40. Gwyneth’s End

Thurid and Gwyneth often met at Church. One Sunday, about fourteen years after Iceland became Christian, they were driving back from services and Gwyneth collapsed in her seat, the holy book still clutched in her lifeless hands. It was as sudden as that. One moment alive, dead the next. Colm pondered this for quite some time and thought there was a fact of great importance here but he could not find the proper words to express it, nor could he find much solace in religion. It is all over, he thought, all my life is done. Gwyneth was buried with her book in her hands.

Braga came to see him. She got right to the point. “You need a housekeeper,” she said. “I need a house.”

“You still have grandchildren at Helgafeld,” said Colm.

“Not much longer. Only one is left there now.” Braga’s daughter, Freydis, had Gunnora Twist-Face to deal with. One mother or mother-in-law was enough for any house. Her grand-daughter Ingveld had died of a sickness that struck down several people at her farm. Her grandson Magnus was a successful farmer with children of his own. Braga could have gone to live with him or with her other married grandson or with the grand-daughter that was soon to wed, but she decided that she would be uncomfortable, living in a grandchild’s house. Only one of Frosti’s children remained at Helgafeld, an eleven-year-old boy who seemed intelligent and would soon go to Thorsness to begin training for the priesthood.

“Well,” said Colm, “It’s true enough that I need help. Come to the Trollfarm and keep house.”

Braga nodded. “All right. Will you want me to share your bed?”

“No,” said Colm, “I am past all that now.”

“Good,” said Braga. “So am I.”