Hannah Kent - Burial Rites

‘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.

Why doesn’t he come?

If the Reverend came tonight, would I tell him that Natan and I were as husband and wife? Then I could tell him about what began to change between us. Perhaps he guesses at it anyway.

The salt came. The darkling wind rose and the black sand began to sting. The way down. The cold path down to colder water. The salt came.

What would I say to Tóti?

Reverend, Natan began to leave Illugastadir at the close of summer, and each time he returned, it was as though he became more of a stranger to me. He’d catch me alone in the dairy, take the scrubbing brush out of my hand and draw me to him, only to ask me if I had kept Daníel warm in his bed while he was out, scraping together a living by luring death out of the bowels of his countrymen. He even accused me of loving Fridrik! That lug of a boy, swinging his fists about and stinking of unwashed wool. Natan’s accusations seemed comical to me. Couldn’t he see how much I missed him? How different he was from any other man I had known?

I imagine Tóti’s face blushing. I imagine him wiping his sweaty palms against the material of his trousers. His slow nod. The light from the candle in the badstofa flickering over his face as he watches me, wide-eyed.

Reverend, I would say, I told Natan that Daníel was nothing to me. That Fridrik was enamoured with Sigga. I told him that I was his for as long as he’d have me, that I’d be his wife if he wished it.

It was those moods of his that took him away. I’d find Natan in the workshop measuring broths, skimming the dirty froth off boiling roots. I’d offer my help, as I helped him when I first came. He began to push me out of his way. He didn’t want me, he said. Did he mean he didn’t want my help, or my presence? He’d direct me towards the door.

‘Go. I don’t want you here. I’m busy.’

Sometimes I’d go to the outhouse and hammer the dried cod heads with a cow thighbone. Just to beat and rail against something. He is falling out of love with you, I told myself. And I began to wonder whether he ever loved me.

But there were still hours when he found me alone by the shore, collecting eiderdown. He would take me beside the birds’ nests, his hands in my hair, his look as desperate as a drowning man’s. He needed me like he needed air. I felt it in his gaze, in the way he grappled for my body like a buoy in the water.

Reverend Tóti, draw your stool nearer. I’ll tell you what it was really like.

I hated being his servant. One night I would be his lover, with the hard rhythm of his breath matching my own. And then, the next, I was Agnes the workmaid. Not even the housekeeper! And his cool commands began to seem like reprimands.