He took me from that awful room, and other men joined us as he led me through the unlit corridor. They were silent, but I felt them behind me; I felt their stares as though they were cold handgrips upon my neck. Then, after months in a room filled only with my own fetid breath and the stench from the chamber pot, I was taken through the corridors of Stóra-Borg into the muddy yard. And it was raining.
How can I say what it was like to breathe again? I felt newborn. I staggered in the light of the world and took deep gulps of fresh sea air. It was late in the day: the wet mouth of the afternoon was full on my face. My soul blossomed in that brief moment as they led me out of doors. I fell, my skirts in the mud, and I turned my face upwards as if in prayer. I could have wept from the relief of light.
A man reached down and pulled me from the ground as one wrests a thistle that takes root in a place it does not belong. It was then that I noticed the crowd that had gathered. At first I did not know why these people stood about, men and women alike, each still and staring at me in silence. Then I understood that it was not me they stared at. I understood that these people did not see me. I was two dead men. I was a burning farm. I was a knife. I was blood.
I didn’t know what to do in front of these people. Then I saw Rósa, watching from a distance, clutching the hand of her little daughter. It was a comfort to see someone I recognised, and I smiled involuntarily. But the smile was wrong. It unlocked the crowd’s fury. The servant women’s faces twisted, and the silence was broken by a sudden, brief shriek from a child: Fjandi! Devil! It burst into the air like an explosion of water from a geyser. The smile dropped from my face.
At the sound of the insult, the crowd seemed to awaken. Someone gave a brittle laugh and the child was hushed and led away by an older woman. One by one, they all left to return indoors or to continue their chores, until I was alone with the officers in the drizzle, standing in stockings stiff with dried sweat, my heart burning under my filthy skin. When I looked back, I saw that Rósa had disappeared.
Now we are riding across Iceland’s north, across this island washing in its waters, sulking in its ocean. Chasing our shadows across the mountains.
They have strapped me to the saddle like a corpse being taken to the burial ground. In their eyes I am already a dead woman, destined for the grave. My arms are tethered in front of me. As we ride this awful parade, the irons pinch my flesh until it bloodies in front of my eyes. I have come to expect harm now. Some of the watchmen at Stóra-Borg compassed my body with small violences, chronicled their hatred towards me, a mark here, bruises, blossoming like star clusters under the skin, black and yellow smoke trapped under the membrane. I suppose some of them had known Natan.
But now they take me east, and although I am tied like a lamb for slaughter, I’m grateful that I am returning to the valleys where rocks give way to grass, even if I will die there.
As the horses struggle through the tussocks, I wonder when they will kill me. I wonder where they will store me, cellar me like butter, like smoked meat. Like a corpse, waiting for the ground to unfreeze before they can pocket me in the earth like a stone.
They do not tell me these things. Instead, they set me in iron cuffs and lead me around, and like a cow I go where I am led, and there’s no kicking or it’s the knife. It’s the rope and a grim end. I put my head down, go where they take me and hope it’s not to the grave, not yet.
The flies are bad. They crawl on my face and into my eyes, and I feel the tiny ticking of their legs and wings. It’s the sweat that draws them. These irons are too heavy for me to swat them away. They were built for a man, although they screw tight enough against my skin.
Still, it is a consolation to have movement, to have the warmth of a horse under my legs: to feel the life in something and to not be so cold. I’ve been half-frozen for so long, it is as though the winter has set up home in my marrow. Endless days of dark indoors and hateful glances are enough to set a rime on anyone’s bones. So yes, it’s better to be outside now. Even with the air full of flies it’s better to be going somewhere than rotting slowly in a room like a body in a coffin.
Beyond the hum of insects and the rhythm of the horses at their walk, I hear a distant roar. Maybe it’s the ocean – the constant thundering of waves hitting the sands of Thingeyrar. Or perhaps I am imagining it. The sea gets into your head. Like Natan used to say, once you let it in, it doesn’t leave you alone. Like a woman, he said. The sea is a nag.
It was that first spring at Illugastadir. The light had arrived like a hunted thing, all wide-eyed and trembling. The sea was blank – Natan pushed the boat along its silvered skin, plunged his oars in its side.
‘As quiet as a churchyard,’ he had said, smiling, his arms heaving with the pull of water. I heard the creak of wood and the whispered cuss of the oars slapping the surface of the sea. ‘Be good when I’m gone.’
Don’t think of him.
How long have we been riding? An hour? Two? Time’s as slippery as oil. But it can’t have been more than two hours. I know these parts. I know we are now heading south, perhaps towards Vatnsdalur. Strange, how my heart grips to my ribs in an instant. How long has it been since I last saw this part of the country? A few years? More? Nothing has changed.
This is as close to home as I’ll ever be now.
We are passing through the strange hills at the mouth of the valley and I hear the caw of ravens. Their dark shapes look like omens against the brilliant blue of the sky. All those nights at Stóra-Borg, in that damp, miserable bed, I imagined I was outside, feeding the ravens at Flaga. Cruel birds, ravens, but wise. And creatures should be loved for their wisdom if they cannot be loved for kindness. As a child, I watched the ravens gather on the roof of Undirfell church, hoping to learn who was going to die. I sat on the wall, waiting for one to shake out his feathers, waiting to see which direction his beak turned. It happened once. A raven settled upon the wooden gable and jerked his beak towards the farm of Bakki, and a little boy drowned later that week, found swollen and grey downriver. The raven had known.
Sigga was unschooled in nightmares and ghosts. One night, knitting together at Illugastadir, we heard a raven’s shriek coming from the sea that chilled us to the core. I told her never to call out to, nor feed a raven at night. Birds heard cawing in the dark are spirits, I said, and they would murder you soon as look at you. I scared her, I’m sure, or she wouldn’t have said the things she said later.
I wonder where Sigga might be now. Why they refused to keep her with me at Stóra-Borg. They took her away one morning when I was in irons, not telling me where she was held, although I asked more than once. ‘Away from you,’ they said, ‘and that is enough.’
‘Agnes Magnúsdóttir!’
The man riding beside me has a hard look on his face.
‘Agnes Magnúsdóttir. I’m to inform you that you’re to be held at Kornsá, until the time of your execution.’ He is reading something. His eyes flicker down to his gloves. ‘As a criminal condemned by the court of this land, you have forfeited your right to freedom.’ He folds the piece of paper and slips it in his glove. ‘You’d do well to wipe that scowl off your face. They’re gentle people at Kornsá.’
Here, man. Here is your smile. Is it a good one? Do you see my lips crack? Do you see my teeth?
He passes my mare, and the back of his shirt is damp with sweat. Have they done it on purpose? Kornsá, of all places.
Yesterday, when I was shut up in the storeroom of Stóra-Borg, Kornsá would have seemed a heaven. A place of childhood, the river, the bright grass, the hillocks of turf oozing water in spring. But I see now that it will be a humiliation. People will know me in the valley. They will remember me as I was – as a baby, as a child, as a woman running from farm to farm – and then they will think of the murders and that child, that woman will be forgotten. I can’t bear to look about me. I gaze at the horse’s mane, at the lice crawling about the hair, and I don’t know if they are from the mare or from me.
REVEREN
D TÓTI STOOPED IN THE low doorway and squinted against the rosy hue of the midnight sun. At the lower end of the farm’s northernmost field, he could see a trail of horses approaching. He searched for the woman among the riders. Against the golden flood of hay that surrounded them, the figures seemed small and black.
Margrét stepped out of the door and stood behind him.
‘I hope they will leave some men behind, to make sure she doesn’t kill us in our sleep.’
Tóti turned and looked at Margrét’s hard face. She, too, was squinting to see the riders, and her forehead was puckered in creases. Her grey hair had been pulled into two taut braids and coiled, and she was wearing her best cap. Tóti noticed that she’d changed out of the dirty apron she’d received him in earlier that night.
‘Will your daughters join us out here?’
‘They’re too tired to stand. I’ve sent them both to bed. Don’t see why the criminal has to be brought in the middle of the night.’
‘To avoid disturbing your neighbours, I should think,’ he remarked, tactfully.
Margrét bit her lower lip, and a flush of colour spread across her cheeks.
‘I do not like to share my home with the Devil’s children,’ she said, her voice lowering to a whisper. ‘Reverend Tóti, we must make it known that we do not want her company. Let the woman be removed to an island if they won’t keep her at Stóra-Borg.’
‘We must all do our duty,’ Tóti murmured, watching the trail turn and head up towards the home field. He took a snuff horn from his breast pocket and removed a small pinch. Delicately setting it on the hollow beside the knuckle of his left thumb, he bent his head and sniffed.
Margrét coughed and spat. ‘Even if it means we are stuck like pigs in the night, Reverend Tóti? You are a man, a young man, yes, but a man of God. I don’t think she would kill you. But us? My daughters? Lord, how will we sleep in peace?’
‘They will leave an officer with you,’ Tóti muttered, turning his attention to a lone rider who was now cantering towards them.
‘They must. Or else I’m marching her back to Stóra-Borg myself.’
Margrét twisted her hands against her stomach, and turned her gaze to a small flock of ravens flying silently across the mountain range of Vatnsdalsfjall. They looked like ashes, whorling in the sky.
‘Are you a man of traditions, Reverend Tóti?’ Margrét asked.
Tóti turned to her, considering the question. ‘If they be noble and Christian.’
‘Do you know the right name for a flock of ravens?’
Tóti shook his head.
‘A conspiracy, Reverend. A conspiracy.’ Margrét raised an eyebrow, challenging him to disagree.
Tóti watched the ravens settle on the eaves of the cattle barn. ‘Is that so, Mistress Margrét? I thought they were called an unkindness.’
Before Margrét had time to answer, the rider who was cantering towards them reached the edge of the home field.
‘Komið þið sæl og blessuð,’ he shouted.
‘Drottin blessi yður. And may the Lord bless you,’ they responded, in unison. Margrét and Tóti waited until the man had dismounted before they approached him. They exchanged formal, customary kisses. The man was damp with sweat and smelt strongly of horses.
‘She’s here,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I think you’ll find her wearied by the journey.’ He paused again, to remove his hat and run a hand through his damp hair. ‘I do not think she will trouble you.’
Margrét snorted.
The man gave a cold smile. ‘We’ve been ordered to stay here tonight to make sure of it. We’ll camp by the home field.’
Margrét nodded solemnly. ‘So long as you don’t trample the grass. Would you like some milk? Whey and water?’
‘Thank you,’ the man replied. ‘We’ll reimburse you for your kindness.’
‘No need.’ Margrét pursed her lips. ‘Just make sure the bitch stays away from the knives in my kitchen.’
The man sniggered and turned to follow Margrét into the turf home. Tóti grabbed his arm as he passed.
‘The prisoner has requested that I speak with her. Where is she?’
The man pointed to a horse furthest from the croft. ‘She’s the one with the sour mouth. The younger maid remains in Midhóp. They say she’s awaiting the result of an appeal.’
‘An appeal? I thought they were doomed?’
‘A lot of people Vatnsnes way hope Sigga will receive a pardon from the King. Too young and sweet to die.’ The man pulled a face. ‘Not like this one. She has a right temper when she fancies.’
‘Is she awaiting an appeal?’
The man laughed. ‘I don’t like her chances. Blöndal’s behind the youngest. They say she reminds him of his wife. This one . . . Well, Blöndal wants to set an example.’
Tóti gazed down at the horses now gathered at the edge of the home field. The men had begun to dismount and attend to their packs. Only one figure remained mounted. He bent closer to the man.
‘Is there a proper name? What should I call –?’
‘Just Agnes,’ the man interrupted. ‘She’ll answer to Agnes.’
WE’VE ARRIVED. THE MEN FROM Stóra-Borg are dismounting at a little distance from the crooked farmhouse of Kornsá. Two figures stand outside the croft, a woman and a man, and the rider who announced my forfeited rights is walking up to them. No one is coming to unscrew my irons. Perhaps they have forgotten me. The woman ducks her head to go back indoors, coughing and spitting like a crone, but the man remains to talk with the Stóra-Borg officer.
To my left is laughter – two officers are pissing on the ground. I can smell it on the warm air. As usual, no one has noticed that I haven’t eaten or had a sip of water all day; my lips are as split as firewood. I feel the same as when I was little and hungry, as though my bones are growing larger in my body, as if my skeleton is about to shiver out of me. I have stopped bleeding. I am no longer a woman.
One of the men is walking towards me, taking quick, long strides over the home field. Don’t look at him.
‘Hello, Agnes. My . . . my name is Reverend Thorvardur Jónsson. I am the Assistant Reverend from Breidabólstadur in Vesturhóp.’ He is out of breath.
Don’t look up. It’s him. It is the same voice.
He coughs, then bends as if to kiss me according to custom, but hesitates, stepping backwards and nearly tripping over a tussock. He surely smells the dried piss on my stockings.
‘You asked for me?’ His voice is uncertain.
I look up.
He doesn’t recognise me. I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. His hair is as red as before, as red as the midnight sun. It looks as though his locks have soaked up the light as a skein of wool suffers the dye. But his face is older. It has thinned.
‘You asked for me?’ he says again. When I look him in the eye he glances away, then nervously wipes the sweat off his upper lip, leaving a trail of dark specks. Snuff? He doesn’t want to be here.
My tongue has swollen in my mouth and it cannot be moved to form words. What would I say to him anyway, now that it has come to this? I pick at the scabs on my wrists where the irons chafe the skin, and blood bubbles up to the surface. He notices.
‘Well. I must . . . I’m glad to have met you, but . . . it’s late. You must be . . . uh, I will call again soon.’ He bows awkwardly, then turns and walks away, tripping in his haste. He goes before I can let him know I understand. I smear the fresh blood across my arm as I watch him stumble to his horse.
Now I am alone. I watch the ravens, and listen to the horses eat.
ONCE THE MEN FROM STÓRA-BORG had eaten and retired to their tents for the night, Margrét picked up the dirty wooden bowls and returned inside. She smoothed the blankets over her sleeping daughters, and walked slowly around the small room, bending down to pick up the strands of dry grass that had fallen from the turf layered between the rafters. She despaired at the dust in the room. The walls had once been panelled with Norwegian wood, b
ut Jón had removed the boards to pay a debt owed to a farmer across the valley. Now the bare walls of turf collapsed their dirt and grass onto the beds in summer, and grew dank in winter, issuing moulds that dripped onto the woollen blankets and infested the lungs of the household. The home had begun to disintegrate, a hovel that had spread its own state of collapse to its inhabitants. Last year two servants had died from diseases wrought by the damp.
Margrét thought of her own cough, and instinctively raised a hand to her mouth. Ever since the news brought by the District Commissioner, her lungs had issued rot with increased regularity. She rose each morning with a weight upon her chest. Margrét could not tell whether it was dread of the criminal’s arrival, or the night’s accumulated dross in her lungs, but it made her think of the grave. Everything’s collapsing inward, she thought.
One of the officers had gone to fetch Agnes from where they had left her tied with the horses. Margrét had only caught a distant glimpse of the woman when she had left the dim rooms of the farmhouse to bring the men their supper – a slight blur of blue, a smudge of skirt being hauled off a horse. Now her heart thumped. Soon the murderess would be in front of her. She would see the woman’s face; feel her warmth in the small confines. What was to be done? How to behave in front of such a woman?
If only Jón were here, she thought. He could tell me what I should say to her. It takes a man, a good man, to know how to manage a woman who has made her bed among stones.
Margrét sat down and absently picked at the grass in her hand. She had managed the servants who had drifted through her husband’s household for almost four decades, across as many farms, and yet she felt sluggish with her own uncertainty and apprehension. This woman, this Agnes, was not a servant, certainly no guest, and no pauper. She deserved no charity, and yet, she was condemned to die. Margrét shuddered. The light from the lamp played her shadow across the floorboards.
Dull footsteps sounded from the farmhouse doorway. Margrét stood quickly, the gathered grass fluttering to the ground as she released her clenched fists. The officer’s voice boomed from the shadows of the corridor.