On the Cold Coasts

brought with them, taking from it a large wooden box that they placed in the middle of the dining hall floor. Upon the boards being removed, a winged alabaster altarpiece appeared, adorned with low reliefs so beautifully painted and decorated that a hush fell on the crowd. The flustered priests rubbed their hands together in pleasure and gratitude. In the middle of the altarpiece, the deity sat on a throne, dressed in a ruby red cloak, with the crucified Christ in front of him and a white dove above. On either side of them were the archangels Michael and Raphael, holding a blue sky over God the Father, decorated with gold stars.
    The bishop beamed and thanked the Englishmen for this magnanimous gift to Holar cathedral, which as well as serving as praise to God was also meant to be an offering of repentance. As a result of provocation and misunderstanding, the crew had clashed with the priest at Grenjadarstadur, Father Thorkell Gudbjartsson, and had injured him and some of his men.
    Ragna inhaled sharply at those last words, and she came dangerously close to crying out in anger. How dare Craxton provide indulgence for a fee, for practically the same cause that had led to the excommunication of Jon Palsson? Greater cause, in fact, for there had been no bloodshed, except in Jon’s own case, even if it was only a drop.
    “How seriously may one injure an ordained man and still be absolved by such an expensive altarpiece?” she asked coldly.
    The bishop raised his eyebrows. “Thy behavior is inappropriate, good housekeeper,” he said calmly but decisively. “Thou shouldst consider the decorum of thy position and not involve thyself in matters that do not concern thee.”
    She was speechless with emotion and could only turn and flee the room, cheeks burning. She nearly tripped on the hem of her skirt as she turned away from the guests who sat, speechless, at the tables.
    “Are you deranged!?” the incredulous servant girls asked as they followed her into the kitchen. “Has there ever been a more valued treasure than that altarpiece, and you ask how many men they are allowed to hurt for it?”
    Ragna pushed them away impatiently, without answering. She could not endure their cackling voices and felt like she was suffocating from the air in the kitchen, thick with soot and smoke and the heavy smell of meat. She hurried outside. The August evening was warm and fair, and it calmed her to breathe in the clear air and the silence.
    She wandered aimlessly into the dung-scented dusk, away from the buildings, down to the church, and along the churchyard wall. Just north of the yard, she came to Brynhildur’s grave. She stopped there and knelt down. Someone had planted a flea-bane in front of the little wooden cross. Her mother, no doubt. Wild mayweed grew all around. Ragna lay down in the dewy grass next to Brynhildur, reached out her arms like Christ on the cross, and looked up at the heavens. In the eastern sky, there was a full moon, and the stars twinkled in the far distance.

    How serious are Thorkell’s injuries? Does he ever think of me? Will we meet again soon? Should I have forgiven him? Followed him? Would these events have come to pass if I had? Useless thoughts. All that has come to pass will not be changed, and in no way can I influence that which is yet to happen. Everything is in God’s hands, and resisting His will can only come to harm. Yet how can I know for certain what is God’s will? Perhaps it was always His intention that Thorkell and I would be one. Perhaps I was sent to Holar for that very reason. To fix what went wrong. It is strange, but I now find it matters more than anything to me that he be safe, even more than the fact that he betrayed me.

    As she lay there, outstretched, staring at the moon, it began to change before her eyes. Its bright, yellow-white surface grew darker and more rosy, and after a short while it was blood-red, almost the color of the sun when it sets at the end of the day. It shone a maroon light into the dusky mantle of the evening. At first she believed this curious shading was no more than a figment of her own imagination, and she did not move, merely admired its beauty. She felt her own insignificance in the Lord’s creation, her arms still outstretched like she was embracing the vastness of space. It was not until the minutes ticked by and the burgundy moon began to turn brighter once more that she realized that it had not been her own imagination. She began to