Burial Rites (38 page)

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.

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.

‘Wait!’ I called.

Fridrik turned and shrugged.

‘You’ll be hanged for this,’ I croaked. Fridrik paused. I saw his fingers clench around the knife’s sticky handle.

‘If I am hanged,’ he said slowly, sniffing back a breath of snot, ‘you will be burnt alive.’

I looked down and saw the blood on my hands. On my neck, soaking my dress. I saw the candle flame flicker in an unseen draught, and wondered at what the room would look like in the grey light of day.

That’s when I remembered the whale fat that Natan had bought at Hindisvík.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

22nd of December 1829

Promemoria: To Björn Blöndal, District Commissioner of Húnavatn

Here I am presenting to Your Honour the following:

1.
 
The original copy of the Supreme Court’s ruling from the 25th of June of this year in the case and prosecution against Fridrik Sigurdsson, Agnes Magnúsdóttir and Sigrídur Gudmundsdóttir from Húnavatn District for murder, arson and theft, among other crimes. The Supreme Court sentence arrived here on the 20th of this month with an extra mail delivery from Reykjavík.

2.
 
Confirmed copy of His Majesty the King’s letter: To the District Governor on the 26th of August, in regard to Sigrídur Gudmundsdóttir, the aforementioned is by the King’s grace and mercy pardoned from the punishment of death as sentenced by the aforementioned Supreme Court in Copenhagen. She will instead, by His Majesty the King’s decree, be moved to Copenhagen to work in a prison for the term of her natural life under strict surveillance. It has also been decided that the Supreme Court’s sentencing in regards to the convicts Fridrik Sigurdsson and Agnes Magnúsdóttir will stand.

3.
 
Confirmed copy of the document from the Royal Secretarial Office of Denmark to the District Governor from the 29th of August concerning this case, where the Secretary to the Royal Sovereign has published the opinion that it would be best for the penalty to be fulfilled where the crime was committed, or as close to it as possible, and only then if it will not cause riot or unpredictable events. The District Governor must be in absolute agreeance with this.

4.
 
The sanction, which has been made ready today, for Gudmundur Ketilsson, the farmer at Illugastadir, to execute the convicts Fridrik Sigurdsson and Agnes Magnúsdóttir according to the Supreme Court ruling, which, according to the secretarial letters, I must now request you, Your Honour, to manage in a proper manner. Your Honour must ensure that the death sentences, in consideration of the changes that are outlined in the aforementioned Royal letter from His Majesty the King, are carried out in a legal manner and fulfilled without delay. Your Honour is requested to send confirmation when the death sentences have been fulfilled. My most Honourable Sir, as the local District Commissioner you are trusted to prepare and execute the convicts in a proper manner, and to arrange all things according to the intricacies of this situation. However, I must insist that you heed the following details: