Burial Rites(3)

When he finished Bl?ndal’s letter, he looked up and noticed the servant watching him. ‘Well?’ the servant prompted, with a raised eyebrow.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Your response for the District Commissioner? I don’t have all day.’

‘May I talk with my father?’

The servant sighed. ‘Go on then.’

He found his father in the badstofa, slowly smoothing the blankets upon his bed.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s from the District Commissioner.’ Tóti offered his father the unfolded letter and waited as he read it, unsure of what to do.

His father’s face was impassive as he folded the letter and handed it back. He didn’t say anything.

‘What should I say?’ Tóti asked, finally.

‘That’s your choice.’

‘I don’t know her.’

‘No.’

‘She’s not in our parish?’

‘No.’

‘Why has she asked for me? I’m only an Assistant Reverend.’

His father turned back to his bed. ‘Perhaps you ought to address that question to her.’

The servant was sitting on the chopping block, cleaning his nails with a knife. ‘Well now. What response am I to give the District Commissioner from the Assistant Reverend?’

Tóti replied before he knew his decision. ‘Tell Bl?ndal that I will meet with Agnes Magnúsdóttir.’

The servant’s eyes widened. ‘Is that what this is all about then?’

‘I’m to be her spiritual advisor.’

The servant gaped at him, and then suddenly laughed. ‘Good Lord,’ he muttered. ‘They pick a mouse to tame a cat.’ And with that he mounted his horse and vanished behind the swell of hills, leaving Tóti standing still, holding the letter away from him as though it were about to catch fire.




STEINA JóNSDóTTIR WAS PILING DRIED dung in the yard outside her family’s turf croft when she heard the rapid clop of horses’ hooves. Rubbing mud off her skirts, she stood and peered around the side of the hovel to better see the riding track that ran through the valley. A man in a bright red coat was approaching. She watched him turn towards the farm and, fighting a flicker of panic at the realisation she would have to greet him, retreated back around the croft, where she hurriedly spat on her hands to clean them and wiped her nose on her sleeve. When she returned to the yard, the rider was waiting.

‘Hello, young lady.’ The man looked down at Steina and her filthy skirts with an air of bemusement. ‘I see I have interrupted you at your chores.’ Steina stared as he dismounted, gracefully swinging his leg over his horse. For a large man he landed lightly on his feet. ‘Do you know who I am?’ He looked at her for a glimmer of recognition.

Steina shook her head.

‘I am the District Commissioner, Bj?rn Audunsson Bl?ndal.’ He gave her a little nod of his head and adjusted his coat, which, Steina noticed, was trimmed with silver buttons.

‘You’re from Hvammur,’ she murmured.

Bl?ndal smiled patiently. ‘Yes. I am your father’s overseer. I have come to speak with him.’

‘He’s not home.’

Bl?ndal frowned. ‘And your mother?’

‘They’re visiting folks down south in the valley.’

‘I see.’ He looked fixedly at the young woman, who squirmed and cast her eyes nervously to the fields. A smattering of freckles across her nose and forehead interrupted what was otherwise pale skin. Her eyes were brown and widely set, and there was a large gap between her front teeth. There was something rather ungainly about her, Bl?ndal decided. He noted the thick crescents of dirt under her fingernails.

‘You’ll have to come back later,’ Steina finally suggested.

Bl?ndal tensed. ‘May I at least come inside?’

‘Oh. If you want. You can tie your horse there.’ Steina bit her lip while Bl?ndal wound his reins through a post in the yard, and then she turned and almost ran inside.

Bl?ndal followed her, stooping under the low entrance to the croft. ‘Will your father return this day?’

‘No,’ was the curt reply.

‘How unfavourable,’ Bl?ndal complained, stumbling in the dark passageway as Steina led him through to the badstofa. He had grown corpulent since his posting as District Commissioner and was accustomed to the more spacious dwelling provided for him and his family at Hvammur, built from imported wood. The hovels of the peasants and farmers had begun to repel him, with their cramped rooms constructed of turf that issued clouds of dust in the summer, irritating his lungs.

‘Commissioner –’

‘District Commissioner.’

‘I’m sorry, District Commissioner. Mamma and Pabbi, I mean, Margrét and Jón, will return tomorrow. Or the next day. Depending on the weather.’ Steina gestured towards the nearest end of the narrow room, where a grey woollen curtain served as a partition between the badstofa and a tiny parlour. ‘Sit in there,’ she said. ‘I’ll go find my sister.’

Lauga Jónsdóttir, Steina’s younger sister, was weeding the meagre vegetable plot at a little distance from the croft. Bent over her task, she hadn’t seen the District Commissioner arrive, but she heard her sister calling long before she came into sight.