Free On the Cold Coasts by Vilborg Davidsdottir Page A

came the trilling of a whimbrel. The white, fuzzy buds on the broad-leaved willows were already swollen, on the verge of blossoming and scattering their seeds.
    When Ragna headed back to the river a while later, she could hear Thorkell’s deep, resounding voice. She smiled to herself at the warm feeling that welled up in her and how her heart beat faster just from the sound of it. He was talking to Gudrun, one of the servant girls, and did not see her.
    “Don’t worry, we’ll find a way,” he said, his hand on Gudrun’s belly. “When is it due?” Gudrun looked up and saw Ragna standing there, motionless, paralyzed.
    The girl placed her hand on top of Thorkell’s. “In the fall, dear friend. I know I can rely on you in this matter as in all the others, always.”
    Ragna turned and began walking quickly, without uttering a word. She did not know if Thorkell had seen her. She did not look back, just made haste along the riverbank. When she reached a small hill and was out of sight, she began to run. Her feet got tangled in her skirts and she tripped on a tussock, falling forward onto the withered grass. She lay on her belly, breathing heavily, not crying, digging her spread fingers into the ground, searching for something to hold on to. Maybe she had really seen nothing, heard nothing; indeed, she was not even sure anything had happened, but even so, she knew that the most hurtful thing of all had already taken place. Burning hot tears forced their way into her eyes, but she squeezed them shut, blocking the exits, in a desperate attempt to deny that which already was. Instead, they collected and turned into a hard lump of ice in her chest, and the blood that had burned for him slowly turned cold in her veins. She could feel her heartbeat and her breathing become steadier, and she grew calmer, sensing her aloneness like never before, yet also her strength. When she opened her eyes, they were dry.
    A long-legged spider clambered through the grass next to her face. Ragna saw its dew-covered silver web through the dry straws, so efficiently spun, speckled with flies. She moved her hand and let the spider crawl into her palm, closed her hand around it, felt it tickle as it searched frantically for a way out of the dark.
    “Begone then, leggy beast,” she whispered, opened her palm, and blew the spider swiftly into the air and to its freedom. It rushed off on its agile legs, leaving its silver web behind.
    After a long while, Ragna rose to her feet, dusted herself off, and walked slowly back to the houses.

    How can I both love him and hate him? How is it that I cannot stand having him near me, yet cannot bear the thought of losing him? Does he not love his offspring above all else, as I do, and then also the woman who gives birth to his flesh and blood? Almighty Lord, have mercy on me, take away this agony, this ice-cold burning in my chest.
    Each time we have made love I have risked my life. Even afterward, as I pour the herbal potion that he brewed for me into a spoon, I cannot be sure that a new life will not awaken in my belly. If it does, I will surely die. And yet I grieve each time I start to bleed, and the white-hot jealousy will not leave me, for I know I shall never be equal to his other women in this way. Our flesh and blood will never be one. Never—such a terrible word, so final.
    Why, why is everything this way? I want to rail at him, to wound him as I have been wounded. But I am a coward. I cannot bear his disapproval on top of everything else. How spineless I am. But what can I do? I love him, even more than before, even knowing how untrustworthy he is. Is it perhaps because I know and sense how tenuous his love is for me? What other choice do I have but to stop loving him, and how will I live if I do? Yes, the price is agonizing pain, but it is better than shivering emptiness. And no, I shall never be able to trust him again, but how can I turn him away forever? How to manage these complexities of my