by Hannah Kent
a. If it has not already been done, Your Honour must immediately arrange for priests to visit the guilty persons, Fridrik Sigurdsson and Agnes Magnúsdóttir, every day. The priests must be supervised, and must address to the prisoners religious lectures of meaning, must comfort them and prepare them to walk towards their destiny. The priests should follow the prisoners to their execution place.
b. It has been agreed that Your Honour may decide if the execution will take place close to Illugastadir, or at a good site in the so-called Thingi, or upon a hill at some place (but not too high), where others may see it in all directions.
c. Instead of a wooden platform, Your Honour may give directions for a good turf platform with a handrail to be built. Your Honour must arrange for a block with a chin-groove to be placed on top of this platform, and to see that it is covered with a red cloth of cotton or plain-woven wool.
d. The selected executioner shall, at Your Honour’s home and with secrecy and encouragement, be trained for the mission that he has been entrusted with. This will be done to ensure, as much as possible, that he, at this important moment, will not lose faith or control. The beheading must be carried out in one blow without any pain for the convicted. Gudmundur Ketilsson must only drink a very little dose of spirits.
e. Your Honour is requested to summon as many men from the neighbouring farms as needed to build two or three rings around the platform. These farmers are all obligated to attend without accepting any payment thereof.
f. No unauthorised person is permitted to go inside the rings.
g. The one who will be executed later is not permitted to witness the execution of the first, and should be kept aside at a place where they do not have a direct view of the platform.
h. The dead bodies that remain behind following the execution must be buried on the spot without ceremony, in white untreated wood. It is absolutely vital that Your Honour and Most Respected Person be present at the execution site to read out the verdict of the Supreme Court and His Majesty the King, to organise and control the execution procedure, and to record the execution in the book of the office. Your Honour may register the executions in Danish or Icelandic, but it must be done well and a translation of the record must be sent to my office. Your Honour’s record must include a perfect and detailed description of the events and how it concluded. Also, you must record that Gudmundur Ketilsson was promised for the job, and specify how he has decided to use the money awarded to him for his services, for what purpose and so on. And at last I want to thank you for Your Honour’s letter on the 20th of August. In response, I tell you here that the axe must be returned to Copenhagen after the execution and that the payment for it must be paid as with the other costs of this case.
G. Johnson
SECRETARY TO HIS ROYAL MAJESTY
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK
To the District Officers of Svínavatn,
Thorkelshóll and Thverá Districts
After receiving the Right Honourable Supreme Court sentence from the 25th of June, and His Majesty the King’s most gracious Royal Letter from the 26th of August, I hereby confirm that the criminals, Fridrik Sigurdsson and Agnes Magnúsdóttir will be executed on Tuesday the 12th of January, on a little hill close to the cottage of Ránhóla, between the farms Hólabak and Sveinsstadir.
After the description provided to the District Governor from the 22nd of December, I must ask you to order the farmers in the District of Svínavatn, whom you yourself select, to attend the execution with you at this certain place on this day, at the latest time of noon. This must be done as soon as possible. According to Chapter Seven of Jónsbok, titled Mannhelgisbalk, and Chapter Two, titled Thjófnadarbalk, these farmers are obligated to attend, and if they don’t obey your directions they will be penalised. It is recommended that you warn the men who will have the most difficulties leaving their farms, or travelling, about this. Please also note that you, yourselves, must be present at this event.
If it is such that that the executions are not possible to carry out on this day due to weather, the next day possible will then be selected, and all the people who have been ordered to attend must do so, as stated above. It will be necessary for each and every one of the men to arrange food and sustenance for themselves, as it is quite possible their journey there and back will incur delays due to the weather at this time of year.
DISTRICT COMMISSIONER
Björn Blöndal
Thursday, 7th of January 1830
Most respected and deeply beloved friend and brother (B. Blöndal).
For what you have done for me, for our many meetings and for your instruction and delivery this morning, I thank you with love and passion, and confirm here that this morning I will meet the people in Vídidalur and warn them about being early enough on Tuesday next. I have told Sigrídur about the conditions of her pardon, and she is praying to God and thanking the King for her kind treatment. Sorry about the hastiness, God be with you and yours, wishing you all well in this new beginning year, as with all coming time, both in this life and in the next one. So say I, your truthful, loving friend,
Br. P. Pétursson of Midhóp
The Icelandic Burial Hymn
I think upon my Saviour,
I trust His power to keep,
His mighty arm enfolds me
Awaking and in sleep.
Christ is my rock, my courage;
Christ is my soul’s true life;
And Christ (my still heart knows it)
Will bear me through the strife.
Thus in Christ’s name I’m living;
Thus in Christ’s name I’ll die;
I’ll fear not though life’s vigour,
From Death’s cold shadow fly.
O Grave, where is thy triumph?
O Death, where is thy sting?
‘Come when thou wilt, and welcome!’
Secure in Christ I sing.
ON THE SIXTH DAY OF January, a sharp rapping on the cottage door woke Tóti. He opened one eye and saw the weak light in the room: he had slept late. The knocking continued. Reluctantly, he dragged his stockinged feet to the floor and got out of bed, wrapping his blankets about him to ward off the sharp bite of cold. His legs trembled, he walked to the front door, one hand against the wall to steady himself.
The visitor was a messenger from Hvammur, blowing on his hands and stamping his boots in the frigid morning air. He nodded and handed Tóti a small folded letter. It was marked with the red seal of Blöndal, looking like a drop of blood against the pale paper.
‘Assistant Reverend Thorvardur Jónsson?’
‘Yes.’
The man’s nose was pink from cold. ‘Sorry about the delay. The weather has been so bad, I haven’t been able to come any sooner.’
Tóti wearily invited the man in for a cup of coffee, but the servant looked out towards the northern pass anxiously. ‘If you don’t mind, Reverend, I’ll be on my way again. There’s more snow coming and I don’t have a mind to get caught in it.’
Tóti heaved the door to and staggered into the kitchen to stir up the coals. Where was his father? He set a kettle of water upon the hearth to bring to the boil, and slowly dragged a stool over to the fire. After the dizziness had passed, he broke the seal and opened the letter.
Tóti read the letter three times, then let it rest on his knee as he stared at the fire. It could not be happening. Not like this. Not with so much unsaid and undone, and him not even by her side. He suddenly rose, the blankets slipping off his shoulders, and walked unsteadily into the badstofa. He was opening his trunk, pulling out clothes and dressing, and stuffing a few more into a sack, when his father came in to the croft.
‘Tóti? What has happened? Why are you dressing? You’re not yet recovered.’
Tóti let the lid of his trunk slam shut and shook his head. ‘It’s Agnes. She is to be killed in six days’ time. I only received the letter now.’ He fell onto his bed and tried to force his foot into a boot.
‘You’re not fit t
o go.’
‘It is too sudden, Father. I’ve failed her.’
The old man sat down alongside his son. ‘You’re not well enough,’ he said sternly. ‘The cold will kill you. It’s snowing outside.’
Tóti’s head pounded. ‘I have to get to Kornsá. If I leave now I might miss the storm.’
Reverend Jón placed a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘Tóti, you can hardly dress yourself. Do not kill yourself for the sake of this murderess.’
Tóti glared at his father, his eyes lit with anger. ‘And what of the Son of God? Did He die only for the righteous?’
‘You are not the Son of God. If you go you will kill yourself.’
‘I’m leaving.’
‘I forbid it.’
‘It is God’s will.’
The old Reverend shook his head. ‘It is suicide. It is against God.’
Tóti stood unsteadily and looked down at his father. ‘God will forgive me.’
The church was bitterly cold. Tóti lurched towards the altar and collapsed onto his knees. He was aware of his hands trembling, his skin burning under the layers of clothes. The ceiling swam above him.
‘Lord God . . .’ His voice cracked. ‘Pity her,’ he continued. ‘Pity us all.’
MARGRÉT WAS WRAPPING A SHAWL about her head, preparing to fetch some dried dung from the storeroom, when she heard the sound of someone scraping snow from the front door. She waited. The door creaked open.
‘Good heavens, is that you, Gudmundur?’ she said, hurrying out of the badstofa only to meet Tóti coming up the hallway, his face as white as milk, drops of sweat pebbled across his skin. ‘Good Lord, Reverend! You look like death! How thin you have become!’
‘Margrét, is your husband in?’ His voice was urgent.
Margrét nodded and invited Tóti into the badstofa. ‘Take a seat in the parlour,’ she said, drawing aside the curtain. ‘You ought not to be travelling in weather like this. Good Lord, how you are shaking! No, come into the kitchen and warm your bones. Whatever has happened?’
‘I have been unwell.’ Tóti’s voice was a croak. ‘Fevers, and a swelling of the throat and neck until I thought I might suffocate.’ He sat down heavily. ‘That is why I have not come until now.’ He paused, wheezing a little. ‘I could not help it.’
Margrét stared at him. ‘I’ll fetch Jón for you.’ She quietly summoned Lauga to come and help the Reverend out of his ice-covered coat.
After a few short minutes, Margrét and Jón returned to the kitchen.
‘Reverend,’ Jón said warmly, giving Tóti his hand. ‘It is good to see you. My wife tells me that you are not in good health?’
‘Where is Agnes?’ Tóti interrupted.
Margrét and Jón glanced at each other. ‘With Kristín and Steina. Shall I get her?’ Margrét asked.
‘No, not yet,’ Tóti said. He pulled off his glove with effort and rummaged about his shirt. ‘Here.’ He offered Jón the District Commissioner’s letter, swallowing hard.
‘What is this?’ Jón asked.
‘From Blöndal. It announces the date of Agnes’s execution.’
There was a gasp from Lauga.
‘When is it?’ Jón asked quietly.
‘The twelfth day of January. And today is the sixth. You haven’t heard about it then?’ Tóti asked.
Jón shook his head. ‘No. The weather has been so bad, it’s hard to go out.’
Tóti nodded grimly. ‘Well, now you know.’
Lauga looked from the priest to her father. ‘Are you going to tell her?’
Margrét reached across the table and took up Tóti’s bare hand. She glanced up at him. ‘Your skin is so hot. I’ll go get her,’ she said. ‘She would want to hear it from you.’
THE REVEREND IS TALKING TO me, but I can’t hear what he is saying, it is as though we are all underwater, the light keeps flickering overhead and I can see the Reverend’s hands wave in front of me, he takes hold of my wrists and lets go, he looks like a drowning man trying to catch hold of something to bring him up to the surface. He looks like a skeleton. Where has all the water come from? I don’t think I can breathe.
Agnes, he is saying. Agnes, I will be there with you.
Agnes, the Reverend says.
He is so kind, he is reaching around me, he is pulling my body closer to his, but I don’t want him near. His mouth is opening and shutting like a fish, the bones of his face like knives under his skin, but I cannot help him, I don’t know what he wants. Those who are not being dragged to their deaths cannot understand how the heart grows hard and sharp, until it is a nest of rocks with only an empty egg in it. I am barren; nothing will grow from me any more. I am the dead fish drying in the cold air. I am the dead bird on the shore. I am dry, I am not certain I will bleed when they drag me out to meet the axe. No, I am still warm, my blood still howls in my veins like the wind itself, and it shakes the empty nest and asks where all the birds have gone, where have they gone?
‘AGNES? AGNES? I AM HERE. I am with you.’ Tóti looked at Agnes anxiously. The woman was staring at the floor, breathing hard and rocking, making her stool creak. He felt the prick of tears at the back of his throat, but he was aware of Margrét, Jón, Steina and Lauga behind him, and the servants, waiting in the doorway to the kitchen, watching.
‘I think she needs some water,’ Steina said.
‘No,’ Jón said. He turned around to where the farmhands waited. ‘Bjarni! Go get some brandy, would you?’
The bottle was fetched and Margrét brought it to Agnes’s lips. ‘There,’ she said, as Agnes spluttered on the mouthful, spilling most of it on her shawl. ‘That will make you feel better.’
‘How many days?’ Agnes croaked. Tóti noticed that she was digging her fingernails into the flesh of her arm.
‘Six days,’ Tóti said gently. He reached across and took up her hands in his own. ‘But I’m here, I won’t let go.’
‘Reverend Tóti?’
‘Yes, Agnes?’
‘Perhaps I could beg them, perhaps if I go to Blöndal he will change his mind and we can appeal. Can you talk to him for me, Reverend? If you go and talk to him and explain I think he would listen to you. Reverend, they can’t . . .’
Tóti put his trembling hand on the woman’s shoulder. ‘I am here for you, Agnes. I am here.’
‘No!’ She pushed him away. ‘No! We have to talk to them! You have to make them listen!’
Tóti heard Margrét click her tongue. ‘It’s not right,’ she was muttering. ‘It wasn’t her fault.’
‘What?’ Tóti turned to her. ‘Did she talk to you?’ Someone was crying behind him, one of the daughters.
Margrét nodded, her eyes welling up. ‘One night. We stayed up late. It’s not right,’ she repeated. ‘Oh, Lord. Is there something we can do? Tóti? What can we do for her?’ Before he could respond, Margrét gasped and shuffled out of the room, her hands to her eyes. Jón followed her.
Agnes was shaking, staring at her hands.
‘I can’t move them,’ she said quietly. She looked up at him with wide eyes. ‘I can’t move them.’
Tóti took her stiff hands into his own again. He didn’t know who was trembling more.
‘I am here for you, Agnes.’ It was the only thing he could say.
I DO NOT CRUMBLE, I think of the small things. I concentrate my mind on the feeling of linen next to my skin.
I breathe in as deeply and as silently as I am able.
Now comes the darkening sky and a cold wind that passes right through you, as though you are not there, it passes through you as though it does not care whether you are alive or dead, for you will be gone and the wind will still be there, licking the grass flat upon the ground, not caring whether the soil is at a freeze or thaw, for it will freeze and thaw again, and soon your bones, now hot with blood and thick-juicy with marrow, will be dry and brittle and flake and freeze and thaw with the weight of the dirt upon you, and the last moisture of your body will be drawn up to the surface by the g
rass, and the wind will come and knock it down and push you back against the rocks, or it will scrape you up under its nails and take you out to sea in a wild screaming of snow.
REVEREND TÓTI STAYED UP WITH Agnes well into the night, until finally the woman fell asleep. Margrét watched the Reverend anxiously from the corner of the badstofa. He, too, had fallen asleep, and sat slumped upright against the bedpost, shivering violently under the blanket she had carefully pulled over him. Margrét considered waking him and moving him to a spare bed, but decided against it. She didn’t believe he would be easily moved.
Margrét finally laid down her knitting. She was reminded of when Hjördis died. She hadn’t given so much as a thought to that dead woman since the first days of Agnes’s arrival. But this – the sombre expectation of death, the light burning too late into the night, the weeping into exhaustion. This reminded her. Margrét looked out over the rest of the sleeping household. Lauga, she noticed, was missing from her bed.
Margrét eased herself up off the chair to find her daughter, and almost immediately fell into a fit of coughing that pushed her to her knees. She hacked at the floorboards until a thick clot of blood was expelled from her lungs. It left her feeble, and she waited there on all fours, breathing hard, until she felt strong enough to rise.
