Burial Rites(43)

I heaved against the door to shut it, but the wind was too strong. My hands stiffened with the cold rush of air. It was as though the wind was some form of ghoul demanding to enter. Then, all of a sudden, the wind dropped, and the door slammed shut. As though the spirit had finally entered and closed the door behind it.

I returned to the badstofa with oil and filled the lamps. Bj?rn was angry at me for letting the cold air in, with Inga in such a delicate state.

The blizzard hurled itself upon our croft that afternoon, and raged for three days. On the second, Inga began to have her baby.

It was too soon.

Late that night, amidst the sound emitted by the wind and snow and ice, Inga began to have terrible pains. I believe she was afraid that this baby, too, would arrive before its time.

When Bj?rn realised that the baby was coming, he sent Jón, their workman, to his brother’s farm for his sister-in-law and their servant woman. My foster-father bade Jón tell the women what was happening, so that they might at least give their advice, if they couldn’t return with him.

Jón protested that the blizzard was too forceful, and that he couldn’t be expected to perform such a task, but Bj?rn was a demanding man. So Jón dressed himself in thick garments and went outside, but he returned soon after, covered in ice and snow, and told my foster-father that he couldn’t see two steps in front of him, and that he wouldn’t be made to walk farther than the barn when the weather promised only death. Yet, Bj?rn made him try again, and when Jón returned, half-frozen with cold, telling him he could scarcely stand in the wind, and had not made it more than six feet, my foster-father took him by the collar of his jacket and pushed him outside. I think then, when he opened the door, he saw just how dangerous the weather was, for when Jón returned inside a few minutes later, shaking with cold and anger, Bj?rn said nothing, but let Jón undress and get into bed to revive himself.

I’m sure Bj?rn was scared then, too.

Inga had remained in her bed and was now groaning with pain, as white as milk and overcome with a shuddering that left her covered in sweat. Bj?rn carried her from the badstofa to the apartment in the loft – there used to be a loft in this cottage – so she might be afforded some privacy, but when he lifted her, her nightgown and the linen of her bed were soaked with water, and I cried out in surprise. I thought she had wet herself.

‘Don’t move her, Bj?rn!’ I called, but he ignored me and lifted my foster-mother up the stairs, asking me to boil water and bring him some wadmal. I did as he asked, taking the new woven stuff I myself had made. I asked if I might see Mamma, but he told me to go and look after Kjartan, so I returned to the badstofa.

Kjartan must have realised that something ill was afoot, for he was whimpering when I returned. As I sat back on our bed, he clambered across and in my own fear and need for comfort, I pulled him onto my lap, and we sat waiting for Bj?rn to tell us what to do, listening to the storm.

We waited for a long time. Kjartan fell asleep against my neck, so I laid him down in our bed and tried to card some wool, separating the tangles into thin wisps between my paddles, and picking out the little burrs. But my fingers were shaking. All the while I could hear Inga in the loft, crying out. I reminded myself that the crying was normal, and that soon I’d have a new foster-brother or sister to love.

After some hours Bj?rn stepped down from the loft. He entered the badstofa, and I saw that he was holding a small parcel. It was the baby. Bj?rn’s face was ashen, and he held out the wee thing and made me take it into my arms. Then he left the room and returned to the loft to see to his wife.

I was excited to hold the baby. It was very small and light, and didn’t move much, but it was mewling, and it rumpled its eyes and mouth, and its face was very red and awful looking. I unwrapped it and saw that it was a girl.

Kjartan had awoken by this time. It had become chill inside; the wind was getting in through some crack, and a draught suddenly blew out most of the tallow candles we had lit and put on the table. Only one candle remained and, in its flickering light, our shadows danced out across the wall, and Kjartan started to cry. He closed his eyes and buried his head into my shoulder.

Because it had become so cold, I tried to tuck the baby in its blanket in my shawl, and then used my pillow to hold it close to my chest. But we didn’t have down pillows, only seaweed, and they did not give off much warmth. But the baby had stopped crying, and I thought that maybe it wasn’t too cold, and would be all right. I used my fingers to wipe a little of the thick fluid off the baby’s head, and then Kjartan and I gave it a kiss.

We sat on the bed together for a long time. Hours passed. Days could have slipped by for all I knew. It remained gloomy and cold, and the storm raged endlessly. I had told Kjartan to go and pull off the blankets from his parents’ bed, and we’d draped them around us, huddling together for warmth. Inga’s moans came unceasingly from the loft. It was a sound someone might make if they were asleep and having a terrible nightmare: a low, awful language without words, just sounds. And the wind was blowing so hard all the while, that sometimes I couldn’t tell if it was Inga crying out, or the wind, making the candle gutter in its candlestick.

I had put an arm around Kjartan, and used the other to bring the baby close to my chest, and I told them both to try to listen to my heartbeat so that they would forget the snowstorm.

I think we fell asleep. I say I think, because I don’t remember waking, but I do remember suddenly seeing Bj?rn standing in the badstofa. The last candle had snuffed out, and in the dimness of the room I could just see him standing very still, his head hanging down.