Rebekka and the Unwashed Child of Eve, Chapter 1: (2916 words)
Christmas Eve, 1871
Candlelight
flickered across the creamy plaster walls of the tiny chapel, casting
fluid, dancing shadows that dimmed and brightened as the parishioners
wriggled on the hard, pristine white pews. The God-fearing Icelanders,
who’d braved the weather to celebrate Christmas Eve, filled the benches
until they overflowed, leaving the flustered latecomers to gather along
the back wall, peeling off and piling their heavy warm winter clothing
at their feet.
While Father Pétur droned through his sermon,
Rebekka grew listless in the stuffy atmosphere, and as hard as she
tried, she couldn’t lock into the Lord’s words. Her essence drifted out
of her body, floating to the rafters where it hovered, gazing down on
the holy and unholy alike.
Below her drifting spirit, Bryndís’s
stepson, Viktor, sat straight-backed, his finger tugging and scratching
at the collar of his too-small white shirt. His heavy eyelids closed and
the boy’s head nodded forward, but a quick, sharp elbow from his
stepmother jerked him awake. As good a man as Father Pétur was, his
monotonous tone tested the eyelids of most of the congregation. For poor
Viktor, he was losing the fight; he’d slaved away on his father’s croft
for sixteen long hours, then trekked a mile across the frozen snow to
the service. The boy was exhausted, and despite his strong will to be
good, the need for sleep won out.
Although Pétur made his living
speaking God’s words to the masses, his sermons blurred into one long
stream of consciousness with neither excitement nor fear punctuating
them. Why, even Jesus himself might fail to take inspiration or hope,
let alone the heathens crammed inside these whitewashed walls, Rebekka
mused, as she surveyed the scene from the dust-laden beams.
With
the little amusement on offer from the pulpit, Rebekka’s essence
searched for entertainment elsewhere. On the front pew, Farmer Jón
Jónasson sat with his plump wife and pretty pink-faced little girls.
Dressed in neat, bright skirts and crisp white bodices decorated with
intricate embroidery, the children’s Upphlutur stood out from the drab
black woolen clothing the crofters and tenants’ children wore. They
perched on hard pews beside their mother, their ankles crossed while
their eyes were glued to the priest. But their father, Jón Jónasson was
more animated. His gaze drifted around his workers and when his eyes met
with those that toiled for him, they did so with kindness, bringing a
warm smile and a nod of recognition.
A flutter of hair slipping from the confines of a frayed ribbon caught Rebekka’s attention,
bringing
it back to her own form. Although she turned twenty-five at the
beginning of summer, she sat with stooped shoulders, weighted with
sorrow and work. Calloused hands took on bent crone-like features as
they wrung at her skirts, and the once golden tresses of her youth were
now lank and dull. With skin as pale as the plastered walls, her thin
lips drew down at the corners. There were five years of suffering etched
into her once pretty face, and the rose-pink high cheekbones of youth
became sallow and hollow, with angles too sharp and too harsh for a
woman her age.
Finnur reached across Rebekka’s lap, threading his
fingers through hers, administering an imperceptible squeeze. Accepting
his solidarity, Rebekka glanced sideways at him, and as husband and
wife regarded each other, the heavy black aura surrounding the couple
lightened at the edges.
Poor Finnur’s face was as tired and drawn
as his wife’s. His eyes showed as much sorrow as hers, and as that
despair grew between them, Finnur’s gaze drifted to the floor. Wearily,
he scratched at his beard, and Rebekka detected a sag in those once
strong, broad shoulders.
Before their pitifulness weighed too
heavy, she sought out the stained-glass window as a way of comfort. It
was a remarkable piece, imported from Europe, that had travelled much
further as an inanimate object than her animated body could ever
imagine. She examined every tiny blue square, counted each hand-cut
piece, and focused in on the smallest detail of the design until she
could no longer remember what it depicted.
“And now a story
requested by Jón Jónasson’s beautiful girls, as a reminder on this
Christmas Eve night, of those that remain hidden from us, yet reside in
the rocks that scatter our land.” Father Pétur’s eyes rolled up to the
church roof, and Rebekka wondered if he was apologizing to God for the
heathen story he was about to tell.
“Let us take a moment to
remember whence they came to be, and how their existence relates to us.”
To everyone’s delight, and Father Pétur’s dismay, the farmer’s children
had selected a heavy book that Rebekka at once recognized as volume 1
of Jón Árnason, Icelandic Legends. No matter how hard Father Pétur
tried, he could not rid what he referred to as ‘superstitious nonsense’
from his church. Over the years, he had stopped trying, and had given up
scolding his parishioners when they perpetuated the huldufólk myths.
“Once,
when the world was in its infancy, God Almighty came to visit Adam and
Eve. They received him with joy and showed him everything they had in
the house. They brought their children to him, and these He found
promising and full of hope.”
As Pétur cleared his throat, the
parishioners awakened from their stupor, listening with interest. “Then
He asked Eve whether she had no other children than those whom she now
showed to Him, and she said, ‘None.’ But this was untrue. It so happened
that Eve had not finished washing all of her
children, and
feeling ashamed to bring them to God so dirty, she hid the unwashed
ones. But this, God knew well, and He said to her, ‘What man hides from
God, God will hide from man.’”
For the first time that night,
Pétur had the full attention of his flock, and they waited with bated
breath for the story’s conclusion, despite each and every one knowing it
by heart.
“These unwashed children immediately became invisible
and took up home in mounds and hills and rocks. From these unwashed
children of Eve, the álfar descended, but we men trace our lineage
through those children of Eve whom were openly shown to God. And it is
only by the will and desire of the álfar themselves that man can ever
see them.”
Father Pétur closed the dense book, and as its crisp
pages fluttered shut with a whisper, it created a sound so soft that it
didn’t even muster an echo, yet its breathless voice called Rebekka’s
essence back to her body.
Murmurs spread through the congregation
as Pétur began his closing words. “Before you make your way back to
your homes, I hope you will join me in prayer for two of our congregates
who suffer today. Two days past, Rebekka Jónsdóttir and Finnur
Einarsson’s daughter went unto God before drawing her first breath. My
heart is filled with great sadness for you both. Please, let us pray.”
Rebekka
sank into the pew wishing she could be as invisible as an álfar and
disappear into the wooden bench or rock floor. She wanted to hide her
form from the pitying eyes that looked her way. But she was not
unwashed, and the men and women around her saw her, even though they
shut their eyes in prayer. Rebekka feared what they saw was an
unfortunate woman, a maid that had no children clinging to her skirts, a
maid found so unworthy, that God denied her the joy of birthing a
living, breathing child.
Even the barren stared with pity in
their eyes. For in a cruel twist, God allowed her to conceive, to
witness that heady joy in her heart, to hope, to dream, but her sins
must be the foulest—though she could not remember what she might have
done for Him to play with her heart so wickedly that He let her go
through childbirth, only to take the breath from her babe before she
heard it cry.
“Amen.” Father Pétur made his way to the rear of the chapel, and the congregation struggled to their feet.
Stretching
and chattering, they scrambled to collect their possessions and wrap
their weary bodies in wool and felt against the frigid air awaiting them
on their journey home. The ritual of pulling on thick sweaters, heavy
coats, warm woolen mittens, huge fur-lined hats, and long felted scarves
played out, and Rebekka looked to her feet, her impatience growing as
the chatter escalated. What was wrong with these people? Did they not
want to get to their beds? It was close to midnight, and most needed to
rise in a few hours to tackle their chores. Animals didn’t care that it
was Christmas morning.
Whatever the day, they demanded feeding
and watering, and the dung in the stables still needed scraping from the
straw and piling up for drying.
Rebekka hung back in the shadows of the gloomy chapel, waiting for the crowd to disperse, so she could leave without fuss.
Outside,
the wind whipped up the new fallen snow, sending white tornados
spinning across the landscape. Each time the heavy door opened, a flurry
of mjöll skittered into the nave. It spiraled down the center aisle,
toward the chancel, making the candle flames dance, and sending tall
undulating shadows gyrating across the whitewashed walls. When the
swirling snow ran out of energy, it hung in the air for a second, as if
bewitched by the unseen fingers of the unwashed children. Just as
Rebekka grew mesmerized at the particles unnatural dalliance, they fell,
sprinkling her boots. A hush settled across the dwindling crowd as
Mother Nature’s antics drew their eyes to Rebekka’s hiding place.
Bryndís and her gossiping friends’ eyes widened as the skittering flakes
traversed the aisle and, one by one, fell at Rebekka’s feet.
She
stared at the circle of snow. Pure and white, a halo highlighting her
stained, worn sheepskin boots and threadbare woolen skirt. Too late, she
realized her shabby state was not befitting the occasion.
Finnur’s
gaze fell on her, and she could only imagine the shame she brought on
him. His hands rang his felted hat and mittens, but paying no heed to
the approaching gossips, he placed his arm around her shoulders, and
with a forced smile, he willed one from her. When she couldn’t conjure
it even for him, his blue eyes, already tarnished with unhappiness,
dulled even further.
Removing his arm, he took her hand instead
and squeezed her fingers. “We should not have come. I’m sorry, my love,
this was too soon.”
Rebekka took a deep breath and drew on
Finnur’s strength. “What? And give our neighbors more gossip? What
choice did we have?” Any other time, they could have taken time to dwell
on their loss, but Christmas Eve was the one night a year when heads
were counted, making it impossible to avoid the service.
Finnur squared his shoulders and turned to greet Father Pétur and their friends.
Bryndís
didn’t even bother to lower her voice as she filled in details to the
surrounding ears eager for gossip. “She carried the baby closer to term
this time—a full seven months.”
Father Pétur reached Rebekka
first and placed his hand on her shoulder, but it gave her little
comfort, and she attacked the man with a sharp tongue. “Why does God
continue to punish us year after year? Finnur and I are good Christians
and hospitable people.” She searched the man’s face, hoping to find
answers. “We offer everyone who knocks on our door food, drink, and a
bed for the
night. We work hard, pay our taxes, have never
shirked our responsibilities on the croft. Our love for each other is
pure, neither mine nor my husband’s eyes have strayed to another. Can’t
the Lord allow one of my babies to live?”
Finnur stepped closer, his hand finding hers once more, bolstering her as Bryndís and the others surrounded them.
“We
should not expect preferential treatment from God, the life of your
child is…” The stout woman beside Bryndís sounded confident, but Rebekka
knew the woman had yet to conceive herself. The woman’s confidence
wavered as Rebekka glared at her. “Well, you know… you must take
precautions.”
With courage fueled by sorrow, Rebekka threw all
her pent-up anger at the woman. “I consulted every mid-wife, psychic,
and seer within twenty miles for guidance on how to make sure I had a
successful pregnancy!”
Rebekka had been diligent, she had asked
the traveling vagrants, and listened to every gossipy women’s
superstitious stories. She gathered any advice—however bizarre—and
followed each rule to the letter, so child number five had the strongest
chance of life.
“As soon as I knew I was expecting, Finnur
collected the ptarmigan feathered quilts from our home.” She’d never
have forgiven herself, if she lay on one and condoned her baby to never
being born.
“She did.” Bryndís confirmed to the audience. “Finnur brought them the very next day.”
“I
dismantled the clothes lines,” which crisscrossed both the inside and
outside of Rebekka’s home, making it possible to dry their outdoor
clothing, “in case I stepped under one and caused the umbilical cord to
strangle my child.”
Bryndís patted her back. “There, there. Seven
months was closer to term, so much more viable than the… others.” Her
voice trailed away. “Next time, there is a good chance it will go full
term.”
Tears spilled down Rebekka’s cheeks. Next time? Couldn’t they see it was the hope that broke her heart?
“But
she was so perfect. No harelip, I was careful not to eat with a cleft
spoon.” The women sighed in sympathy. “I counted ten tiny exquisite
fingers on her little hands.” Because she’d refused her favorite meal of
seal flippers to prevent the baby being born with them. “But, despite
all the child’s perfections—my care, the attention to detail—my poor
baby girl came into this world without taking a single breath.”
Rebekka’s neighbors cooed around her, but none could tell her what she
might have done wrong.
Behind them, Magnùs’s deep low voice addressed Finnur. “I saw you dig a grave.”
“Aye.” With a single word, Finnur dismissed his madness.
Rebekka narrowed her eyes at the big brute of a man. “Sure, you would have done the same, Magnús.”
When
the sun had crawled as high as it could on that Icelandic winter’s day,
Finnur had broken his back for her. While she cradled the
infant—imagining what her daughter’s cry sounded like and fantasizing
about the babe suckling at her breast while she looked into eyes full of
life—her beloved husband pulled on his warmest boots and went out onto
the hjarn.
The packed frozen snow encased the earth. Finnur might
have had more success digging through lava rock, but despite the
impossibility of the task, Finnur attacked his responsibility with
vigor, leaving Rebekka wondering where he found the strength. Was it
grief or anger that spurred him on so?
She placed the newborn in
the frozen ground. The little mound huddled between the plain markers of
her four sisters, and as the last few minutes of precious winter
daylight slipped away, Rebekka and Finnur piled rocks above their
daughter to ensure her spirit didn’t return to the world.
“I saw
the fire. You burnt the placenta?” Magnús raised an eyebrow. “How will
that benefit the forsaken child in any way? A star to light her lifeless
body serves no purpose.”
“It brought comfort to Rebekka,” Finnur answered resolutely.
And so it had.
As
the meager half-light slipped from the winter sky, leaving the world
black and dangerous, they’d watched a spark from the fire rise into the
air. It transcended to the heavens, the ember’s red glow whitening and
brightening in its ascent. The ember arched, settling into position over
the humble grave, where it shimmered brighter than any other star in
the sky, illuminating the frozen ground at their feet.
“There was a star,” Rebekka whispered.
Everyone’s
eyes, save that of the priest, avoided hers. Father Pétur took her hand
and patted it. “Then I am sure God is with you. He sent a star to watch
over your daughter, and one day, He will reward you with a child. God
is merciful, and may move in mysterious ways, but He recognizes the love
you have to give.”
Rebekka held her breath, hoping to dam the flood of tears that threatened to fall.
Finnur
came to her rescue. “Thank you, Father. I should get Rebekka home, as
this has been an exhausting time for her, and she is weak from the
birth.”
“Take care.” Pétur stepped back and the crowd shuffled
out of the unfortunate couple’s way. “Hurry home before this weather
takes hold.”
The couple pulled their wool coats closed, and, with her mittened hand still wrapped in Finnur’s,
her
noble husband guided Rebekka past their well-meaning neighbors. As the
door opened, a large gust rushed into the church. With it, flew new snow
that showered the dirt floor and settled on the wooden pews. Rebekka
shuddered at the ferocious wind that tangled her skirts and left her
coat covered in white flakes.
Finnur pulled the felted hat over
her ears and arranged her scarf closer to her throat. Then, with no care
for who saw him, he placed a kiss on her cheek. “Let me take you home,
my love.”
