Burial Rites

by Hannah Kent

  Perhaps Rósa and I might have been friends if we’d met in another way. Natan always said we were as alike as a swan to a raven, but he was wrong. We both loved him, for one. And no matter what I tell the Reverend, Rósa’s poetry kindled the shavings of my soul, and lit me up from within. Natan never stopped loving her. How could he? Her poetry made lamps out of people.

  We never reached an understanding, although that was her fault as much as mine. As soon as Rósa met me, she made it clear we were on a battleground. She appeared in the badstofa at Illugastadir one summer night, like a ghost. No one heard her coming, or heard the door open. She just appeared, holding her little girl in her arms. She was dressed in black, and the sombre colour set off her skin so that she seemed to glow. Sigga always said that Rósa looked like an angel. But that night I thought she looked tired, world-weary.

  I knew more about Rósa than she knew of me. ‘She is a wonderful woman,’ Natan said once, and a little hook of jealousy ripped at the fibre of my lungs. ‘She is a fine midwife, a great poet.’ He was the father of her child! That daughter of hers had his sharp way of looking, never missing anything. But he reassured me. ‘She suffocated me,’ he said. ‘She wanted me to live forever with her and her husband. But I needed to create a life of my own. And here I have it. My own farm. My independence.’

  He convinced me that he had sent her letters saying he no longer wanted her. That his love for me had eclipsed that which he’d had for her. He liked the fact that I was a bastard, a pauper, a servant. ‘You have had to fight for everything,’ he said. ‘You take life by the teeth, Agnes. You are not like Rósa.’

  Then that summer evening she stood in the doorway with their daughter, and Natan’s face lit up.

  Rósa didn’t say anything. Her glance landed on me and her eyes narrowed. She might as well have raised a gun to my face.

  ‘You must be Agnes Magnúsdóttir. The Rose of Kidjaskard. The Rose of the valley lands.’

  Her hand, released from its mitten, was frigid in my own.

  ‘Poet-Rósa. I’m pleased to finally meet you.’

  Rósa looked over at Sigga, then raised her eyebrows at Natan. ‘I’m glad to see you’ve made yourself a pretty little household.’

  I did not miss the accusation in her voice. I knew what I was doing when I stood next to Natan. He is mine now.

  ‘This must be Thóranna,’ I said. The child smiled at the sound of her name.

  Rósa took her back into her arms. ‘Yes. Mine and Natan’s child.’

  ‘Come now, girls.’ Natan seemed amused. ‘Let us be friendly. Sigga, fetch us all some coffee. Rósa, take off your outer things.’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Rósa put Thóranna in a corner, away from me. ‘I only came to bring her here.’

  ‘What?’ Natan hadn’t told me Rósa’s daughter was coming to stay. I whispered to Natan, asking why he hadn’t told me this before. Why he hadn’t warned me Rósa would visit. I hadn’t known they still spoke together.

  ‘It is the least I can do for Rósa,’ he said. ‘Thóranna was with us last winter as well. She is my daughter and it is only right that she come live with us for part of the year.’

  Rósa’s words were sharp. ‘I did not realise you consulted with her on everything, Natan? I didn’t know you were so far under her thumb. It’s clear she doesn’t want our child in her home.’

  Natan was laughing. ‘Her home? Rósa, Agnes is my servant.’

  ‘Only your servant, is that right?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t want her to watch over our daughter.’

  ‘I am happy to look after Thóranna,’ I said. I was lying.

  ‘What makes you happy does not concern me, Agnes.’

  Natan must not have liked to see his past and present lovers collide. ‘Come, Rósa. Let’s all have some coffee together.’

  Her laugh was shrill. ‘Oh yes, you’d like that! All your whores supping together under your roof! No, thank you.’ Rósa wrenched her arm from his grip and turned to leave. But she said something to me before she walked out the door.

  ‘Please be good to Thóranna. Please.’ I nodded, and Rósa suddenly leant in closer. I felt her hand light upon my arm. ‘Brennt barn forðast eldinn.’ Her voice was soft, careful. ‘The burnt child fears the fire.’ She left without turning back.

  The little girl began to wail for her mamma and Sigga comforted her. Natan stared at the doorway, as though Rósa might return.

  ‘What have you told her about us?’ I whispered to Natan.

  ‘I haven’t told Rósa anything.’

  ‘What was that about the Rose of Kidjaskard? What was that about all your whores?’

  He shrugged. ‘Rósa has a way of naming people. I expect she thinks you’re beautiful.’

  ‘It did not seem a compliment.’

  Natan ignored me. ‘I’ll be in my workshop.’

  ‘Sigga is going to make coffee for us.’

  ‘Damn you, Agnes! Just leave it for once.’

  ‘Are you going after Rósa?’

  He left without answering.

  ONE NIGHT, IN A FEVER, Tóti saw Agnes appear in the doorway of the badstofa. ‘They’ve let her come here,’ he said to his father, who was bent over the bed, silently swaddling his shaking son in blankets.

  ‘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.

  ‘Call the sheep home from pasture. Milk the cow. Milk the sheep. Fetch water. Collect the ashes and spread them upon the soil. Feed Thóranna. Make her stop crying. Make her stop crying! This pot is still dirty. Ask Sigga to show you how to wash the beakers properly.’

  Do you understand what I am saying, Reverend? Or is love constant for you? Have you ever loved a woman? A person you love as much as you hate the hold they have on you?

  I hated the way my mind would turn to Natan throughout the day, until I was sick with the pattern of my thoughts. I hated the nausea that came at the suggestion he did not care for me. I hated the way I kept tripping up over those rocks to his workshop, again and again, to bring him things he no longer required.

  It took Daníel to tell me how it really was.

  The farmhand was waiting for me one day when Natan was not at home. I stepped out of the workshop, locked the door, and saw Daníel standing on the shore, his scythe in one hand, his hat in the other.

  ‘What were you doing in there?’ he asked me.

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘We’re not allowed in there,’ he said. ‘Where did you find the key?’

  ‘Natan gave it to me. He trusts me.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Daníel said, ‘I forgot you maids get special treatment.’

  ‘And what do you mean by that?’

  Daníel laughed. ‘Where are my sealskin shoes? Where are my new clothes?’

  Natan was generous when the mood took him. ‘You haven’t been here long,’ I pointed out to Daníel. ‘I’m sure you’ll receive a present when Natan returns.’

  ‘I don’t want something from Natan.’

  ‘No? You were just complaining about our special treatment.’

  ‘I want something from you.’

  Daníel’s tone changed then. His voice became softer. ‘Agnes, you must know that I am fond of you.’

  I laughed. ‘Fond of me? You told everyone at Geitaskard we were engaged!’

  ‘I was hopeful, Agnes. I am hopeful. You won’t be Natan’s forever, Agnes.’

  His words stopped me cold. A sudden dizziness spun through me. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Don’t think we don’t know. Sigga, me, Fridrik. We all know. Everyone at Geitaskard. They knew you were sneaking off to the storeroom at night.’ He smirked.

  ‘If you spent less of your time spreading gossip, and more time spreading grass, we’d all be better off. Go do as you’re meant to, Daníel.’

  His face screwed up in anger. ‘You think you’re better than us because you’ve found another farmer who lets you share his bed?’

  ‘Don’t be vulgar.’

  ‘Don’t be fooled. Just because you play at being a wife, does not make you a married woman, Agnes.’

  ‘I am his housemistress, that’s all.’

  Daníel laughed. ‘Oh yes, his mistress, certainly.’

  My temper broke then. I snatched the scythe from his hand and shoved it back into his chest. ‘And what are you, Daníel? A workman who speaks ill of his master? Who insults the woman he would like to claim as his own? You
disgust me.’

  Would I tell the Reverend this, if he were here? Perhaps he has drawn his own conclusions. Perhaps that is why he does not come.

  I could tell him of another day, the day of the death waves. Sigga had sent me outside to fetch stones to mend the wall of the hearth, and it was while I was out there that I heard the splash of the oar against the water. It was a still day, the kind of day where the world is holding its breath. The sea was coiled.

  Daníel and Natan had gone fishing, but it was too early in the morning for them to return. I could see Daníel rowing, and Natan sitting still and upright in the boat. As they came closer I could see that Natan’s face was set in a grim line, his hands clutching the wooden boat as though he were about to be sick.

  As soon as they reached the shoreline, Natan threw himself out of the boat and began stomping through the shallows. He scuffed the shore with his boots so that pebbles flew in a spray about him.

  I had been living with Natan long enough by then to know that nothing could assuage the black moods that overtook him, so when I saw him thunder up the beach, the water dripping from his clothes, I remained silent. He didn’t look at me as he passed, but marched towards the farm.

  When Daníel had pulled the boat onto the shore, I walked down to ask him what had happened. Had they fought? Had they lost a net?

  Daníel seemed amused at his master’s display of temper. He started to haul nets from the boat, and gave me some to carry back up to Illugastadir.

  ‘Natan thinks we were hit with death waves,’ he said. Salt clung to his beard. He said that he hadn’t pegged Natan for being such a superstitious bastard.

  They had been dragging the nets when out of nowhere they were hit by three large waves. Daníel said they were lucky that the boat didn’t overturn. He had scrambled to save the line, and fortunately prevented it all from going overboard, but when he looked up Natan was white as a ghost. When Daníel asked him what the matter was, Natan looked at him as though he had lost his mind. ‘Those were death waves, Daníel.’

  Daníel told Natan that death waves were an old wives’ tale, and he didn’t think a learned man like him would be fooled by such a thing. Then Daníel said Natan had snapped, grabbed him by the sleeve and told him that he wouldn’t be laughing when he was buried at the bottom of the ocean.