Burial Rites(89)

I slept in the cowshed again that night. It wasn’t so cold as when Natan first threw me out, and Sigga helped me make up a little bed before returning inside. It stank of shit, and the floor was alive with lice, but eventually I fell asleep.

When I woke, it was dark. I stood up and went to the doorway, and saw light still issuing from the window in the croft. I felt clearheaded after my rest, and was about to walk back to the farm to see if I couldn’t make it up with Natan when I heard footsteps in the snow behind the cowshed.

‘Sigga?’

The footsteps stopped, then I heard their soft crunch again. They were coming towards me. I retreated into the darkness of the shed and pressed my back against the wall.

I heard a low whisper. ‘Agnes?’

It was Fridrik.

He slipped inside the entrance.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

He was breathing hard. I couldn’t see him in the shadows, but I could smell his sweat. Something clinked.

‘Did you walk here from Katadalur?’

He coughed and spat. ‘Yes.’

‘Natan’s going to kill you if he sees you.’

‘I’ll wait until he’s asleep.’

‘To do what? If he wakes up and catches you and Sigga whispering sweet nothings in the bed next to his he’ll have you hung and quartered before day breaks.’

I heard Fridrik sniff.

‘I’ve not come for that.’

There was something in his tone that gave me pause.

‘Fridrik. What have you come for?’

‘I’m going to sort this out once and for all. I’ve come for what’s mine.’

Behind us the cow gave a low groan. I heard the scrape of hooves on the earthen floor.

‘Fridrik?’

‘Admit it. You want this too, Agnes.’

At that point the moon slipped out from its shield of clouds, and I saw what Fridrik held in his hands. It was a hammer and a knife.




WHAT DO I REMEMBER? I didn’t believe him. I went back to my bed on the floor of the cowshed, suddenly weary. I wanted nothing to do with him.

What happened?

I woke up from a fitful sleep and went outside. The light from the croft window had gone out. Fridrik was nowhere to be seen.

I went to go find him. I was suddenly scared. The night sky was clear and the farm was lit with moonlight. The sting of stars. Snow squeaked under my shoes. I fumbled at the latch but the door creaked open anyway.

Sigga was crouched against the wall of the corridor, clutching Rósa’s little girl. They were whimpering.

‘Sigga?’

It took her a moment before she could respond. ‘The badstofa,’ she whispered. I could hardly hear her.

I walked down that long passageway. Somehow I knew to take a light from the kitchen. My heart was in my throat.

What happened?

I was shaking, my hands fumbled, and I dropped the lamp in the dark. There was the sudden smell of a snuffed wick, and a sound in the corner. A creaking board and someone panting, hard and fast, and more sounds, dull, like a child punching a pillow. A groan, the sound of something wet, and then a voice whispering: ‘Agnes?’

My heart skipped a beat. I thought Natan was there.

But it was Fridrik.

‘Agnes,’ he was saying, ‘Agnes, where are you?’ His voice was thin.

‘I’m here,’ I said. I bent down and felt in the murk for the lamp. ‘I dropped the light.’

I heard Fridrik take a step towards the direction of my voice. ‘Agnes, I don’t know if he’s dead.’ His voice caught on the last word. ‘I can’t tell if he’s dead.’

My heart stopped still. My fingers would not move. I was pushing them across the gritty boards, trying to find the lamp, but my knuckles had seized and would not bend. He hasn’t killed him. He’s a boy. He hasn’t killed him.

Somehow I found the lamp. I scooped it up, my hand grazing against the splinters of the floor.

‘Agnes?’

‘I’m here!’ I snapped back. The tone of my voice surprised me. I did not sound as frightened as I was. ‘I need to light the lamp.’

‘Hurry then,’ Fridrik said.

I felt my way to the corridor, where a single candle stood alight in a wall bracket. I lit the lamp, and then turned back towards the badstofa. My hands were trembling and the light of the lamp flickered uneasily over the rough walls, towards the black mouth of the badstofa. When I reached the room I felt my throat close from fear. I didn’t want to go in there. But I needed to see what Fridrik had done.

At first I thought he’d tricked me. When I extended the lamp towards Natan’s bed, I saw his blankets, and his sleeping face. Nothing seemed wrong. Then Fridrik said: ‘Here, Agnes, bring the lamp here,’ and as the light crept across the bed I saw that Pétur’s head was crushed. Blood darkened the pillow. Something glistened on the wall, and when I looked I saw several drops of blood slowly running down the planks.

‘Oh God,’ I said. ‘Oh God. Oh God.’

I looked at the hammer he held in his hands, and there was something stuck to it – it was hair. I was sick then, on the floor.

Fridrik helped me to my feet. He was still gripping the hammer, holding it out at the ready. ‘Have you hurt Natan?’ I asked, and Fridrik told me to bring the lamp closer to the bed. Natan was bleeding also. One side of his face looked strange, as though his cheekbone had been flattened, and what I thought was Pétur’s blood was pooling in the cavity of his neck.