Burial Rites(24)

When would that have been? May, 1819. How old could she have been then? No more than ten.

‘We had a dog with us. A tan and white one. I remember you because he started barking and jumping up, and Pabbi pulled him off you, and then we shared our dinner.’

The girl looks at my face searchingly.

‘You were the woman we met on the way to Gudrúnarstadir. Do you remember me? You plaited my sister’s hair and gave us an egg each.’

Two small girls sucking eggs by the road, hems damp through with mud. The blur of a thin dog chasing his reflection in the water and the sky broken grey and wide. Three ravens flying in a line. A good omen.

‘Steina!’

The walk from Gudrúnarstadir to Gilsstadir in a freezing spring. 1819. One hundred small whales come ashore near Thingeyrar. A bad omen.

‘Steina!’

‘Coming, Mamma!’ Steina turns to me. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? That was you.’

I take a step towards her.

The farm mistress bursts in. ‘Steina!’ She looks at me, then her daughter. ‘Out.’ She grabs the girl’s arm and yanks her from the room. ‘The ashes. Now.’

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 Bl?ndal 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, Bl?ndal 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 G?ngusk?rd. I had been working at Fannlaugarstadir, and was leaving my work there.’