On the Cold Coasts

Ragna, who ran a trembling hand through her long, uncut maiden’s hair. She had nothing covering her head but her shawl, and it made her feel naked. In the chill of the dusky narthex, she pulled it more tightly across herself and the infant boy. He was sound asleep, while Gudridur’s girl whimpered weakly on her arm, no matter how much the mother shushed and rocked her.
    The acolyte boy came over to them with a lighted candle and handed it to the older woman. Then the prayers of mercy—Kyrie Eleison and Christe Eleison—were sung repeatedly. Next came the long collectio prayer, after which Father Jon Palsson, priest and officialis in spiritualibus , stout and with his chest slightly thrust forward, came to the narthex where they were standing. He sprinkled holy water from the baptismal font over both of them and on the children while mumbling a prayer. That done, he placed his hand on Gudridur’s arm and led her slowly down the aisle so the wax from the candle that she gripped tightly in her hand would not drip on her. Ragna remained behind, unsure of what to do, presuming that the acolyte would bring a candle for her after the ministers and congregation had got down on their knees and prayed for Gudridur’s infant. The boy did come to her after the prayer, but without the candle, and he whispered for her to walk to the altar. The girl uttered her disbelief. Was she to enter alone with her son in her arms without the light of the Lord to guide her through the darkness cast by her sins? He nodded and made a sign for her to start walking, but she just stood there, her legs refusing to obey, her knees trembling from all those harsh looks that were directed her way, some of them filled with curiosity, others full of indignation, and many showing scarcely concealed pleasure and malice.
    Michael woke and looked up at her with big eyes that had already begun to turn brown. His little mouth curved slightly and he gave her his first smile, and she smiled back at this little imp who could rely on no one but her. She no longer felt paralyzed. She walked quickly down the aisle and kept her head high. People turned as she passed, and those sitting on the floor at the outer edges of the rows on each side moved slightly aside, or she might just have stepped on someone’s toes, as if by accident. Dozens of candles in tall, gilded holders cast a flickering light over the entire nave and on the red sandstone floor that seemed to reflect back a dark red shadow on the congregation.
    Father Jon Palsson was waiting for her at the altar. As before, he recited the obligatory blessing over the infant, accompanied by the congregation. The bishop, who had his back turned to them, was bowed in prayer on a kneeler before Christ on the cross. He stood up and approached her, extending a book made of vellum. “Confess thy sins thus,” he said.
    She peered at the letters and read the words slowly and hesitantly, almost stuttering, in such a weak voice that it could barely be heard beyond the front rows: “I, sinful woman, willingly give myself over to God almighty and Our Lady Saint Mary for my manifold sins, for I have violated the Word of my Creator by…” Michael had begun to grow heavy in her arms, and as she tried to lift him, he wailed loudly so that it echoed from the dome over the high altar. No one except perhaps the bishop could hear the words that followed, irrespective of how people strained forward and cupped their ears in their hands. Jon Palsson awkwardly took Michael from her and handed him to the deacon, who nearly dropped the boy and was visibly relieved when Sigridur Bjornsdottir bustled forth to take her grandson in her arms. Michael’s wailing stopped as quickly as it had begun, just as his mother completed her recitation: “ …in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”
    But it was not yet over. Her true penitence must be demonstrated in practice, and she was instructed to lie facedown on the stone slabs with her arms extended in humility before the Lord. The bishop then sang the indulgence over her to release her from the bondage of sin, in the name of the Holy Father and blessed Apostles and Holy Mother, the church. The floor was cold, and dust and incense filled her nostrils, and as she lay there prostrate with her eyes closed, she wondered yet again why God had not simply taken her life when she gave birth to Michael, instead of forcing her to endure such humiliation.
    Yet her penitence, in the