As small as he was, Natan was strong. He dragged me down the corridor and pushed me over the doorstep. I tripped on the ledge and went sprawling into the snow, naked. By the time I got to my knees, he had slammed the door in my face.
It was dark and snowing heavily outside, but I was so light-headed with anger and grief that I felt nothing. I wanted to hammer down the door, to go to the window and scream for Sigga to let me back inside, but I also wanted to punish him. I wrapped my bare arms about my body and wondered where I should go. The cold needled through my skin. I thought about killing myself, about walking down to the shore and pushing my limbs into the frigid water. The cold would kill me; I wouldn’t have to drown. I imagined Natan finding me dead, washed up amongst the seaweed.
I went to the cowshed.
It was too cold to sleep. I crouched down next to the cow and pressed my bare skin against her warm bulk, and pulled down a saddlecloth to cover myself with. I pushed my freezing toes into a cowpat so they would not suffer.
At some time in the night someone entered the cowshed.
‘Natan?’ My voice was thin and pathetic.
It was Sigga. She had brought me my clothes and shoes. Her eyes were puffy from crying.
‘He won’t let you back inside,’ she said.
I dressed slowly, my fingers stiff with cold. ‘And what if I die out here?’
She turned to leave, but I grabbed her shoulder.
‘Talk some sense into him, Sigga. He’s actually gone mad this time.’
She looked at me, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I’m so sick of living here,’ she whispered.
The next morning I woke, and for a few moments I didn’t know where I was. Then my memory of the night came back to me, and anger tightened my stomach, invigorating me. I leaned against the cow, warming my cold nose and fingers, thinking of what I should do. I wanted to leave before Natan came out to feed the stock.
TóTI WOKE IN THE SHADOWED badstofa of Breidabólstadur and saw his father at the end of his bed, slumped against the wall. His grizzled head lolled on his chest. He was asleep.
‘Pabbi?’ His voice was no more than a whisper. The effort seared his throat.
He tried to move his foot to nudge his father awake, but his limbs were heavier than he had ever known them to be. ‘Pabbi?’ he tried again.
Reverend Jón stirred, and suddenly opened his eyes. ‘Son!’ He wiped his beard and leaned forward. ‘You’re awake. Thank God.’
Tóti tried to lift his arm and realised that it was bound to his side. He was swaddled in blankets.
‘You’ve been suffering yet another fever,’ his father explained. ‘I’ve had to sweat it out.’ He pressed a calloused hand against Tóti’s forehead.
‘I need to go to Kornsá,’ Tóti murmured. His tongue was dry. ‘Agnes.’
His father shook his head. ‘It’s the care of her that’s done this to you.’
Tóti looked distressed. ‘I have forgotten the month.’
‘December.’
He tried to sit up, but Reverend Jón gently pushed his head back down on the pillow. ‘You’ll pay her no heed until God restores you.’
‘She has no one,’ Tóti argued, trying again to lift himself. His muscles barely responded.
‘And for good reason,’ his father said, his voice suddenly loud in the small room. He held his son down on the bed, his face grey in the unlit badstofa. ‘She’s not worth the time you give her.’
MARGRéT WAS SILENT A MOMENT. The milk had cooled in her cup. ‘He threw you into the snow?’
Agnes nodded, watching the older woman carefully.
Margrét shook her head. ‘You could have frozen to death.’
‘He wasn’t in his right mind.’ Agnes drew her shawl more tightly about her shoulders. ‘Natan had wanted Sigga for himself. He finally understood that she preferred Fridrik.’