Burial Rites (32 page)

Perhaps next Sunday I could ask to go with Margrét to church. What else is God good for other than a distraction from the mire we’re all stranded in? We’re all shipwrecked. All beached in a peat bog of poverty. When was the last time I even attended church? Not while I was at Illugastadir. It must have been at Geitaskard, with the other servants. We rode there and changed into our best behind the church wall, feeling the nip of the morning breeze on our bare legs as we struggled into our better clothes, free from horsehair. I miss the stuffy warmth from too many bodies in one place, and the sniffing and coughing and the babies whimpering. I want to let the sound of a priest’s voice wash over me, just to hear the music of it. Like when I was small, hired out to backwater farms to wipe infants’ backsides clean of shit, and wash the laundry with ashes and fat; escaping to church to feel part of something. Pure.

Perhaps things would have been different if Natan had let me go to church at Tjörn. I might have made friends there. I might have met a family to turn to when it all became twisted. Other farmers I could have worked for. But he didn’t let me go, and there was no other friend, no light to head towards in that wintered landscape.

Perhaps Rósa and I might have been friends if we’d met in another way. Natan always said we were as alike as a swan to a raven, but he was wrong. We both loved him, for one. And no matter what I tell the Reverend, Rósa’s poetry kindled the shavings of my soul, and lit me up from within. Natan never stopped loving her. How could he? Her poetry made lamps out of people.

We never reached an understanding, although that was her fault as much as mine. As soon as Rósa met me, she made it clear we were on a battleground. She appeared in the badstofa at Illugastadir one summer night, like a ghost. No one heard her coming, or heard the door open. She just appeared, holding her little girl in her arms. She was dressed in black, and the sombre colour set off her skin so that she seemed to glow. Sigga always said that Rósa looked like an angel. But that night I thought she looked tired, world-weary.

I knew more about Rósa than she knew of me. ‘She is a wonderful woman,’ Natan said once, and a little hook of jealousy ripped at the fibre of my lungs. ‘She is a fine midwife, a great poet.’ He was the father of her child! That daughter of hers had his sharp way of looking, never missing anything. But he reassured me. ‘She suffocated me,’ he said. ‘She wanted me to live forever with her and her husband. But I needed to create a life of my own. And here I have it. My own farm. My independence.’

He convinced me that he had sent her letters saying he no longer wanted her. That his love for me had eclipsed that which he’d had for her. He liked the fact that I was a bastard, a pauper, a servant. ‘You have had to fight for everything,’ he said. ‘You take life by the teeth, Agnes. You are not like Rósa.’

Then that summer evening she stood in the doorway with their daughter, and Natan’s face lit up.

Rósa didn’t say anything. Her glance landed on me and her eyes narrowed. She might as well have raised a gun to my face.

‘You must be Agnes Magnúsdóttir. The Rose of Kidjaskard. The Rose of the valley lands.’

Her hand, released from its mitten, was frigid in my own.

‘Poet-Rósa. I’m pleased to finally meet you.’

Rósa looked over at Sigga, then raised her eyebrows at Natan. ‘I’m glad to see you’ve made yourself a pretty little household.’

I did not miss the accusation in her voice. I knew what I was doing when I stood next to Natan. He is mine now.

‘This must be Thóranna,’ I said. The child smiled at the sound of her name.

Rósa took her back into her arms. ‘Yes. Mine and Natan’s child.’

‘Come now, girls.’ Natan seemed amused. ‘Let us be friendly. Sigga, fetch us all some coffee. Rósa, take off your outer things.’

‘No, thank you.’ Rósa put Thóranna in a corner, away from me. ‘I only came to bring her here.’

‘What?’ Natan hadn’t told me Rósa’s daughter was coming to stay. I whispered to Natan, asking why he hadn’t told me this before. Why he hadn’t warned me Rósa would visit. I hadn’t known they still spoke together.

‘It is the least I can do for Rósa,’ he said. ‘Thóranna was with us last winter as well. She is my daughter and it is only right that she come live with us for part of the year.’

Rósa’s words were sharp. ‘I did not realise you consulted with her on everything, Natan? I didn’t know you were so far under her thumb. It’s clear she doesn’t want our child in her home.’

Natan was laughing. ‘Her home? Rósa, Agnes is my servant.’

‘Only your servant, is that right?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t want her to watch over our daughter.’

‘I am happy to look after Thóranna,’ I said. I was lying.

‘What makes you happy does not concern me, Agnes.’

Natan must not have liked to see his past and present lovers collide. ‘Come, Rósa. Let’s all have some coffee together.’

Her laugh was shrill. ‘Oh yes, you’d like that! All your whores supping together under your roof! No, thank you.’ Rósa wrenched her arm from his grip and turned to leave. But she said something to me before she walked out the door.

‘Please be good to Thóranna. Please.’ I nodded, and Rósa suddenly
leant in closer. I felt her hand light upon my arm. ‘
Brennt barn forðast eldinn
.’ Her voice was soft, careful. ‘The burnt child fears the fire.’ She left without turning back.

The little girl began to wail for her mamma and Sigga comforted her. Natan stared at the doorway, as though Rósa might return.

‘What have you told her about us?’ I whispered to Natan.

‘I haven’t told Rósa anything.’

‘What was that about the Rose of Kidjaskard? What was that about all your whores?’

He shrugged. ‘Rósa has a way of naming people. I expect she thinks you’re beautiful.’

‘It did not seem a compliment.’

Natan ignored me. ‘I’ll be in my workshop.’

‘Sigga is going to make coffee for us.’

‘Damn you, Agnes! Just leave it for once.’

‘Are you going after Rósa?’

He left without answering.

ONE NIGHT, IN A FEVER
, Tóti saw Agnes appear in the doorway of the badstofa. ‘They’ve let her come here,’ he said to his father, who was bent over the bed, silently swaddling his shaking son in blankets.

‘Come in,’ Tóti said. His arms fought their way out of the bedding and reached for her in the stuffy air of the room. ‘Come here. See how our lives are entwined? God has willed it so.’

Then she was kneeling by his bed, whispering. He felt her long dark hair brush against his ear and a shiver of longing passed through him. ‘It’s so hot in here,’ he said, and she leant forward to kiss the sweat off his skin, but her tongue was rough and her hands were reaching around his throat, her fingertips clenching against his skin.

‘Agnes. Agnes!’ He fought her off, wheezing with the effort. Strong hands reached for his own and pressed them back into the blankets at his side. ‘Don’t struggle,’ she said. ‘Stop it.’

Tóti groaned. Flames were licking at his skin, smoke pouring into his mouth. He coughed, his chest rising and falling under the weight of Agnes as she climbed on top of him, lifting her knife.

‘I DON’T BELIEVE IT,’ STEINA
argued, sweeping the badstofa so that the dust flew from the floorboards and floated in the air.

‘Steina! You’re making it messier than it was before.’

Steina continued sweeping furiously. ‘It’s a cruel story, and it wouldn’t surprise me if Róslín made it up herself.’

‘But she’s not the only person who has heard it.’ Lauga sneezed. ‘See, you’re making it worse.’

‘Fine, you do it then.’ Steina shoved the broom at her sister and sat down on the bed.

‘What are you two bickering about?’ Margrét entered the room and looked down in dismay at the floor. ‘Who did this?’

‘Steina,’ Lauga said reproachfully.

‘It’s not my fault the roof is falling down! Look, it’s everywhere.’ Steina stood up again. ‘And the wet is getting in. It’s dripping in the corner.’ She shivered.

‘You’re in a mood,’ said Margrét, dismissively. She turned to Lauga. ‘What’s she upset about?’

Lauga rolled her eyes. ‘There’s a story about Agnes that I’ve heard. Steina doesn’t believe it’s true.’

‘Oh?’ Margrét coughed and waved the dust away from her face. ‘What story is that?’

‘Folk remember her when she was little, and there’s some that
say there was a travelling man who prophesied that an axe would fall on her head.’

Margrét wrinkled her nose. ‘Have you heard this from Róslín?’

Lauga pulled a face. ‘Not only Róslín. They say that when Agnes was young it was her chore to watch over the
tún
, and one day she discovered a traveller who had set up camp on the grass. His horse was ruining the feed, and when she told him to leave, he cursed her and shouted that she would one day be beheaded.’

Margrét snorted, and was overcome with a fit of coughing. Lauga put down the broom and gently ushered her mother to her bed. Steina stood where she was and watched obstinately.

‘There, there, Mamma. You’ll be all right.’ Lauga rubbed her mother’s back, stifling a cry as a bright clot of blood fell out of her mouth.

‘Mamma! You’re bleeding!’ Steina rushed forward, tripping over the broom.

Lauga pushed her sister away. ‘Let her breathe!’

They watched, anxious, as Margrét continued to hack.

‘Have you tried a jelly of lichen?’ Agnes was standing in the doorway, looking at Lauga.

‘I feel quite well,’ croaked Margrét, bringing a hand to her chest.

‘It eases the lungs.’

Lauga turned towards the doorway, her face pinched. ‘Leave us, would you?’

Agnes ignored her. ‘Have you tried such a jelly?’

‘We don’t have need for your potions,’ Lauga snapped.

Agnes shook her head. ‘I think you do.’

Margrét stopped coughing and looked sharply at her.

‘What do you mean by that?’ Lauga whispered.

Agnes took a deep breath. ‘Boil some chopped moss in water for a time. A very long time. When the stock cools it will form a grey jelly.
The taste is not pleasant, but it may stop you from bleeding in the lungs.’

There was a moment of silence as Margrét and Lauga stared at Agnes.

Steina sat down on the bed again. ‘Did Natan Ketilsson teach you that?’ she asked in a quiet voice.

‘They say it helps,’ Agnes repeated. ‘I can make it for you.’

Margrét slowly wiped her mouth on a corner of her apron and nodded. ‘Do that,’ she said. Agnes hesitated, then turned on her heel, walking quickly down the corridor.

Lauga turned to her mother. ‘Mamma, I’m not sure you should take whatever she –’

‘Enough, Lauga,’ interrupted Margrét. ‘Enough.’

THE REVEREND STILL DOES NOT
come. But winter has. Autumn has been pushed aside by a wind driving flurries of snow up against the croft, and the air is as thin as paper. Each breath hangs in front of me like a ghost, and mists drop down from the mountains to swarm on the frozen ground. The dark comes; it has settled down in these parts like a bruise in the flesh of the earth, but the Reverend does not.