Read Online On the Cold Coasts by Vilborg Davidsdottir - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Vilborg Davidsdottir
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white belly. Salty-sweet scent.
Beloved; beloved. Afterward she rose up on one elbow and gazed into his face, scrutinized him with an insatiable look, wondered at his muscular body and the way the lines next to his mouth and eyes were gone now. He was like a small boy. Beloved; beloved. The slight hint of a smile at the sides of his mouth, as though he was self-conscious in their intimacy, though she could not be sure since he had shut his eyes to protect himself from her intrusion into his thoughts. She could see his eyes moving beneath the lids, but she said nothing and asked nothing. She wanted to know what would happen next, yet at the same time she did not want to know; longed for it, yet at the same time feared it above all else.
Fatigue washed over her, and she lay down next to Thorkell, nestled into the crook of his arm, wishing for security in a world that seemed more uncertain than ever before. No sooner have we been given something before we begin to fear the gift, fear that we are undeserving and that it will be snatched away in an instant. And so she stroked him, moved her fingers slowly across his broad shoulders and arms, down his chest with its bristly hairs, to his belly, down along his thighs and in between them, cupped him in her fingers, feeling him, owning the memory of him, whatever would later come to pass.
Thorkell’s chest rose and fell, his breath slow and deep, as if he were asleep, although she suspected that he was awake.
How have I been able to live and breathe without knowing this man, without knowing the passion of loving? His every glance gives my life meaning, his every smile, every touch. His existence is the reason I wake up each morning. Our opportunities to meet in private are few and hence all the more precious; his intensity is invaluable proof that I am finally worth something, that he needs me as much as I need him. No one has ever known me as well as he does. I too know the depth and breadth of his soul, and we are one. Very occasionally the thought creeps in that perhaps we do not know each other at all, but I refuse to allow such doubts to upset me. Now is all there is and all that matters.
One day, near the Feast of St. Paul, Ragna came upon Thorkell in the library. He was writing on a manuscript scroll all manner of strange symbols and scribbles in red ink, secret runes of some kind, from ancient times. She was deeply shaken and could not conceal it.
He laughed at her anxious expression and stroked the under-side of her chin with the quill, a black raven’s feather, moving it down into the shadow between her breasts, then up again, tickling her nose. “It is not as if the ink is made from the blood of virgins, my lovely,” he said kindly. “No need for such a terrified expression.”
She stammered something incoherent in response, and he became annoyed. He picked up sheets of vellum covered in writing from the desk and thrust them in front of her.
“Look here, little fool. It is only a text about the variable illnesses and natural responses of the body, prayers to halt bleeding and separate infants from their mothers, charms, wrestling magic, and suchlike that may prove useful and bring harm to no one.”
“Wrestling magic…” she said, and her voice trembled. “A relatively harmless galdur perhaps, but a galdur nevertheless. And what are you writing with those magic runes, designed to deceive? Thorkell, why do you do this?”
He took hold of her shoulders.
“My sweet Ragna, you who are closest and dearest to my heart, surely you can see that I must practice all that I have studied so that I will not forget it. I must learn as much as I can, for that is the only true power that a man has, over himself if nothing else—though gaining power over others is also useful. This can be possible only through the art of learning, and the knowledge that is hidden from others.” He grew agitated and went on excitedly: “Nothing is more important in this mortal life
Beloved; beloved. Afterward she rose up on one elbow and gazed into his face, scrutinized him with an insatiable look, wondered at his muscular body and the way the lines next to his mouth and eyes were gone now. He was like a small boy. Beloved; beloved. The slight hint of a smile at the sides of his mouth, as though he was self-conscious in their intimacy, though she could not be sure since he had shut his eyes to protect himself from her intrusion into his thoughts. She could see his eyes moving beneath the lids, but she said nothing and asked nothing. She wanted to know what would happen next, yet at the same time she did not want to know; longed for it, yet at the same time feared it above all else.
Fatigue washed over her, and she lay down next to Thorkell, nestled into the crook of his arm, wishing for security in a world that seemed more uncertain than ever before. No sooner have we been given something before we begin to fear the gift, fear that we are undeserving and that it will be snatched away in an instant. And so she stroked him, moved her fingers slowly across his broad shoulders and arms, down his chest with its bristly hairs, to his belly, down along his thighs and in between them, cupped him in her fingers, feeling him, owning the memory of him, whatever would later come to pass.
Thorkell’s chest rose and fell, his breath slow and deep, as if he were asleep, although she suspected that he was awake.
How have I been able to live and breathe without knowing this man, without knowing the passion of loving? His every glance gives my life meaning, his every smile, every touch. His existence is the reason I wake up each morning. Our opportunities to meet in private are few and hence all the more precious; his intensity is invaluable proof that I am finally worth something, that he needs me as much as I need him. No one has ever known me as well as he does. I too know the depth and breadth of his soul, and we are one. Very occasionally the thought creeps in that perhaps we do not know each other at all, but I refuse to allow such doubts to upset me. Now is all there is and all that matters.
One day, near the Feast of St. Paul, Ragna came upon Thorkell in the library. He was writing on a manuscript scroll all manner of strange symbols and scribbles in red ink, secret runes of some kind, from ancient times. She was deeply shaken and could not conceal it.
He laughed at her anxious expression and stroked the under-side of her chin with the quill, a black raven’s feather, moving it down into the shadow between her breasts, then up again, tickling her nose. “It is not as if the ink is made from the blood of virgins, my lovely,” he said kindly. “No need for such a terrified expression.”
She stammered something incoherent in response, and he became annoyed. He picked up sheets of vellum covered in writing from the desk and thrust them in front of her.
“Look here, little fool. It is only a text about the variable illnesses and natural responses of the body, prayers to halt bleeding and separate infants from their mothers, charms, wrestling magic, and suchlike that may prove useful and bring harm to no one.”
“Wrestling magic…” she said, and her voice trembled. “A relatively harmless galdur perhaps, but a galdur nevertheless. And what are you writing with those magic runes, designed to deceive? Thorkell, why do you do this?”
He took hold of her shoulders.
“My sweet Ragna, you who are closest and dearest to my heart, surely you can see that I must practice all that I have studied so that I will not forget it. I must learn as much as I can, for that is the only true power that a man has, over himself if nothing else—though gaining power over others is also useful. This can be possible only through the art of learning, and the knowledge that is hidden from others.” He grew agitated and went on excitedly: “Nothing is more important in this mortal life
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