Fylgia by Birgitta Hjalmarson

Author:Birgitta Hjalmarson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FICTION/ Family Life/General
Publisher: Bedazzled Ink Publishing
Published: 2018-03-22T00:00:00+00:00

SUNDAY WAS WINDY and cold. I saw Fredrik standing with Agnes outside the church. Agnes had crossed her arms and thrust her hands into her armpits for warmth. Kristina curtsied before her, which did not go unnoticed, for Kristina was known to curtsy for no one, not even for Rammen, who avoided her as much as he could.

The rest of the villagers passed them without greetings, looking down at the ground as if sharing in the shame. Fredrik, his large black hat partly shielding his face, spoke to Agnes now and then, but I could not hear what he said. Whatever it was, Agnes appeared to agree, for she nodded and straightened her back. At least Fredrik had come, even though, like Agnes, he would not be allowed inside the church itself. I found myself wondering who would stir his coffee now.

There was the usual coughing and scraping of feet as Wikander climbed the stairs to the pulpit. He read the text of the day and we all sang. I hoped that Agnes and Fredrik had walked into the church porch to get out of the cold. Perhaps Fredrik would take off his jacket and hang it over Agnes’ shoulders.

Björn played sharply that day. Not even Karolina could follow as he kept changing the rhythm and embellishing passages we all thought we knew. The night before Disa had caught him in the kitchen with Sara, who had finished with the milking and should have been asleep in her bed in the attic. Björn himself had been sitting at the kitchen table, wearing only his underwear, while Sara had been cleaning the grass spots from the knees of his trousers, singing to herself in a voice that Disa found offensive, “certainly not the kind of voice one would expect to hear in a kitchen.”

We all watched as two farmers’ wives knelt and bowed their heads at the altar. Many parishes had abandoned this practice, but Wikander followed the Old Testament, which stated that childbirth made women impure. Even with Wikander, the churchings were more of an honoring than a purification, but they still served to atone for the pleasure the women may have felt when they conceived.

The woman to the right had born a boy, the woman to the left, a girl. For the past few weeks they had remained secluded in their homes. Wikander took their hands and welcomed them back to the congregation. “In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children, and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.”

Wikander walked down the aisle to church Agnes, who was kneeling on the threshold.

I shuddered as I listened to his words. “Marriage is honorable in all, and the bed undefiled, but whoremongers and adulterers God will judge. Walk in peace and sin no more.” This was no longer an honoring but a condemnation, not a welcoming but an expulsion.

After church, Ulrika and Disa went to pay their respect to the two farmers’ wives, who would serve coffee and show their babies.

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