On the Cold Coasts

noticed.
    “Would it not be fitting for the priest to say a few words over the grave of dead?” he said, ever just and God-fearing. Stealing horses and fish, slaughtering women and men, even the murder of a child changed nothing where that was concerned.
    Thorkell shrugged. “They can all go to hell as far as I’m concerned,” he said coldly. “Helgi, what do you think?”
    Helgi Gudnason looked up from where he sat on a rock, sharpening a large axe, wearing a grim expression.
    “I couldn’t care less.” He kept sharpening the axe. “Say what you want. Or maybe you should wait until the others are in there.” He gestured towards the Englishmen. Thorkell nodded. They had been watching the exchange silently and nervously, but now it was like it dawned on them, in spite of them not understanding the foreign language.
    Death was reflected in the gleaming blade of the axe.
    The stocky man threw himself on his knees and shouted something in English, no doubt begging for mercy in God’s name, proclaiming his innocence and shouting that he had not killed anyone. They dragged him to the rock first, the axe razor-sharp; it was over quickly. Red blood on wilted grass. Blackbeard was next. He thrashed about and the blow missed, even though they tried to hold him still. It landed on the back of his skull. The maroon stain on the ground grew larger. Bjorn the magistrate walked down to the river and vomited.
    The youngest one, a dark-eyed, muscular boy, kicked and thrashed wildly. Then suddenly he was free, bolting toward the lake.
    “Go, Thomas Clarke! Swim!” his comrade yelled. He was rewarded with a heavy blow to the side of the head and fell forward onto the bloody rock. The boy ran into the water and began to swim. Helgi threw the axe to one side and followed him. A pod of eider ducks scattered in confusion, and the great northern divers flew up, cackling loudly at this unexpected commotion. A trout flipped its tail in surprise and darted under the riverbank.
    The Englishman swam straight ahead, but soon he seemed to realize the distance. He changed course and swam north to the narrow gravel isthmus that separated the lake from the sea. Helgi swam with strong, even strokes and gained on the Englishman, a lust for revenge coursing through his blood. Straight ahead was the great Thordarhofdi promontory: round and undulating in front, crags and slopes on the side, a sheer cliff facing the sea.
    Desperation gave the Englishman unexpected energy. Back on dry land, he began to run over sea-smoothed rocks, toward the promontory, leaping over piles of kelp and pieces of driftwood that lay scattered about. Quick as a fox in flight, seemingly tireless, small drops of water spraying in all directions. As he reached the isthmus, Helgi put his hands on his knees to catch his breath, cold water streaming from his clothes and hair. Then he continued the chase, unrelenting, knowing the end was near. Above them gulls swarmed, the sound of the seabirds growing increasingly louder.
    On the slope the boy needed to clamber over rocky, uneven ground, and he lost momentum. Still, he did not stop and looked neither right nor left. Not until he saw the sheer cliff ahead and realized there was no escape. White-topped waves broke at the foot of the cliff, more than a hundred and twenty yards below. Only then did he appear to realize. Slowly, hesitatingly, he turned to face his pursuer. Helgi approached with heavy steps, breathlessly, a brass-handled knife drawn and in his hand. They looked into each other’s eyes. Thomas Clarke turned and jumped.
    Death is insatiable, as are the netherworlds.
    At the gravel spit, east of Hofdavatn, they had filled the grave. The dark voice of Father Thorkell Gudbjartsson rang out in the still morning air:
    “ De terra plasmasti me et carne induisti me. Redemptor meus, Domine, resuscita me in novissimo die. ” From the earth you formed me, and out of flesh you clothed me. My redeemer, O Lord, raise me up on the last day.

FREEDOM
    They arrived in Vidvik district after nightfall that evening. Some of the prisoners were so exhausted from the long trek that they tripped over every rock and tussock. Two of the men were too battered and sore to walk, so they had been allowed to ride double on a sturdy, pied horse. The rest had walked the entire Hofdastrond coast in a long line, tied together with a rope that looped around each of their necks, their trousers soaked from wading through icy rivers. “I daresay