On the Cold Coasts by Vilborg Davidsdottir Read Free Book Online Page B

distress?”
    Thorkell was taken aback by her question and did not answer right away.
    “Do what you feel is right,” he finally said. “But do not make too much of these people’s distress. Their poverty has been caused by their many children. And now they will have to pay the entire fine on their own.”

    Despite being buried inversely and outside the churchyard, one might think that Brynhildur would rest calmly in her grave until judgment day, seeing that an ordained priest had sung over her grave. But it was quite the opposite. Within a few weeks, her ghost began to make itself known, first by rattling pots and pans in the kitchen, later by snatching food from the pantry. In the boys’ quarters she walked the floors at night making the floorboards creak, particularly near the butler’s bed. He still denied having got her pregnant, but to most people it was clear that first and foremost it was he who was responsible for her unrest. The bishop allowed consecrated water to be sprinkled on her grave on All Saints’ Day, but it made no difference; nearly every night the butler woke up with a start and the taste of earth in his mouth. An infant could frequently be heard crying in the kitchen, even though no infant was near. Ragna paid no heed to the talk of the domestics at first, suspecting it more likely that the living were to blame for the disappearance of provisions from the pantry, and knowing that the butler’s conscience tormented him at night. It did not take much to set off rumors of apparitions, and such stories might even prove beneficial for some.
    Then one day, late in December, she herself became aware of strange sounds in the kitchen. She had gone there to meet with Thorlakur about preparations for the upcoming Yule feast, but she had not found him there. To her surprise, none of the domestics were there either. The kitchen was unusually empty. She was just about to leave when she heard the sound. It was soft, like the crying of a kitten. She began to look around to see if a cat was trapped somewhere, but she found nothing. Instead, the sound became more well-defined. It was the unmistakable crying of an infant, and it came from underneath her feet, up through the floorboards. Ragna crossed herself and recited the Lord’s Prayer while she continued looking around, finally getting down on her knees and putting her ear to the floor. At that, the crying grew more intense. Behind her she heard someone enter; it was the butler. He was a large, portly, middle-aged man with a pallid complexion; his eyes were swollen, and there were dark circles beneath them. He had that sour, cloying smell of those who drink liquor both morning and night.
    The crying grew more pained.
    The butler jumped back, pale and distraught. “This must stop,” he cried, “I cannot bear any more.” He teetered on his feet, clasped his hands over his ears, and squeezed his eyes shut. It was of no use—the noise inside his head was maddening, and he began to whimper, begging for peace.
    “Stop, stop!” he whined pathetically.
    Ragna stood up and retreated toward the door. “I’ll fetch Thorkell,” she said breathlessly and ran out.
    She nearly ran into him on the doorstep. He was standing there almost as though he had been waiting for the call, dressed in black, like a raven among the pure, white snow that blanketed everything. There were no footsteps behind him, nor anywhere else in the vicinity. Had it snowed so much since she went in?
    Thorkell followed Ragna wordlessly into the kitchen, where they found Thorlakur bawling on the floor, the soft crying of the infant still coming from somewhere in the corner. Ragna hesitated in the doorway, but Thorkell gave her a small push.
    “Do not be afraid,” he whispered in her ear. “You have nothing to fear.” Because of the way he said it, she was filled with trust, and her terror subsided.
    Thorkell stuck the toe of his boot into the butler’s rear. “Don’t lie there, man, get