Burial Rites(57)

Agnes went quiet. ‘Natan loved that about Rósa. He loved the way she knew how to build things with words. She invented her own language to say what everyone else could only feel.’

‘I hear Natan was a poet, too.’ Tóti pretended nonchalance. ‘Did you two speak in poems to each other, as Rósa and Natan did?’

‘Not like Rósa, no. But we spoke to each other in a kind of poetry.’ Agnes looked out over the field. ‘I met Natan on a day like this.’

‘A harvest celebration?’

She nodded. ‘At Geitaskard. I was serving with María. We were bringing out food and drink, and taking our time about it too. María knew everything there was to know about a person, and I remember that she’d been pointing out the swollen belly of one of the farmer’s servants and saying some things that perhaps weren’t kind, but she had me laughing till I couldn’t breathe. Then she grasped me by the elbow and dragged me to the cowshed, and told me that she’d just seen Natan Ketilsson arrive on horseback.

‘I already knew about Natan, of course. He was famous for all sorts of things, depending on who you spoke to. Everyone found out about his affair with Rósa. Everyone knew her children were Natan’s, not ólaf’s. Natan travelled all through the north. As a young man he went about letting blood and then he went to Copenhagen, and everyone said he came back a sorcerer. They also said that he became friends with Bl?ndal, who was studying there at the time, and that is why he never got caught for what he did later. Everyone thought Natan was a thief, and it’s true that he was whipped for it when he was younger. No one could account for his having so much money when they saw for themselves how little they put in his palm. Some swore that he got others to steal animals for him. He had a lot of enemies. But whether those folks were wronged or just jealous is hard to say. Stories have a way of boiling over, and Natan himself liked to keep people guessing.’

‘What was your opinion of Natan then?’

‘Oh, I had none to speak of, then. I’d never met him before, though his brother Ketil had once tried to woo me. In the cowshed María told me that Natan had finally left Rósa and taken up a farm for himself. A lot of people were talking about it on account of Rósa being well-liked, and sorry to see her heartbroken, though she was married. María told me that Worm was a great friend of Natan’s, and had helped him buy Illugastadir, a farm right by the sea with plenty of seals and eider ducks and driftwood too, if you could haul it from the shore. She said Natan had started giving himself some airs, calling himself Lyngdal, not Ketilsson, though neither of us could work out why – it was a strange sort of name to have, not Icelandic in the slightest. María thought it was probably to make himself out to be a Dane, and I wondered that he was allowed to change his name at all. María told me that men might do as they please, and that they are all Adams, naming everything under the sun.

‘We brushed ourselves down and María bit her lips to make them redder. Then we walked out of the cowshed, pretending to see if any of the dishes had been emptied.

‘It was then that I saw Natan for the first time. I thought he’d be a big man, a handsome, upright fellow with long hair, like those men servant girls usually go giddy over. But Natan was not handsome. The man I saw talking with Worm was not tall and he was quite thin in the face – he never looked strong. His hair was reddish-brown, and his nose was too big for his face. I thought he looked like a fox with his chestnut hair and beady little eyes, and told María so. She burst out laughing, and said no wonder some northerners thought he was a shapeshifter.

‘Natan noticed us then. It was obvious that we had made a joke at his expense, but he didn’t seem to mind. He made some comment to Worm and began walking towards us.

‘I remember that he was smiling, as though he knew us already. I suppose he liked the attention. “Good afternoon, girls,” he said. He wasn’t much taller than I was, but his voice was deep. He said: “May I have the pleasure of learning your names?” and I answered for the both of us.

‘Natan smiled and made a bow, and it was then that I noticed his hands. They were very white, like a woman’s hands, and his fingers were as slender as birch twigs, and as lengthy. No wonder they called him “long-fingers”. He said he was pleased to meet us both, and wasn’t it a fine day? He started to ask us if we were enjoying the celebration, but I interrupted him, and said that he hadn’t yet given us his name. María scoffed, but Natan always liked those who had a tongue in their heads, as he told me later. He said his name was Natan Lyngdal. There was a glitter in his eye.

‘María asked if he wasn’t actually Ketilsson, and Natan replied that yes, indeed he was also Ketilsson, and that he had a great many more names besides, though not all of them were fit for our delicate ears. He was easy in his address, Reverend. He always knew what to say to people; what would make them feel good. And what would cut the deepest.

‘We didn’t speak for long. Worm summoned Natan, and he made his farewell, but not before he murmured that he hoped he would see more of us at a later time when he was not so called upon.’

Reverend Tóti ran a finger around his gums, dislodging a dreg or two of tobacco. He wiped his fingertip on his trousers, and couldn’t help but notice the small, unremarkable shape of his own pink hands. He felt a snag of envy in his chest.