EDITION
Digital Edition SEPTEMBER 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-293512-0
Version 07102019
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-293510-6
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