Hannah Kent - Burial Rites

‘It’s beautiful,’ Tóti gasped.

‘Sit down, Reverend,’ Blöndal said, pulling out a cushioned chair.

Tóti sat as directed.

‘Here we are then.’ Blöndal ran his large hands over the smooth surface of the desk. ‘Shall we begin?’

‘Of course, District Commissioner,’ Tóti said, nervously. The grandeur of the office made him uncomfortable. He had not known that people in the north lived like this.

‘My men said that the condemned was brought to Kornsá without incident.’

‘That’s my understanding, also,’ Tóti said. ‘And I am pleased to report that Agnes has settled into her new custodial holdings at Kornsá.’

‘I see. You call her by her Christian name.’

‘She prefers it, District Commissioner.’

Blöndal leaned back in his chair. ‘Continue.’

‘Well, the prisoner has hitherto been included in all aspects of the household’s haymaking,’ Tóti continued. ‘And I have been informed by District Officer Jón Jónsson that she labours with a humble demeanour, as befits her reduced state.’

‘They do not keep her in irons?’

‘It is not usual practice.’

‘I see. And her domestic duties?’

‘She attends them with utmost diligence. The prisoner seems quite content to spend days of ill weather knitting.’

‘Remind them to be wary of supplying her with tools.’

‘They are watchful, District Commissioner.’

‘Good.’ Blöndal pushed his chair back and, opening a drawer in his desk, carefully drew out a sheet of light green paper and a penknife. He then turned and picked up a glass jar stuffed with long, white swan feathers from a corner of a bookshelf. ‘I always send the women to collect these,’ Blöndal said, momentarily distracted. ‘In late summer. It’s best to get them when the birds moult. No need to pluck them out.’ He offered Tóti the jar holding the clutch of feathers.

‘Oh no, I couldn’t.’ Tóti shook his head.

‘I insist,’ Blöndal boomed. ‘A true man is distinguishable from all others by his writing implements.’

‘Thank you.’ Tóti gingerly took a feather.

‘A provider, the swan,’ Blöndal said. ‘The skin of the feet makes excellent purses.’

Tóti absently brushed the light edge of the feather against his hand.

‘And the eggs are tolerable. If boiled.’ Blöndal neatly swept up the slivers of quill from the desk, and then unscrewed a small bottle of ink. ‘Now, if you will, a brief summation of your religious administrations to the criminal.’

‘Of course.’ Tóti was aware of sweat creeping out on his palms. ‘During the harvest I visited the criminal intermittently, being, as you will understand, occupied with the harvest at Breidabólstadur.’

‘In which ways did you prepare for your communication with the condemned?’

‘I… I would be lying if I said that, at first, my responsibility towards her immortal soul did not weigh heavily upon me.’

‘I was worried of as much,’ Blöndal said grimly. He made a note on the paper in front of him.

‘I thought that the only recourse to her absolution would be through prayer and admonishment,’ Tóti said. ‘I spent several days in consideration of the verses, psalms, and other literature I thought might bring her to the feet of God.’

‘And what did you select?’

‘Passages from the New Testament.’

‘Which chapters?’

‘Uh…’ Tóti was unnerved by the rapidity of Blöndal’s questions. ‘John. Corinthians,’ he stammered.

Blöndal looked askance at Tóti and continued writing.

‘I tried to talk to her about the importance of prayer. She asked that I leave.’

Blöndal smiled. ‘I’m not surprised. She struck me as especially godless during the trial.’

‘Oh no. She seems very well versed in Christian literature.’

‘As is the Devil, I am sure,’ Blöndal rejoined. ‘Reverend Jóhann has set Fridrik Sigurdsson to reading the Passion Hymns. Revelations, also. It is more inciting.’

‘Perhaps. However…’ Tóti sat up straighter in his chair. ‘It’s become apparent to me that the condemned requires means other than religious rebuke to acquaint herself with death and prepare for her meeting with the Lord.’

Blöndal frowned. ‘By what means have you been acquainting the condemned with God, Reverend?’

Tóti cleared his throat and gently set the feather on the desk in front of him.

‘I fear that you may find it unorthodox.’

‘Pray, tell me and we shall ascertain whether your fear is reasonable.’

Tóti paused. ‘I have come upon the conviction that it is not the stern voice of a priest delivering the threat of brimstone, but the gentle and enquiring tones of a friend that will best draw the curtain to her soul, District Commissioner.’

Blöndal stared at him. ‘The gentle tones of a friend . I hope I am mistaken in thinking you are serious.’

Tóti reddened. ‘I am afraid you’re not mistaken, sir. All attempts to press the condemned with sermons had adverse effect. Instead, I, I… I encourage her to speak of her past. Rather than address her, I allow her to speak to me. I provide her with a final audience to her life’s lonely narrative.’

‘Do you pray with her?’

‘I pray for her.’

‘Does she pray for herself?’

‘I find it impossible to believe she does not, in private. She is to die, sir.’

‘Yes, Reverend. She is to die.’ Blöndal slowly set down his quill and pursed his lips together. ‘She is to die, and for good reason.’

There was a knock on the door. ‘Ah,’ said Blöndal, looking up. ‘Sæunn. Come in.’

A nervous-looking young maid entered the room, bearing a tray.

‘On the desk, if you will,’ Blöndal said, watching as the girl placed coffee, cheese, butter, smoked meat and flat bread in front of him. ‘Eat, if you are hungry.’ Blöndal immediately began heaping slices of mutton onto his plate.

‘Thank you, I am not,’ Tóti said. He watched the District Commissioner push a large mouthful of bread and cheese into his mouth. He chewed slowly, swallowed, and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his fingers.

‘Assistant Reverend Thorvardur. You might be forgiven for thinking that friendship will direct this murderess to the way of truth and repentance. You are young and inexperienced. I bear some blame for this.’ The District Commissioner slowly leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk.

‘Let me be forthright with you. Last year, in March, Agnes Magnúsdóttir hid Fridrik Sigurdsson in the cowshed at Illugastadir. Natan Ketilsson had returned from the farm Geitaskard with a worker there, Pétur Jónsson —’

‘Forgive me, District Commissioner, but I believe I know what is thought to —’

‘I think you do not know enough,’ Blöndal interrupted. ‘Natan had returned home after visiting Geitaskard to attend to Worm Beck, the District Officer there. Worm was very ill. Natan returned to Illugastadir to consult his books, and — as I understand it — fetch additional medicines, and Pétur accompanied him. It was late, Reverend. They decided to sleep the night at Natan’s home and return in the morning.

‘That evening Fridrik arrived in secret from Katadalur and Agnes hid him in the cowshed. They had planned to kill Natan and steal his money all winter, and that is what they did. Agnes waited until the men were asleep before summoning Fridrik. It was a cold-blooded attack on two defenceless men.’

Blöndal paused to gauge the impact of his words upon Tóti.

‘Fridrik confessed to their murder, Reverend. He confessed that he took a hammer and a new-sharpened knife into the badstofa and killed Pétur first, crushing his skull with one blow of the hammer. He either believed it was Natan, or wished to be rid of a witness — I do not know. But he then certainly attempted to kill Natan. In his confession Fridrik said that he raised the hammer and aimed the blow at Natan’s skull, but missed. He said he heard the crunch of bone, and, Reverend, examination of the remains revealed that Natan’s arm was indeed broken.