On the Cold Coasts

anyone who was interested a scroll on which the farmhand confirmed, with an almost undecipherable signature, that he was the father of both Gudrun’s daughter and the unborn child. Witnesses were Father Thorkell and his father Gudbjartur.
    Most people were quick to work out the truth, for there was no question that little Hrefna bore a striking resemblance to the steward at Holar, particularly the strong expression around the eyes. This was now more apparent than ever before. Besides, no one could recall Gudrun having visited Thingeyjarsysla district since she had come into service at Holar, nor the farmhand coming to visit her. The servants whispered amongst themselves, and each had their own view on the matter; some felt that Father Thorkell should be respected for doing right by the mother of his child, while others considered it disgraceful that he had broken his vow of chastity and was attempting in this way to conceal what was obvious to everyone. Moreover, he had blatantly opposed the will of Ragna, the housekeeper. Perhaps there were some scallywags who enjoyed seeing her brought down to size, the daughter of the lawman, who had given birth to a bastard herself. Those who consider themselves above the rest naturally deserve to be scorned. All are equal in the eyes of God and the classless.

    He says he does not care for Gudrun anymore. How can I believe him when he has gone and fetched her from another district? Was that to show me who is in charge? The servants mutter and whisper in the corners; they probably think that I have been degraded by allowing the steward to take control. A curse on those gossip-mongers, may they rot in hell! They know nothing of the real reasons—except perhaps Gudrun. She may have her suspicions, as women always do with men they have known. Known…at least she has never known his heart, of that I am sure. But he will want her to believe that she has, to keep her silent about her suspicions. Yes, that must be it. He does not want our affair to become public; he wants to protect our love.
    One moment I believe the things I tell myself and then all is well; the next moment I am sinking, I want to die, and I am frightened, for I have never before wanted as desperately to fall into the darkness. I fear that I may even have the courage to do what Brynhildur did, and that is a dreadful thought.
    But who am I to demand his faithfulness when it was I who betrayed him in the beginning? He who moreover has broken his vows to the Holy Church for my sake, and thereby risked his soul’s salvation. “Judge not, lest ye be judged,” is written in the Holy Scripture.
    He looks at me inquisitively, unhappily. I avoid meeting him alone. I do not want to know what awaits me in the depths of his eyes. I no longer ask him what he intends to do, for I do not even know what I want to do. What will be, must be, in the future as in the past. The birth of the child will show whether he went to her still warm from my bed—or whether it was the other way around. Does it matter, in the end, whether or not he lied? If he lied, it was for my sake, to abate my suffering. My life is all one lie. Do I know anymore what is right and what is wrong?
    Why am I ashamed of myself and my stubborn feelings of love? Mary, holy mother of God, have mercy on my sinful soul!

YOUR ADVERSARY, THE DEVIL
    Michael half-ran up the precipitously steep bell tower stairs, casting furtive glances over his shoulder. He stopped, listened, and then continued, taking care to tread only on the outer edges of the steps where they were least likely to creak, and skipping those that he knew made noise. To his satisfaction he heard old Hrafn the warden down below, shooing his pursuers out of the church. He was scolding them for running in the House of God and reproaching them for their immaturity and idiocy, on this of all days, when the synod was about to begin and he had plenty of other, more pressing, things to do than chasing schoolboys who should be old enough to know better.
    On reaching the belfry, Michael threw himself on the floor to catch his breath, a little abashed at having fled the scene, yet also victorious. There was no way he could have tackled his tormentors, three of them together and older and bigger than he was, yet he had nonetheless managed to outrun them and was safe. Once again he had sought refuge in St. Mary’s Cathedral under the protective wing of the white-haired ringer Hrafn. He rose to his knees and