Hannah Kent - Burial Rites

For a moment Margrét stood still, looking across the room to where Lauga sat on her bed. Then, in a few quick strides, she crossed the badstofa and held out her hand.

‘Your brooch,’ she said. Lauga looked up, her mouth falling open. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she got off the bed and bent to the floor. She slowly handed her mother the clasp and sat back down, blinking away tears. Margrét turned, placed the silver brooch on the bodice spread out over the bed, and picked up her knitting.

THE WORLD HAS STOPPED SNOWING, stopped moving; the clouds hang still in the air like dead bodies. The only things that move are the ravens, and the family of Kornsá, but I cannot tell which is which: they are all in black, jerking in circles around me, waiting to be fed. Where did time go? It left with summer. I am beyond time. Where is the Reverend? Waiting by the river at Gönguskörd. Looking for a skeleton amongst the moss, amongst the lava, amongst the ashes.

Margrét is reaching out to me and she takes my hand in hers, clasps my fingers so tightly that it hurts, it hurts.

‘You are not a monster,’ she says. Her face is flushed and she bites her lip, she bites down. Her fingers, entwined with my own, are hot and greasy.

‘They’re going to kill me.’ Who said that? Did I say that?

‘We’ll remember you, Agnes.’ She presses my fingers more tightly, until I almost cry out from the pain, and then I am crying. I don’t want to be remembered, I want to be here!

‘Margrét!’

‘I am right here, Agnes. You’ll be all right, my girl. My girl.’

I am crying and my mouth is open and filled with something, it is choking me and I spit it out. On the ground is a stone, and I look back at Margrét, and see that she did not notice. ‘The stone was in my mouth,’ I say, and her face creases because she does not understand. There is no time to explain, she has passed my hands on to Steina, as though I am a token, or a piece of bread and they are all taking communion of me, and Steina’s fingers are cold. She lets go of my hands and wraps her arms around my neck. The sound of her sobbing is loud in my ear, but I cling to her because her body is warm and I cannot remember when someone last held me like this, when someone last cared enough to lay their cheek next to mine.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I hear myself say. ‘I am so sorry.’ But I don’t know what I am sorry for. Everyone is speaking in bubbles of air and it is taking everything not to cry, my spine is cramped from not crying, but I am, the tears are here on my face, I don’t know, perhaps they are Steina’s. Everything is wet. It is the ocean.

‘Will they drown me?’ I ask, and someone shakes her head. It is Lauga. ‘Agnes,’ she says, and I say, ‘That is the first time you have called me by my name,’ and that is it, she collapses as though I have stabbed her in the stomach.

‘I think we should go,’ Tóti is saying, and I want to turn to him, but I can’t because we are all underwater and I cannot swim.

‘Here.’ A hand takes my arm and I am lifted into the air. The sky comes closer and for a moment I am going to collide with the clouds, but then I see, they have put me on a horse, and like a corpse they are going to take me to the grave, like a dead woman they will bury me in the earth, pocket me like a stone. There are ravens in the sky, but what bird flies underwater? What bird can sing without stones beneath him to listen?

Natan would know. I must remember to ask him.

SNOW LAY OVER THE VALLEY like linen, like a shroud waiting for the dead body of sky that slumped overhead.

It’s all over, Tóti thought. He nudged his horse onwards and brought it next to Agnes’s. Holding the reins in one hand, he pulled off a glove and reached across to put his hand on her leg. As he did, he smelt the hot stench of urine. Agnes looked at him, her eyes wide. Her mouth was chattering uncontrollably.

‘I’m sorry,’ she mouthed.

Tóti squeezed her leg. He tried to hold her gaze, but her eyes were darting all over the valley. ‘Agnes,’ he murmured. ‘Agnes, look at me.’

She glanced at him, and he thought the light blue of her eyes had faded to almost white. ‘I’m here,’ he said, and squeezed her leg again.

Next to him, District Officer Jón rode with his mouth in a determined line. Tóti was surprised to see that several other men had joined them, all dressed in black, scarves pulled up high about their mouths to ward off the freezing air. They rode in a loose pack, their horses champing at their bridles, snorting stiff clouds of steam.

‘Reverend!’ There was a call from behind. As Tóti turned, he saw a large man with long blond hair ride up from the rear. As he pulled closer, the man reached into his coat and took out a small flask. He handed it to Tóti without a word. Tóti nodded. He leaned over, and took Agnes’s hand, and pressed the flask into it.

‘Drink, Agnes.’

The woman looked down at the flask, and then at Tóti, who nodded. After pulling out the corked stopper, she brought the flask up to her trembling mouth with both hands and took a sip that left her spluttering and coughing. Tóti reassured her with soft words.

‘Take another, Agnes,’ he insisted. ‘It will help.’

The next sip went down more easily, and Tóti noticed that her teeth stopped chattering quite so violently.

‘Drink it all, Agnes,’ the blond-haired man said. ‘I brought it for you.’

Agnes swivelled in her saddle to try and see the man who spoke. She pushed her long, dark hair out of her face to regard him better.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured.

After some time the riders had climbed the ridge leading up out of the valley, and saw the first hills of Vatnsdalshólar. The strange mounds looked eerie in the blue light, and Tóti shuddered at the sight.

Agnes had pushed her chin down into the scarves around her neck, and her hair had fallen over her face. Tóti wondered whether the brandy had sent her to sleep. But as he wondered this, the horses came to a halt, and Agnes jerked her face upwards. She looked down towards the valley’s entrance and began to shake.

‘Have we arrived?’ she whispered to Tóti. The Reverend dismounted and quickly handed his reins to another rider. He shook his head clear of the nausea that swamped him and stepped through the snow, the squeak of his footsteps resounding through the frosted air. He reached up for Agnes.

‘Let me help you down.’

Jón and another man helped him take Agnes out of the saddle. As they set her feet upon the ground, she teetered, and fell.

‘Agnes! Here, take my hand.’

Agnes looked up at Tóti with tears in her eyes. ‘I can’t move my legs,’ she croaked. ‘I can’t move my legs.’

Tóti bent down and put her arm around his shoulders. As he tried to lift her up his knees buckled and they fell into the snow drifts again.

‘Reverend!’ Jón darted forward to help them.

‘No!’ The word came out as a scream. Tóti stared up at the circle of men standing over them. Agnes clutched at his arm. ‘No,’ he said again. ‘Please let me lift her. I need to lift her.’

The men stood back as he crawled onto his knees, then slowly pushed himself upwards. He stumbled, then righted himself, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath until he wasn’t so light-headed. Do not falter, he told himself. He bent down and offered his hand to Agnes. ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘Take my hand.’

Agnes opened her eyes and grasped it, her nails gripping his skin. ‘Don’t let go,’ she whimpered. ‘Don’t let go of me.’