Hannah Kent - Burial Rites

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.