Роберт Льюис Стивенсон
The Waif Woman
They laid the body in a shed, made fast their horses, and came into the house, and the door was closed again. So there they sat about the lights, and there was little said, for they were none so well pleased with their reception. Presently, in the place where the food was kept, began a clattering of dishes; and it fell to a bondman of the house to go and see what made the clatter. He was no sooner gone than he was back again; and told it was a big, buxom woman, high in flesh and naked as she was born, setting meats upon a dresser. Finnward grew pale as the dawn; he got to his feet, and the rest rose with him, and all the party of the funeral came to the buttery-door. And the dead Thorgunna took no heed of their coming, but went on setting forth meats, and seemed to talk with herself as she did so; and she was naked to the buff.
Great fear fell upon them; the marrow of their back grew cold. Not one word they spoke, neither good nor bad; but back into the hall, and down upon their bended knees, and to their prayers.
“Now, in the name of God, what ails you?” cried the goodman of Netherness.
And when they had told him, shame fell upon him for his churlishness.
“The dead wife reproves me,” said the honest man.
And he blessed himself and his house, and caused spread the tables, and they all ate of the meats that the dead wife laid out.
This was the first walking of Thorgunna, and it is thought by good judges it would have been the last as well, if men had been more wise.
The next day they came to Skalaholt, and there was the body buried, and the next after they set out for home. Finnward’s heart was heavy, and his mind divided. He feared the dead wife and the living; he feared dishonour and he feared dispeace; and his will was like a sea-gull in the wind. Now he cleared his throat and made as if to speak; and at that Aud cocked her eye and looked at the goodman mocking, and his voice died unborn. At the last, shame gave him courage.
“Aud,” said he, “yon was a most uncanny thing at Netherness.”
“No doubt,” said Aud.
“I have never had it in my mind,” said he, “that yon woman was the thing she should be.”
“I dare say not,” said Aud. “I never thought so either.”
“It stands beyond question she was more than canny,” says Finnward, shaking his head. “No manner of doubt but what she was ancient of mind.”
“She was getting pretty old in body, too,” says Aud.
“Wife,” says he, “it comes in upon me strongly this is no kind of woman to disobey; above all, being dead and her walking. I think, wife, we must even do as she commanded.”
“Now what is ever your word?” says she, riding up close and setting her hand upon his shoulder. “‘The goodwife’s pleasure must be done’; is not that my Finnward?”
“The good God knows I grudge you nothing,” cried Finnward. “But my blood runs cold upon this business. Worse will come of it!” he cried, “worse will flow from it!”
“What is this todo?” cries Aud. “Here is an old brimstone hag that should have been stoned with stones, and hated me besides. Vainly she tried to frighten me when she was living; shall she frighten me now when she is dead and rotten? I trow not. Think shame to your beard, goodman! Are these a man’s shoes I see you shaking in, when your wife rides by your bridle-hand, as bold as nails?”
“Ay, ay,” quoth Finnward. “But there goes a byword in the country: Little wit, little fear.”
At this Aud began to be concerned, for he was usually easier to lead. So now she tried the other method on the man.
“Is that your word?” cried she. “I kiss the hands of ye! If I have not wit enough, I can rid you of my company. Wit is it he seeks?” she cried. “The old broomstick that we buried yesterday had wit for you.”
So she rode on ahead and looked not the road that he was on.
Poor Finnward followed on his horse, but the light of the day was gone out, for his wife was like his life to him. He went six miles and was true to his heart; but the seventh was not half through when he rode up to her.
“Is it to be the goodwife’s pleasure?” she asked.
“Aud, you shall have your way,” says he; “God grant there come no ill of it!”
So she made much of him, and his heart was comforted.
When they came to the house, Aud had the two chests to her own bed-place, and gloated all night on what she found. Finnward looked on, and trouble darkened his mind.
“Wife,” says he at last, “you will not forget these things belong to Asdis?”
At that she barked upon him like a dog.
“Am I a thief?” she cried. “The brat shall have them in her turn when she grows up. Would you have me give her them now to turn her minx’s head with?”
So the weak man went his way out of the house in sorrow and fell to his affairs. Those that wrought with him that day observed that now he would labour and toil like a man furious, and now would sit and stare like one stupid; for in truth he judged the business would end ill.
For a while there was no more done and no more said. Aud cherished her treasures by herself, and none was the wiser except Finnward. Only the cloak she sometimes wore, for that was hers by the will of the dead wife; but the others she let lie, because she knew she had them foully, and she feared Finnward somewhat and Thorgunna much.
At last husband and wife were bound to bed one night, and he was the first stripped and got in. “What sheets are these?” he screamed, as his legs touched them, for these were smooth as water, but the sheets of Iceland were like sacking.
“Clean sheets, I suppose,” says Aud, but her hand quavered as she wound her hair.
“Woman!” cried Finnward, “these are the bed-sheets of Thorgunna – these are the sheets she died in! do not lie to me!”
At that Aud turned and looked at him. “Well?” says she, “they have been washed.”
Finnward lay down again in the bed between Thorgunna’s sheets, and groaned; never a word more he said, for now he knew he was a coward and a man dishonoured. Presently his wife came beside him, and they lay still, but neither slept.
It might be twelve in the night when Aud felt Finnward shudder so strong that the bed shook.
“What ails you?” said she.
“I know not,” he said. “It is a chill like the chill of death. My soul is sick with it.” His voice fell low. “It was so Thorgunna sickened,” said he. And he arose and walked in the hall in the dark till it came morning.
Early in the morning he went forth to the sea-fishing with four lads. Aud was troubled at heart and watched him from the door, and even as he went down the beach she saw him shaken with Thorgunna’s shudder. It was a rough day, the sea was wild, the boat laboured exceedingly, and it may be that Finnward’s mind was troubled with his sickness. Certain it is that they struck, and their boat was burst, upon a skerry under Snowfellness. The four lads were spilled into the sea, and the sea broke and buried them, but Finnward was cast upon the skerry, and clambered up, and sat there all day long: God knows his thoughts. The sun was half-way down, when a shepherd went by on the cliffs about his business, and spied a man in the midst of the breach of the loud seas, upon a pinnacle of reef. He hailed him, and the man turned and hailed again. There was in that cove so great a clashing of the seas and so shrill a cry of sea-fowl that the herd might hear the voice and nor the words. But the name Thorgunna came to him, and he saw the face of Finnward Keelfarer like the face of an old man. Lively ran the herd to Finnward’s house; and when his tale was told there, Eyolf the boy was lively to out a boat and hasten to his father’s aid. By the strength of hands they drove the keel against the seas, and with skill and courage Eyolf won upon the skerry and climbed up, There sat his father dead; and this was the first vengeance of Thorgunna against broken faith.
