The ancient Viking village hovered precariously above the ocean below, it was hidden from sight and tucked into the side of a cliff. It provided refuge for its inhabitants.
Inga rose at dawn when the tide was out. Her daughter Freya was still asleep. The fire was lit, the night had been cold, winter was coming. Inga carefully negotiated the stone steps that lead to the beach below. She went to gather sand leek, herbs, vegetables, and seaweed for today’s meal and driftwood for the fire.
Erik, her child’s father had gone with the men on full moon to hunt for food for the villagers. Their boat was strong yet simple in design. They sailed out on the sea and caught fish to be eaten fresh and dried for storage. They hoped to kill a deer from a local island nearby.
Freya, her ten-year old daughter awoke when the light finally crept into the cosy cave. She got up, pulled on her warm jacket, and rubbed her sleepy eyes that were stinging from the smoke-filled room. She stoked the fading fire with the final pieces of driftwood. Her task for the morning was to grind barley and oats into flour for bread. It was harvesting time; the villagers had traded dried fish with the cereal growers from the inland plains far to the south.
Inga walked along the beach below, she had a fruitful morning. She was loaded with dry driftwood packed into a woven holder slung over her head and she carried a basket in each hand filled with slimy wet seaweed, fresh green herbs, and vegetables. Her bare feet sank into the soft damp sand as she moved towards the stone stairs. She paused and looked up at the stairway in front of her. Each step had been hewn out of the rocky cliff, they were narrow, slippery, uneven, and dangerous.
She dreaded ascending them and knew how easily she could lose her balance especially with the burden she carried. Her belly was full of the child she was expecting on the new moon. She lifted her left foot onto the first step then climbed slowly upwards, she focused her whole being on staying upright. This ascent never got easier despite using the path frequently, she prayed she would make it safely. Her breathing was laboured, she swayed slightly, steadied herself, stretched her neck and adjusted her grip on the rough handles of both baskets. She had to keep going but strained to lift each foot onto the irregular hard surface of each step.
She wondered if she should have reduced the amount of driftwood to make the load lighter. Sweat streamed down into her eyes making it hard for her to see. She could not turn round or rest the baskets anywhere. She desperately wanted to adjust everything. She swayed with dizziness again. The icy wind whipped her clothing around her legs. She shivered despite feeling hot. She leant against the side of the cliff briefly but did not dare look down. She thought she must be about halfway. Gathering all the strength she could she proceeded higher. She thought of Freya waiting for her.
A sudden cramp sent a shocking pain through her abdomen.
“No,” she screamed, not now, the baby must not come now.
She grimaced and bent over slightly, she wished she could release herself from her burdens. It was not far to go now. She breathed in deeply, straightened her strong body and took a few more steps, she could see the door at the end of the ascent. It gave her hope.
Another spasm assaulted her, water gushed out between her legs. Inga let go of the precious cargo in her hands, the baskets fell like fruit from a tree and bounced as they hit the sharp ledges below, their contents spewed green rain into the air. She fell heavily onto the narrow steps and teetered dangerously, she released the heavy carrier from her head, its weight overbalancing her, she reached out in vain, her hands slid along the wet stone, she could feel herself falling.
Many centuries later, on a cold autumn night in Iceland, cocooned in a warm soft bed another Inga awoke with a violent jump, she shuddered and trembled as she climbed her way out of her recurring nightmare. Relief flooded her as her body sank into the safety of the mattress beneath her. The smell of smoke lingered in the air. Was she imagining it and why did she feel so sad? She reached out to hold her young daughter’s hand. Her breathing settled as the sun began to filter into her apartment that overlooked Faxaflói Bay.