Burial Rites(53)

That babe, that thistle-headed child Indridi I saw into the world, they buried him a few years after I cut him free. He was old enough to talk. Old enough to know he was hungry. What does Steina know of dead children? She is not like me. She knows only the tree of life. She has not seen its twisted roots pawing stones and coffins.

I left Gudrúnarstadir after Indridi died, the farmer and his wife, their remaining huddle of children, splintered with starvation. They gave me kisses, a letter of recommendation and two eggs for the journey to Gilsstadir. I gave the eggs to a pair of fair-headed girls I met on my way.

I could almost laugh. To think those round-cheeked lasses throwing clumps of dirt for their dog to chase are now my custodians here at Kornsá.

Lauga kicked up a terrible fuss when Jón told them they must miss the harvest party and go berrying. She’s a tremendous sulker and reminds me a little of Sigga, only smarter. Jón spoke with her and Steina last night when he thought I was asleep. ‘She must meet her God, and in an ugly way,’ he said. ‘Our family way of life must continue. We must keep you safe from her.’ He does not want them to pity me. He does not want them to draw close, and so he has sent them away for a time, while the weather permits. A reprieve from my presence.

Margrét says that the guests will eat outside today, for it is a fine September morning and it will do us good to take what we can of the sunshine, for soon winter will be upon us. Already the mountain grass is fading to the colour of smoked meat, and the evenings smell of burning fish oil from lamps newly lit. At Illugastadir there will soon be a prickle of frost over the seaweed thrown upon the shore. The seals will be banked upon the tongues of rock, watching winter descend from the mountain. There will be the call and whoop of men on horseback, rounding up the sheep, and then there will come the slaughter.

‘Greetings to all at Kornsá!’ There is a call from the farm entrance, and Margrét looks up, alarmed. ‘Stay here,’ she says. She bustles out. There is the rise and fall of a woman’s voice, and then a large, pregnant woman enters the room, surrounded by a swarm of white-blond children with runny noses. Another woman, a thin grey lady, follows her. I look up from the hearth, where I am stirring the soup, and see that the fat woman is staring at me, her hand over her mouth. The children gape at me also.

‘Róslín, Ingibj?rg, this is Agnes Magnúsdóttir,’ Margrét sighs.

I curtsey, aware that I must look a sight. The steam has made my hair stick to my damp forehead and blood is on my apron from the meat.

‘Out! Children, outside now!’ The little flock of children leave, one emitting a violent sneeze. They seem disappointed.

Not so their mother. The Róslín woman turns to Margrét and grabs her by the shoulder.

‘You invite us all with her here!’

‘Where else would she be?’ Margrét glances over at the other woman, Ingibj?rg, and I see a glimmer of conspiracy in their eyes.

‘At Hvammur for the day! Locked up in the storeroom!’ Róslín shouts. Her face is flushed; she’s enjoying her tantrum.

‘You are working yourself into a frenzy, Róslín. You’ll bring about your time.’

I glance down to the woman’s swollen belly. She looks full-term.

‘It’s a girl,’ I say, without thinking.

The three women stare at me.

‘What did she say?’ Róslín whispers, looking horrified.

Margrét gives a small cough. ‘What did you say, Agnes?’

I feel uneasy all of a sudden. ‘Your baby will be a girl. It is the shape of it. The way your belly protrudes.’

Ingibj?rg observes me, interested.

‘Witch!’ Róslín cries. ‘Tell her to stop looking at me.’ She storms out of the room.

‘How do you guess at that?’ Ingibj?rg asks. Her voice is gentle.

‘Rósa Gudmundsdóttir told me. She is a midwife in the west.’

Margrét nods slowly. ‘Poet-Rósa. I did not know you were friends.’

The meat is cooked. I place the spoon on the top of a barrel and use both hands to lift the pot from the hook. ‘We aren’t,’ I say.

Ingibj?rg picks up a small dish of butter by my side and nods towards Margrét.

‘I hope your mistress will let you come outside for a time,’ she says, smiling. ‘You ought to feel the sun on your face.’

She and Margrét leave, but her words hang in the room behind her. You ought to feel the sun on your face. ‘Before you die,’ I cannot not help but add, aloud, to the rustle of the embers.

The guests arrive on foot and horseback, the women bearing food and the men coyly slipping small bottles of brandy from out of their vests and coats. I see them as I place dishes on the tables, but for the most part Margrét keeps me busy in the kitchen, out of sight of the neighbours. They look sideways at me and fall silent as I set jugs of milk down, pats of fresh butter.

I don’t want to be out here. There will be people I know, perhaps farmers I have worked for, servants I have shared quarters with. My forehead aches from the tightness of my plaits, and I suddenly long to untie them, to walk about with my hair unbraided, to lie on my back in the sun.




TóTI FOUND AGNES IN THE dairy, churning the butter.