boundaries of this world? You know, don’t you, that that’s why they want to have my story written down? You’re not at all like the young men I used to know. They wanted to be famous for their skill in arms, their friendships and their generosity. But I think you’re equally ambitious. I expect you’d rather be in Rome now than anywhere else in Christendom. I don’t think you like women very much, either. Am I right? Perhaps the monastic life is just right for you. I wouldn’t have wanted it myself when I was young. It’s different now, of course. I’ve nothing left to feel passionate about.
It’s wrong of me to torment you. You don’t answer back, only your ears have gone very red, and you bend over the manuscript as if youwere shortsighted, which you’re not, and you scratch away with that quill as if your salvation depended on it. Take no notice of my teasing. I’m an old woman, in her dotage, you may think. But I have been young and beautiful, and there were men once who could not take their eyes off me.
But now I’m worn out. I’d said we’d stop in the afternoons, and look, the sun’s gone from the courtyard, and soon it’ll be dark. The dark comes so suddenly here, it always takes me by surprise. I’m hungry, and so must you be. We’ve worked far too long, and we mustn’t make a habit of it. Stop writing, for goodness sake boy, I’m not saying anything to the purpose, and your hand must be terribly stiff. Stop, I said!
July 9th
When I was fifteen I made a spell of my own. I never told anyone. I knew it was a dangerous thing to do, but I honestly believed then that I could make my own life the way I wanted it to be. I had a notion, even though I saw no evidence for it in the lives of those around me, that my fate was in my own hands. Arrogant, you think? Perhaps I was only looking for a way to survive. Certainly I didn’t like the idea of men weighing up my attractions, and the attractions of my father’s dwindling estate, and wondering whether to bargain with him for me. I wanted something else to happen. Spells concerning oneself tend to rebound. I’d never do anything like that now.
I chose my place carefully. For a moment I thought of the giants’ caves behind Stapafel but I rejected that spot with a shudder. I wanted to invoke a benign power, and I was scared of the demons in that wild country. Instead I chose the holy well at Laugarbrekka. It’s sacred to Freyja, and I’d always known it; it’s just a few yards from my father’s house. Women used to come there if they wanted a child. I nearly rejected the place because it’s so close to home, and I wanted something more exciting, more my own, but luckily I wasn’t arrogant enough to put myself above the other women. If I had been, I think my fate would have been far worse than it was.
Cold water springs from under the rock and bubbles over black stones. Moss grows in clumps, jewelled with waterdrops. Flowers cluster in the damp: kingcups, buttercups, willow herb. The hollow smells of wet earth. It is midnight, and the sun has gone behind Snaefel. Grey streaks of cloud are drawn across the sky by ashy fingers. The western sky is pink.
The girl stands by the spring. She is tall, and her hair reaches to her waist. She has it tied back with a red band. She holds herself very straight. She is no longer a child; her face is thinner and more secret. There are moments when she looks how she will be when she is old.
Now that the sun has gone there is a chill over the pastures. Beyond them, the glacier is cold and dull. The girl begins to chant under her breath. A small breeze lifts her hair. She takes a silver piece from the sheath that hangs round her neck. She throws it into the heart of the spring, and it vanishes without a glimmer.
She kneels down with her head close to the water. Pebbles gleam like jewels in the mud below. A fleet of shadows chases over the surface of the spring. She looks up. A flock of terns flies over her,
It’s wrong of me to torment you. You don’t answer back, only your ears have gone very red, and you bend over the manuscript as if youwere shortsighted, which you’re not, and you scratch away with that quill as if your salvation depended on it. Take no notice of my teasing. I’m an old woman, in her dotage, you may think. But I have been young and beautiful, and there were men once who could not take their eyes off me.
But now I’m worn out. I’d said we’d stop in the afternoons, and look, the sun’s gone from the courtyard, and soon it’ll be dark. The dark comes so suddenly here, it always takes me by surprise. I’m hungry, and so must you be. We’ve worked far too long, and we mustn’t make a habit of it. Stop writing, for goodness sake boy, I’m not saying anything to the purpose, and your hand must be terribly stiff. Stop, I said!
July 9th
When I was fifteen I made a spell of my own. I never told anyone. I knew it was a dangerous thing to do, but I honestly believed then that I could make my own life the way I wanted it to be. I had a notion, even though I saw no evidence for it in the lives of those around me, that my fate was in my own hands. Arrogant, you think? Perhaps I was only looking for a way to survive. Certainly I didn’t like the idea of men weighing up my attractions, and the attractions of my father’s dwindling estate, and wondering whether to bargain with him for me. I wanted something else to happen. Spells concerning oneself tend to rebound. I’d never do anything like that now.
I chose my place carefully. For a moment I thought of the giants’ caves behind Stapafel but I rejected that spot with a shudder. I wanted to invoke a benign power, and I was scared of the demons in that wild country. Instead I chose the holy well at Laugarbrekka. It’s sacred to Freyja, and I’d always known it; it’s just a few yards from my father’s house. Women used to come there if they wanted a child. I nearly rejected the place because it’s so close to home, and I wanted something more exciting, more my own, but luckily I wasn’t arrogant enough to put myself above the other women. If I had been, I think my fate would have been far worse than it was.
Cold water springs from under the rock and bubbles over black stones. Moss grows in clumps, jewelled with waterdrops. Flowers cluster in the damp: kingcups, buttercups, willow herb. The hollow smells of wet earth. It is midnight, and the sun has gone behind Snaefel. Grey streaks of cloud are drawn across the sky by ashy fingers. The western sky is pink.
The girl stands by the spring. She is tall, and her hair reaches to her waist. She has it tied back with a red band. She holds herself very straight. She is no longer a child; her face is thinner and more secret. There are moments when she looks how she will be when she is old.
Now that the sun has gone there is a chill over the pastures. Beyond them, the glacier is cold and dull. The girl begins to chant under her breath. A small breeze lifts her hair. She takes a silver piece from the sheath that hangs round her neck. She throws it into the heart of the spring, and it vanishes without a glimmer.
She kneels down with her head close to the water. Pebbles gleam like jewels in the mud below. A fleet of shadows chases over the surface of the spring. She looks up. A flock of terns flies over her,
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