If you enjoy the magical realism of Melissa Payne and the charming fairy tale style of Ruth Hogan then you will fall in love with Angela Stevens’s lyrical and emotional storytelling.
1870: A bleak Christmas Eve night is made all the
more pitiful by the recent death of a baby. Having buried five stillborn girls
in shallow graves next to the croft, Rebekka becomes captivated by a
storyteller’s tale of the Icelandic hidden people.
Finnur, will do anything to restore his wife’s
happiness, even if it means encouraging her decline into madness. But when the
impossible fairytale turns into a reality, the couple’s impulsive decision to
foster the child from the ice, is met with fear and superstition, and threatens
the well-being of the whole farmstead.
Rebekka and the Unwashed Child of Eve is an
enchanting and compelling story of desperation and need. Reminiscent of The
Snow Child and The Secret of Lost Stones, it’s painfully human, yet full of
hope, unconditional love, and magic.
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Angela Stevens is an Amazon International
Bestselling Romance Author. She also writes Contemporary fantasy and magical
realism under her pen name Sadie Collins
Her steamy romance novel, Nolan’s Resolution, from
the highly popular multi-author series, ‘After Hurricane Nina’, hit #1 New
Release on Amazon in America, Canada, and the UK.
Her 5 book debut series, Hockey Punk, is a sports
romance series set around her adopted town near DC and revolves around her
favorite sport of ice hockey. Writing in both contemporary romance and
contemporary fantasy genres, Angela portrays gritty characters with emotionally
charged plots and is not afraid to tackle difficult social issues in her
fiction. If you pick up one of her romances, you may have to order an extra
supply of tissues, but Angela Stevens will always deliver you a HEA and some
smoldering hot scenes to get you there.
In 2020 Angela Stevens rebranded her Fantasy
collection and put them under a new pen name–Sadie Collins.
Sadie Collins writes contemporary fantasy. The
emphasis is on character and emotion and she has a fascination with folklore
and bending the what ifs…
Her six book Vargr Clan Series combines Lycan myth
and Native American lore.
Rebekka and the Unwashed Child of Eve is a new
venture into a new genre, and Angela and Sadie argued as to who should get
their name on the front cover. Ultimately, Angela won out, as she claimed that
Sadie did not exist when she first wrote the book. Sadie is still sulking, and
at some time in the future there may be a mutiny. In all honesty, this book
might need a third pen name, but it came down to the fact that Angela already
has more than she can handle without splitting her personality further. If only
Angela could pull off a stunt like Finnboga in the story, and cleave herself in
two, the ‘team’ could be twice as efficient.
Rebekka and the Unwashed Child of Eve
Chapter 1
Christmas Eve, 1871
Candlelight
flickered across the creamy plaster walls of the tiny chapel, casting fluid,
dancing shadows that dimmed and brightened as the parishioners wriggled on the
hard, pristine white pews. The God-fearing Icelanders, who’d braved the weather
to celebrate Christmas Eve, filled the benches until they overflowed, leaving
the flustered latecomers to gather along the back wall, peeling off and piling
their heavy warm winter clothing at their feet.
While
Father Pétur droned through his sermon, Rebekka grew listless in the stuffy
atmosphere, and as hard as she tried, she couldn’t lock into the Lord’s words.
Her essence drifted out of her body, floating to the rafters where it hovered,
gazing down on the holy and unholy alike.
Below her
drifting spirit, Bryndís’s stepson, Viktor, sat straight-backed, his finger
tugging and scratching at the collar of his too-small white shirt. His heavy
eyelids closed and the boy’s head nodded forward, but a quick, sharp elbow from
his stepmother jerked him awake. As good a man as Father Pétur was, his
monotonous tone tested the eyelids of most of the congregation. For poor
Viktor, he was losing the fight; he’d slaved away on his father’s croft for
sixteen long hours, then trekked a mile across the frozen snow to the service.
The boy was exhausted, and despite his strong will to be good, the need for
sleep won out.
Although
Pétur made his living speaking God’s words to the masses, his sermons blurred
into one long stream of consciousness with neither excitement nor fear
punctuating them. Why, even Jesus himself might fail to take inspiration or
hope, let alone the heathens crammed inside these whitewashed walls, Rebekka
mused, as she surveyed the scene from the dust-laden beams.
With the
little amusement on offer from the pulpit, Rebekka’s essence searched for
entertainment elsewhere. On the front pew, Farmer Jón Jónasson sat with his
plump wife and pretty pink-faced little girls. Dressed in neat, bright skirts
and crisp white bodices decorated with intricate embroidery, the children’s Upphlutur
stood out from the drab black woolen clothing the crofters and tenants’
children wore. They perched on hard pews beside their mother, their ankles
crossed while their eyes were glued to the priest. But their father, Jón
Jónasson was more animated. His gaze drifted around his workers and when his
eyes met with those that toiled for him, they did so with kindness, bringing a warm
smile and a nod of recognition.
A flutter
of hair slipping from the confines of a frayed ribbon caught Rebekka’s
attention, bringing it back to her own form. Although she turned twenty-five at
the beginning of summer, she sat with stooped shoulders, weighted with sorrow
and work. Calloused hands took on bent crone-like features as they wrung at her
skirts, and the once golden tresses of her youth were now lank and dull. With
skin as pale as the plastered walls, her thin lips drew down at the corners. There
were five years of suffering etched into her once pretty face, and the
rose-pink high cheekbones of youth became sallow and hollow, with angles too
sharp and too harsh for a woman her age.
Finnur
reached across Rebekka’s lap, threading his fingers through hers, administering
an imperceptible squeeze. Accepting his solidarity, Rebekka glanced sideways at
him, and as husband and wife regarded each other, the heavy black aura
surrounding the couple lightened at the edges.
Poor
Finnur’s face was as tired and drawn as his wife’s. His eyes showed as much
sorrow as hers, and as that despair grew between them, Finnur’s gaze drifted to
the floor. Wearily, he scratched at his beard, and Rebekka detected a sag in
those once strong, broad shoulders.
Before their
pitifulness weighed too heavy, she sought out the stained-glass window as a way
of comfort. It was a remarkable piece, imported from Europe, that had travelled
much further as an inanimate object than her animated body could ever imagine.
She examined every tiny blue square, counted each hand-cut piece, and focused
in on the smallest detail of the design until she could no longer remember what
it depicted.
“And now
a story requested by Jón Jónasson’s beautiful girls, as a reminder on this
Christmas Eve night, of those that remain hidden from us, yet reside in the
rocks that scatter our land.” Father Pétur’s eyes rolled up to the church roof,
and Rebekka wondered if he was apologizing to God for the heathen story he was
about to tell.
“Let us
take a moment to remember whence they came to be, and how their existence
relates to us.” To everyone’s delight, and Father Pétur’s dismay, the farmer’s
children had selected a heavy book that Rebekka at once recognized as volume 1
of Jón Árnason, Icelandic Legends. No matter how hard Father Pétur
tried, he could not rid what he referred to as ‘superstitious nonsense’ from
his church. Over the years, he had stopped trying, and had given up scolding
his parishioners when they perpetuated the huldufólk myths.
“Once, when
the world was in its infancy, God Almighty came to visit Adam and Eve. They
received him with joy and showed him everything they had in the house. They
brought their children to him, and these He found promising and full of hope.”
As Pétur
cleared his throat, the parishioners awakened from their stupor, listening with
interest. “Then He asked Eve whether she had no other children than those whom
she now showed to Him, and she said, ‘None.’ But this was untrue. It so
happened that Eve had not finished washing all of her children, and feeling
ashamed to bring them to God so dirty, she hid the unwashed ones. But this, God
knew well, and He said to her, ‘What man hides from God, God will hide
from man.’”
For the
first time that night, Pétur had the full attention of his flock, and they
waited with bated breath for the story’s conclusion, despite each and every one
knowing it by heart.
“These
unwashed children immediately became invisible and took up home in mounds and
hills and rocks. From these unwashed children of Eve, the álfar
descended, but we men trace our lineage through those children of Eve whom were
openly shown to God. And it is only by the will and desire of the álfar
themselves that man can ever see them.”
Father
Pétur closed the dense book, and as its crisp pages fluttered shut with a
whisper, it created a sound so soft that it didn’t even muster an echo, yet its
breathless voice called Rebekka’s essence back to her body.
Murmurs
spread through the congregation as Pétur began his closing words. “Before you
make your way back to your homes, I hope you will join me in prayer for two of
our congregates who suffer today. Two days past, Rebekka Jónsdóttir and Finnur
Einarsson’s daughter went unto God before drawing her first breath. My heart is
filled with great sadness for you both. Please, let us pray.”
Rebekka
sank into the pew wishing she could be as invisible as an álfar and disappear
into the wooden bench or rock floor. She wanted to hide her form from the
pitying eyes that looked her way. But she was not unwashed, and the men
and women around her saw her, even though they shut their eyes in prayer.
Rebekka feared what they saw was an unfortunate woman, a maid that had no
children clinging to her skirts, a maid found so unworthy, that God denied her
the joy of birthing a living, breathing child.
Even the
barren stared with pity in their eyes. For in a cruel twist, God allowed her to
conceive, to witness that heady joy in her heart, to hope, to dream, but her
sins must be the foulest—though she could not remember what she might have done
for Him to play with her heart so wickedly that He let her go through
childbirth, only to take the breath from her babe before she heard it cry.
“Amen.”
Father Pétur made his way to the rear of the chapel, and the congregation
struggled to their feet.
Stretching
and chattering, they scrambled to collect their possessions and wrap their
weary bodies in wool and felt against the frigid air awaiting them on their
journey home. The ritual of pulling on thick sweaters, heavy coats, warm woolen
mittens, huge fur-lined hats, and long felted scarves played out, and Rebekka
looked to her feet, her impatience growing as the chatter escalated. What
was wrong with these people? Did they not want to get to their beds? It was
close to midnight, and most needed to rise in a few hours to tackle their
chores. Animals didn’t care that it was Christmas morning. Whatever the day,
they demanded feeding and watering, and the dung in the stables still needed
scraping from the straw and piling up for drying.
Rebekka
hung back in the shadows of the gloomy chapel, waiting for the crowd to
disperse, so she could leave without fuss.
Outside,
the wind whipped up the new fallen snow, sending white tornados spinning across
the landscape. Each time the heavy door opened, a flurry of mjöll
skittered into the nave. It spiraled down the center aisle, toward the chancel,
making the candle flames dance, and sending tall undulating shadows gyrating
across the whitewashed walls. When the swirling snow ran out of energy, it hung
in the air for a second, as if bewitched by the unseen fingers of the unwashed
children. Just as Rebekka grew mesmerized at the particles unnatural dalliance,
they fell, sprinkling her boots. A hush settled across the dwindling crowd as
Mother Nature’s antics drew their eyes to Rebekka’s hiding place. Bryndís and
her gossiping friends’ eyes widened as the skittering flakes traversed the
aisle and, one by one, fell at Rebekka’s feet.
She
stared at the circle of snow. Pure and white, a halo highlighting her stained,
worn sheepskin boots and threadbare woolen skirt. Too late, she realized her
shabby state was not befitting the occasion.
Finnur’s
gaze fell on her, and she could only imagine the shame she brought on him. His
hands rang his felted hat and mittens, but paying no heed to the approaching
gossips, he placed his arm around her shoulders, and with a forced smile, he
willed one from her. When she couldn’t conjure it even for him, his blue eyes,
already tarnished with unhappiness, dulled even further.
Removing
his arm, he took her hand instead and squeezed her fingers. “We should not have
come. I’m sorry, my love, this was too soon.”
Rebekka
took a deep breath and drew on Finnur’s strength. “What? And give our neighbors
more gossip? What choice did we have?” Any other time, they could have taken
time to dwell on their loss, but Christmas Eve was the one night a year when
heads were counted, making it impossible to avoid the service.
Finnur
squared his shoulders and turned to greet Father Pétur and their friends.
Bryndís
didn’t even bother to lower her voice as she filled in details to the
surrounding ears eager for gossip. “She carried the baby closer to term this
time—a full seven months.”
Father
Pétur reached Rebekka first and placed his hand on her shoulder, but it gave
her little comfort, and she attacked the man with a sharp tongue. “Why does God
continue to punish us year after year? Finnur and I are good Christians and
hospitable people.” She searched the man’s face, hoping to find answers. “We
offer everyone who knocks on our door food, drink, and a bed for the night. We
work hard, pay our taxes, have never shirked our responsibilities on the croft.
Our love for each other is pure, neither mine nor my husband’s eyes have strayed
to another. Can’t the Lord allow one of my babies to live?”
Finnur
stepped closer, his hand finding hers once more, bolstering her as Bryndís and
the others surrounded them.
“We
should not expect preferential treatment from God, the life of your child is…”
The stout woman beside Bryndís sounded confident, but Rebekka knew the woman
had yet to conceive herself. The woman’s confidence wavered as Rebekka glared
at her. “Well, you know… you must take precautions.”
With
courage fueled by sorrow, Rebekka threw all her pent-up anger at the woman. “I
consulted every mid-wife, psychic, and seer within twenty miles for guidance on
how to make sure I had a successful pregnancy!”
Rebekka
had been diligent, she had asked the traveling vagrants, and listened to every
gossipy women’s superstitious stories. She gathered any advice—however
bizarre—and followed each rule to the letter, so child number five had the
strongest chance of life.
“As soon
as I knew I was expecting, Finnur collected the ptarmigan feathered quilts from
our home.” She’d never have forgiven herself, if she lay on one and condoned
her baby to never being born.
“She
did.” Bryndís confirmed to the audience. “Finnur brought them the very next
day.”
“I
dismantled the clothes lines,” which crisscrossed both the inside and outside
of Rebekka’s home, making it possible to dry their outdoor clothing, “in case I
stepped under one and caused the umbilical cord to strangle my child.”
Bryndís
patted her back. “There, there. Seven months was closer to term, so much more
viable than the… others.” Her voice trailed away. “Next time, there is a good
chance it will go full term.”
Tears
spilled down Rebekka’s cheeks. Next time? Couldn’t they see it was
the hope that broke her heart?
“But she
was so perfect. No harelip, I was careful not to eat with a cleft spoon.” The
women sighed in sympathy. “I counted ten tiny exquisite fingers on her little
hands.” Because she’d refused her favorite meal of seal flippers to prevent the
baby being born with them. “But, despite all the child’s perfections—my care,
the attention to detail—my poor baby girl came into this world without taking a
single breath.” Rebekka’s neighbors cooed around her, but none could tell her
what she might have done wrong.
Behind
them, Magnùs’s deep low voice addressed Finnur. “I saw you dig a grave.”
“Aye.”
With a single word, Finnur dismissed his madness.
Rebekka
narrowed her eyes at the big brute of a man. “Sure, you would have done the
same, Magnús.”
When the
sun had crawled as high as it could on that Icelandic winter’s day, Finnur had
broken his back for her. While she cradled the infant—imagining what her
daughter’s cry sounded like and fantasizing about the babe suckling at her
breast while she looked into eyes full of life—her beloved husband pulled on
his warmest boots and went out onto the hjarn.
The
packed frozen snow encased the earth. Finnur might have had more success
digging through lava rock, but despite the impossibility of the task, Finnur
attacked his responsibility with vigor, leaving Rebekka wondering where he
found the strength. Was it grief or anger that spurred him on so?
She
placed the newborn in the frozen ground. The little mound huddled between the
plain markers of her four sisters, and as the last few minutes of precious winter
daylight slipped away, Rebekka and Finnur piled rocks above their daughter to
ensure her spirit didn’t return to the world.
“I saw
the fire. You burnt the placenta?” Magnús raised an eyebrow. “How will that
benefit the forsaken child in any way? A star to light her lifeless body serves
no purpose.”
“It
brought comfort to Rebekka,” Finnur answered resolutely.
And so it
had.
As the
meager half-light slipped from the winter sky, leaving the world black and
dangerous, they’d watched a spark from the fire rise into the air. It
transcended to the heavens, the ember’s red glow whitening and brightening in
its ascent. The ember arched, settling into position over the humble grave,
where it shimmered brighter than any other star in the sky, illuminating the frozen
ground at their feet.
“There was
a star,” Rebekka whispered.
Everyone’s
eyes, save that of the priest, avoided hers. Father Pétur took her hand and
patted it. “Then I am sure God is with you. He sent a star to watch over your
daughter, and one day, He will reward you with a child. God is merciful, and
may move in mysterious ways, but He recognizes the love you have to give.”
Rebekka
held her breath, hoping to dam the flood of tears that threatened to fall.
Finnur
came to her rescue. “Thank you, Father. I should get Rebekka home, as this has
been an exhausting time for her, and she is weak from the birth.”
“Take
care.” Pétur stepped back and the crowd shuffled out of the unfortunate
couple’s way. “Hurry home before this weather takes hold.”
The
couple pulled their wool coats closed, and, with her mittened hand still
wrapped in Finnur’s, her noble husband guided Rebekka past their well-meaning
neighbors. As the door opened, a large gust rushed into the church. With it,
flew new snow that showered the dirt floor and settled on the wooden pews.
Rebekka shuddered at the ferocious wind that tangled her skirts and left her
coat covered in white flakes.
Finnur pulled the felted hat over her ears and arranged her scarf closer to her throat. Then, with no care for who saw him, he placed a kiss on her cheek. “Let me take you home, my love.”
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