Elísabet crumples beside her husband.
‘Search the area, I’ll stay here,’ Stefán says to the other men. ‘Be cautious.’
The six men form into pairs and set off with grim faces.
Elísabet removes the long muslin handling that flows down from her waist and places it over her husband’s face. Then she turns on Stefán in a fury.
‘What is this? How could this have happened?’
‘I do not know. I am sorry.’ Stefán musters a calm he does not feel. ‘Elísabet, this is very important. Where does Jón keep his phial?’
Stunned she asks, ‘Is that what you think?’
‘No, not by his own hand. We know he would not have taken the contents of the phial by choice. But we also know that it’s the only way this … this tragedy could have occurred.’
As she moves Jón’s body to search for his phial they discover that his hands are tied behind his back. Elísabet looks at Stefán wildly, her face hot and her eyes brimming.
‘Who would do this? Why? Why would they do this?’
She searches the pockets of her husband’s jacket and then his trousers. She looks in his socks. Her hands move fast, patting him down, feeling every inch of him, his crotch, even his armpits, searching for the phial.
Gone.
Panicked, she reaches for her own phial, which hangs from a necklace hidden beneath her clothing; it feels warm against her skin; she had forgotten it was there. She clasps it now seeking further confirmation that it is secure while her mind verges on accepting the incredible.
The outlines of black-clad figures move towards her in a dark squall. Four men approach with their hands up to signal surrender. It is an old custom, one that is still used in this sparsely populated land. One of the men looks first at Elísabet and then speaks to Stefán. ‘Nothing.’
‘Who has done this?’ she manages to ask. ‘His phial is missing. He … he just went for a walk.’ She tries to be rational, but nothing makes sense.
Elísabet moans as Stefán helps her to her feet.
‘Come. We’ll take you back,’ he says.
‘No. I want to go home. You must help me take Jón home. Please, untie his hands.’
‘You cannot travel right now and remain safe. Think of the child.’
‘How dare you. I think of nothing but the child.’ A flash of anger overwhelms her as she turns away from them, but the truth is that this miracle she carries weakens her resolve to bear it alone. Of course she must stay with them. She cannot manage the journey home on her own. Owing to this act of violence she assumes the mantle of their secret. Yes, she nods, she will accept their help. She would be a fool to forgo it.
A rustle from the dwarf shrubs nearby alerts them. The other two men in their group emerge and quickly take Stefán aside. His head bowed, he listens, nods and then looks up at them, his face stamped with surprise.
‘We need to go back, Elísabet.’
She leans heavily on two of the men, suddenly exhausted after her exertion; she’s moved by their shyness with her. Stefán and the other four men lift Jón’s body and carry it like a coffin.
Doors open at the sound of the group’s return. Men and women stop work to witness the arrival of Jón’s body with open-faced bewilderment. Their wadmal clothing forms a black moving blanket as they approach his body. Confused glances pass between them and they look from Elísabet’s ashen face to their leader.
‘He is dead? How can that be?’ a man asks Stefán.
‘Margrét, please take Elísabet to my house.’
Stefán then addresses the group. ‘Please, complete anything that is pressing if you must, and then gather in the meeting house as soon as possible.’
Nothing is more pressing than the discovery of the body of Jón Eymundsson. The group immediately files into a hut reserved for communal meetings. They take their seats on two long benches placed around one equally long table.
‘Our enemy looks like us,’ Stefán begins. ‘He dresses as we do. He speaks as we do. But he is Danish. I can confirm that Copenhagen’s Falk family pursue our secrets. For those of you who don’t know the extent of their power and resources, the Falks’ wealth is made from the slave trade and sugar.’
A murmur floats through the hut.
‘How do you know this?’ asks Múli.
Stefán hesitates and the six men who tracked the Danish men earlier throw glances at each other.
‘Because there were three men following Jón this afternoon. One of them fell and broke his leg. His companions left him with stab wounds in the bushes, most likely thinking he would die before we found him – evidence of their ruthlessness. But he was not yet dead – and he talked. And now the birds feed upon his body.’
‘What did he say?’ they all want to know.
‘The elder Falk, he has always believed in the existence of the pool and he means to find it – and us. And …’ Stefán pauses. ‘He knows my ancestors. He has heard a rumour that I am still alive and do not age. It is why I moved here.’
‘So
