Burial Rites (12 page)

The only person who would understand how I feel is Natan. He knew me as one knows the seasons, knows the tide. Knew me like the smell of smoke, knew what I was, and what I wanted. And now he is dead.

Perhaps I should say to him, poor boy, go back to the parsonage and back to your precious books. I was wrong: there is nothing you can do for me. God has had His chance to free me, and for reasons known to Him alone, He has pinned me to ill fortune, and although I have struggled, I am run through and through with disaster; I am knifed to the hilt with fate.

CHAPTER FOUR

To the Deputy Governor of North-East Iceland
,

Thank you for Your Excellency’s most illustrious letter from the 10th of January this year, concerning the charges of murder, arson and other crimes brought against the defendants Fridrik, Agnes and Sigrídur, for which they have been sentenced to death. In response to your letter, allow me to inform you that B. Henriksson, the blacksmith who was solicited to build the axe to be used for the execution, quoted the cost of five silver dollars of the realm for his work and materials, following my suggestions as to the make and size of the axe on the 30th of December last year. After receiving Your Excellency’s letter however, I thought, in agreeance with Your Excellency, that it would be better to purchase a broader axe from Copenhagen for the same price, and that is why I since asked Simonsen the merchant to arrange that for me.

In this summer the man concerned, Simonsen, came to me with the axe, and although it has been made exactly as requested, I was surprised when I learnt from Simonsen that it had cost twenty-nine dollars of the realm. On examination of the bill, I found this sum to be correct, and was understandably forced to pay Herr Simonsen’s invoice from the funds allotted to this case by Your Excellency.

Now, as I dare to explain to you the overdrawn state of these funds, I humbly ask if this expense should not, in fact, have been drawn from the monies budgeted for this case, which, amongst other items of expense, serve to pay for the custody of the prisoners. Also, I humbly enquire of Your Excellency what we are supposed to do with this axe after it has been used for the executions.

I am, Your Excellency, your most humble and obedient servant.

HÚNAVATN DISTRICT COMMISSIONER

Björn Blöndal

TÓTI HAD LEFT KORNSÁ WITH
the full intention of writing to Blöndal and reneging on his promise to meet with Agnes. His second conversation with the criminal had been a failure; he hadn’t even led a simple prayer. Yet, the thought that he would necessarily have to explain why he had changed his mind after only two visits filled him with dread and embarrassment, and he left off composing the letter. I will do it tomorrow, he promised himself with each new day at Breidabólstadur, but two weeks had passed, the peasants were readying themselves for the mid-July harvest, and he had not so much as picked up his quill.

One night Tóti was sitting with Reverend Jón, reading in silence, when his father lifted his grizzled head and asked him: ‘Does the murderess pray?’

Tóti hesitated before replying. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Hmmph,’ Reverend Jón muttered. ‘Make sure.’ He squinted at his son out of gummy eyes until Tóti felt a blush flare over his cheeks and neck. ‘You’re a servant of the Lord. Don’t disgrace yourself, boy,’ he said, before returning to his scripture.

The next morning Tóti rose early to milk Ýsa. He pressed his forehead to the cow’s warm flank, and listened to the even rhythm of the milk spurting into the wooden pail. Thoughts of Agnes sitting beside him sprang to his mind. His father knew that he
wasn’t visiting Agnes. He would be ashamed to know that his son could not shoulder the responsibility of one woman’s atonement. But what to do with a woman who was not willing to atone? What had Agnes said? She hadn’t met a churchman she cared for. She did not seem to be religious, and that stupid little speech he had composed about spiritual comfort – all those lofty words had fallen flat. What did she want from him, then? Why ask for him, if she didn’t want to talk of God? Of death and heaven and hell, and the word of the Lord? Because he helped her over a river? It was unnerving. Why not enlist a friend or a relative to help her come to terms with her life’s end?

Perhaps she didn’t have a friend left in the world. Perhaps she wanted to talk of other things. Such as crossing the Gönguskörd pass in a waterlogged spring. Such as why she had left the Vatnsdalur valley to work further east, or why she doesn’t care for clergymen. Tóti closed his eyes, and felt Ýsa shift her warm weight from one side to the other under his forehead, restless. To soothe her he recited Hallgrímur Pétursson: ‘The pathway of Thy Passion to follow I desire, Out of my weakness fashion a character of fire.’ He opened his eyes and recited the last line again.

By the time the pail was full, he had decided to return to Kornsá.

A morning mist lingered in the valley, obscuring Tóti’s view of the mountains as he rode through the ghostly wreaths that hovered over the grass. He shivered from the cold and buried his hands into the warmth of his horse’s mane. Today I will right things with Agnes, he thought.

By the time Tóti slowed his horse to a walk, up past the three strange hills of Thrístapar at the mouth of the valley, towards the green throat of Vatnsdalur, morning sunlight poured out over the
cloud. It would be yet another clear day. Soon families and their servants would be dotted along the home fields, scythes in hand, spreading the cut grass out to dry and the smell of mown hay would overwhelm the valley. But now, so early in the morning, Tóti could see only the topmost caps of the mountains, their brown bulk still concealed by the band of slowly shifting fog. He heard a sudden shout and noticed Páll, the Kornsá shepherd boy, driving the sheep along the mountainside, obscured a little by the mist. Tóti urged his horse towards the bank of the river that wound through the valley and passed Kornsá at a distance, continuing on to the bowed croft of Undirfell.

A large, unshaven farmer appeared at the door.

‘
Blessuð
. Greetings. I’m Haukur Jónsson.’

‘
Saell
, Haukur. I’m Assistant Reverend Thorvardur Jónsson. Is the Reverend of Undirfell here?’

‘Pétur Bjarnason? No, he doesn’t take the tenancy here. He’s not far though. Come in.’

Tóti followed the hulking shape of the farmer into the croft. The dwelling was larger than most he had seen. At least eight people were in the badstofa, dressing and talking amongst themselves. A young girl with large eyes held a screaming red-faced toddler on her lap, and two servant girls were trying to wrestle clothes onto a young boy who was more interested in his game of knuckles on the floor. At the sight of Tóti they stopped talking.

‘Please, sit here,’ said Haukur, gesturing to a space on a bed beside a very old woman whose withered face looked blankly into Tóti’s own. ‘That’s Gudrún. She’s blind. I’ll fetch the Reverend for you if you don’t mind waiting.’

‘Thank you,’ Tóti said.

The farmer left and a fresh-faced young woman soon bustled into the badstofa. ‘Hello! So you are from Breidabólstadur? Can I offer you a drink? I’m Dagga.’

Tóti shook his head and Dagga swept the toddler out of the arms of the little girl and set her against her shoulder. ‘Poor thing, she’s been up all night screaming fit to wake the dead.’

‘Is she not well?’

‘My husband thinks it’s gripe, but I worry it’s worse. Do you know anything in the way of medicine, Reverend?’

‘Me? Oh, no. No more than you’d know yourself, I’m sorry.’

‘Never mind. ’Tis more the pity that Natan Ketilsson is dead, bless his soul.’

Tóti blinked at her. ‘Excuse me?’

The girl in the corner piped up. ‘He cured me of whooping cough.’

‘Was he a friend of the family?’ Tóti asked.

Dagga wrinkled her nose. ‘No. Not a friend, but he was a useful man to send for when the children were ill or needed to be bled. When little Gulla there had the cough he stayed a night or two, mixing his herbs and looking in books of a foreign tongue. Odd fellow.’

‘He was a sorcerer.’ The old woman next to him had spoken. The family looked at her.

‘He was a sorcerer,’ she repeated. ‘And he got what was coming to him.’

‘Gudrún . . .’ Dagga smiled nervously at Tóti. ‘We have a guest. You’ll scare the children.’

‘Natan Satan, that was his name. Nothing he did ever came from God.’

‘Shush now, Gudrún. That’s just a story.’

‘What’s this?’ Tóti asked.

Dagga shifted the crying toddler onto her other hip. ‘You’ve not heard it?’

Tóti shook his head. ‘No, I’ve been at school in the south. At Bessastadir.’

Dagga raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, it’s just something folks say around the valley. There’s people here who claim that Natan Ketilsson’s mother had foresight – she dreamt things and they’d come to pass, see. Now, when she was pregnant with Natan she dreamt that a man came to her and told her she would have a boy. The dream man asked if she’d name the boy after him, and when she agreed, the man told her his name was Satan.’

‘She took fright,’ Gudrún interrupted, frowning. ‘The priest changed it to Natan, and they thought that was decent. But we all knew that boy would never come to any good. He was a twin, but his brother never saw God’s light – one for above, and one for below.’ She slowly swivelled on the bed and brought her face close to Tóti’s. ‘He was never without money,’ she whispered. ‘He dealt with the Devil.’

‘Or he was just a nimble-fingered herbalist, and the money came from charging a king’s ransom,’ Dagga suggested cheerfully. ‘As I said, it’s just something people say.’

Tóti nodded.

‘Anyway, what brings you to Vatnsdalur, Reverend?’

‘I’m Agnes Magnúsdóttir’s priest.’

Dagga’s smile dropped from her face. ‘I heard she’d been brought to Kornsá.’

‘Yes.’ Tóti saw the two servant women exchange glances. Next to him Gudrún gave a hacking cough. He felt flecks of spittle land on his neck.

‘The trial was held at Hvammur,’ Dagga continued.

‘Yes.’

‘She’s from this valley, you know.’

‘That’s why I’m here,’ Tóti said. ‘At Undirfell, I mean. I want to learn a little of her life from the ministerial book.’

The woman’s expression soured. ‘I could tell you a little of her life.’ She hesitated, and then ordered the servants to take the children outside, waiting until they had left the room before speaking again. ‘She always had it in her,’ Dagga said in a low voice, casting a careful eye at Gudrún, who had slumped against the wall and seemed to be dozing off.

‘What do you mean?’ Tóti asked.

The woman pulled a face and leaned in closer. ‘I hate to say it, but Agnes Magnúsdóttir never cared about anyone but herself, Reverend. She was always fixed on bettering herself. Wanted to get on above her station.’

‘She was poor?’

‘Bastard pauper with a conniving spirit like you’d never see in a proper maid.’

Tóti winced at the woman’s words. ‘You weren’t friendly.’

Dagga laughed. ‘No, not quite. Agnes was a different kind.’

‘And what kind is that?’

Dagga hesitated. ‘There’s some folk who are contented with their lot and those they have for company, Reverend, and thank God for them too. But not her.’

‘But you know her?’

The woman shifted her whimpering child onto her other hip. ‘Never shared a badstofa, but know of her, Reverend. Know her as folks know everyone in this valley. There used to be a poem about her in these parts, when she was younger. Folks were fond of her then, and called her Búrfell-Agnes. But she bittered as she grew older. Couldn’t keep a man, something about her. Couldn’t settle. This valley is small and she had a reputation for a sharp tongue and loose skirts.’

Someone cleared his throat in the doorway. The farmer had returned with another man, who was yawning and scratching at the stubble on his neck.

‘Reverend Thorvardur Jónsson, please meet Reverend Pétur Bjarnason.’

Undirfell church was a small house of worship with no more than six pews and only standing room at the back. Not large enough for all the farmers of the valley, thought Tóti, as Reverend Pétur absently pushed a pair of wire-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

‘Ah, here’s the key.’ The priest bent down to a chest by the altar and began to struggle with the lock. ‘Now, you said you were staying at Kornsá?’

‘No, just visiting,’ Tóti said.

‘Better you than me, I suppose. How is the family there?’

‘I don’t know them well.’

‘No, I meant, how are they taking it – having the murderess?’

Tóti thought of Margrét’s spiteful words the night Agnes arrived from Stóra-Borg. ‘A little upset, perhaps.’

‘They’ll do their duty. A pleasant enough family. The younger daughter is quite a beauty. Those dimples. Conscientious and smart as a whip.’

‘Lauga, isn’t it?’

‘Quite. Runs circles around her sister.’ The priest heaved a large leather-bound book onto the altar. ‘Here we are. Now, how old is she, my boy?’

Tóti stiffened with displeasure at being called a boy. ‘I’m not sure. More than thirty years, I’d guess. You don’t know her?’

The priest sniffed. ‘I’ve only been here one winter myself.’

‘That’s a shame. I was hoping to learn something of her character from you.’

The priest scoffed. ‘Surely Natan Ketilsson’s dead body is a fair indication of her character.’

‘Perhaps. But I’d like to know a little of her life before the incident at Illugastadir.’

Reverend Pétur Bjarnason looked down his nose at Tóti. ‘You’re awfully young to be her priest.’

Tóti blushed. ‘She requested me.’

‘Well, if there’s anything worth knowing about her character it will be in the ministerial book.’ Reverend Pétur carefully turned the yellow pages of scrawled handwriting. ‘Here she is. 1795. Born to an Ingveldur Rafnsdóttir and Magnús Magnússon at the farm of Flaga. Unmarried. Illegitimate child. Born October 27th, and named the next day. What else did you want to know?’