Burial Rites

  ‘And that is because she is reticent, secretive and guilty.’

  Tóti was silent for a moment. He wanted nothing more than to run from the room and join the rest of the household of Hvammur, whose chatter slipped under the door of Blöndal’s office.

  ‘I am not a cruel man, Assistant Reverend Thorvardur. But I am God-fearing, and it is apparent to me that this District is overrun with criminals of the worst kind. Thieves, thugs, and now murderers. During the years that have passed since my appointment as District Commissioner, I have seen the moral boundaries that have kept the people here safe from depravity and vice disintegrate. It is a political and spiritual embarrassment, and it is my responsibility to see to it that the criminals in this District, who have gone so long unpunished, are given their justice in the eyes of their peers.’

  Tóti nodded, and slowly picked up the swan feather. The down near its base clung to his damp fingers. ‘You mean to make an example of her,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I mean to deliver God’s justice here on earth,’ Blöndal said, frowning. ‘I mean to honour the authorities who have appointed me by fulfilling my duty as lawkeeper.’

  Tóti hesitated. ‘I hear that you have appointed Gudmundur Ketilsson as executioner,’ he said.

  Blöndal sighed and leaned back in his chair. ‘I’ve never known tongues to wag faster than they do in this valley.’

  ‘Is it true that you’ve asked the brother of the murdered man?’

  ‘I do not have to explain my decisions to you, Reverend. I am not accountable to parish priests. I am accountable to Denmark. To the King.’

  ‘I did not say I disapproved.’

  ‘Your opinion is writ large upon your face, Reverend.’ Blöndal picked up his pen again. ‘But we are not here to discuss my performance. We are here to discuss yours, and I must say that I am disappointed with it.’

  ‘What will you have me do?’

  ‘Return to God’s word. Forget Agnes’s. She has nothing that you need to hear, unless it is a confession.’

  Reverend Tóti left Björn Blöndal’s study with a pounding head. He could not stop thinking of Agnes’s pale face, her low voice in the dark, and the image of red-headed Fridrik, raising a hammer above a sleeping man. Had she been lying to him? He fought off a compulsion to cross himself in the corridor, in front of the busy huddle of female servants lugging pails of milk and pots of waste. He pulled on his shoes against the wall.

  It was a relief to be outside. It had grown cloudy and dim, but the cold air, and the strong smell of fish drying on racks near the cowshed, seemed sympathetic to his confusion. He thought of Blöndal’s greasy finger against his throat. The crunch of bone. Natan Ketilsson begging for his life. He wanted to be sick.

  ‘Reverend!’ Someone was calling him. He turned around and saw Karitas, Blöndal’s servant, running hurriedly after him. ‘You left your coat, sir.’

  Tóti smiled and extended an arm to take the garment, but the woman did not let go of it. She pulled Tóti closer and whispered to him, looking at the ground.

  ‘I need to speak with you.’

  Tóti was surprised. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Shh,’ hissed the woman. She glanced over to the servant men gutting the fish on the stone. ‘Come with me. To the stable.’

  Tóti nodded and, taking his coat, stumbled towards the large cowshed. It was dark inside, and smelt strongly of manure, although the stalls had already been cleaned. It was empty – all the animals had been taken out to pasture.

  He turned around and saw Karitas silhouetted against the open doorway.

  ‘I don’t mean to be secretive, but . . .’ She stepped closer, and Tóti saw that she was distressed.

  ‘I didn’t mean to grab at you like that, but I didn’t think I’d have another opportunity.’ Karitas gestured towards a milking stool and Tóti sat down.

  ‘You are the Reverend attending Agnes Magnúsdóttir?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tóti said, curious.

  ‘I worked at Illugastadir. With Natan Ketilsson. I left in 1827, just before Agnes arrived to work there also. She came to take my position as housekeeper. Well, that is what Natan told me.’

  ‘I see. And what did you want to tell me?’

  Karitas paused, as if trying to find the right words. ‘“The treachery of a friend is worse than that of a foe,”’ she said eventually.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s from Gisli Sursson’s Saga.’ Karitas swivelled to the open doorway, checking to see if anyone was coming. ‘He broke his word to her,’ she whispered.

  ‘His word?’

  ‘Natan promised Agnes my position, sir. Only, before she arrived, he decided that Sigga should have it.’

  Tóti was confused. He absently stroked the feather Blöndal had given him. He still held it in his hand.

  ‘Sigga was young – fifteen or sixteen, Reverend. Natan knew it would embarrass Agnes to be under her authority.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean, Karitas. Why would Natan promise Agnes a position and then give it to an inexperienced girl half her age?’

  Karitas shrugged. ‘Did you ever meet Natan, Reverend?’

  ‘No, never. Although I gather that many here in the valley knew him.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve been hearing some rather mixed opinions. Some say he was a sorcerer, another a good doctor.’

  Karitas did not return his smile.

  ‘But you are of the mind that he deceived Agnes?’

  Karitas scuffed her slipper against the straw on the ground. ‘It’s only . . . Folks here have blacked her name, and that does not rest well with me.’

  Tóti hesitated. ‘Why are you telling me this, Karitas?’

  The woman bent closer. ‘I left Illugastadir because I couldn’t bear Natan any more. He . . . he toyed with people.’ She leant closer still, her lip trembling. ‘It was as though he did it to amuse himself. I never knew where I stood with him. He’d tell me one thing and do another. And if I had a mind to ask for leave to church-go, well.’ The woman looked askance at Tóti. ‘I’m a good Christian woman, Reverend, and I swear that I have never heard a man spout such disbelief.’ Karitas pulled a face and looked back towards the doorway. ‘You won’t tell Blöndal I’ve spoken with you?’

  ‘Of course not. But I don’t see what good it does to tell me this about Natan. I can see that opinion is divided about him, but even still, mischief-makers, even if they are non-believers, don’t deserve to be stabbed in the middle of the night.’

  Karitas was taken aback. ‘Mischief-maker?’ She gave him a look. ‘Has Agnes said anything about Natan?’

  ‘No. She doesn’t talk of him.’

  ‘What has Blöndal said?’ She jerked her head in the direction of the farmhouse.

  ‘I have heard very little to trust from anyone besides superstitious talk of his being named for the Devil.’

  Karitas gave a weak smile. ‘Yes, they say that. Blöndal wouldn’t speak badly of him anyway. Natan healed his wife.’

  ‘I didn’t know she was ill.’

  ‘Deathly. He paid plenty for him too. But it worked. Natan Ketilsson fetched his wife from heaven’s gate.’

  Tóti suddenly felt angry. He stood up and brushed his trousers clean of straw and dust. ‘I should go.’

  ‘So you won’t tell Blöndal I spoke with you?’

  ‘No.’ Tóti attempted a smile. ‘Karitas, I wish you well. God keep you.’

  ‘Reverend, you must ask Agnes about Natan. I think they knew each other better than they knew themselves.’

  Tóti turned from the doorway, puzzled. ‘Would you visit her in person?’

  Karitas gave a hoarse laugh. ‘Blöndal would have me gutted and hung out to dry. Besides, I had already left when she arrived at Illugastadir. I’d had enough.’

  ‘I see.’ Tóti looked at her for a moment, then swiftly brought a hand to the brim of his hat. ‘God bless you.’ He left to collect his horse from the yard and, once seated, turned to wave goodbye
to Karitas, who stood at the entrance to the cowshed. She did not wave back.

  HARVEST HAS BEEN BROUGHT IN and everyone is longing to finally open their mouths for food and talk and drink after all those weeks of gritted teeth. I assist Margrét in the kitchen, cooking mutton for guests that have started to arrive for harvest celebration. There isn’t much time for private thoughts. The daughters are not here – sent away to the mountain heath with Kristín to collect berries and moss – and now it is up to Margrét and me to pour and blend the whey and water, churn the butter, serve the men, and ensure all the drying laundry is taken from the yard before any of the neighbours see our underthings. It was a surprise to suddenly realise that the girls were gone; I suppose I have grown used to Lauga’s rolling eyes, like some disgruntled calf, and Steina following me like a shadow. ‘I know you,’ she said to me before she left. ‘We are alike.’

  I am nothing like Steina. She is unhappy too, yes, but she is not like me. When I was her age, I was working for my butter at Gudrúnarstadir, helping with the five children there – each as thin and faint as tidemarks – and cleaning, and cooking, and serving until I thought I’d collapse. Always up to my elbows in something – brine, or milk, or smoke, or dung, or blood. When Indridi was born, the youngest of the Gudrúnarstadir clan, I was there beside his poor mother, holding her hand and cutting the knotted cord. What has Steina seen of the world? When I was her age I was alone, keeping an eye ajar at night to prevent a foul-mouthed servant from lifting my shift when he thought I was asleep. Not that he was always so secretive. He grabbed me by the creek one morning, twisted my arms behind my back and pushed me down, so that my face splashed against the water, and I worried I would drown while he fumbled with his trousers. Has Steina had to struggle under the weight of a servant man like that? Has Steina ever had to decide whether to let a farmer up under her skirts and face the wrath of his wife, who will force her to do the shit-work, or to deny him and find herself homeless in the snow and fog with all doors barred against her?

  That babe, that thistle-headed child Indridi I saw into the world, they buried him a few years after I cut him free. He was old enough to talk. Old enough to know he was hungry. What does Steina know of dead children? She is not like me. She knows only the tree of life. She has not seen its twisted roots pawing stones and coffins.

  I left Gudrúnarstadir after Indridi died, the farmer and his wife, their remaining huddle of children, splintered with starvation. They gave me kisses, a letter of recommendation and two eggs for the journey to Gilsstadir. I gave the eggs to a pair of fair-headed girls I met on my way.

  I could almost laugh. To think those round-cheeked lasses throwing clumps of dirt for their dog to chase are now my custodians here at Kornsá.

  Lauga kicked up a terrible fuss when Jón told them they must miss the harvest party and go berrying. She’s a tremendous sulker and reminds me a little of Sigga, only smarter. Jón spoke with her and Steina last night when he thought I was asleep. ‘She must meet her God, and in an ugly way,’ he said. ‘Our family way of life must continue. We must keep you safe from her.’ He does not want them to pity me. He does not want them to draw close, and so he has sent them away for a time, while the weather permits. A reprieve from my presence.

  Margrét says that the guests will eat outside today, for it is a fine September morning and it will do us good to take what we can of the sunshine, for soon winter will be upon us. Already the mountain grass is fading to the colour of smoked meat, and the evenings smell of burning fish oil from lamps newly lit. At Illugastadir there will soon be a prickle of frost over the seaweed thrown upon the shore. The seals will be banked upon the tongues of rock, watching winter descend from the mountain. There will be the call and whoop of men on horseback, rounding up the sheep, and then there will come the slaughter.

  ‘Greetings to all at Kornsá!’ There is a call from the farm entrance, and Margrét looks up, alarmed. ‘Stay here,’ she says. She bustles out. There is the rise and fall of a woman’s voice, and then a large, pregnant woman enters the room, surrounded by a swarm of white-blond children with runny noses. Another woman, a thin grey lady, follows her. I look up from the hearth, where I am stirring the soup, and see that the fat woman is staring at me, her hand over her mouth. The children gape at me also.

  ‘Róslín, Ingibjörg, this is Agnes Magnúsdóttir,’ Margrét sighs.

  I curtsey, aware that I must look a sight. The steam has made my hair stick to my damp forehead and blood is on my apron from the meat.

  ‘Out! Children, outside now!’ The little flock of children leave, one emitting a violent sneeze. They seem disappointed.

  Not so their mother. The Róslín woman turns to Margrét and grabs her by the shoulder.

  ‘You invite us all with her here!’

  ‘Where else would she be?’ Margrét glances over at the other woman, Ingibjörg, and I see a glimmer of conspiracy in their eyes.

  ‘At Hvammur for the day! Locked up in the storeroom!’ Róslín shouts. Her face is flushed; she’s enjoying her tantrum.

  ‘You are working yourself into a frenzy, Róslín. You’ll bring about your time.’

  I glance down to the woman’s swollen belly. She looks full-term.

  ‘It’s a girl,’ I say, without thinking.

  The three women stare at me.

  ‘What did she say?’ Róslín whispers, looking horrified.

  Margrét gives a small cough. ‘What did you say, Agnes?’

  I feel uneasy all of a sudden. ‘Your baby will be a girl. It is the shape of it. The way your belly protrudes.’

  Ingibjörg observes me, interested.

  ‘Witch!’ Róslín cries. ‘Tell her to stop looking at me.’ She storms out of the room.

  ‘How do you guess at that?’ Ingibjörg asks. Her voice is gentle.

  ‘Rósa Gudmundsdóttir told me. She is a midwife in the west.’

  Margrét nods slowly. ‘Poet-Rósa. I did not know you were friends.’

  The meat is cooked. I place the spoon on the top of a barrel and use both hands to lift the pot from the hook. ‘We aren’t,’ I say.

  Ingibjörg picks up a small dish of butter by my side and nods towards Margrét.

  ‘I hope your mistress will let you come outside for a time,’ she says, smiling. ‘You ought to feel the sun on your face.’

  She and Margrét leave, but her words hang in the room behind her. You ought to feel the sun on your face. ‘Before you die,’ I cannot not help but add, aloud, to the rustle of the embers.

  The guests arrive on foot and horseback, the women bearing food and the men coyly slipping small bottles of brandy from out of their vests and coats. I see them as I place dishes on the tables, but for the most part Margrét keeps me busy in the kitchen, out of sight of the neighbours. They look sideways at me and fall silent as I set jugs of milk down, pats of fresh butter.

  I don’t want to be out here. There will be people I know, perhaps farmers I have worked for, servants I have shared quarters with. My forehead aches from the tightness of my plaits, and I suddenly long to untie them, to walk about with my hair unbraided, to lie on my back in the sun.

  TÓTI FOUND AGNES IN THE dairy, churning the butter.

  ‘Not joining the party, Agnes?’ he asked quietly.

  She didn’t turn around. ‘I am better use in here,’ she said, continuing to raise the plunger and push it through the cream. Tóti thought it was a good sound, the dull splash of the churn.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me interrupting you.’

  ‘No. But if you don’t mind, I won’t stop until the butter takes.’

  Tóti leant against the doorframe as Agnes continued to raise and drop the plunger. After a moment he became aware of Agnes’s breath, fast and hard in the small room. It seemed intimate somehow; the rhythm of the plunger and the sound of quickened breathing. He felt himself blushing. Eventually a thud could be heard inside the small barrel, and Agnes stopped and deftly strained the butter from the buttermilk. T?
?ti blinked as Agnes washed it then formed and slapped the paddle, skilfully forcing out the remaining liquid, and thought of what Blöndal had said. Someone plunged the knife into Natan Ketilsson’s belly.

  Once the butter had been shaped and covered with a cloth, Tóti suggested that they go outside to take the air. Agnes looked nervous, but after fetching some knitting from the badstofa, followed Tóti outside. They sat down on the turf pile by the croft and looked across at the group of adults and children, the farmers getting steadily drunker on their brandy, and the women gossiping in tight clusters of dark clothes. Several were taking turns to hold a baby, clucking into its face. It broke into a wail.

  ‘I have been to Blöndal,’ Tóti said eventually.

  Agnes blanched. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘He thinks I should spend more time engaging you in prayers and sermons, and less time letting you speak.’

  ‘Blöndal likes only one thing better than religious chastisement, and that is the sound of his own voice.’ Agnes’s words were crabbed.

  ‘Is it true Blöndal hired Natan to heal his wife?’

  Agnes gave him a wary look. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘Yes, that’s true. Natan visited Hvammur some years back to give her poultices and bleed her.’

  Tóti nodded. ‘Blöndal also told me a little about Fridrik. Apparently he is doing very well under the guardianship of Birni Olsen and the counsel of Reverend Jóhann.’ He looked at Agnes to measure her reaction. She narrowed her eyes.

  ‘Will they get up an appeal for him too?’ she asked.

  ‘He did not say.’ Tóti cleared his throat. ‘Agnes, a servant called Karitas sends her regards. She asked if you had spoken to me about Natan.’

  Agnes stopped knitting and clenched her jaw.

  ‘Karitas?’ Her voice cracked.

  ‘She asked to speak with me after I had met with Blöndal. She wanted to tell me about Natan.’

  ‘And what did she say about him?’

  Tóti rummaged for his snuff horn, poured a little on his hand and snorted it. ‘She said that she could not bear working for him. She said that he toyed with people.’