‘Fine, you do it then.’ Steina shoved the broom at her sister and sat down on the bed.
‘What are you two bickering about?’ Margrét entered the room and looked down in dismay at the floor. ‘Who did this?’
‘Steina,’ Lauga said reproachfully.
‘It’s not my fault the roof is falling down! Look, it’s everywhere.’ Steina stood up again. ‘And the wet is getting in. It’s dripping in the corner.’ She shivered.
‘You’re in a mood,’ said Margrét, dismissively. She turned to Lauga. ‘What’s she upset about?’
Lauga rolled her eyes. ‘There’s a story about Agnes that I’ve heard. Steina doesn’t believe it’s true.’
‘Oh?’ Margrét coughed and waved the dust away from her face. ‘What story is that?’
‘Folk remember her when she was little, and there’s some that say there was a travelling man who prophesied that an axe would fall on her head.’
Margrét wrinkled her nose. ‘Have you heard this from Róslín?’
Lauga pulled a face. ‘Not only Róslín. They say that when Agnes was young it was her chore to watch over the tún, and one day she discovered a traveller who had set up camp on the grass. His horse was ruining the feed, and when she told him to leave, he cursed her and shouted that she would one day be beheaded.’
Margrét snorted, and was overcome with a fit of coughing. Lauga put down the broom and gently ushered her mother to her bed. Steina stood where she was and watched obstinately.
‘There, there, Mamma. You’ll be all right.’ Lauga rubbed her mother’s back, stifling a cry as a bright clot of blood fell out of her mouth.
‘Mamma! You’re bleeding!’ Steina rushed forward, tripping over the broom.
Lauga pushed her sister away. ‘Let her breathe!’
They watched, anxious, as Margrét continued to hack.
‘Have you tried a jelly of lichen?’ Agnes was standing in the doorway, looking at Lauga.
‘I feel quite well,’ croaked Margrét, bringing a hand to her chest.
‘It eases the lungs.’
Lauga turned towards the doorway, her face pinched. ‘Leave us, would you?’
Agnes ignored her. ‘Have you tried such a jelly?’
‘We don’t have need for your potions,’ Lauga snapped.
Agnes shook her head. ‘I think you do.’
Margrét stopped coughing and looked sharply at her.
‘What do you mean by that?’ Lauga whispered.
Agnes took a deep breath. ‘Boil some chopped moss in water for a time. A very long time. When the stock cools it will form a grey jelly. The taste is not pleasant, but it may stop you from bleeding in the lungs.’
There was a moment of silence as Margrét and Lauga stared at Agnes.
Steina sat down on the bed again. ‘Did Natan Ketilsson teach you that?’ she asked in a quiet voice.
‘They say it helps,’ Agnes repeated. ‘I can make it for you.’
Margrét slowly wiped her mouth on a corner of her apron and nodded. ‘Do that,’ she said. Agnes hesitated, then turned on her heel, walking quickly down the corridor.
Lauga turned to her mother. ‘Mamma, I’m not sure you should take whatever she –’
‘Enough, Lauga,’ interrupted Margrét. ‘Enough.’
THE REVEREND STILL DOES NOT come. But winter has. Autumn has been pushed aside by a wind driving flurries of snow up against the croft, and the air is as thin as paper. Each breath hangs in front of me like a ghost, and mists drop down from the mountains to swarm on the frozen ground. The dark comes; it has settled down in these parts like a bruise in the flesh of the earth, but the Reverend does not.
Why doesn’t he come?
If the Reverend came tonight, would I tell him that Natan and I were as husband and wife? Then I could tell him about what began to change between us. Perhaps he guesses at it anyway.
The salt came. The darkling wind rose and the black sand began to sting. The way down. The cold path down to colder water. The salt came.