On the Cold Coasts

aunt was now a grown woman, married, and had a child of her own. Previously they had been like siblings, but were now like strangers. They had often laughed and joked with each other, but now they moved quietly and listlessly through the halls and rooms.
    Consequently, his mother’s announcement about her proposed marriage and their imminent move to Greenland came like a deliverance. Michael could not stop himself from smiling, in spite of being at his grandmother’s funeral. He thought of all the new and exciting things that lay ahead: crossing the ocean on a ship, a new country, new family, new life, him being adopted and allowed to inherit from his mother and foster-father. No one would call him a bastard again. The boy clenched his fist and punched it firmly into the palm of his other hand, as though demonstrating what he would do to the person who dared utter such an indignity. His grin grew even wider when he remembered what Oswald Miller had said about seamen from Bristol sailing to Greenland more than any other country. Maybe Michael, crewmember of the Trinity of Bristol, would turn up in Hvalseyjarfjord next summer! That way he wouldn’t have to go looking for him when he got older, like he had planned to. And even if he did, at least he would have secured himself a place on a ship and would be able to explore the world on his own.
    “What’s with the wide grin, boy, in the middle of the service?”
    Michael jumped and instantly rearranged his expression into something more befitting to the occasion. Bjorn the magistrate shook his head sternly and pushed Michael forward to where there was a bit more space. He then continued his discussion with the portly monk at his side in a quiet voice. Inside the choir, old Father Pall intoned the gospel. Michael began to pay attention to the exchange of the two men behind him; after all, it was hard to miss what they were saying.
    “How many men do you have?” asked the magistrate quietly.
    “We are thirty in all, but the ordained individual does not intend to carry weapons, apart from the holy cross, regardless of the bishop’s excommunication,” whispered the monk. Michael was instantly curious. He stood perfectly still, listening for the magistrate’s reply.
    “I’ll have as many as that by the time the men from Thingeyjarsysla district arrive.”
    The monk sniffed. “Does that include the good Father Thorkell? He will hardly settle for holding a cross. He never has.”
    “Thorkell has rallied the men and secured their allegiance, even that of the lawman, Thorsteinn, and the men of Holl. Say what you will about him, he has managed to turn their hearts and minds against the English,” Bjorn answered.
    The monk chortled. Michael found this strange. It was like the magistrate had said something funny. “No doubt Craxton is having major regrets about giving Grenjadarstadur to him. Thorkell has caused him more trouble than I ever could have, even if I’d not been driven away.”
    At that moment the boy realized who was hiding beneath the monk’s hood, though he did not have the nerve to turn around to confirm it. It was the man who had been banned from entering a church until he had repented for his sins, and his excommunication, ordered at the beginning of the summer, had been lifted. And here he was, at his grandmother’s funeral. Michael’s palms grew damp, and he crossed himself, hoping the Lord would understand that it was impossible for a boy of twelve to enforce the commands of the holy church, much as he might want to.
    The men ended their conversation. The time had almost come for the Blessed Sacrament. The peace tablet was passed around, and the churchgoers kissed the image of the Savior, one by one, to show a willingness for peace and harmony with their neighbors. The congregation moved and many accepted the Body of Christ, though not all: some had yet to go to confession that year. The monk retreated, and Michael lost sight of him as he was carried forward by the crowd. Finally he reached the grave, which was not very deep, probably being directly above the coffins of Sigridur’s parents and siblings. Rumor had it that many people who had attended their funeral services thirty years before had died of the great plague a short while later, some of them even collapsing and coughing up blood en route from the church.
    The coffin was laid in the ground. Small bits of earth tumbled from the sides of the grave onto the oak lid. Michael looked