Burial Rites(38)

Agnes didn’t respond. She watched the drops hit the fast-flowing river, breaking the surface so that the mountains’ reflection became wildly distorted. She still held the rock in her hand.

‘Agnes!’ Steina cried. ‘I’m sorry! I thought you knew!’ Her shawl was soaked, and she could feel her dress grow heavy with water. She hesitated by the riverbank, and then turned and began to run up the hill to the croft. The ground had become soggy, and she slipped in the mud. Halfway up the field she turned and saw that Agnes was still where she had left her. She called one more time, and then continued tripping up the muddy path to the farm.

‘Goodness, Steina! Where on God’s earth have you been?’ Margrét rushed down the corridor to scold her eldest daughter, who slammed the croft door behind her. ‘You look half drowned!’

‘It’s Agnes,’ Steina gasped, dropping her sodden shawl to the ground.

‘Did she hurt you? Oh my sweet Lord, protect us! I knew it.’ Margrét wrapped her arms around her daughter, who was shaking with cold, and drew her towards her.

‘No, Mamma!’ Steina yelled, pushing her mother away. ‘She needs help, she’s by the river!’

‘What happened?’ Lauga had stepped out of the kitchen. ‘Oh, Steina! You’ve muddied my shawl.’

‘I don’t care!’ Steina shouted. She turned back to her mother. ‘I told her about the appeal for Sigrídur Gudmundsdóttir and she went all strange and white and now she won’t get up!’

Margrét turned to Lauga. ‘What is she talking about?’

‘Agnes!’ Steina screeched. She wiped the rain off her face with her sleeve and began to run down the corridor. ‘I need to tell Pabbi.’

Jón was in the badstofa, mending his shoes. ‘Steina?’ he asked, looking up from his work.

‘Pabbi! Please, you have to go down to Agnes. I told her about the appeal Bl?ndal has for the other Illugastadir maid and she’s gone mad.’

Jón immediately pushed the shoes from his lap and stood up. ‘Where?’ he asked in a low voice.

‘By the river,’ Steina said, fighting back tears. Jón pulled his boots out from under his bed and tied them on roughly.

‘I’m sorry, Pabbi, I thought she knew! I wanted to help her.’

Jón stood up and gripped his daughter by the shoulders. His cheeks were pink with anger. ‘I told you to stay away from her.’ He glared at his daughter, then shoved her out of the way and left the room, calling for Gudmundur, who had been lying on his bed. The farmhand got up reluctantly. Steina sat down and began to cry.

A few moments later Lauga stepped into the badstofa with Kristín at her side.

‘What did Pabbi say?’ she asked quietly, then, seeing where Steina had sat, ‘Oh! Get up, you’re making my bed wet.’

‘Leave me!’ Steina screamed, causing Kristín to yelp and flee the room. ‘Leave me alone!’

Lauga smirked and shook her head. ‘You’re in a temper, Steina. What were you trying to do out there? Make friends?’

‘Go to hell, Lauga!’

Lauga’s mouth dropped open. She glowered at her sister, as though about to cry, and then narrowed her eyes. ‘You’d better watch yourself,’ she hissed. ‘If you continue this way you’ll be as wicked as her.’ She turned to walk away, but stopped. ‘I’ll pray for you,’ she sniffed, and then left the room. Steina put her head in her hands and cried.




I SIT AND WAIT UPON my bed as Margrét, Jón and their daughters talk about me behind the grey curtain in the parlour. Although Margrét speaks in hissed whispers I catch the words as they slither through the gap between this room and the next. My hands shake and I can feel my heart throbbing. It’s as though I have just run for my life. It’s the same feeling as in court, when I felt outside of everything.

I could have been a pauper; I could have been their servant, until those words! Sigga! Illugastadir! They anchor me to a memory that snatches the breath out of me. They are the magic words, the curse that turns me into a monster, and now I am Agnes of Illugastadir, Agnes of the fire, Agnes of the dead bodies with the blood, not burnt, still clinging to the clothes I made for him. They will free Sigga but they will not free me because I am Agnes – bloody, knowing Agnes. And I am so scared, I thought it could work, I thought I could pretend, but I see it will not, I will never, I cannot escape this, I cannot escape.




THE LETTER WAS SMALL, AND written in bunched cursive on a tiny piece of paper, the lines overlapping in the author’s attempt to conserve space. Tóti took it into the badstofa to read, where he had been eating his midday meal.

‘Bl?ndal again?’ his father asked, without looking up from his meat.

‘No,’ Tóti said, casting his eyes quickly over the message: Come quickly, it is Agnes Magnúsdóttir. I do not like to tell Bl?ndal. Your brother in Christ, Jón Jónsson. ‘It’s from Kornsá.’

‘Don’t they know it’s raining? And a Sunday,’ the elder priest muttered.

Tóti sat down at the table and observed his father. Crumbs of dried porridge were visible in his beard. ‘I ought to go,’ he said.

Reverend Jón breathed out heavily. ‘It’s a Sunday,’ he repeated.