Burial Rites

by Hannah Kent

  Outside, the breeze picks up a handful of my dress’s ashes from the pail and flings them against the blue of the sky. The grey flakes flutter and dip, and dissolve into the air. Is this happiness, this warmth against my chest? Like another’s hand placed there?

  I may be able to pretend I am my old self here.

  ‘SHALL WE BEGIN WITH A prayer?’ the Assistant Reverend Thorvardur Jónsson asked.

  He and Agnes were sitting outside the entranceway to the croft, on a small heap of cut turf that had been prepared and stacked for reparations. The Reverend held his New Testament in one hand and a rather limp slice of buttered rye bread in the other, given to him by Margrét. Horsehair had settled on it from his clothes.

  Agnes did not reply to the Reverend’s question. She sat with her fingers in her lap, slightly hunched, gazing out at the line of departing officers. There were ashes in her hair. The wind had dropped and occasionally a shout or burst of laughter could be heard from the men, interrupting the soft tearing sounds of Margrét and her daughters ripping weeds from the plot. The elder kept raising her head to peer at the pastor and the criminal.

  Tóti looked at the book he held in his hands, and cleared his throat.

  ‘Do you think we ought to begin with a prayer?’ he asked again, louder, thinking Agnes had not heard him.

  ‘Begin what with a prayer?’ she responded quietly.

  ‘W-well,’ Tóti stammered, caught off-guard. ‘Your absolution.’

  ‘My absolution?’ Agnes repeated. She shook her head slightly.

  Tóti quickly pushed the bread into his mouth, and chewed rapidly before swallowing in a loud gulp. He wiped his hands on his shirt, then thumbed the pages of his New Testament, rearranging himself on the turf. It was still wet from the night’s rain and he could feel the moisture seeping into his trousers. A stupid place to sit, he thought. He should have remained inside.

  ‘I received a letter from District Commissioner Blöndal just over a month ago, Agnes,’ he said, pausing. ‘Is it all right if I call you Agnes?’

  ‘It’s my name.’

  ‘He informed me that you were unhappy with the Reverend at Stóra-Borg and wished for another churchman to spend time with you, before . . . Before, well, before . . .’ Tóti’s voice trailed off.

  ‘Before I die?’ Agnes suggested.

  Tóti gave a little nod. ‘He said you asked for me.’

  Agnes took a deep breath. ‘Reverend Thorvardur –’

  ‘Call me Tóti. Everyone does,’ he interrupted. He blushed, immediately regretting his familiarity.

  Agnes paused, uncertain. ‘Reverend Tóti, then. Why do you think the District Commissioner wants me to spend time with a churchman?’

  ‘Well . . . I suppose because, I mean, we want, Blöndal and the clergy, and I . . . We want you to return to God.’

  Agnes hardened her expression. ‘I think I’ll be returning to Him soon enough. By way of an axe-swing.’

  ‘That’s not what I . . . I didn’t mean it in that sense . . .’ Tóti sighed. It was going as badly as he had feared. ‘You did ask for me though? Only I took the time to have a look in the ministerial book at Breidabólstadur, and you’re not listed there.’

  ‘No,’ Agnes replied. ‘I wouldn’t be.’

  ‘You’ve never been a parishioner of mine or my father’s?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why ask for me if we’ve never even met before?’

  Agnes stared at him. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

  Tóti was taken aback. There was certainly something familiar about the woman, but as his mind leafed through the images of women he had known or met – servants, mothers, wives, children – he couldn’t place Agnes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  Agnes shrugged her shoulders. ‘You helped me once before.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Over a river. On your horse.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘Near Gönguskörd. I had been working at Fannlaugarstadir, and was leaving my work there.’

  ‘Then you are from the Skagafjördur District?’

  ‘No. I’m from this valley. Vatnsdalur. The Húnavatn District’

  ‘And I helped you over a river?’

  ‘Yes. The pass was flooded and you came by on your horse just as I was about to cross the water by foot.’

  Tóti wondered. He had gone through Gönguskörd many times, but couldn’t remember meeting a young woman. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Six or seven years ago. You were young.’

  ‘Yes. I would have been,’ Tóti said. There was a moment of silence. ‘Was it because of that kindness that you ask for me now?’ He looked closely at her face. She doesn’t look like a criminal, he thought. Not since she’s had a bath.

  Agnes squinted and looked out over the valley. Her expression was inscrutable.

  ‘Agnes . . .’ Tóti sighed. ‘I’m only an Assistant Reverend. My training is incomplete. Perhaps you need a qualified clergyman, or one from your own district who knows you? Surely someone else has shown you kindness? Who was your Reverend here?’

  Agnes tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. ‘I haven’t met many churchmen I care for, and certainly none that I would claim know me,’ she said.

  A few ravens swept through the valley, landing on the stone fence, and both Tóti and Agnes saw Margrét’s head bob up from behind it. ‘Nuisances!’ she cried. A clod of dirt flew over the wall and the birds took off, cawing indignantly. Tóti looked at Agnes and smiled, but Agnes was stony-faced.

  ‘They won’t like that,’ she murmured to herself.

  ‘Well,’ Tóti said, taking a deep breath. ‘If you require a spiritual advisor, then I will consider it my duty to visit you. As District Commissioner Blöndal so desires, I will come to guide you in your prayers, so that you may walk towards what lies ahead of you with faith and dignity. I will take it as my responsibility to supply you with spiritual comfort and hope.’

  Tóti fell silent. He had rehearsed this speech as he rode to the farm, and he was pleased that he’d managed to remember to say ‘spiritual comfort’. It sounded paternalistic, and self-assured, as though he was in a lofty state of spiritual certainty: a state he felt he should be in, but had a vague, discomfiting sense that he was not.

  Still, he wasn’t used to talking so formally, and his hands sweated against the tissue-thin paper of the Testament. He carefully closed the book, making sure not to crease any pages, and wiped his palms on his thighs. Now would be a good time to quote scripture, as his father was wont to do, but all he could think of was his sudden yearning for his snuff horn.

  ‘Perhaps I have made a mistake, Reverend.’ Agnes’s voice was measured, calm.

  Tóti didn’t know what to say. He looked at the bruises on her face and bit his lip.

  ‘Perhaps it will be better if you stay at Breidabólstadur. I thank you but . . . Do you really think . . . ?’ She covered her mouth with her hands and shook her head.

  ‘My dear child, don’t cry!’ he exclaimed, rising from the turf.

  Agnes took her hands away. ‘I’m not crying,’ she said, flatly. ‘I have made a mistake. You call me a child, Reverend Thorvardur, but you’re little more than a child yourself. I’d forgotten how young you are.’

  Tóti had no response for this. He regarded her for a moment, then nodded grimly and swiftly replaced his hat on his head. He bid her a good day.

  Agnes watched him walk past the stone fence to farewell Margrét and the girls. The pastor and women stood together for a few minutes, chatting and looking over at her. Agnes tried to hear what they were saying, but the wind had picked up and it was blowing their words away from her. Only when Tóti raised his hat to Margrét and began to walk to the hitching post to retrieve his cob did Agnes hear Margrét call out: ‘Easier to squeeze blood from a stone, I should think!’

  THE REST OF THE DAY passes in work – in weeding and tending the pitiable herbs. I listen to the far-off bleats of she
ep. The poor things look thin and patchy with the winter wool newly pulled from their backs. After the priest left, the daughters, Margrét and I ate a dinner of dried fish and butter. I made sure I chewed each morsel twenty times. Then we returned to the garden, and now I start to try and mend the wall, pulling away the rocks that have shifted, sorting them on the ground, then rebuilding it, locking the stones into place and relishing the heavy mass of them in my hands.

  I so often feel that I am barely here, that to feel weight is to be reminded of my own existence.

  Margrét and I work in silence; she speaks to me only when giving me an order. It seems our minds are fixed on other things, and I think of how strange it is that fortune has led me back to Kornsá, where I lived as a child. Where I first learnt what it was to grieve. I think about the paths that I have taken, and I think about the Reverend.

  Thorvardur Jónsson who asks to be called Tóti like a farmer’s son. He seems too callow for his station. There is a softness about his voice, and about his hands. They are not long and stained by tinctures as Natan’s were, or meaty like the hands of farm help, but small, and thin and clean. He rested them upon his Bible as he spoke to me.

  I have made a mistake. They condemn me to death and I ask for a boy to coach me for it. A red-headed boy, who gobbles his buttered bread and toddles to his horse with the seat of his pants wet, this is the young man they hope will get me on my knees, full of prayer. This is the young man I hope will be able to help me, although with what and how I cannot think.

  The only person who would understand how I feel is Natan. He knew me as one knows the seasons, knows the tide. Knew me like the smell of smoke, knew what I was, and what I wanted. And now he is dead.

  Perhaps I should say to him, poor boy, go back to the parsonage and back to your precious books. I was wrong: there is nothing you can do for me. God has had His chance to free me, and for reasons known to Him alone, He has pinned me to ill fortune, and although I have struggled, I am run through and through with disaster; I am knifed to the hilt with fate.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  To the Deputy Governor of North-East Iceland,

  Thank you for Your Excellency’s most illustrious letter from the 10th of January this year, concerning the charges of murder, arson and other crimes brought against the defendants Fridrik, Agnes and Sigrídur, for which they have been sentenced to death. In response to your letter, allow me to inform you that B. Henriksson, the blacksmith who was solicited to build the axe to be used for the execution, quoted the cost of five silver dollars of the realm for his work and materials, following my suggestions as to the make and size of the axe on the 30th of December last year. After receiving Your Excellency’s letter however, I thought, in agreeance with Your Excellency, that it would be better to purchase a broader axe from Copenhagen for the same price, and that is why I since asked Simonsen the merchant to arrange that for me.

  In this summer the man concerned, Simonsen, came to me with the axe, and although it has been made exactly as requested, I was surprised when I learnt from Simonsen that it had cost twenty-nine dollars of the realm. On examination of the bill, I found this sum to be correct, and was understandably forced to pay Herr Simonsen’s invoice from the funds allotted to this case by Your Excellency.

  Now, as I dare to explain to you the overdrawn state of these funds, I humbly ask if this expense should not, in fact, have been drawn from the monies budgeted for this case, which, amongst other items of expense, serve to pay for the custody of the prisoners. Also, I humbly enquire of Your Excellency what we are supposed to do with this axe after it has been used for the executions.

  I am, Your Excellency, your most humble and obedient servant.

  HÚNAVATN DISTRICT COMMISSIONER

  Björn Blöndal

  TÓTI HAD LEFT KORNSÁ WITH the full intention of writing to Blöndal and reneging on his promise to meet with Agnes. His second conversation with the criminal had been a failure; he hadn’t even led a simple prayer. Yet, the thought that he would necessarily have to explain why he had changed his mind after only two visits filled him with dread and embarrassment, and he left off composing the letter. I will do it tomorrow, he promised himself with each new day at Breidabólstadur, but two weeks had passed, the peasants were readying themselves for the mid-July harvest, and he had not so much as picked up his quill.

  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 clothe
s 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.’