Burial Rites(90)

A scream erupted from my chest and strength left me. I dropped the lamp again, and fell to the floor in the darkness that erupted over us.

Fridrik must have fetched the candle from the corridor. I saw his face shine as he entered the room. Then, we both heard a voice.

‘What was that?’ Fridrik quickly walked over to my side and pulled me to my feet. We were trembling. The sound came again. A groan.

‘Natan?’ I grabbed the candle from Fridrik and lurched towards the bed, holding it close to Natan’s face. I saw his eyelids twitch in the bright flare, and he tried to stir on the bed.

‘What did you do to him?’ Fridrik was as white as a corpse, his pupils so dilated they looked black.

‘The hammer . . .’ he mumbled.

Natan groaned again, and this time Fridrik bent close, listening.

‘He said “Worm”.’

‘Worm Beck?’

‘Maybe he’s dreaming.’

We stood still, watching Natan for more signs of life. The silence was deadening. Then Natan slowly opened one of his eyes, and looked right at me.

‘Agnes?’ he murmured.

‘I’m here,’ I said. A rush of relief went through me. ‘Natan, I’m here.’

His eye moved from me to Fridrik. Then, he swivelled his head and saw Pétur’s staved-in skull. I saw that he knew what had happened.

‘No,’ he croaked. ‘No, no no no.’

Fridrik stepped backwards from me. I wasn’t going to let him leave.

‘Look what you’ve done!’ I whispered. ‘Look at your work.’

‘I didn’t mean to! Natan, I swear.’ Fridrik began to pant, staring at the bloody hammer by our feet.

Natan cried out again. He was trying to get up from his bed, but screamed when he put weight on his arm. Fridrik had crushed it.

‘You wanted him dead!’ I cried, facing Fridrik. ‘What are you going to do now?’

There was a thump and we both looked down and saw Natan on the ground. He had dragged himself out of the bed with his good arm, but could go no further.

‘Help me lift him,’ I said to Fridrik, setting the candle on the floor, but the boy wouldn’t touch him. I bent down and tried to drag Natan upright, so that he could rest his head against the beam, but he was too heavy, and when I saw the way his skull had swollen, the blood that had poured down his back, I lost all my strength: my limbs turned to water. I cradled his head in my lap and I saw that he would not survive the night.

‘Fridrik,’ Natan was repeating over and over. ‘Fridrik, I will pay you, I will pay you.’

‘He wants to talk to you, Fridrik,’ I said, but Fridrik had turned his face away, and would not look at us. ‘Turn around,’ I screamed. ‘The least you could do is speak to the man you have killed!’

Natan stopped murmuring. I felt his body stiffen, and he looked up at me, his head lolling slightly. ‘Agnes . . .’

‘Yes, it’s me, Agnes. I’m here, Natan. I’m here.’

His mouth gaped open. I thought he was trying to say something, but all that came out was a gargling. I looked up at Fridrik and he was standing there, his face white-pale and his hair in his eyes and red at one side where the blood had burst and hit him. His eyes were wide and scared.

‘Why is he doing that?’ he asked. Natan was choking, blood spilling out onto his chin, onto my skirt.

‘Why is he doing that?!’ Fridrik screamed. ‘Make him stop!’

I reached over and picked the knife up from the floor. ‘Do it then, finish what you’ve begun!’

Fridrik shook his head. His face was ashen and he stared at me in horror.

‘Do it!’ I said. ‘Will you leave him to slowly die?’

Fridrik kept shaking his head. He flinched as a little stream of blood erupted anew from Natan’s head wound. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t. I can’t.’

Natan looked up at me: his teeth were red from blood. His lips moved silently, and I understood what he was trying to say.

The knife went in easily. It pierced Natan’s shirt with neat rips, sounding like an ill-practised kiss – I couldn’t have stopped if I’d wanted to. My fist jerked, until I felt sudden, close warmth over my wrist and realised that his blood covered my hand. The warmth of it was noticeable against the chill of the night. I released the handle, and pushed Natan away from me, looking down at the knife. It stuck out from his belly, and his shirt was dark and wetly puckered around the blade. For a moment we stared at each other. The light from the candle caught the edge of his forehead, his eyelashes, and I was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude – he regarded me clearly. It seemed like forgiveness.

‘Agnes.’ Fridrik was behind me, his hands on his head, the hammer on the floor. ‘Agnes, you’ve killed him.’

I wanted to cry. I wanted to kneel over his body and wail. But there was no time.

I hated Fridrik. He had crumbled, had shrunk to the floor and begun to sob, heaving huge lungfuls of air in a panic that never seemed to cease. Eventually he got up, his breath shuddering, and pulled the knife out of Natan’s belly.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked him. I did not have the energy to scream.

‘That’s my knife,’ Fridrik said. He wiped it on his trousers and began to walk outside.