Hannah Kent - Burial Rites

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.