Advance praise for
‘A remarkable feat of imagination: from the first, it leaps from the page. Its richly vivid sense of time and place recall Jessie Burton’s The Miniaturist and the novels of Cecilia Ekback, and there is a particular pleasure in its highly original choice of subject matter. Magnusson writes with an infectious verve, so that I found myself absolutely persuaded by Ásta’s extraordinary journey from the harsh Icelandic coast to the strange and splendid palaces of Algiers. Nor is this a novel afraid to inform: at each reading I came away feeling enriched by Magnusson’s use of Icelandic myth, and her absolute authority over her subject. It’s enormous fun to read – I enjoyed and admired it in equal measure’
Sarah Perry, author of The Essex Serpent
‘Icelandic history has been brought to extraordinary life. I was swept up in the story and the vivid plight of people taken away from everything they knew and understood. Transported to a time long ago, I was completely enthralled by Sally Magnusson’s skilful storytelling. An accomplished and intelligent novel – highly recommended’
Yrsa Sigurðardóttir, author of Why Did You Lie?
‘Sally Magnusson has taken a little-known historical event – the Barbary corsair raid on Iceland in 1627 – and produced a moving story of suffering and redemption. Her tale of Ásta, the Reverend’s wife, indomitable survivor of tragedy and heartbreak, is vivid and compelling’
Adam Nichols, co-editor and translator of
The Travels of Reverend Ólafur Egilsson
www.tworoadsbooks.com
First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Two Roads An imprint of John Murray Press An Hachette UK company Copyright © Sally Magnusson 2018
The right of Sally Magnusson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library ISBN 978 1 473 63897 6
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To Vigdís Finnbogadóttir
A Note About Icelandic
For the ease of non-Icelandic readers, the letter ð (pronounced as a voiced th) is transcribed throughout as an English d, the letter þ as th and the dipthong æ as ae. Accents alter the way vowels are pronounced. For instance, á is the sound in owl, é as in yet, í and ý as in seen, ó as in note, ú as in soon, ö as in the French fleur, ae as in life, and ei and ey as in tray.
Some Icelandic Words
Badstofa [bath-stova] Communal living and sleeping room
Mín kaera [meen kyra] My loved one (to a female)
Minn kaeri [minn kyri] My loved one (to a male)
Kvöldvaka [kveuld-vaka] Storytelling time, literally ‘evening awakening’
Skyr [skeer] Dairy product similar to yoghurt
Vestmannaeyjar [Vestmanna-ayyar] Westman Islands
Jökull [yeu-kutl] Glacier
Eyjafjallajökull [Ayya-fjatla-yeu-kutl] Literally ‘Islands’-Mountains’-Glacier’
Characters (in alphabetical order)
Icelanders
A fisherman
Agnes Mother of Magnús Birgisson
Anna Jasparsdóttir [Anna Yaspars-dohtir] Newly married Westman islander
Ásta Thorsteinsdóttir [Owsta Thorstayns-dohtir] Wife of Rev Ólafur Egilsson
Ásta and Ólafur’s children:
Helga
Egill [Ay-yitl]
Marta
Jón [Yone]
Einar Loftsson [Aynar Lopt-son] Westman islander
Erlendur Runólfsson [Erlendur Runohlfs-son] Slain Westman islander
Eyjólfur Sölmundarson [Ay-yohlvur Seul-moondar-son] Husband of Gudrídur Símonardóttir
Gísli Oddsson [Geesli Oddsson] Bishop of southern Iceland, based at Skálholt
Gísli Thorvardsson [Geesli Thorvarth-son] Priest married to Thorgerdur Ólafsdóttir
Gudbrandur Thorláksson [Gveuth-brandur Thor-lowks-son] Northern bishop who printed the Bible in Icelandic
Gudrídur Símonardóttir [Gveuth-reethur Seemonar-dohtir] Wife of Eyjólfur Sölmundarson
Gunnhildur Hermannsdóttir [Goon-hildur Hermanns-dohtir] Captured from Djúpivogur in the east of Iceland
Halldóra Jónsdóttir [Hatl-dohra Yones-dohtir] Elderly Icelandic woman
Hallgrímur Pétursson [Hatl-greemur Pi-eturs-son] Trainee priest
Inga Serving girl at Ofanleiti
Jaspar Kristjánsson [Yaspar Krist-jowns-son] Danish father of Anna Jasparsdóttir
Jón Jónsson [Yone Yone-son] Son of Margrét and Jón (later the Westman)
Jón Oddsson [Yone Oddsson] First husband of Anna Jasparsdóttir
Jón Thorsteinsson [Yone Thorstayn-son] Island priest at Kirkjubaer
Kristín Friend of Ásta
Magnús Birgisson [Magnoos Birgisson] Westman islander, friend of Egill
Margrét Jónsdóttir [Margri-et Yones-dohtir] Wife of Rev Jón Thorsteinsson
Oddrún Pálsdóttir [Oddroon Powls-dohtir] A sealwoman (possibly)
Ólafur Egilsson [Ohlavur Ay-yils-son] Island priest, husband of Ásta Thorsteinsdóttir
Thorgerdur Ólafsdóttir [Thor-gerthur Ohlafs-dohtir] Ólafur’s daughter by his first wife
Thorlákur Skúlason [Thor-lowkur Skoola-son] Succeeded Gudbrandur as Bishop of Hólar
Thorsteinn Einarson [Thorstayn Aynar-son] Ásta’s father, priest at Mosfell in south Iceland
Corsairs
Murat Reis Corsair admiral, born Jan Janszoon
Sa’id Suleiman Ottoman janissary
Wahid Fleming Dutch-born corsair captain
Citizens of Algiers
Ali Pitterling Cilleby Slave-owner and member of the ruling council
Alimah Cilleby’s first wife
Flower Servant in Cilleby’s house
Husna Cilleby’s second wife
Jón Ásbjarnarson Former Icelandic slave in the civil service
Jus Hamet Second husband of Anna Jasparsdóttir
Zafir Chitour Servant to Captain Fleming
Diplomat
Paul de Willem Agent of King Christian
Wilhelm Kifft Denmark’s emissary to Algiers
Monarchs
Christian IV King of Denmark, Norway and Iceland
Murad IV Sultan of the Ottoman Empire
Saga folk
Egill Skallagrímsson [Ay-yitl Skatla-greems-son] Warrior poet and protagonist of Egil’s saga
Gudrún Ósvífursdóttir [Gveuth-roon Ohs-vivurs-dohtir] Beautiful protagonist of Laxdaela saga
Kjartan Ólafsson [Kyartan Ohlafs-son] Disappointed suitor of Gudrún
Bolli Thorleiksson [Botli Thorlayks-son] Gudrún’s third husband, Kjartan’s foster-brother
Bolli Bollason [Botli Botla-son] Son of Gudrún and Bolli
Contents
Advance praise for The Sealwoman’s Gift
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
A Note About Icelandic
Some Icelandic Words
Characters (in alphabetical order)
Maps
Epigraph
1638
The rain has …
GREY: July – Aug
ust 1627
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
WHITE: August 1627 – June 1636
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
ORANGE: June 1636 – May 1639
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
1669
From Snjallsteinshöfdi in …
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
ONCE UPON A TIME God Almighty came to visit Adam and Eve. They welcomed him in and showed him around. They also showed him their children, whom he found most promising. Then he asked Eve if she had any others. She said she had not. But it so happened that she had not finished washing some of her children and, being ashamed to let God see them in this state, had concealed them from him. This God knew full well. He said: ‘Whatever has to be hidden from me will henceforth be hidden from man.’ Then these unwashed children became invisible to human eyes and took up their abode in mounds and rocky heights, in hillocks and great stones. From them are the elves descended, while humans come from those of Eve’s children who were shown to God. Elves can see human beings, but they can never be seen by them, unless they so will it.
Traditional legend
1638
The rain has freshened the air again, leaving one of the soft springtime evenings she used to love best, the clouds harried on their way by an eager breeze, a spangle of late sunshine on the water. Behind her a snipe has begun a humming circuit of the heath and she has to force herself not to turn and search the sky for it. No, straight down the wall of the cliff is where she must look, nowhere else, and only pay attention to the waves bellowing up for company. She steps closer to the edge, smoothing her skirts against the flurries of wind. The stones are slippy with damp moss.
Here is a point to consider. If the wind were to take her before she made another move, or if, say, her chilled toes should lose their grip, it wouldn’t be so bad a sin, would it? Hardly her fault at all, really, if you look at it that way, although that is not to say God would. Certainly it would be better received at her funeral. On this matter at least people would be sure to give her the benefit of the doubt. Poor soul, she must have forgotten how easily the April gusts can seize you. God be praised, she won’t be able to corrupt anyone now.
The patrolling snipe is distracting her, like one of those dozy black flies that insists on buzzing when you want peace to think. Go away, please. I am trying to imagine my funeral. The whirring stops, then starts up again, somewhere high in the sky but nearer now. She tries to guess which direction it will come from next; imagines the flash of white breast behind her as it swoops, silvery in the sun.
Oh, this is no good. The emotion that drove her from the house has started to ebb, all that furious despair giving way, now that she is truly on the edge, to a numb misery she can feel draining the power of action. So perhaps she will just turn and permit herself one look at the bird circling in its lovely blue vault, and let it be her last sight on earth before she closes her eyes.
She turns and her hand flies to her mouth.
The man is little more than an arm’s length away. His face, what can be seen of it under an unruly beard that makes him look very different, is white with alarm. The arm he has reached out to grab her is frozen in mid-air.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘It’s you.’
GREY
July – August 1627
The pirates rushed with violent speed across the island, like hunting hounds … Some of my neighbours managed to escape quickly into the caves or down the cliffs, but many were seized or bound … I and my poor wife were amongst the first to be captured.
Reverend Ólafur Egilsson
1
There is nothing to be said for giving birth in the bowels of a sailing ship with your stomach heaving and hundreds of people listening. Really there is not, no matter how many blessings Ólafur insists on counting. In fact, Ásta is some way from persuaded that he is entitled to a view at all. During her last confinement he was so long at the harbour bidding the Danish governor skál over a brandy consignment from Copenhagen that there was no one to fetch the midwife.
Ólafur says she should be grateful for the tent. Tent? It’s a couple of lengths of damp sail hung from a beam, which arrived with the compliments of the big pirate captain with the pink face and blond eyelashes with whom her husband has struck up an inexplicable camaraderie. Ólafur has a knack for friendship: he will swallow the most flagrant offence to see what he might learn from another mind. Well, much pleasure may he take from that man’s mind. Today Ólafur is pleased to report that the length of cloth required to construct a Turkish turban is three yards and the sash around the long jackets they wear over those ridiculous trousers is even longer: ‘More than seven yards, my dear. Can you believe it?’
It is bad enough to be penned inside the hold of a galleon on the high seas, the first twinges of labour upon you and the panic growing, without being exhorted to be grateful for a sail and excited about the length of a silken sash.
He is probably trying to help.
Ásta heaves her belly to the right and stretches the cramp out of her left leg, trying not to prod old Oddrún Pálsdóttir, whose curled back is pressed against the other side of the sail. More neighbours, dozen upon dozen of them, are sprawled to the gunwales beyond the old woman, trying to sleep. Ásta can hear her fellow prisoners, and smell them. She can feel the weight of their torpid misery pressing in on her. Stockfish tossed together end to end and skin to skin for selling is hardly packed more tight than this wretched human cargo. But at least she and her family are largely out of sight. To that extent the sail does afford a modicum of privacy, which in fairness (mark this concession in your sleep, Ólafur) she should probably be gracious enough to admit.
Ólafur is forever urging her to be fair: ‘Pray consider rising less quickly to the boil, Ásta mín, and judge more calmly.’ He would do well to remember that fairness and coolness are just as quick to desert him when he mounts the pulpit. His zest for admonishing the congregation is by common consent a model of intemperance. It is true, all the same, that when everyone else inclines to hysteria Ólafur will reliably be at his most reasonable. This she must also acknowledge. Being fair.
‘Don’t be afraid to look in their eyes,’ he said that first day, as she lumbered over the side of the ship and turned to look back at the fire leaping through the wooden church of Landakirkja. ‘You will see they are men like any other.’
He took her arm then, trying to nudge her from the sight of the flames. ‘See, my love, no tails. No knives growing out of their elbows, no sulphur pouring from their mouths. So much for the rumours. Some of them don’t even look particularly wicked up close, do they?’
She felt the tremble of his hand, though. His voice was brittle, the way it goes when he is hurt and trying not to show it. His face, always thin, was taut with the emotion he was holding in. Even the English had not gone so far as to raze God’s house to ashes.
The dark young corsair who came to attach the sail did not look much like a devil either, for all that his eyes were black. As he hoisted it o
ver a joist, the sleeves of his tunic fell back and Ásta was disconcerted to find herself admiring the cormorant sheen of his arms. When he caught her glance and saw how close she was to her time, he smiled down at her. That was too much. Ólafur said later he thought it was a kind smile, kind enough at least, but she was seized only by the most ferocious desire to strike the man on his cheerful mouth.
How pleasantly did they smile, this handsome corsair and his fellows, when they murdered her uncle Jón in a cave by the sea? Or chased Kristín, merriest of neighbours, until she could run no more and bled to death on the hill, her skirts about her waist and the dead baby hanging from its cord? Or drove young Erlendur Runólfsson to the edge of a cliff, stripped him to the waist and fired their muskets until he toppled backwards into the waves?
How can Ólafur talk to these people? How can someone who spends his days down here consoling the frightened and the heartbroken take even a moment to weigh the kindly intent behind a pirate’s smile? Ásta seethes every time she thinks of it.