Burial Rites(35)

‘Who knows?’ Ingibj?rg murmured. ‘I shudder to think of what goes on inside that dark head of hers.’

‘The Reverend says her mother was Ingveldur Rafnsdóttir.’

Ingibj?rg paused. ‘Ingveldur Rafnsdóttir. I knew an Ingveldur once. A loose woman.’

‘No doves come from ravens’ eggs,’ Margrét agreed. ‘It’s strange to think of Agnes being a daughter. I can’t imagine my girls even thinking about something so wretched and sinful as murder.’

Ingibj?rg nodded. ‘And how are your girls?’

Margrét stood and dusted the dirt from her skirt. ‘Oh, you know.’ She started coughing again and Ingibj?rg began to rub her back.

‘Easy, now.’

‘I’m fine,’ Margrét croaked. ‘You know, Steina thinks she knows her.’

Ingibj?rg gave her friend a curious look.

‘She thinks we met her on the way to Gudrúnarstadir, way back when.’

‘Is Steina making up stories again?’

Margrét winced. ‘Only the good Lord knows. I don’t remember. Actually, I’m a bit worried about her. She smiles at Agnes.’

Ingibj?rg laughed. ‘Oh, Margrét! When did a smile ever get anyone into trouble?’

‘Many a time, I should think!’ Margrét snapped. ‘Just look at Róslín. Anyway, it’s other things, too. I’ve caught Steina asking questions of Agnes, and I’ve noticed she rushes to fetch her for errands and the like. Look – she’s following her now, even while she’s raking.’ She pointed to Steina turning the hay near Agnes. ‘I don’t know, I just think of that poor girl Sigga, and I worry the same thing will happen to her.’

‘Sigga? The other maid at Illugastadir?’

‘What if Agnes has the same effect on Steina? Makes her go to the bad. Fills her head with wickedness.’

‘You’ve just said that Agnes hardly says a word.’

‘Yes, with me. But I can’t help but feel it’s another story with . . . Oh, don’t you mind.’

‘And Lauga?’ Ingibj?rg asked thoughtfully.

Margrét tittered. ‘Oh, Lauga hates having her here. We all do, but Lauga refuses to sleep in the next bed. Watches her like a hawk. Upbraids Steina for looking Agnes’s way.’

Ingibj?rg considered the shorter daughter, dutifully raking the hay into neat lines. Next to Lauga’s windrows, Steina’s rows looked as crooked as a child’s handwriting.

‘What does Jón say?’

Margrét snorted. ‘What does Jón ever say? If I raise it, he starts on about his duty to Bl?ndal. I notice he’s watchful, though. He asked me to keep the girls separate.’

‘Hard to do on a farm.’

‘Exactly. I can keep them as separate as Kristín keeps the milk and cream.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Kristín’s useless,’ Margrét said, matter-of-factly.

‘Just as well you’ve an extra pair of women’s hands about the place, then,’ Ingibj?rg said practically. The two women fell into companionable silence.




I DREAMT OF THE EXECUTION block last night. I dreamt I was alone and crawling through the snow towards the dark stump. My hands and knees were numb from the ice, but I had no choice.

When I came upon the block, its surface was vast and smooth. I could smell the wood. It had none of the saltiness of driftwood, but was like bleeding sap, like blood. Sweeter, heavier.

In my dream I dragged myself up and held my head above it. It began to snow, and I thought to myself: ‘This is the silence before the drop.’ And then I wondered at the stump being there, the tree it might have been, when trees do not grow here. There is too much silence, I thought in my dream. Too many stones.

So I addressed the wood out loud. I said: ‘I will water you as though you still lived.’ And at this last word I woke.

The dream frightened me. Since the hay harvest I have slipped into something of my old life here, and I have forgotten to be angry. The dream reminded me of what will happen, of how fast the days are passing me by, and now, lying awake in a room full of strangers, gazing at the patterns of sticks and peat in the ceiling, I feel my heart turn over and over and over until I feel twisted in my gut.

I need to relieve myself. Trembling, I get out of bed and look about the floor for the pot. It’s under one of the workhands’ beds and nearly full, but there’s no time to empty it. My stockings are loose and slide to my ankles without difficulty, and I squat and direct a hot stream of piss into the pail, feeling the splash of it against my thigh. Sweat breaks out on my forehead.

I hope no one will wake up and see me, and I’m so anxious to finish and tuck the pot out of sight that I yank up my stockings before I’m quite done. A warm trickle runs down the inside of my leg as I push the pail away.

Why am I trembling like this? My knees are as weak as a marrow jelly and it is a relief to lie down. My heart gibbers. Natan always believed dreams meant something. Strange, for a man who could so easily laugh at the word of God, to trust instead in the simmering darkness of his own sleeping hours. He built his church from wives’ tales and the secret language of weather; saw the blinking eye of God in the habits of the sea, the swooping merlin, the gnashing teeth of his ewes. When he caught me knitting on the doorstep he accused me of lengthening the winter. ‘Do not think nature is not watchful of us,’ he warned me. ‘She is as awake as you and I.’ He smiled at me. Passed the smooth breadth of his palm over my forehead. ‘And as secretive.’